Emotional Earthquake

An old flame shows up, testing Starsky & Hutch’s new relationship.

Notes: Written for lomelinde for Fandom5k 2022. Originally posted at AO3 in July 2022. Title from “Starving” by Grey and Hailee Steinfeld. See end note for potentially spoilery plot information regarding the “jealousy” tag.

Starsky leaned over the front desk and smiled at the receptionist, his usual exuberance slightly subdued by their surroundings. Even so, he radiated enough sensuality and swagger that the redhead behind the desk sat up straighter, pulling her shoulders back and pushing out her chest as she turned her whole attention toward him. Hutch couldn’t blame her, since he’d been having the same reaction to Starsky since they met all the way back in the police academy, and he looked especially good today in his tight jeans, blue Adidas, and a blue denim shirt that was unbuttoned far enough that he could be arrested for public indecency. Hutch’s fingers itched with the sense memory of sliding through that thick pelt of hair just this morning, scratching at the smoothly tanned skin underneath as his other hand made its way down to curl around Starsky’s morning erection. He’d jerked his partner off sweet and slow, taking him just to the edge of orgasm before pulling back, until Starsky had yelled with frustration and Hutch had finally relented, bringing him to a messy, bone-melting climax before dragging him into the shower, where Starsky had reciprocated, pinning Hutch to the tile and making him come with his gun-callused hand.

“Lovely afternoon, ah, Valerie,” Starsky said, dragging Hutch forcibly back to the present as Starsky’s eyes dropped blatantly to the name badge pinned to the woman’s chest. “We’re with the Bay City PD,” he explained as he flashed his badge.

Valerie’s pale face flamed and her pink glossy lips turned up in a coquettish smile as her own gaze dipped down to the deep vee made by Starsky’s unbuttoned shirt. With the high desk between them, she couldn’t see any further, so she slowly raised her gaze back up to Starsky’s still-smiling face. “Of course, Officer. I’m always happy to help the police.”

“It’s Detective, actually,” Hutch said, feeling a little peeved by her blatant appreciation—and more than a little peeved by his own jealous reaction. Sure, he and Starsky were sleeping together now—a development that was long overdue in Hutch’s opinion—but that didn’t mean there was a flashing sign over Starsky’s head that said “Property of Kenneth Hutchinson,” or even something a little more subtle, like a wedding ring. There couldn’t be even if that was something Starsky would want, which Hutch didn’t know; he was too cowardly to ask for fear the answer would be no. He took a quick breath and shot the receptionist his own smile, hoping it looked attractive and not like he was baring his teeth at her. “He’s Starsky, I’m Hutchinson. Nice to meet you, Valerie,” he added, leaning up against the desk and glancing down at her ample chest.

Valerie giggled a little and preened under Hutch’s attention, just like she had under Starsky’s, then gave him the same treatment, scanning down to where the faux wood of the reception desk hid his waist, then slowly back up. Her smile was even warmer when she asked, “What can I do for you, Detectives?”

“We’re here to interview a victim,” Starsky said, taking over smoothly from Hutch, voice a little cooler than it had been a few seconds ago. “A Mr. Daniel Viera? Male Hispanic, mid-30s, head trauma. Ambulance would have brought him in a couple hours ago.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at Starsky and pursed her glossy lips. “Oh, of course.” She looked down and flipped through a stack of papers on her desk. “Mr. Viera is in room 1093,” she said after a moment, and pointed down the hall. “Just down that way. There’s a nurse with him, she’ll be able to tell you more.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Hutch said, and winked at her, causing a whole new flush to pink up Valerie’s cheeks.

Starsky snorted and bumped his shoulder against Hutch’s back as he walked past, hard enough to smash Hutch’s hipbone into the solid surface of the desk. “Come on, Romeo,” he muttered, “we have a statement to take.”

Hutch ignored Valerie’s final fluttering wave and trotted to catch up with Starsky. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the mostly empty hospital hallway as they made their way toward room 1093, dodging medical equipment, nurses, and doctors. Starsky didn’t look back at him, and Hutch’s chest tightened. Just before they reached their destination, he grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him into an empty hospital room. “Hey, we okay, Starsk?” he asked, frowning.

Starsky shrugged, but the tight set of his mouth was at odds with the casual action. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Hutch didn’t have an answer for that, instead letting his hand slide down Starsky’s arm until he encircled the man’s wrist. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Starsky’s expression softened and he twisted his arm just enough to be able to hold Hutch’s hand in his. “Yeah, buddy, we’re okay. We’re more than okay.” He squeezed Hutch’s hand once before letting go. “Let’s take this statement and then get out of here. It’s been a long day and there’s a rerun of Star Trek I’ve been wanting to watch on tonight. Plus you promised me pizza.”

Hutch grinned. “I’ll give you the pizza, but we’ll talk about the Star Trek. There’s gotta be something better on.”

“No such thing,” Starsky shot back, before leaving the room with a wink, leaving Hutch to trail after him, his heart light and his mouth watering for more than just pepperoni.

The hospital room where Mr. Daniel Viera was recovering from his assault looked like every other hospital rooms Hutch had been in, both as a cop and as a patient. The walls were a covered in square green tiles that somehow managed to be both extremely bland and vaguely threatening, and the floors were white linoleum that had worn to grey in places. Mint green curtains that probably were meant to match the tile walls separated the two beds from one another, but they’d been washed too many times and were instead a few shades off, giving the whole room a mismatched, uncared-for feeling. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, nearly drowning out the murmured conversation between the white-clad nurse and Mr. Viera, who lay on the bed, his head and arms heavily bandaged. Multiple glass bottles hung from the metal IV pole, dripping liquid and medicine into Mr. Viera’s arm, and Hutch noted with a sigh that he was getting some pretty heavy-duty painkillers, so they probably wouldn’t get much out of him.

“Excuse me, ma’am, we’re from the police department,” Starsky began, “and we wanted to see if we could get any more information from Mr. Viera here.”

The nurse stood up from where she had been bent over Mr. Viera and turned toward them. She was slender and taller than average, with a mass of blonde hair piled on her head under the standard small white paper cap. Meticulously groomed brows arched over blue eyes ringed with barely visible lashes, proving she was a natural blonde. High, defined cheekbones gave her a slightly exotic look that was at odds with her Nordic coloring, and her thin lips were pressed together in a way that made it clear she didn’t approve of them. She frowned at the pair of them as they pulled out their badges, then glanced back down at her patient. “I’m not sure if he’s up for questions right now, Detectives…?”

“Starsky, Dave Starsky, and this is my partner, Ken Hutchinson. We just have a couple easy—”

“Ken Hutchinson,” she interrupted, drawing the name out, her blue eyes sharpening on Hutch. “Kenny Hutchinson? Graduated from Minnesota, class of ’65?”

Hutch blinked in confusion, then narrowed his eyes to take a closer look. She looked very familiar, but it wasn’t until he saw the name tag pinned to her uniform that it hit him. “Suzanne? Suzanne Petersen?”

“Jablonski now,” she corrected with a smile, the expression transforming her face as she threw her arms around Hutch for a quick hug. “Wow, Kenny Hutchinson. I never expected to see you out here! What brought you out west? And how have been?”

Hutch shrugged awkwardly, still feeling the odd sensation of starched polyester against the palms of his hands. “Oh, you know, got tired of the snow and the lake, traded it in for the sun and the ocean. What about you? You, uh, end up marrying Paul?”

She rolled her eyes at that and Hutch shrugged awkwardly; of course she had, if she was Suzanne Jablonski. “Yeah, right after we graduated. Big wedding, invited all the cousins, though my mom did ask about Kenny,” she added, looking over at Starsky with a grin. “Paul got a job offer in San Francisco right out of college, and so we moved out here. I loved it right away, but it only took about a year before he was pining for the north woods.” Her smile faded a bit. “He stuck it out for another five years, for me and the kids, but eventually he applied for a transfer back to Duluth. Tried to convince me to come with, but I loved California more than I loved him.” She took a deep breath and forced a cheerful smile. “And how about you? What about, oh, what was her name? Nancy?”

Hutch coughed awkwardly. “Divorced. And then married again and divorced again. No kids.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, tilting her head to the side, and Hutch felt the mood in the room shift ever so slightly as her gaze sharpened. He cringed inwardly, but kept a bland smile pasted on his face. “And your friend…?”

Hutch turned to Starsky, who was watching the interplay with a slight furrow between his brows. “Starsky, this is Suzanne. We went to college together. Suzanne, this is Dave Starsky, my partner.”

“‘Went to college together’ sounds so quaint,” Suzanne said as she reached across to take Starsky’s hand in hers for a delicate shake. “Kenny and I dated for a bit, before he left me for another woman. Broke my heart, he did,” she said, and Hutch winced at the sincerity in her voice.

“He’s a heartbreaker,” Starsky agreed, shooting Hutch a strange look. “Do you mind if we talk to Mr. Viera here?” he asked, trying to bring the conversation back on track.

“Oh, of course, I’m so sorry,” she said, fluttering her hand in front of her face as she turned back to the man in the bed. “Mr. Viera, these men are police officers and they’d like to talk to you. Do you feel up to it?”

Mr. Viera opened his eyes with what seemed to be some difficulty, his pupils blown wide from morphine and whatever else was in the I.V. “Sure,” he slurred, blinking as he tried to focus first on Hutch and then on Starsky. “Dunno what I can tell you, though, it all happened so fast.”

“That’s alright, just tell us what you do remember. We’ll walk you through it.” Starsky turned to Suzanne, who was still hovering awkwardly. “Would you give us a minute, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “Just call if you need anything, I’ll be right outside.” She quickly left the room, but not without reaching out to squeeze Hutch’s forearm suggestively first.

Hutch looked over at his partner, but Starsky wouldn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the man in the bed. “Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Viera.”

True to his word, Daniel Viera didn’t remember much. They questioned him for about twenty minutes, and all they managed to confirm was that there was only one attacker, he was male, and he wasn’t Black or dark-skinned Hispanic. The first blow had caught Viera above his eyes, and between the concussion and the blood gushing from the head wound, he hadn’t been able to see anything else. He did give them a few leads on people who might want to hurt him—the older brother of an ex-girlfriend who thought Viera had done his sister wrong, a former friend who claimed Viera owed him fifty bucks, and a neighbor who thought Viera kept his grass too long—but none of them, in Hutch’s informed opinion, sounded like the type to attack a man with a lead pipe in the middle of the day and leave him for dead.

Hutch closed his notepad with a snap while Starsky tucked one of his cards underneath the plate on the tray next to Viera’s bed. “Listen, if you think of anything else, give us a call,” he said, voice gentle. “And if you don’t, that’s okay, too; we’ll be back when you’re feeling a little better.”

“Thanks, man,” Viera said, already sliding back toward a morphine-induced sleep.

They walked quietly toward the door in unison, stopping just outside. Hutch leaned down so they could talk a little without being overheard, letting the warm scent of Starsky flow over him. “Maybe we should go back to the scene, question the neighbors again. See if they remember anything else, now that they’re calmed down.”

Starsky shook his head. “Nah, tomorrow’s soon enough. Give ‘em the night to think it over, and besides, there’s a pizza calling our—”

“Oh, Kenny! I’m so glad I caught you.” As one, Hutch and Starsky turned to see Suzanne trotting down the hallway toward them, no longer in her nurse’s whites. Instead, she wore a lime-green and pink body suit that clung to her generous curves from her chest to knees, where it flared out into bell bottoms so wide it looked more like a skirt. Her blonde hair was no longer pinned up; instead it flowed in soft waves down over her shoulders, feathering back from her face like Farrah Fawcett-Majors. She carried a leather purse and even from this distance Hutch could see she’d touched up her makeup and added bright pink lipstick. “I was hoping you were still here. You see, I just got off work, and I thought it would be lovely to catch up—”

Hutch felt his stomach drop even as he pasted a smile on his face. “Suzanne, that’s really great, but I have plans tonight. Starsky and I were going to get dinner,” he said, reaching over to clap a heavy hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “Maybe another time.”

“You know, Blintz, no need to turn down a lovely lady on my account,” Starsky said. Shocked, Hutch turned to him, watching the careful way Starsky wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “We can have dinner any night; not every day you meet an old flame.”

Hutch clenched his teeth, but with Suzanne standing close enough that he could smell her floral perfume, he could hardly argue. “Are you sure, Starsky?” he asked, dropping his voice low and leaning in until his arm brushed his partner’s, mentally begging him to say no.

“Yeah, Hutch, you go ahead, have some fun,” he said, finally looking up. He was smiling, but Hutch could see the strain around his beautiful blue eyes. He was just about to say damn it all and reach across to kiss that vulnerable look of Starsky’s face, when the smile grew an edge and Starsky said, “Maybe I’ll have a chat with Valerie on the way out.”

Hutch’s heart slammed against his ribcage, and it was all he could do to keep from wiping that smirk of Starsky’s face—with a fist or a kiss, he wasn’t sure. “Right, Valerie. I’m sure she’ll be happy to watch Star Trek with you,” he gritted out, before turning to Suzanne, who was frowning at the two of them. “Shall we?” he said, offering her his arm and a forced smile.

“It was real nice to meet you, Detective Starsky,” Suzanne said, her tone slightly uncertain as she tucked her hand into Hutch’s elbow.

“You too, Mrs. Jablonski. You take care of my boy here,” he added, patting Hutch on the arm, and Hutch’s ire rose even further.

Hutch shot his partner one final look before turning and leading Suzanne out to the parking lot. The Torino was parked just outside in the No Parking zone, and Hutch sighed when he saw it. “I hope you have a car,” he said, turning to Suzanne with a slightly sheepish expression. “I carpooled with Starsky this morning. His car,” he added, indicating the Torino.

It turned out Suzanne did have a car, a sporty little black convertible that she’d parked in the far corner of the employee lot. That kept it from getting dinged, she explained as they trekked over toward it, far more slowly that Hutch would have walked either alone or with Starsky, in deference to her platform heels. Despite the awkward beginning to the date—and Hutch had no doubt it was a date, and one his lover had practically shoved him into for reasons he didn’t understand—Suzanne was a good conversationalist, and by the time they pulled out of the parking lot, Hutch ensconced in the passenger seat, he was almost enjoying himself.

Suzanne drove them to a cute little beach-side burger stand not far from the hospital, but far enough from their usual beat that Hutch had never eaten there. He studied the eclectic menu and felt a little pang at the thought of how much Starsky would have enjoyed it. Maybe they’d come back here some time, try one of the tuna avocado burgers, he thought.

Eventually, they ordered burgers, fries, and milkshakes—mango for Suzanne and chocolate for Hutch. He paid for it with a twenty, pocketed the change, then sat across from her at one of the umbrella-shaded tables. They kept the conversation light, mostly reminiscing about old times and old friends, until Suzanne propped her chin up on her hand and plucked a fry off the paper wrapper Hutch was using as a plate. “So, Kenny,” Suzanne said, waving the fry in the air, “how is a guy like you still single? Don’t tell me you’re still pining for your ex-wife.”

Hutch’s stomach lurched and he took a long drink of his milkshake to cover while Suzanne ate one fry and snagged another. “The job, mostly,” he said, shrugging and picking at the remains of his burger. “The hours suck, the pay’s not great, and I’ve called off more dates in the last three years than I’ve seen through to the end. Plus, I’m always with Starsky, and—” He trailed off and took another drink, then said, “I could ask the same of you.”

Suzanne snorted, an incongruently inelegant sound that Hutch remembered fondly from their younger days. “Single mom on the wrong side of 35 with two kids and a job that’s only a little less demanding than yours? I’m hardly a catch.” She shrugged and picked up another fry, staring at it like it might hold the secret to the universe. “I was almost engaged once, to a nice lawyer from Glendale. He seemed really nice, but then Joey hit a baseball through the window of his fancy German car and Steven flipped. I realized he didn’t really want to be a stepdad, that he was just tolerating them. That hurt, that hurt a lot.” She sighed. “You know, I love those boys,” she said, leaning forward slightly and resting her hand on Hutch’s bare forearm, “more than anything. And I don’t regret leaving Steven, not really. But no matter how nice the weather is in California, nights can get awfully cold. And lonely.”

Hutch swallowed and glanced down to where her hand, small and pale and with pink polished fingernails, lay against his own tanned skin. He remembered the feeling of being twenty and desperate to get her into bed the last time Suzanne touched him like this, her eyes dark with desire and her pink lips shiny with gloss and begging to be kissed. It had felt so right, perfectly right, like everything he’d ever wanted—only it hadn’t been, even then. He’d liked Suzanne well enough, been attracted to her, desired her even, but he hadn’t loved her. She was a nice, beautiful woman, but there wasn’t a spark there.

He closed his eyes at the thought instead of his partner, Starsky’s bright blue eyes that always seemed to be laughing, the way his skin would flush pink after a day on the beach before darkening to a glorious tan, those gorgeous curls that Hutch couldn’t help but touch, and the way wherever Starsky was felt more like home than any place he’d ever lived. He ached with the desire to rush back home and lose himself in Starsky, in the way he smelled, the way he moved, the way he tasted.

His chest tightened. This was wrong, all wrong.

He carefully pulled his arm away. “Suzanne, I don’t…”

She withdrew her hand with a deep, disappointed sigh. “Yeah, I was worried you didn’t,” she said, her voice soft with defeat.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “You didn’t. You were a perfect gentleman. If anyone did any leading on, it was me. Just like in college.”

“I did care about you, when we were together,” he said, suddenly desperate to convince her of that, even if it wasn’t entirely true. “I really did.”

Her smile was sad. “Yeah, but not like I cared about you.” She slumped forward a little. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed. I just saw you standing there, looking so much like you did back then, only older and wiser, and all those feelings came rushing back. And then you said you were divorced too and I just thought, ‘Hey, maybe here’s my second chance.’”

Hutch dropped his gaze down to his half-eaten burger, which no longer looked appetizing, not when Starsky was sitting at home waiting for him—and Hutch was sure, jab about Valerie the redheaded receptionist or no, Starsky was waiting for him. “Listen, I can call for a cab, there’s a payphone right over there—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kenny,” she said, and Hutch saw that she had pulled together the tattered remnants of her pride and was now smiling weakly. “Let me drive you home, it’s the least I can do after you bought me dinner.”

As soon as they climbed into the little sports car, Suzanne flipped on the radio, and they listened to Donna Summers with only Hutch’s murmured directions breaking the uncomfortable silence between them. He debated having her drop him off at Starsky’s place, but decided against it; Suzanne was sure to recognize the Torino outside, and besides, he didn’t want to give Starsky the wrong idea. Thankfully, Suzanne knew enough to avoid the freeway at this time of day, and they made good time across town, pulling up in front of Hutch’s building just as the sun started to dip below the skyline.

She put the car in neutral but didn’t bother to engage the parking break or cut the engine, and Hutch was glad there was going to be no awkward dance about inviting her up. “It really was nice seeing you again, Suzanne,” he offered, looking through the windshield. “Maybe we could grab lunch some time.”

She huffed out an ironic little laugh. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea, Kenny,” she said, and Hutch inwardly sighed with relief. He nodded and reached for the door handle. “Hey,” she said, and he froze, “I hope you find someone that’ll make you happy. You deserve it.”

He turned to her and gave her a genuine, if tentative smile. “You deserve it too.” He reached across and patted her shoulder awkwardly before climbing out of the car and heading toward his door. He didn’t look back, letting out a relieved sigh as he heard Suzanne rev her engine and pull out into the street. He hesitated for a moment, considering whether to go upstairs to shower and change, before shaking his head and walking quickly to where he’d parked the LTD. If he was lucky, the traffic would be minimal and he could make it to Starsky’s in enough time to catch the last of that rerun of Star Trek Starsky was so hot on.

His luck held, and less than ten minutes later he pulled up behind the Torino outside Starsky’s duplex. The sounds of the city at night echoed in his ears as he switched off the engine and climbed out, thankful that Starsky had finally convinced him to fix the short in his horn so he didn’t wake the whole neighborhood. He rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time, then hesitated before knocking. Through the open window he could hear the murmur of the television, but no other voices; he’d been right about the receptionist. He took a deep breath and knocked, calling softly through the door, “Starsk, it’s me.”

A rustle of cloth was enough for Hutch to know that Starsky was home, awake, and listening, but he didn’t come to the door right away. After a long minute, Hutch knocked again. “Listen, Starsky, I know you’re home, please just let me in. I don’t wanna have this conversation through the door.”

Starsky’s sigh was loud enough to be heard outside, but he eventually yanked the door open, turning away from Hutch and walking back inside to collapse bonelessly on the armchair. He was still wearing the same clothing as when he’d left Hutch at the hospital, but he’d removed his shoes and socks and was padding around in bare feet.

Hutch followed, closing the door and settling on the couch as near to Starsky as he could. He glanced around, seeing no pizza boxes or any other food anywhere. “Thought you were going to order pizza.”

“Wasn’t hungry,” Starsky muttered, eyes focused on the TV, where Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk were arguing on the bridge of the Enterprise.

“Starsk— what happened with Suzanne—”

“I don’t care what happened on your date, Kenny,” Starsky spat.

Hutch winced. “Starsky, please. Nothing happened. I didn’t want anything to happen,” Starsky’s jaw clenched but he didn’t otherwise react. “I wanted to be here with you, watching stupid television and eating pizza!”

“Yeah, then why’d you go out with her, huh?”

“You practically shoved me at her, you idiot!” Hutch launched himself off the couch and started to pace, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration. “I thought we were,” he waved between himself and Starsky, “you know, in this together, then all of a sudden you’re shoving me at some woman like it’s not a big deal!”

Starsky jumped to his feet and stalked toward Hutch until he could poke his finger right in the center of Hutch’s chest. “Well it wasn’t like you weren’t doing your part, not with Suzanne and not with that receptionist neither! You were practically throwing yourself at her, just because you were jealous of me. Real classy way to act if you say we’re ‘in this together,’” he said, his mouth twisting on the phrase.

“I wasn’t jealous of you, you moron, I was jealous of her!” Hutch roared.

Clearly shocked, Starsky stumbled backward, giving Hutch some much needed breathing room. “What are you talking about?”

Hutch felt his face heat; he hadn’t meant to let that particular admission slip. “You were smiling at her—”

“So you’re saying it’s my fault!”

“No!” Hutch cried. “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” he said, collapsing down on the couch and burying his face in his hands. “I saw her smiling at you like she wanted to eat you alive, and there was nothing, nothing I could say or do, because as far as the world is concerned you’re my partner but you can’t be my partner, and I can’t shout from the damn rooftops that you’re taken, that you’re mine. And hell, I don’t even know if you’d let me shout it from the rooftops even if we could! We haven’t really talked about any of this, about what this is and what it means, and…” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Starsky. I’m sorry.”

“Hutch,” Starsky said, his voice soft in the silence that seemed to echo after Hutch’s confession, “has anyone ever told you that you’re an idiot?”

Hutch huffed out a laugh. He looked up to see Starsky smiling fondly down at him. “Once or twice.”

“I didn’t think we needed to talk about it,” he admitted, sitting down next to Hutch and taking one of Hutch’s hands in his own and lacing their fingers together. “I thought it was obvious that this was the real deal, you and me, together, for good. I want that.”

“I want that too,” Hutch murmured, swallowing around the emotions that were suddenly clogging his throat.

Starsky reached across with his free hand to cup Hutch’s cheek, turning him so they were looking at each other. “You’re not the only one who gets jealous, you know. I see people checking you out—and why shouldn’t they, big hot blond like you—and I wish I could slap a bumper sticker on your forehead that says ‘Property of David Starsky. Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll cut ‘em off.’”

Hutch snorted at the image, so similar to the one he’d had before this night had gone all wrong. “I think my forehead isn’t a great place for a bumper sticker.”

“Fine, I’ll sew one onto the seat of all your jeans,” he said, eyes twinkling. “That’d be more appropriate.”

“Or how about—” Hutch cut himself off, the words having spilled out before he had a chance to consider them.

Starsky rubbed his thumb across the arch of Hutch’s cheekbone. “How ‘bout what?”

Hutch took a deep breath. “Rings. We could get rings.”

Starsky’s smile widened. “You asking me to go steady, Hutch? Wear your class ring?”

Though the words were slightly mocking, Starsky’s smile and the way he was still clinging to Hutch’s hand took the sting out of it. Hutch licked his lips. “Something like that,” he said. “You got a problem with it?”

“Nah,” Starsky said, “I think it’s a pretty good idea, actually. Something classy, though. Because I’m a classy sort of guy.”

Hutch nodded and leaned in until his forehead touched Starsky’s. “Extremely classy,” he agreed, “just a plain, boring band. Silver, maybe, since gold is pretty flashy.”

“Well, maybe not that classy,” Starsky murmured, pressing close enough that Hutch could feel his breath against his own lips. “Needs a little bit of flash. Maybe a diamond or two.”

“Starsky.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Hutch grinned and did just that, leaning in the last inch to press their lips together. The kiss started sweet and gentle, but like always, kissing Starsky lit a fire inside Hutch and he couldn’t help but deepen it, groaning as Starsky responded just as quickly. He slid his free hand into Starsky’s hair, tilting his head slightly to get a better angle, and sucked Starsky’s lower lip between his own.

Starsky kissed like he drove: fast and reckless, but with a precision that never failed to take Hutch apart. He licked into Hutch’s mouth as Hutch scraped his fingernails lightly across his scalp, causing Starsky to shudder and arch up into the kiss. “Could kiss you all night,” he murmured in between increasingly hungry kisses.

Laughing, Starsky tipped backward, pulling Hutch with him, until they were both laid out on the couch, Starsky pinned firmly under Hutch’s weight. “I can think of better things to do all night,” Starsky replied, grinning up at him.

Hutch smiled and finally let go of his hand, immediately putting his now-free hand to good use, worming it between their bodies to unbutton Starsky’s jeans and free his cock. He felt his own half-hard dick twitch when he realized Starsky was bare underneath the denim. “Jesus, Starsky,” he breathed, giving Starsky a quick, single jerk.

Beneath him, Starsky’s laugh became a moan as he arched up into the touch, moving his hands to Hutch’s shoulders to get better leverage. “Tease,” he said, voice strained.

“Says the man not wearing any underwear,” Hutch shot back, thumbing the head and enjoying Starsky’s surprised gasp of pleasure. “Were you walking around like this all day? While we were working?”

Starsky’s answering grin was smug. “Can’t believe you didn’t notice, with how much you stare at my ass.”

That smile, like everything Starsky did, was irresistible, and Hutch licked back into Starsky’s mouth as he slid his hand further into Starsky’s too-tight jeans, wriggling his fingers until he could cup Starsky’s balls and rub firmly at the tender skin behind them. Starsky yelped and bucked up as if he were trying to throw Hutch off him, but Hutch had expected that reaction and pinned him more firmly to the couch as he continued to stroke that sensitive area.

Starsky muttered something unintelligible as Hutch started to mouth at the thin skin under Starsky’s jawline. He sucked a little harder than he should have, hard enough that Starsky would have a shadow of a bruise in the morning, and that image burned right through him to where his cock was now fully hard and feeling like it was about to burst out of his zipper. “God, that feels so good,” Starsky mumbled, then groaned in protest as Hutch removed his hand from Starsky’s jeans.

Hutch turned his attention back to Starsky’s chest, first sucking and nipping at Starsky’s collarbone, then further down into the vee of his partially-unbuttoned shirt, where his chest hair was glistening with droplets of sweat. He kissed his way across until his lips found a nipple buried in the thick mat of curls, flicking it with his tongue before taking it gently between his teeth.

“When I called you a tease,” Starsky said, his words half-moan as he reached up to bury his fingers in Hutch’s overly long hair, “that wasn’t a challenge.”

Hutch didn’t bother to answer, too intent on his prize. He mouthed at the nub until it was fully erect, then moved across to its twin, giving it the same treatment and causing Starsky to squirm. He moaned and tugged at Hutch’s hair, trying to pull him back up for a kiss, but Hutch resisted, intent on his own plans. He continued downward, unbuttoning Starsky’s shirt as he went, exposing the tanned plane of his stomach and the trail of hair that continued down to his exposed cock. Hutch breathed in the warm scent of him, so much more concentrated here: exhaust and bitter coffee, and underneath that, the salty scent of sweat and arousal that had been driving Hutch mad for years. Now he could bask in that scent whenever he wanted and know that he was the reason for it, and the thought made him groan.

Finally realizing that he was awkwardly squeezed up against the arm of the couch, Hutch slid onto the floor and maneuvered Starsky until he was sitting on the edge of the couch, legs spread wide. That was good but not quite good enough, and Hutch tugged on Starsky’s jeans, trying to pull them off. “Anyone ever tell you you wear your pants too tight?” he muttered.

Starsky laughed and lifted his ass off the cushion to make it easier to remove his pants. “Never heard you complain before.” His laugh trailed off into a gasp as Hutch tossed the jeans over his shoulder and dove in to lick at the head of Starsky’s cock, now standing straight up and bobbing slightly, the plump head already flushed a deep red.

Hutch took as much of Starsky’s cock into his mouth as he could, wrapping one hand around the remainder of the shaft and cupping his balls with the other. Starsky’s cock, while not as big as his own, was thick and heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth and bumping up against the back of his throat. He swallowed around the head, causing Starsky to gasp, but didn’t try to go much further; the first and last time he’d tried to deep throat Starsky, his resultant coughing fit had nearly derailed the whole evening. Instead, he focused on the head, pulling out every trick he’d learned to drive his partner wild.

Starsky groaned his name and reached down to cup Hutch’s head; Hutch looked up to see Starsky staring down at him, his blue eyes dark with desire and his kiss-reddened mouth hanging partially open. His face and chest were both flushed and from the glassiness in his eyes, he was obviously close; Hutch thought he’d never seen him looking so gorgeous.

“Jesus, Hutch,” Starsky said again, his voice rough. “I’m almost— I’m gonna—” With that stuttered warning, Starsky came, his body arching up off the couch and his fingers tightening in Hutch’s hair. Hutch coughed and pulled off, keeping one hand on Starsky’s cock and using the other to scramble for his own fly. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Starsky’s bare thigh as he jerked himself off quickly and efficiently; watching Starsky come had pushed him close to the edge, and it didn’t take long before Hutch was gasping Starsky’s name as stars burst behind his eyelids.

Hutch came back to himself to feel a warm hand carding through his hair. He blinked up to find Starsky smiling down at him. “Hey, gorgeous,” Starsky said. “Back with me?”

Hutch groaned wordlessly. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. Starsky reached down and grabbed Hutch’s forearm, pulling him up onto the couch. Still feeling warm and fuzzy from his orgasm, Hutch leaned in, capturing Starsky’s mouth in a messy kiss, the only other sound in the room the low murmur of the evening news from the television.

Starsky kissed him back, reaching up to comb his fingers through Hutch’s hair. After a moment, he jerked away, scrambling for something on the coffee table. Hutch watched, puzzled, then rolled his eyes when Starsky held up the TV Guide like a trophy. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

“You made me miss Star Trek,” he said, shooting Hutch a dirty glare, which was somewhat undercut by him being naked except for his unbuttoned shirt which flapped around as he moved. “But I’m sure there’s a good late night movie on.”

Hutch groaned as Starsky started flipping through the pages, reaching over to snatch the magazine out of his hands and tossing it over the back of the couch as Starsky sputtered indignantly. “We’re not watching one of your weird creature features until two am.” Starsky made a face but didn’t object when Hutch stood and hauled him to his feet. “We need to re-interview Daniel Viera’s neighbors in the morning, and besides, I have a better idea for some late night entertainment,” he added, reaching down to squeeze Starsky’s bare ass.

Starsky smirked up at him. “Pure romance, Hutchinson. Pure romance.”

“You love it,” Hutch shot back.

Starsky’s grin softened, and Hutch felt his heart skip a beat. “Yeah, I do.”

Chapter End Notes: Despite the tags and summary, there is no actual cheating or infidelity in this fic.

In the 70s, Farrah Fawcett was married to Lee Majors, and was generally billed as Farrah Fawcett-Majors until after their divorce in 1982, including on the single season of Charlie’s Angels in which she starred. As someone born well after that, and who has only known her as Farrah Fawcett, it sounds very weird to me!

Starsky’s treehouse layout information taken from Mortmere’s S&H Inventory. We only see one floor of his apartment despite the building exterior having two stories and Starsky living upstairs, so I extrapolated that it’s a two-unit duplex with a neighbor on the bottom floor.

I really wanted to squeeze in a joke about the aliens on Star Trek just being people in body paint, as a nod to David Soul’s guest role as, you guessed it, an alien that’s just a human with weird skin color, but alas, it didn’t quite fit into the scene.