Happy Birthday

217

 Years after the events of Sweet Revenge, Starsky and Hutch struggle to help a friend deal with grief. At the same time, they’re facing pressure from others about their committed relationship.

 

Originally published in the slash zine, Venice Place Chronicles IV in 2004.

Story includes the death of a character from the series.

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June. 1986.

Please. God Please make this stop.

Unfortunately, it appeared God wasn’t listening too well today. As soon as the plea crossed Starsky s mind, he felt his insides heave again and he threw up, ineffectually, into the toilet.

“Shit,” he sputtered, expelling the last of the remains. “I don’t have anything left to puke!”

“It’s okay,” soothed Hutch, his large cool hand resting on Starsky’s warm forehead. The other hand was rubbing his partner’s back through his t-shirt as he knelt next to him. “You’re going to be fine. Just let your body do what it has to do to fight this.”

“I hate throwing up,” Starsky wailed, his voice shaky.

“I know, I know,” Hutch commiserated, offering him the small plastic cup they kept in the bathroom. Drink this, or at least wash your mouth out.”

Starsky swished the tap water around in his mouth, letting it dribble out into the toilet. “Why do I always throw up when I get sick?”

“Because that’s your body’s way of fighting the illness.”

“You never throw up.” Starsky was aware he was pouting.

“No, I just get sinus headaches and bronchitis when I get sick,” Hutch reminded him sarcastically. “I think I’d rather throw up.”

Starsky was ready to argue the point, but Hutch was getting up off his knees, stretching his back muscles slightly as he stood.

“Now, get up,” Hutch urged, pulling him to his feet. “Feel better?”

“A little,” Starsky allowed, permitting Hutch to steady him on his feet. “Shaky.”

“You’re going back to bed,” Hutch decreed. “I’ll tell Cortez you’re sick.”

“He’s going to be a jerk about it.” Starsky squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of nausea rocked him.

Automatically, Hutch held him still for a moment. “Not if I’m there and you’re here. What can he say then, that we’re screwing long distance?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Hutch painstakingly assisted Starsky as he walked back to their bed.

“Sorry,” Starsky apologized, as he sank back onto the disheveled sheets. His head felt heavy and he was a little lightheaded.

Hutch had gone back to the bathroom. He came back into the bedroom with warm, wet washcloths in his hands. “Sorry for what?” Hutch asked in an amazed voice, sitting down and starting to give a cursory bed bath to his lover.

“For whining.” Starsky screwed his eyes shut against the gentle touch of the washrags.

“Starsky, you’re sick. You have every right to whine. I don’t mind at all.”

“Especially since you’ll be at work soon.” He opened his eyes to see Hutch’s cheeks blush a little.

“Yeah, that, too But I’ll be home at lunch to check on you.”

“That’ll thrill Cortez, too.”

Hutch patted Starsky’s hands and face with a dry towel. “I’m allowed to take a lunch hour, even as an underpaid, unappreciated servant of the people of Los Angeles.”

“I know,” Starsky acknowledged sullenly. “It just bugs me, people like him.”

“Yeah. I know. Me. too.” Hutch disappeared out the bedroom door. When he came back, he was bearing watered-down orange juice, some Tylenol, and dry toast. “You already have your water,” Hutch remarked, juggling the pill bottle. “See if you can get any of this down this morning, and if you can keep it down, I’ll bring you a hamburger—with nothing on it—for lunch. Sound good?”

Starsky had to admit it did sound good. Merely knowing he wasn’t going to have to force himself to get upright and ambulatory for work was settling his stomach a bit.

Their boss, Captain Cortez, took what both men felt was a highly unwarranted interest in their living arrangements.

Starsky and Hutch missed Dobey a great deal. Dobey had unerringly known when to get involved in their lives—and when he didn’t need to—and he’d never crossed that line without good reason.

“Wish we still worked for Dobey,” Starsky confessed, as Hutch was strapping on his shoulder holster.

“We owe him a lot,” Hutch agreed, his manner calm and relaxed. It was almost as if he’d known what Starsky had been thinking. “Thank God he’s still with the Department.”

“And doing so well,” Starsky added, drowsily watching his lover. “I know it sounds selfish, but it’s nice, for the first time in my life, to have friends in high places.”

“Yeah.”

Hutch thrust his arms into his jacket and came back over to the bed. “I wish you felt better, babe,” he admitted tenderly, resting his hip on the side of the bed. “It’s gonna be a long day without you.”

“Yeah.” They were so accustomed to spending their days and nights together that being apart was inordinately difficult for them. “I’m gonna go to work tomorrow, no matter how I feel.”

“Well, take care of yourself today, and maybe you’ll be able to,” Hutch offered hopefully.

Gonna try, Starsky thought.

“I have to go,” Hutch admitted after a few moments, looking down into Starsky’s doleful eyes.

Starsky had caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror during one of their pilgrimages to the toilet bowl last night. He suspected his eyes reflected how sick he really was.

“I know,” Starsky sighed.

Hutch bent to kiss his friend, but Starsky weakly put up his hand. “Don’t! Don’t want ya to get sick, too.”

Hutch’s eyes were bright with love, pulling back only slightly from the kiss. “Starsk, if I were going to get sick, it would have happened by now. Remember what we did last night? That would’ve been the time for me to catch it, you know?”

“Yeah.” Starsky gave a sidelong grin as he let his eyes slide closed. But he still refused to let himself be kissed. “I’ll be fine,” he worked to say. “Get out of here. And be careful.”

“Oh, I will, Starsk. I’ll watch those paper cuts.” Hutch’s tone floated back at him as he made for the door. They were rarely on the street anymore.

“Yeah, they can hurt.” Starsky opened his eyes and smiled a little for his partner.

Hutch left with a wave and a smile, and Starsky decided the best thing he could do would be to get some more sleep. He listened for the sound of the front door locking, and then looked at the orange juice and toast.

Can’t handle this. He was unable to face the food. Cautiously, he moved his body over to Hutch’s side of the bed, grabbed Hutch’s pillow to his stomach—carefully—and snuggled into sleep. His last conscious thought was that he was glad Hutch was the one who had to explain his sudden absence to Cortez.

***

It was late afternoon when Starsky woke, startled abruptly by the sound of a car horn. He panicked for a moment.

Hutch promised he’d come by at lunch, Starsky fretted as he sat up—faster than he should have. “Whoa,” he moaned, holding his head briefly. Dizzy.

Alter his head stopped spinning, he saw the note resting on Hutch’s nightstand. Carefully he stretched out his hand for it.

Hey, Starsk.

Hope you feel lots better by the time you read this. I came by at lunch, obviously, but you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you. But I did bring you a burger; it’s in the fridge.

Call me if you need me, I’ll be home a little late, probably around 7:00.

I love you.

Hutch

Starsky seriously considered it for a moment, but the hamburger guaranteed problems for him.

“Well,” he declared, speaking to the paper in his hands. “I can at least make him dinner.” Maybe it’ll make me feel more like eating. He’d lost everything he’d eaten for dinner last night, and he felt positively weak.

However, food was not destined to be his friend that day. Starsky had just shut the refrigerator door in frustration when he heard the doorbell chime.

Gingerly, he moved to answer it, pulling the front of his light blue robe around him and carelessly knotting the terrycloth tie to secure it in place. “Hi, Rose!” he exclaimed, pulling the door open. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Hi, Dave,” Rose Dobey answered, taking in his tousled appearance. “Wasn’t sure I’d catch either of you at home.”

Starsky stepped back from the door, rubbing his left hand over the stubble on his chin. He knew his hair had to be a wild tangle of curls, but there was nothing he could do about that now. “Come in, but I can’t kiss ya. I’m sick.”

“Oh! Poor guy,” Rose sympathized, as she stepped into the small foyer. She was dressed in a light pink top and jeans, and Starsky was struck again by how much she was starting to look like her mother.

“Yeah,” Starsky admitted with a weak grin. “I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself.”

“Men are such big babies when they’re sick.”

Starsky waved her to the couch, dropping into Hutch’s recliner opposite it.

Rose ignored the offer to sit down. “Let me feel your head,” she directed.

“No,” Starsky protested. “I don’t want you to get—”

“I’m not going to get sick. Sit still.” Starsky let his eyes close as the slim dark hand rested on his forehead. When Rose had straightened up, she looked at him in amazement. “You’re burning up. Have you been drinking water? Taking aspirin?”

Starsky could only shake his head.

“Oh, Dave,” she chided. “What were you doing when I got here? Why aren’t you in bed?”

Starsky tried to defend himself. “Been in bed all day. Hafta make dinner, or try to. Hutch’ll be home soon….”

“You’re so pale right now, you look like Hutch,” Rose declared candidly. “Come with me.”

In a few moments, Rose had Starsky seated at the kitchen table, sipping on some cool water while she heated some soup she’d found in the cupboard during her brief, efficient search for aspirin.

“Take the aspirin,” she demanded. “Eat a few of those crackers.”

“Rosie,” Starsky pleaded. Don’t make me eat. “Honey, you don’t know me. When I get sick, I get sick. Like sick to my stomach.”

The teenager turned, one hand on her hip, the other moving the wooden spoon around in the soup pot. “So what? So you barf.”

“Yes! And if I put anything in there, that’s what’s gonna happen now. I’ve thrown up like five times since last night.”

Rose looked disgusted. She gave the soup a final vigorous stir and marched off. She reappeared after a moment with the waste basket from their guest bathroom. It was rubber and would wash out easily, and she’d removed the plastic bag from it. “Use this if you have to.”

Starsky sighed, glancing down at the container she’d set at his feet. He knew when he was beaten. “Rose, how did you get to be a sixty-year-old woman living in a sixteen-year-old’s body? And when did you convert to Judaism?”

“Ha, ha,” Rose bantered back, setting down a bowl of the soup in front of the sick man. It was chicken soup, no less. “Mamma always taught me to be useful. Here.”

Starsky accepted the spoon and napkin she thrust at him. “Useful?” he repeated, dipping his soup spoon into the broth. “Did she ever mention indispensable?”

Archly, Rose smiled as she sat next to him, moving the crackers closer to his bowl.

“Feel better?” she asked, after he’d downed about half the soup.

“Yeah,” Starsky realized, eating with unexpected gusto. He was surprised. “I do.” He looked over at the teenager. “Thanks a lot.”

Rose nodded. “Knew you would! That’s good. Helps me be able to ask you the favor I need to ask.”

“Anything,” Starsky told her earnestly, setting down his spoon. “You know that. You’ve always known that. Anything me or Hutch can do for you or the family, just let us know.”

“How’s Hutch doing?”

Starsky couldn’t help himself. As he began to expound on how well Hutch was doing, he felt a silly, happy grin spread over his face. I’m hopeless, he acknowledged. He knew it. All these years and he was still crazy about his partner.

He didn’t need to hide how he felt from Rose. She’d known about them since she was little. Even though her strict Christian background didn’t allow much room for accepting a gay couple in her life, she and her family had done an excellent job balancing sincerely held beliefs with genuine love and caring for the two partners.

To be honest, it was how Starsky, who was Jewish, had always felt Christians should be. Reality had painted a different picture in his life, however. Although he’d never be able to prove it, he truly believed his Aunt Rose would have been as understanding as the Dobeys were. But by the time he and Hutch had become lovers, Rose and Al were long since dead, killed in a car accident up north in 1982.

A shudder passed through him as Starsky remembered how Hutch’s parents had reacted. Hutch’s mom and dad were also devout Christians, but when they had discovered their son’s choice of spouse, they’d practically disowned him. Things were a little better now, but he knew it was mostly due to his partner’s parents living in Minnesota, while Hutch was here in California to stay.

Starsky didn’t feel the Hutchinsons had accepted Hutch’s decision as much as they’d decided to abandon him to his fate in the Hereafter. He sighed.

“Dave,” Rose scolded. “You’re not listening Io me.”

“Oh, sorry,” Starsky apologized at once. “Got to thinking.”

She patted his arm. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Why don’t you get back to talking about Hutch?”

Rose was a smart girl, or maybe she just knew him too well. With her mention of Hutch, his customary good nature reasserted itself. “Okay,” he apologized. “Sorry. I’m listening now. G’head.”

“All right,” Rose began, pretending to lecture him. “You know Dad’s birthday is next Friday.”

Dobey’s birthday? Starsky grinned. “Rose, I know when my birthday is, Hutch’s, and my mom’s. After that, you’re on your own.”

“You don’t remember that party we had for him last year?” Rose asked matter-of-factly. Her voice was deceptively casual. “It was a couple months before Mom passed.”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky acknowledged.

He did recall that, now that Rose had reminded him. Edith had died in August. Rose was right; it must have been early June when the Dobeys had had that big birthday party for Harold. It had been a bittersweet affair, which turned out to be more of a farewell to Edith than a birthday celebration for her husband. Starsky remembered Edith, bundled up and ensconced on the couch, greeting the partygoers with a serene look on her thin face, more than willing to talk about her illness and her prognosis, her statements disturbingly frank.

The whole evening had thoroughly unnerved Hutch. She’s already gone, Starsk, Hutch had insisted during the short car ride home that night. She’s given up. She’s not gonna make it to the end of the year.

Starsky thought back to the last time they’d seen Edith before she’d been admitted to the hospice.

***

June, 1985.

“Would you come on, already?” Starsky implored, looking down at Hutch. “It started at least three hours ago!”

Hutch followed Starsky up the porch steps of the neat suburban home. It faced west, and the shadows from the setting sun were striping the front yard and the facade of the house with dark elongated shapes. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he advised, his pace and tone nonchalant. “There’ll still be plenty of hamburgers and beer.”

“Better be!” Starsky’s comeback was swift.

“Your staples of life.”

“You forgot tacos and pizza,” Starsky added automatically. They’d been quarreling about each other’s food choices for as long as Starsky could remember, and he unthinkingly joined in the battle.

“Oh, yes.” Hutch slapped his forehead, mockingly. “How could I?”

”You’re the one that made us late!” Starsky accused him, leaning on the doorbell.

“Guilty as charged,” Hutch agreed. “You know I didn’t want to face all that paperwork on Monday.”

“You know, partner, your nose is getting a little br—”

The front door opening cut off Starsky’s retort. “About time,” Dobey opined, looking the men up and down, standing next to each other on his small porch.

“Sorry,” Starsky apologized, crooking a thumb at his partner. “Hutch was polishing apples at the station.”

“Well, we need to with Cortez,” Hutch offered, characteristically blunt even in front of Dobey, Cortez’ boss.

To his credit, Dobey didn’t respond to Hutch. Starsky hadn’t expected him to. Their former captain knew Cortez gave them subtle but constant grief about their relationship.

Dobey’d had a difficult time with it as well, after he’d finally gotten the two to admit they were lovers However, Dobey had accepted the situation. As far as they could tell, the difference between Dobey and Cortez seemed to be that Dobey genuinely cared for the partners. Cortez merely tolerated them. Of course, Cortez didn’t share the history with the two detectives that Dobey did.

As they walked into the foyer, Starsky eyeballed the stairs that led to the upper floor. It was on those very stairs, a decade, ago, where a young Rosie Dobey had been comforted by the partners one night when she’d feared for her father’s life.

“Hi,” Hutch was saying to Minnie, and Starsky looked around him after greeting her as well.

It was the evening of the annual welcome-to-summer/Dobey’s birthday/thank-goodness-school-is-out/general-good-time party/cookout/beer bash Harold and Edith threw annually. It was usually a packed house, with an eclectic combination of cops and their families from the Department, fellow parishioners from the Dobey’s church, Rose’s high-school friends, and Cal’s various baseball teammates. But attendance seemed to be way down this year.

“Beer’s in the kitchen; food’s out back.” Dobey gestured distractedly, moving over to rescue Collins from Grand Theft, who was juggling paper plates too full of cake and ice cream.

Starsky caught sight of Edith on the couch. He nudged his partner with his elbow.

“Yeah,” Hutch murmured, and the two walked as one over to the sofa.

“Edith?” Hutch asked gently, dropping his long frame down to perch on the edge of the sofa arm near her feet. “How’re you doing?”

She was reclining on the couch, propped up by pillows resting against the far end of the couch. Despite the perfect June weather, warm even as twilight descended, her legs were covered with a crocheted blanket, and she wore a loose long-sleeve sweater over her thin frame.

She was almost skeletal. Her dark brown eyes were bright and large in her hollowed face; her skin color, which prior to her illness had been a deep, rich chocolate hue, somewhat yellowed and lackluster.

“I’m feeling pretty good,” she answered, with the air of someone who’d had to answer similar queries several times that day.

Stock answer, Starsky thought, glancing at his partner. They hadn’t heard anything different from Edith since she’d launched into the heart of her battle with pancreatic cancer. Starsky had held out great hope initially, but Hutch’s year in medical school had left him with no illusions about Edith’s chances for recovery.

“Well,” Starsky answered, pulling out a shadow of his old flirtatious persona, “you look gorgeous to me. As always!”

Edith seemed to take his comment to heart, looking genuinely pleased as she ran a thin hand through her short, sparse hair. “Thank you. It’s so nice to have some of my hair coming back in.”

“Looks great,” Hutch added sincerely.

“First time I’ve been out in public without the wig in so long,” she offered, smiling vaguely.

Dobey came over as soon as he spotted them talking to his wife, overhearing her last comments. Standing tall and proud at the end of the couch, he affectionately rested his hand on Edith’s shoulder.

“Now, honey, you know you’ll lose that again when we start the chemotherapy again.”

This was news to both partners. Starsky exchanged a shocked look with Hutch. Start it again? Why did she stop it?

Edith ignored the observation, looking up at her husband. “Harold, get the boys something to drink. You’re not being a very good host.” Her voice was soft, the reproof gentle and teasing.

“Please, no,” Hutch replied, glancing swiftly at Starsky. “We’ll get something in a minute. Wanted to say hi to you first.” He cleared his throat. “Start the treatments again?”

“Edith’s taking a break,” Dobey explained too quickly. “She’s going to start again soon.”

Edith’s eyes were serene. “Maybe. I want to get Cal off to college first. After that—”

“We’re not going to wait that long,” Dobey argued, barely giving Edith lime to finish her thought. “Next week we’re seeing Dr. Carlson again.”

“All right, dear,” Edith responded, but even the two younger men could tell she was agreeing merely to please her husband. It seemed to be a discussion they’d had a few times already.

Dobey patted Edith’s shoulder, not saying anything.

“Harold, dear, our guests…”

He nodded. With a wry smile, he looked over at the two partners. “Good thing she knows who’s the boss in this relationship.”

“Definitely,” Hutch responded, with a half-hearted smile.

“Okay, Edie. I’ll get back to work,” Dobey continued, as Edith smiled contently.

After Dobey walked off, Starsky and Hutch also excused themselves, the latter saying, “We’ll check back in with you later, Edith. Can we bring you anything?”

Ruefully, the woman indicated the end table next to her. It was moderately full of food: some potato salad, a hamburger patty, and two plastic glasses of soda. Nothing looked liked it’d been touched. There was even a slice of birthday cake.

“Harold and the kids keep bringing me food. I’m not very hungry today. But thank you.”

Starsky arched his eyebrow. “The cake looks good.” He began to reach for it. “How about—?”

“Oh, Dave, help yourself.”

“No,” Hutch said quickly. “He meant that perhaps you might want to try some?”

Edith shook her head with a small smile. “No, but thank you.”

“Okay.” Hard to argue with that, as gracious as it was.

They walked away, settling side-by-side against the wall between the kitchen and the living room. As usual, they were touching each other but not making it overly noticeable. Their position was out of the traffic flow, but most of the partygoers were in the back yard anyway. Dobey was busy gathering up discarded paper plates—white, small in diameter, and covered with remnants of chocolate icing.

They watched Edith watch Harold.

“She never takes her eyes off him,” Hutch observed, just loud enough for his partner to hear.

“Yeah.”

It was as if Edith were memorizing every aspect of the man: his expressions, his posture, his gestures.

“She’s not gonna get any therapy until the end of the summer?” Starsky looked at Hutch, asking him with his eyes.

Hutch merely shook his head, his eyes mournful.

Starsky took a deep breath. “Let’s get something to eat,” he demanded, suddenly eager to get away from Edith and the living room. The room was close; the air conditioning was off, no doubt in deference to Edith’s ability to deal with the cold and her weakened immune system’s new susceptibility to illness.

Hutch didn’t move.

“Come on, Hutch,” he urged his partner, understanding exactly what he was feeling. Let’s enjoy the party for a while. We ‘ll talk on the way home.

Hutch stirred then and headed for the kitchen. Starsky trailed behind him, sneaking one last glance at the dying woman as he left. There’s no justice in the world, Starsky thought angrily. Poor Dobey. And Rosie and Cal.

Shit.

***

Rose broke into Starsky’s reverie, getting up and pouring a little more soup in his bowl before returning to her seat. He swallowed a few more spoonfuls while he listened.

“I want to have a surprise birthday party for him, but I’ll never be able to pull it off at home. I was wondering if we could have it here? Friday night, about eight? That will give him plenty of time to get home from work, even though he never leaves there at five anymore.”

“Good idea,” Starsky approved enthusiastically. That was just like Rose, always thinking of other people. “That’d be fine.”

He paused suddenly, reconsidering his quick response. “I mean, I’m sure it’ll be okay, but I have to check with Hutch.” He finished up with an abashed look. He couldn’t commit them without clearing it with his partner. It was his house, too.

“Of course,” Rose agreed, nodding gravely. She obviously didn’t need Starsky to explain. “Ask Hutch and let me know.” The teenager’s eyes saddened a bit. “I’ve got to get him out of the house.”

Starsky nodded, but misunderstood her. “Of course.” It is a surprise party, after all.

Taking a deep breath, Rose got up and began to clear the dishes.

“I can do that,” Starsky protested, pulling himself to his feet.

“Only take a minute.” She twisted on the hot water faucet on the kitchen sink.

“Rose—”

“I can stay and make dinner,” she offered. “Cal’s got a game tonight, and Dad has a meeting.”

Starsky smiled as he fought a recurrence of the dizziness. He recognized the motivation behind the suggestion. “Rose, that’s okay. Thanks, though.”

“Well, I feel like I owe you something.”

“Just making you and your dad happy will be enough for me. Don’t worry about it. Hutch’ll be home soon, and he can make dinner.”

“If you’re sure…” Rose’s voice was doubtful. She’d already reconnoitered the food situation. “You have some hamburger in the freezer. I could make spaghetti, or shepherd’s pie?”

“I’m sure. Now, go home!” Starsky’s voice was friendly, but he gripped the edge of the table in what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner. Gotta lie down again.

“I’m going to Michael’s, actually,” Rose stated, in a deliberately casual tone, rinsing out the pot.

That remark got his attention as the spinning, swimming feeling in his head faded away. “Oh, sweetie,” Starsky responded, taken aback. “I thought you two broke up.”

“No,” Rose explained, with a small smile on her face. “Dad told us to break up. That’s not the same as breaking up.” She emptied the sink and retrieved her purse from the living room.

“No,” Starsky agreed, doubtfully, opening the front door for the girl. “It’s not.”

Rose hesitated on her way out the door. She turned and looked up at Starsky, standing very close to him. “I would, Dave, if we were doing anything wrong. But Dad is so wrong on this.”

Starsky couldn’t agree more, and what was especially upsetting to him was the fact that he would’ve never thought Dobey to be the type to hold someone’s skin color against him. But when it came to his daughter, different rules seemed to apply.

Yet he knew he shouldn’t say anything. Couldn’t contradict Dobey’s authority. He settled for something he knew was banal. “Well, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Yes, you do,” Rose replied, her dark eyes holding Starsky’s. “Look at you and Hutch.”

Instantly, Starsky was shaking his head. She was right, but Starsky couldn’t let it go at that. “And look how much grief we’ve had, and how many problems it’s caused with our families, especially Hutch’s. Maybe you oughtta bear that in mind.”

Rose sighed, and a brief silence fell. The neighborhood was experiencing its customary late afternoon lull: the time after the return of the schoolchildren liberated from hours in the classroom, and before the commuters cars from LA stalled streaming into the suburban streets, their drivers intent on dinner.

She gave Starsky a half hug. “Call me? Let me know?”

Starsky nodded, a friendly smile on his face. With that she was gone, heading down the walk to her mother’s old car with car keys in hand.

***

Two days later.

“At least you could help me,” Starsky groused. It was a couple of days after Rose’s visit, and they were deep in party preparations.

“Hey!” Hutch protested. He was slouched on the couch, several books clustered near his jean-clad legs. “You’re the one who told Dobey I was making a special Mexican dish.” He waved one of the cookbooks at his lover. “What am I supposed to make?”

Starsky looked up and grinned. He was seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting through his slides. He was comfortable in sweats and a soft black cotton t-shirt.

“What are you gonna make?” he innocently inquired.

Hutch looked desperate. “I don’t have any idea.”

“Well,” Starsky proposed, in his best I’m-determined-to-help-you-out-buddy voice. “How about I take you out tonight to Casa Maria, and maybe you can sweet-talk Ana or Hank out of a recipe?”

A slow smile crossed Hutch’s face. “That sounds great.”

Starsky had to force himself to look away so Hutch couldn’t see him smirking. “Yeah, I thought it would.”

After a few moments, Starsky felt a hand rest firmly on his shoulder. Hutch had abandoned the cookbooks and was sinking down to sit next to him.

“Need some help?”

“Yeah,” Starsky admitted. “I guess I do. I had these pretty well organized, but I can’t put my finger on the one I’m looking for. Maybe it didn’t come out right and I tossed it, but I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, let’s see.” Hutch reached for one of the unopened boxes.

For the next few minutes, the two men sat side-by-side, rooting through the small rectangular boxes in which Starsky stored his color slides.

“Is this it?” Hutch finally asked, holding up a nondescript square film against the late afternoon sunlight flooding the living room’s picture window.

“Let’s see.” The viewer was set up on the floor next to the Starsky. He flipped on its light and rested the slide against the illuminated display.

“Yeah!” he exulted. “That’s the one. Thanks!”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Hutch murmured.

“You would say that,” Starsky teased, glancing back at the blond. “You’re in it and not me.”

“Well, he always did like me better.” Hutch’s tone was factual, as if declaring an unchanging aspect of nature.

“Says you!” Starsky retorted, affectionately cuffing Hutch in the shoulder. “Look at that wonderful photography! What a master that guy is with a camera.”

He tilted his head back toward Hutch with a mischievous grin. As they were sitting very close to one another, Hutch took the opportunity to give his partner a quick kiss, a soft brush of lips.

“It is a great shot,” Hutch then conceded, far more serious now. “Dobey’ll love it.”

The slide depicted a tableau at a picnic the Department had hosted years ago. Looking at Hutch in the picture, with no mustache and no evidence of the back brace he’d been wearing off-duty back then, Starsky would’ve bet it had been in 1976 or 77. Almost ten years ago.

Dobey was dead center in the picture, dressed in loose beige shorts and a darker brown polo shirt. He wasn’t looking at the camera Starsky had wielded that afternoon. Instead, he was gazing adoringly at Edith who was standing at his side, smiling tolerantly at Starsky and his ever-present photographic lens. The couple had their arms around one another’s waists, and Rosie, who couldn’t have been more than seven-years-old, was worrying at her mother, clamoring for attention. Hutch, apparently oblivious to both the camera and the fact that Dobey was obviously not paying attention to him, was talking to his boss over Edith’s shoulder.

It had been a noisy, happy crowd of Metro policemen and their families that day. This photograph captured one instant in time during a magical day spent in the warm summer sun with friends and comrades, a day remembered for a long, long time.

Dobey looked so happy. It was such a contrast from his demeanor these days. It almost pained Starsky to see him depicted in this perfect moment in the past, and then make the comparison to present day in his mind.

“I think he’d like this one,” Starsky offered. “Especially since Edith’s in the picture.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hutch agreed fervently.

They got to their feet, Hutch routinely helping Starsky uncurl from his posture on the floor. He still got stiff if he stayed in one position too long, a legacy of Gunther that was never going to go away.

“I’ll go get a frame,” Hutch volunteered, pulling his car keys from his pocket. “Unless you have one already?”

Starsky shook his head, bending over to collect his slides. “Get two,” he directed. “I wanna make it an eight-by-ten, but I’m not sure the resolution is good enough. So get an eight-by-ten and a five-by seven, to be safe. Make ’em nice ones.”

“Yeah,” Hutch acquiesced. “Okay. See you in a bit.”

Intent on his task, he was heading for the door when Starsky complained, “Hey!”

“Oh!” Hutch looked abashed. “Sorry.” He swiftly moved back to Starsky and angled his head down for a quick kiss and a brief hug. Then he was out the front door.

Starsky, after he’d gotten his kiss, barely noticed Hutch leaving. Gotta make sure I’ve got enough toner, too. His arms full of boxes, with the one slide resting on top of the uppermost one, he headed to the garage where Hutch had built him a small crude enclosure they ambitiously called his darkroom.

***

Friday night.

“You’re not going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me, are you?” Dobey grumbled, resting his hands on the white tablecloth.

“Why not?” Starsky asked, his eyes alight as he looked across the table at his former boss. “It’s your birthday; why shouldn’t we sing?”

“Because he’s heard you sing before, Starsk,” Hutch remarked lightly, coming back from the kitchen where he’d gone to get the dessert plates and forks.

Rose jumped up to help Hutch hand out the silverware. “Now, none of that,” she laughed, offering her father one of the forks. “Dave has a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you,” Starsky declared, with a nod to the teenager. “Nice to know someone around here appreciates me.”

Dobey’s very modest birthday celebration took place in Starsky and Hutch’s dining room. The room was tiny and dark, its poor design a frequent cause of complaint for Hutch. Starsky didn’t think it was all that bad, really. Unlike his partner, he hadn’t grown up in a large, sunny six-bedroom/three-and-a-half-bath house surrounded by twenty acres of prime real estate on the shores of Lake Superior. Starsky thought the small house they owned was palatial.

Starsky had to be honest with himself; the party hadn’t been an unqualified success so far. Cal was there with his girlfriend, Arnita. They were young and in love and, like many young lovers, only had eyes for each other. They were there physically, but emotionally they were preoccupied. Certainly, they’d been paying attention only to each another all evening.

Rose had organized everything flawlessly as her mother always had, but in a display of stubborn independence that was also just like her mother, she’d brought her boyfriend along. For some unknown reason, Dobey disliked Michael intensely, and the poor kid had been visibly uncomfortable all evening. Starsky looked at Michael and smiled. Again. He’d been trying to put him at ease all evening, with zero success. Also, this was the first time Michael had met Starsky and Hutch. Rose must have clued her boyfriend in as to how close he and Hutch really were, because he’d been watching them since arriving, evidently concerned that the two cops might suddenly break down and throw themselves into each other’s arms.

“It’s your birthday, Chief,” Hutch proclaimed, returning with the cake and setting it down in front of Dobey. “So, you get to cut the cake.”

“And get the first slice,” Arnita added helpfully, from her vantage point at Cal’s side.

“Well, all right,” Dobey allowed. “As long as you guys don’t sing to me. Give me that knife.”

Reversing the utensil to hand Dobey the handle, Hutch offered him the cake knife. In short order, the chocolate cake Rose had baked and decorated was cut, and everyone had a piece.

“Dig in,” Dobey invited, noticing that everyone was waiting for him to take the first bite.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Starsky enthused. He loved chocolate and had allowed himself plenty of room for cake.

“No, you don’t,” Hutch said dryly, sitting back down and watching his partner attack the cake.

“Hey,” Starsky protested, with a gleam in his eye. “Gotta eat to live!”

“You tell him, Dave,” Cal chimed in. The wiry young man indicated his large piece of cake with a wave of his hand.

For a few moments, there were only the sounds of silverware and eating. Dobey finished first. “This is a great-tasting cake, Rosie,” he complimented his daughter.

Starsky would have agreed, but his mouth was full. He settled for nodding vigorously.

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, his pale gray eyes full of adoration. “You’re a great cook, Rose.”

“Thanks,” Rose answered. She inclined her head toward Hutch, correcting an oversight that Starsky thought only he’d noticed. “But no one thanked Hutch for dinner. The chimichangas were great, too.”

Thanks, Rose, Starsky exulted. It was the perfect opening to rib his lover.

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed, grinning impishly at Hutch. “And who got you that recipe?”

Hutch’s blue eyes were sparkling with humor. “Okay, it was your idea to beg Ana for it. What d’ya want, partner, a confession that I’d be lost without you?”

Starsky glanced down, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, God, I love you.

It had to be glaringly obvious to the others that the two men were deeply in love with each other. A general chuckle ran around the table.

“Don’t need to admit it,” Starsky allowed grandly, the amused reaction giving him time to rein in his emotions. “Everyone already knows. I’ve been carrying you for years.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hutch retorted good-naturedly. “Says you.”

Starsky reached for his glass of milk to clear his throat for the return volley, but Dobey interceded first. “Okay, you two. That’s enough of that.”

It was all in good fun, and the fact that Dobey feigned a gruff tone made it clear that he knew that, too. Starsky relaxed a little. Maybe, just maybe, Dobey will end up having a nice time before he goes home. Starsky felt Dobey was simply going through the motions of all this to please his daughter.

A brief silence fell, and Rose hopped to her feet. She’d barely touched her slice of cake. “Cal, take the cake back in the kitchen. I’ll get the presents.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Starsky offered, and in few minutes, the two were back from the guest room where the presents had been stored, bearing a few simply wrapped items.

“Goodness,” Dobey murmured. “All this and presents, too. How do I rate?”

“You’re just the best dad in the world, that’s how,” Rose stated.

That was one of the Absolute Truths of the Universe for Rose, Starsky knew. One thing that would never change, in the midst of all the other changes the Dobey family was experiencing, was Rose’s utter devotion to her father.

“Hear! Hear!” Hutch chimed in, and Starsky smiled to himself. In a lot of ways, Dobey had filled a paternal role for his partner as well: an older man who loved Hutch much as a father would, but thankfully, without conditioning that love on the son’s success. In their good times and bad, when Starsky and Hutch had been friends, partners, and eventually lovers, Dobey had been on their side.

As Hutch and Rose sat down, Dobey picked up a small rectangular envelope from beside his plate. “What’s this?”

“Open it and you’ll find out,” Cal urged. “Arnita and I got you that.”

“I hope it’s true what they say,” Starsky teased, his dark blue eyes wide and innocent. “That good things come in small packages.”

“It’s definitely true, Dave,” Arnita answered, standing up and lightheartedly adopting a model’s pose. She was quite short. “Look at me.”

Don’t need to tell Cal that twice. He can’t take his eyes offa you. But Starsky couldn’t really blame him. Arnita was good-looking: magnificently outfitted in a bright red midriff blouse and black slacks, with narrow spiked heels on her sandals. She was an exceptionally attractive girl, glamorous with a hint of sophistication. She presented a vivid contrast to Rose, who was pretty but customarily dressed simply and limited her use of make-up.

“Baseball tickets!” Dobey exclaimed, pulling the narrow tickets from the envelope. “The Dodgers, no less.”

“Yeah!” Cal was excited. He played baseball in college. As a freshman, he was still JV but had high hopes for his future with the team—and he loved the Dodgers. It was a present that pleased Cal far more than it did his father, but Dobey made the appropriate noises of appreciation. Dobey hadn’t missed many of Cal’s evening ballgames, but baseball didn’t interest him much.

Starsky noticed there were three tickets in the man’s hand. So, Dobey gets to go with Cal and Arnita. He’ll be the odd man out.

He wasn’t the only person there who noticed that; he saw Rose frown at her brother as she picked up and handed her birthday present to her dad. “You’ll like this,” she opined, still giving the evil eye to her older sibling.

“Well, the box is larger,” Hutch offered with a tentative smile. The comment fell flat.

Dutifully, Dobey opened her package. Starsky was getting desperate. The longer the evening lasted, the more wearisome the party seemed to become for their former boss.

Hutch reached for the discarded wrapping paper, as Dobey pulled off the top of the long white box. It contained a coordinated outfit of clothes: a sports coat, slacks, a dress shirt, and a matching tie. They were all in the various shades of brown that Dobey particularly favored for work.

“You needed some new clothes,” Rose stated as soon as Dobey ran his hand over the jacket. “You haven’t bought any since Mamma—”

“I know. I know,” Dobey interrupted shortly. “You got ’em at Leonard’s?”

Rose nodded, determined to ignore her dad’s discomfort. “Of course. And Mr. Cliff said you could return them if you needed a different size or color.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch, who returned his look uneasily. Dobey did need some new clothes, and it was saying something that even Starsky—a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy—noticed. He suspected that Dobey’d gained even more weight since Edith’s passing, and a man that big was hard on his clothes.

“Thanks, Rosie,” Dobey said, simply. “I’ll wear them to work on Monday. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” Rose answered. “Glad you like them.”

Starsky could feel the last of Dobey’s enthusiasm slipping away. The sadness around the man’s eyes was getting particularly difficult for Starsky to handle. He and Hutch didn’t work directly for their former captain any longer—they worked for Captain Lee Cortez, a bona fide first-class jerk—but Dobey, now an assistant chief with the Department, had kept in touch with them.

They still counted Dobey as one of their very small circle of friends, but as often happened in life, if friends didn’t make the time to keep in touch, they tended to drift apart.

That was precisely what had happened. They’d known Dobey had been devastated when Edith was diagnosed with cancer. The long months it took her to lose her battle had been difficult for everyone, and the two partners had been there for Dobey and his family.

But following Edith’s death, and after a short time of checking in on him… Oh, they saw him occasionally at work, and of course he looked a little down, but that wasn’t unexpected. He seemed fine, really. Dealing with it, moving up the ladder at work, getting on with his life.

With a rush of guilt, Starsky realized how wrong he and Hutch had been. For the first time since Edith’s death, Starsky understood that Dobey wasn’t fine. He wasn’t dealing with it. He wasn’t getting on with his life. He wasn’t okay.

You dummy, Starsky thought with a sinking heart. You call yourself a detective?

“Guys and gals,” Dobey announced, starting to push his chair back from the cluttered dining room table. “This has been fun, but—”

“Hey!” Starsky protested, pulled from his reverie. “You haven’t opened our present yet!”

“That’s right,” Hutch chimed in, glancing at Starsky with concern broadcast all over his face. “And we saved the best for last!”

In that split-second, unspoken communication between the two partners, Starsky knew Hutch had picked up on Dobey’s condition as well. He was as worried, too.

“Oh?” Dobey sounded surprised, arresting his movement out of the chair. “I thought dinner was your gift.”

“For our favorite assistant chief of police in the whole world?” Starsky bantered, forcing his tone to be light. “No way.”

Hutch hopped up, reaching a long arm over the table to pick up and hand over their present.

“Hope you like it, sir,” Hutch said, almost formally, dropping back into his seat next to Starsky.

Starsky was nervous now. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe a picture of Edith was the last thing Dobey wanted. Especially a picture of both of them together.

Too late now. The last of the gaudy paper Starsky had used to wrap the present was ripped away. A silence fell over everyone as the younger guests strained to see exactly what the gift was. Starsky just held his breath.

“Terrific,” he muttered to Hutch, who had risen to stand behind him. Hutch rested his hand on his partner’s shoulder, the touch substantial and comforting.

Dobey didn’t say anything. The moment froze in time and stretched out.

“Chief?” Hutch finally asked from his vantage point over Starsky’s head. “You like it?”

At the sound of the younger man’s voice, Dobey looked up slowly. His eyes were fluid, bright. “I do, Hutchinson. Thanks.”

Hutch hesitated, and Starsky could sense him searching for something innocuous to say. “Well, well…we th-thought you’d like it.”

It was turning into a soapy scene, and Starsky recognized that his lover was on the edge of stammering. He wasn’t ready for either event. “Yeah, sorry Hutch is in the picture, but I couldn’t crop him out… woulda made the composition unbalanced.”

Dobey looked startled. His dark brown eyes flickered over to Starsky. Then he blinked and looked down again at the framed photo he held reverently in his hands.

Starsky realized he hadn’t even noticed Hutch was in the picture.

“Oh, yeah.” He stared at the photograph as silence built in the room again. Rose and Cal had gotten up to look at it as well, flanked behind their father on either side of him.

“That’s a great picture of Mom,” Cal offered, his voice soft. It was the most genuine thing Starsky’d heard from him all evening. He retreated to sit with his girlfriend again.

“What a nice idea, Dave, Ken,” Rose spoke up, filling in the uncomfortable silence. She patted her father’s shoulder, undoubtedly trying to get him to thank the two men anew. He merely sat there, still and quiet, his eyes glistening.

“Hey, Chief,” Starsky apologized quietly. “We didn’t mean to upset you.” Don’t stop touching me, Hutch, he thought, silently begging his partner not to remove his hand from his shoulder.

Dobey blinked. “You didn’t upset me, Dave. That’s not it.”

“You miss her,” Hutch stated softly, gripping Starsky’s shoulder more firmly.

“Yeah. Still. Always. Every minute of every day.”

Apparently, Starsky wasn’t the only person who wasn’t in the mood for a soapy scene. Cal turned to Arnita. “Baby, maybe we’d better go.”

“No,” Dobey commanded. “All of you stay here.” He cleared his voice, looking up and meeting each person’s eye. “I’ve got something to say.”

No one seemed to know how to respond to that. Finally, Rose stepped in. “Okay, Daddy,” she acquiesced after a moment. “May we go into the living room?”

Hutch answered her. “Of course.”

Without speaking, everyone got up and trooped the few feet from the dining room into the living room. Almost of one accord, they found seats in the small but comfortable room. It was decorated in what Starsky fondly liked to consider Southwestern style, but was actually an amalgamation of his and Hutch’s furniture from their apartments. Dobey selected Hutch’s chair, while Cal and Arnita huddled next to each other on the couch, and Rose perched on the edge of Starsky’s chair with him. Hutch was standing on his other side, and Michael was hovering by the archway between the living and dining rooms.

But once everyone was seated, expectantly waiting, Dobey seemed to lose his voice. He sat there staring at his hands, large and brown, repeatedly clasping and unclasping them.

Starsky looked up at Rose. Can’t you do something? he implored silently, trusting his expression to convey what he was thinking.

She moved over to her father. “Come on, Dad,” she urged, rubbing his shoulder. “We all know you loved Mamma, but you’ve got to get it together.”

Dobey gave a snort of a laugh, not bothering to look at his daughter. “Get it together? Get it together?” Suddenly belligerent, he glared around at everyone, and Rose wasted no time retreating to Michael’s side. “Look at all of you!”

Starsky obediently began looking down at his jeans before he realized how stupid he was being. He glanced up at Hutch, seeing his own troubled expression mirrored in Hutch’s face.

“All of America is paired off, just like every single one of you. And I’m not. I’m alone.”

“Chief,” Hutch started.

“Dear God,” Dobey continued, ignoring Hutch. He ran his hand restlessly through his hair. “I never thought she’d go first. Never.”

No one seemed to know what to say to that.

“Dad,” Rose finally offered. “You gotta have faith.” Without a break, she went on. “‘But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope.'”

What in the…? Starsky thought.

Dobey must’ve recognized the quote, though. “Yeah, I know, Rosie,” he acknowledged. “But you’ll learn as you get older that it’s harder and harder to believe that.”

He sat quietly for a moment before repeating his lament. “I’m a cop, and I’m too heavy… I never thought she’d go first.”

“Chief,” Hutch said quietly. “Rose is right. You have to pick up the pieces and go on. You have to have hope. You have to. Maybe you should talk to your minister.”

“My minister?” Dobey glared over at Hutch. “What good is that going to do?”

“Might make you feel better,” Starsky offered, attempting to back up his partner.

Dobey looked around again, his eyes dark and sorrowful. “You all have someone. That’s why it’s so easy to sit there and judge me.”

That drew an instant protest. “We’re not judging you, Dad,” Cal argued, pulling his hand out of Arnita’s grip.

“We just want you to be happy!” Rose echoed the sentiment from the other side of the room.

Dobey shook his head. “It’s only natural for a man to want someone to share his life with. Even you two…” He casually indicated Hutch and Starsky with a wave of his hand, “…wanted someone to love.”

Oh, no. Starsky panicked. Out of the comer of his eye, he saw Hutch back away from him ever so slightly. Can’t deal with that tonight.

They had never risked revealing the true nature of their partnership to their boss, and by the time Dobey had forced the truth from them, a fair amount of damage had been done to their relationship. Looking back, Starsky had no trouble admitting they had handled things poorly, and he didn’t want to revisit any of that.

Fortunately, Dobey looked over at his daughter before the comment could be pursued. “Even you, Rosie, have to have someone, even though I couldn’t disapprove more.”

Starsky mentally sank back into his chair. This is gonna be even worse.

“Why?” Rose shot back. An extremely sore subject had just been tossed into the mix. “What is so bad about Michael?”

“Yeah,” Michael finally echoed, finding his voice. “Just ’cause I’m white, you hate me?”

Starsky straightened up at that. This was something he definitely needed clarified.

Dobey looked infinitely weary. “Son, I don’t hate you. But I can’t have you dating Rosie.”

“Why, Daddy?” Rose asked again, crossing her slender arms and staring at Dobey. “I keep asking you and you never answer me. Mamma would have never—”

“Don’t tell me what your mother would have done, young lady,” Dobey shot back. “You don’t know!”

“Okay, okay,” Hutch soothed, holding out his hand in a supplicating manner. “Let’s not do this.”

Again Dobey ignored him, taking a deep breath. “I’ll tell you. Because I’m scared. Scared for you, Rosie. Scared to death.” He shook his head. “You’re going to get yourself killed, running around with a white boy. There are too many people out there who hate the idea of interracial couples. Kooks that would use you as target practice if they saw you two together.” His voice dropped in volume precipitously. “Especially if they saw you being…affectionate.”

Rose’s face was a perfect study of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding! This is the 1980s! This is LA! People just don’t think like that anymore. Come on, now!”

Dobey heaved a sigh. It was as if he and his daughter were the only people in the room.

“Dad,” she continued, clearly offended by her father’s belief. “Get real. No one is like that anymore. That’s, like, from the forties or something.”

Michael shifted positions marginally, from his vantage point at her side. “I don’t know, Rose,” he said, slowly and softly. Both Dobey and Rose paused a moment to hear him out. There was an awakening expression on the boy’s face. “Remember last weekend, when the Community Center had that pool night?”

“Yeah?” Rose looked at her boyfriend, daring him with her eyes to contradict her.

But Michael was apparently made of sterner stuff when he was dealing with Rose, versus her father. “Rose, I know you heard them. Remember?”

“No.”

“Sticking your head in the sand isn’t gonna help,” Michael maintained, his voice still polite and evenly modulated, but he was staying firm.

“I didn’t hear them.”

Dobey nodded as if Michael had confirmed everything he’d ever suspected. “That’s my point, Rosie. People like that. People like that who might decide to take a pot shot at you to keep the race pure.”

Rose was furious, gesturing angrily with her hands. “Yeah, and if we hide from people like that, we may as well just put the chains back on and go out into the cotton fields, Massah!”

“Amen!” chorused Hutch instantly. Cal and Arnita were smiling approvingly.

“Okay, guys,” Starsky interjected. The subject was making him uncomfortable. It was turning into a battle disturbingly similar to ones he and Hutch had had about how “open” they could afford to be in public. “This is supposed to be a birthday party. Let’s cool it. Relax, you know? We’re supposed to be celebrating something here.”

“Celebrating,” Dobey repeated blankly. “I’ve got nothing to celebrate.”

Starsky couldn’t disagree more. “No, you’ve got—”

“Please don’t,” Dobey asked, his voice empty of emotion. “Please don’t tell me how I need to get it together, pick up the pieces and go on.”

Hutch moved hack closer to Starsky, incidentally shortening the distance between himself and his former captain. “It’s what you need to do, Chief. I know it’s hard….”

A short hark of a laugh. “Hard? Hard? You don’t know the half of it. And don’t stand there and lecture me, Hutchinson. After Starsky was shot, I thought you were going to die with him, right there on the other side of that glass.”

Hutch physically took a step back at those words.

Starsky grimaced, forcing himself not to reach for his lover. Why in the hell did he have to bring that up? he railed in his mind. Why? The Shooting was a time in their lives he feared Hutch would never be able to look back on with any measure of peace. If Hutch had been religious still, Starsky thought he might have someday been able to. However, Hutch had more of a sense that they’d cheated death, rather than holding to Starsky’s view that his recovery had been a certifiable miracle.

Starsky opened his mouth to say something, but Dobey wasn’t done. He was relentless, blunt. “Why do you think I sent Huggy with you when you left? I was afraid you were going to walk in front of a train.”

Hutch let himself sink onto the arm of Starsky’s chair, and Starsky shot an angry look at their former captain. He reached up and brushed his hand against Hutch’s shoulder.

“Chief,” Starsky stated, his voice low and serious in the silence. “You can’t know what Hutch would’ve done if I hadn’t made it. You can’t tell ahead of time how you’re gonna react.”

“You didn’t see him.” Dobey was unrepentant.

“No, I didn’t. But you can’t say he wouldn’t’ve made it. You can survive losses that you never thought you could, believe me.” Starsky had tried to resist it, but it was a lost cause. All he could think about now was his father.

“Starsky, you weren’t there!” Then Dobey appeared to reconsider that statement. “Not really.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Starsky readily agreed. “But Hutch would’ve made it, thanks to friends like you and Huggy, and your kids.” Starsky heard Hutch release a long breath as he kept his place of refuge on the arm of Starsky’s chair. He paused for a moment.

“Maybe you’re right, Chief,” Hutch spoke up. “Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to go on. That doesn’t mean you can’t, though. It just means I’m not the man you are.”

Starsky winced at the choice of words. Ever since Hutch had come out to his family, his father had frequently called Hutch’s manhood into question, while simultaneously assuring his son of his eventual eternal damnation.

Hutch was letting it get to him. These last few months, ever since he’d called home for his mom’s birthday, he’d grown more and more passive in the bedroom. Hutch always had preferred to bottom, but occasionally they would switch off, and he’d penetrated Starsky. Lately, he had shied away from that totally. He essentially let Starsky call the all shots when they were behind their bedroom door. Starsky didn’t have any trouble handling the responsibility for their sex life, but he hated the reason he was doing it. He thought back to last weekend, the last time they’d made love.

***

A week ago.

With a supremely satisfied grunt, Starsky ejaculated into Hutch, pounding into his partner who was face down on the bed. He selfishly enjoyed the sexual release he was experiencing. He’d never, ever had had sex as great as he did with Hutch. Hutch was everything.

Starsky couldn’t control his thoughts, though, as they ran down an increasingly familiar, disquieting path. Things between them in the bedroom had changed. “You okay?” Starsky asked as he carefully pulled out.

“Mmm.” The reply was non-committal.

Be nice to have sex with Hutch again, and not whoever this is, Starsky thought acrimoniously. For the last few weeks, he’d initiated love-making sessions with high hopes things would be like they used to be. Though, it never was anymore. “Hutch. Really. Are you okay?”

Wearily, Hutch turned over, looking up at Starsky. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

This is true, Davey. You oughtta be used to this by now. Disconsolately, Starsky flipped over and lay on his back.

When they had first become lovers, Starsky almost felt like tearing up, and they’d experimented a great deal. Neither of them had been with a man before they’d taken the plunge with each other, and all they had to go on were some gay magazines Hutch had traveled to Santa Ana to buy. Those magazines had become the “Way of Gay Sex” for them, and they still had them, dog-eared and torn as they were from too frequent handling.

They’d learned a lot, tried a lot of different things. Starsky learned he didn’t particularly care for being the bottom man, as it were. From the beginning, it had been Hutch who had offered himself to Starsky, willingly and happily.

Still, Starsky had gotten it, and wanted it, and loved it, every so often. Why had all that changed? Hutch hadn’t put the moves on him in weeks. Weeks!

Turning to talk to his partner, Starsky was confronted with the man’s wide white back. He was already up and out of the bed, heading for the bathroom. Hutch, Starsky whispered to himself.

Something had to give. While Starsky was busy doing a cursory cleanup of himself, his mind was racing.

After a few minutes, Hutch came back to bed. Have to walk carefully here. Starsky decided to start out with the basics. “You clean up?”

“Yeah.”

“Use the powder?”

Over the years, they’d learned that some powder on Hutch’s rear, between his legs, went a long way toward preventing a rash or any irritation. Usually, Starsky was the one who smoothed the cool antiseptic white talc on his partner. But lately, Hutch had taken to caring for himself alone, in the privacy of their bathroom.

“Yeah.”

Hutch reached up and snapped off the nightstand light. Starsky’s was still on. As Hutch burrowed under the covers, Starsky sat up. He waited a few moments, but Hutch lay on his side, silently, presenting his back to his partner.

Well, better get cleaned up myself I guess.

When he came back to bed, Hutch’s breathing was steady and deep. That was how Starsky knew he was faking it. Hutch was anything but restful in sleep. Starsky, who liked sleeping huddled up against Hutch’s arm, usually spent much of the night following him over the sheets as he twisted and turned in bed.

“Hutch.”

Dead silence.

“Hutch. Turn over and talk to me.”

More silence.

If you’re waitin ‘for me to give up, you’re in for a long wait. Hutch should know that by now. Starsky had to say what was on his mind. “Hutch, I’m gonna keep after you until you talk to me. So you can stop pretending you’re asleep and turn over and talk to me.”

Hutch’s body stiffened, and with one smooth move, he turned over on his back and looked up at his partner. His eyes were clear and bright, confirming Starsky’s suspicion that he hadn’t quite reached dreamland yet.

“What?”

“What?” Starsky parroted back. He looked pointedly at their bed. “We only have a double bed,” he remarked.

Hutch arched his eyebrows. “I’m trying to get some sleep, here. So what? We’ve had this bed for what, five years now?”

Starsky shook his head, his demeanor mild. “Yeah, but it’s too small now, for the five of us.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“You know. The five of us.”

“Starsky, I really don’t have the energy for this tonight. Could you just go to sleep?’

Starsky smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Five. You, me, Richard, Marge, and your priest, for all I damn well know!” Starsky’s voice had spiraled higher as he talked.

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not very funny, Starsky.”

“Funny? Hell, no. It stinks.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not!” He looked angrily at his partner. “D’ya know how long it’s been since you fucked me?”

Hutch’s voice was cold. “You don’t like it.”

“No, I don’t. Not as much as you seem to. But, Hutch, if I wanted to be on this end of it all the time, I’d be with a woman. Not a man. And definitely not you, my partner. My equal partner. Equal.”

Hutch pressed his lips shut.

“Equal, Hutch. Remember that? When we were a team? Now I’m this rutting stud in bed, and you’re playing the good little wife.”

Hutch’s face was white. “This isn’t going to be good,” he warned. “Drop it now or—”

“Or what?” Starsky flung back. “How can things get any worse? You’re letting yourself be castrated by the same group of pricks that ran you into the ground when you were a kid and drove you off to California.”

“Drop it, Starsky! And get the hell off my back!”

A crashing silence ensued as both men thought back to what they had shared only a few minutes before, when Starsky had covered Hutch’s back with his body and pushed him into the mattress, driving into him with complete abandon. Silently, mutually, they decided not to pursue that.

“Hutch. I’m not complainin’. I thank God you came out here, but get them out of your sex life. Out of our life! Why, after all these years, do you give a shit about what they say? What’s wrong with you?”

Hutch’s eyes had become soft and sad. He lay there, motionless, looking up at Starsky. “I know,” he admitted. “I know.”

“Then do somethin’ about it.” Starsky was firm. “I liked it a lot more when we were two men in bed together.”

Hutch laughed bitterly. “That’s the problem, Starsk. Two men in bed.”

“If you can’t handle it,” Starsky warned, “then this isn’t going to ever work out. Come on, what’s so bad about it? And in any case, d’ya really think anyone cares?”

“Well, you know what my father is saying now.”

“Yes.” Starsky did. “I just can’t figure out why you care.”

“Because…” Hutch’s voice trailed off, and he sighed. Then the words poured out in frustration. “I don’t know why, Starsk! He just knows all the right buttons to push, to make me cower, to make me doubt myself. I know I love you—”

“I know you do, too.” Starsky’s reaction was immediate and wholly sincere.

“But when he tells me, over and over, that we’re sinning, we’re going to pay…” Hutch took a deep breath. “It’s hard, babe. Really hard.”

Starsky, realizing neither of them had touched the other since making love, reached over and took Hutch’s hand in his. “I know.” Starsky’s voice was low and soothing. “I know. But, Hutch, think about it. With the Challenger blowing up, Chernobyl and all the radiation, Reagan and Gorbachev with their fingers on the button… with all that’s goin’ on in the world, do you really think God has time to worry about what you’re doing in bed, and who you’re doing it with? Why does he care?” Starsky used his other hand to rub softly at Hutch’s bare chest. “I think God would want you to be happy, as long as you’re not hurting anyone, and you’re sure not hurting me. I love you; I love it when we’re having sex. It’s great.”

Hutch nodded, despite himself. “You were the one who wanted me to start talking to them again. You were the one who said I shouldn’t let my family’s past ruin the future.”

Starsky nodded ruefully. “I guess I didn’t realize how they were.”

“After all these years of me telling you?”

“I know. Can’t you talk to them without them running your life?”

Hutch chuckled at that, turning on his side, dropping Starsky’s hand, and cradling his partner’s thigh in his hands. He kissed the hairy leg. “No, buddy. Never have managed that. They say jump, and I usually ask ‘how high?”‘

Starsky pulled back a bit from Hutch’s embrace. “Will you do that for me?”

“What?”

“Do what I ask you to do?”

Hutch seemed to sense Starsky’s more serious mien. He sobered immediately. “Of course. You know you don’t need to ask.”

Starsky nodded to himself. “I’m going to make you dinner tomorrow night,” he vowed. “And then I’m gonna wash you and rub you down. Then I want you to have me. I want to be the bottom man tomorrow. I want to be yours tomorrow. I want to be on the bottom, taking all you can give me.” Starsky’s voice almost broke. “I miss you, Hutch. I want to be yours again.”

Hutch shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and sorrowful. “You’ve always been mine, Starsk. I’m…I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“It’s okay,” Starsky assured him, still serious. “But it has to stop. Even if I have to fly out to Duluth and threaten them. You can’t let anyone do this to us, not even them.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I know. I’ll…I’ll just ignore my father when he starts in on me.”

“I guess he’s doing it because he loves you,” Starsky offered generously, cutting off Hutch’s answer with a glance. “But Hutch, that kind of love, no one needs.” It’s not love, anyway. It’s… I don’t know what it is. It’s sick.

Starsky continued aloud, as he settled back down on the sheets next to his lover. “You need this kind of love. Mine. And I need you.” He passionately kissed Hutch, pulling back just long enough to continue, “Need you. With me, on me. In me.”

***

How did such a pair of SOBs raise such a fine man? he wondered, not for the first time. He pulled his attention back to Dobey and the party that was turning out to be only slightly more enjoyable than sitting Shiva.

Dobey rescued him from what would have been an extremely awkward attempt to bolster his lover’s confidence, in front of four teenagers who were avidly hanging onto every word the men were exchanging. “That’s ridiculous,” Dobey flatly stated. “It’s got nothing to do with your level of manhood.”

The look in Dobey’s eyes was eerie. If it hadn’t been utterly impossible, Starsky would have sworn the man was picking up on what was simmering under the surface of Hutch’s words. Starsky knew better than to underestimate Dobey, and a discussion of testosterone levels was not how he wanted to end the evening. The entire evening was long past uncomfortable, and he suddenly stood up.

“Cal,” he stated, fixing the young man with a look. “You get two more tickets for that game. It’s the evening game next Friday night, right?” It had to be; Cal wasn’t so self-absorbed that he’d buy tickets for a ballgame that would be played while his dad was at work.

Cal nodded silently, his eyes wide.

Starsky didn’t waste any more time on him. He turned to Dobey, still sitting in the recliner. “Chief, me and Hutch arc going to that game with you. And this Sunday after you get back from church, we’re coming over for a while. We’ll kill a few beers.”

Dobey looked dumbfounded. The tenor of the evening had shifted too rapidly for him, lost as he was in memory and sorrow.

“Dave,” Rose spoke up. “That would be great, but—”

Starsky carelessly gestured back at Hutch without looking at him, thereby including him in his apology. “Yeah, I know, I’m inviting us over. Sorry ’bout that.”

Rose’s narrow face wore a pleased expression, a small secret smile. Starsky grinned back. That’s right, darlin‘, he thought. We’re in this together. We’re gonna get your dad out of this.

“All I was going to say is, I hope you like hamburgers.” Rose’s voice was mature and self-assured. “Michael makes a killer barbecue sauce.”

Keep it going, Mike, Starsky implored silently.

“I do,” the teenager confirmed. “Even Mr. Dobey likes it.”

“That’s exactly what we were planning to do on Sunday,” Rose lied smoothly. “Cook out and drink beer.”

Dobey still looked confused. No one else was. Rose was collecting the light green jacket she had worn to the party, and Cal was helping Arnita to her feet. Hutch brushed past his partner on the way back to the dining room to collect Dobey’s meager presents, taking advantage of their positions in relation to everyone else in the room by running his hand along Starsky’s upper back.

“What time do you get home on Sundays?” Starsky asked, subtly herding Dobey to the front door.

“One or so, I guess,” Dobey offered uncertainly. “Depends on who’s doing the sermon.”

“We’ll see you then,” Hutch announced, a bit loudly, handing a grocery bag to Rose with Dobey’s gifts inside.

“Okay.” Dobey was still emotionally off balance, but he seemed to remember his manners as he trailed his children and their dates out into the still June night. “Thanks for everything.”

Starsky felt Hutch anchor himself just behind his back. “Not a problem,” the blond said, resolutely cheerful.

“And we’ll see you Sunday.” Firmly, Starsky tacked his comment to his partner’s.

Dobey looked faintly amused now, finally seeming to sense he was being double- or triple-teamed. “Yeah. Sunday.”

***

Later that evening, Hutch came into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. His hand rested on the doorknob for a moment, his back to Starsky.

“Get the dishes done?” Starsky asked, in an upbeat voice. He was in the process of pulling off his socks.

“Hear that mechanical noise out in the kitchen?” Hutch inquired sarcastically, turning around. “With the water running? That would be the dishwasher.”

Starsky tossed his socks into the hamper in the corner of the room. Don’t need this tonight. “Hutch,” he warned. “Knock it off.”

Hutch gazed at his partner in the semi-darkness of their room. Starsky met his eyes. They were silent for a good minute, and the two men looked at each other.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Starsky accepted the apology instantly.

Another long moment of silence ensued.

These head games are great, Hutch, but we gotta get to bed. Starsky was pulling on his pajama bottoms when he spoke up again. His voice was soft. “Hutch, get ready for bed. You’ll feel better in the morning, after some sleep.”

Hutch shook his head, but came over and sat down close to Starsky on their bed. “That was a bad scene tonight.”

Starsky disagreed. “He said some things that needed to be said.”

“He’s so lonely,” Hutch stated, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Who cares about the rest of it?”

Starsky scooted closer to the blond man. “So, he’s lonely. There’s nothing anyone can do about that. He just has to work through it himself.” He gazed fondly at his partner. This was definitely the Hutch he’d fallen in love with. “You can’t save the world, Blintz. You know that by now.”

“I don’t want to save the world, as you put it,” Hutch responded irritably. “He’s a friend and he’s hurting. I want to help.”

Starsky’s response was still patient. “His wife is dead. What can you do? What can anyone do?”

“So sad.” Hutch sighed.

“But not the end of the world.” Starsky spoke with assurance. “He’ll make it.”

Hutch glanced over toward Starsky and hastily got back to his feet. He began carelessly pulling off his shirt.

“But that’s not really what’s bothering you,” Starsky announced. He knew Hutch. Yes, it was true that Starsky had never gone to college, other than those couple of courses he had endured after Vietnam when Aunt Rose was pushing him to use his GI Bill. I got a doctoral degree in knowing Hutch, though.

He was right on the money. Hutch angled his back to his friend.

“Hutch, you gotta talk it out,” Starsky told him. “You sit on all this stuff and it eats you up.” Starsky knew it did. He had watched Hutch try to control his emotions and pretend things didn’t really bother him, since those first few weeks at the Academy in 1969.

“What good is talking going to do?” Hutch finally asked. He seemed to have no hope of feeling better, while simultaneously hoping his partner held all the answers.

“Same good it always does.” Starsky stood and walked over to him. He leaned his body against Hutch’s back, feeling the warmth of Hutch’s body on his bare torso. “I’m a good listener.”

“The best.” Hutch swallowed a little, his voice harsh.

“Hey.” Starsky turned Hutch toward him, resting his hands on his partner’s hips. “What’s wrong with you?”

Hutch shook his head. “Just can’t get over Dobey. How lost he is. How no one really cares about him anymore.”

Nobody cares about him? What are we, chopped liver? “His kids do,” Starsky disagreed. “We do. That’ll be enough to get him through this. He’ll be fine.”

Hutch dropped back down on the bed. “What makes you such a damn expert on this?” he asked.

Starsky gave a short laugh. When Hutch was upset, he had the tendency to say the stupidest things. “You’re kidding, right?”

Hutch looked at him wordlessly.

Starsky turned his back, pulling a clean white t-shirt out of the dresser. Finally he spoke again, and his voice was much softer still. “Did you forget, I watched Ma do this after they killed my dad?”

Hutch was quiet for a moment. Starsky had the sudden sensation Hutch had been thinking about Starsky’s dad tonight, too. “I know, Starsk. But when you’ve lost the only person you’ll ever love, what’s the point of going on?”

Starsky sat next to his lover on the bed. “You would have, after Gunther,” he said. It was a sensitive subject, one they never talked about. However, Starsky had not agreed with Dobey that Hutch wouldn’t have made it without him. Before tonight, Starsky had never heard Hutch venture an opinion.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do. Just throwing in the towel’s never been your style,” Starsky maintained. “You can’t give up. You have to do what you can do, as long as you’re here.”

“And afterwards?”

“After, you see the people you’ve loved, and lost, on the other side.” Starsky spoke with supreme confidence. Hutch wasn’t going to shake him. He knew he was right.

Hutch looked genuinely frightened. “I don’t know if I believe that anymore, Starsk. And even if I did, there’s a long line of people who would tell me that you and I will never see each other again.”

Starsky nodded. As with so much else in Hutch’s life, Starsky knew he could blame Hutch’s anxiety on his parents, his upbringing. “Because you and I don’t head to the same places on Fridays and Sundays,” he stated.

“Yeah. Among other things.”

“Well, that’s just the way it is. I don’t want to stop being Jewish, and you don’t want to start.” Starsky reached over and took his partner’s hand. He pulled it into his lap and held on tightly. “You gotta believe me, Hutch. Your parents are wrong. Wherever we end up, we’re gonna be together. I promise you.”

Hutch’s voice was still soft, and his demeanor one of a lost child. “How can you be so sure, Starsk?” he asked, almost begging. “Tell me. Tell me so I know.”

“I know what they’ve said to you,” Starsky told him, and he did know. “I’m a Jew, a queer. I’m on the fast track to Hell. And you’re no better now that you’re playing house with me full time. Not goin’ to church. Not doing the right thing by finding a girl and settling down. Stayin’ in that miserable job, gonna get yourself killed.”

Hutch nodded, his face a picture of misery. “I’m in my forties, and my parents still terrorize me,” he stated bitterly. “I try to ignore them, I try—”

“You don’t need to ignore them,” Starsky argued. “And you shouldn’t. They’re your parents, and I’m grateful to them like I can’t tell you. They brought you into this world. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have you. I can’t thank them enough for you.”

Hutch’s face reddened a bit.

“But,” Starsky continued, his manner steadfast and self-assured. “Think about it, Hutch. God didn’t get us through everything when we were on the street, everything that happened to us and that we did to each other, for us to be separated when we die. I’m not sure exactly what’s out there, but whatever it is, we’ll be there together.”

“If there’s anything,” Hutch offered, looking up and meeting his partner’s eyes.

“There is.”

“So sure again,” Hutch murmured, his eyes hooded and sad.

“Yeah.” Starsky took a deep breath. “I am. And I got a little experience in this, remember?”

Hutch’s eyes widened. Every fiber of his being concentrated on what Starsky was saying.

Starsky leaned closer to his lover, his dark blue eyes boring in on Hutch’s lighter, clearer ones. “God didn’t get us through Bellamy, the plague, that stupid girl that shot you, Gunther, and all the other things, then let us finally figure out we loved each other, just so he could send us to different addresses after we die.”

Starsky was speaking clearly, enunciating each syllabic. It was so important that Hutch get on board with this. “If I do go first, Hutch. I’ll be waiting for you. And if you go first, you need to keep your eyes open for me, because I’ll be there, soon. We’re going to be together forever. Count on it.”

Hutch started to say something, but Starsky cut him off. “You wanna know how I know? I know because I know. You have to believe me. We’re never gonna lose each other, babe. We might be apart for a while, like Harold and Edith, but in the end, when it matters—we’ll be together.”

Hutch swallowed a few times. He was clearly struggling with his emotions.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” Starsky advised him, knowing he was still reading Hutch perfectly. “You wanna cry, cry. You wanna laugh, you can laugh. You wanna make love so deep that we feel like we’re part of each other, I’m here. But don’t worry about things. We’re gonna be together forever. I know.”

“Starsky,” Hutch breathed, at last. “I love you.”

“I know.” Starsky touched him affectionately on the shoulder. “Now, go get ready for bed. I got plans for you.” Starsky realized that never in their twenty years as friends and decade as lovers had Hutch needed him more than he needed him tonight.

“I-I…”

“Go on,” Starsky told him, gesturing toward the master bathroom and their bed. “I’ll be here, waiting for you. For as long as it takes.”

Hutch didn’t smile. He pulled his hand out of Starsky’s firm grip and lifted Starsky’s hand’s up, kissing the back with a brush of lips. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

Starsky failed to lose any of his resolve or his assurance. “You can take it to the bank, partner.”

As he watched his lover gracelessly make his way around the end of the bed and toward the bathroom, Starsky pulled Hutch’s pillow to his stomach and held on, his heart full of emotion. As he listened to Hutch brush his teeth, he thought about everything that had transpired that evening.

It wasn’t like him to pray, but as he got up to pull the covers down on Hutch’s side of the bed, he found himself appealing to God.

If you just let us stay together, that’s all I’ll ever ask. Wherever it is that people spend eternity, can you please just let us spend it together?

The End