Honesty

Table of Contents

Hutch forces Starsky into facing their feelings for each other, but Captain Dobey is on to them, and they have to figure out how to resolve their love with their work.

Originally published in Venice Place Chronicles Volume II.

Starsky stepped from his apartment and stood just outside the door, pushing his sunglasses on against the glaring sun. “Fuckin’ heat,” he growled, slamming the front door, and locking it with a savage twist of his keys.

It was seven in the morning. It was eighty-two degrees.

Ineffectually, he tugged up the collar of his patterned, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. It hung loosely on his shoulders, open to reveal some of the dark blue t-shirt underneath, but effectively hiding the holster and Beretta he wore. He angrily stalked to his car and wrenched open the long red door of the Torino. As he got in, shoved his key in the ignition, and peeled out into the street, the only thought on his mind was Hutch. He wasn’t picking him up this morning.

~*~*~*~

“Oh, baby!” White sang out, catching sight of Starsky working alone at his desk. “Someone got lucky last night.”

Starsky didn’t spare White a glance. The sooner he nipped this in the bud the better, and the best way to do that was to ignore her. But even without looking around him, he easily sensed the bored interest of the detective and the other Metro police officers in the area. It was starting off to be a slow day, and no one had anything better to do. Full-scale ribbing was on the horizon.

Mockingly, she whistled, soft and full of fake admiration.

“Why don’t you shut the hell up?” he snapped, far too annoyed, far too fast.

“Oh, lover boy,” she returned, her lilting voice low, but her intent clear as a bell. “I’m just jealous, man. Can’t you cut me in on some of your action?”

“His action wouldn’t interest you,” chided Gomez, coming up and patting White on the shoulder. “Try again.”

Starsky looked up fiercely as Gomez continued, addressing him now, and not Detective White.

“I ,on the other hand, am a deserving member of the male persuasion. You can give me your leftovers, Dave.”

Starsky glared at the Latino, his eyes dark and angry. “What I’m gonna give you is-”

There was a slight noise behind Gomez as their captain entered the squad room. “High school was a long time ago for you guys,” Dobey reminded everyone, his voice unusually quiet as he barreled out of his office.

Starsky knew he’d heard the brief exchange.

“Let’s see if we can move on to some police work now.”

White immediately dropped her teasing, but Starsky felt her eyes on him as she dutifully moved off. Disappointed, the other observers returned to their paperwork, but Gomez stayed close, drifting back toward the file cabinets.

Dobey turned his attention to the seated detective. “Starsky,” he demanded, not missing a beat. “Where’s that partner of-”

“Right here, Cap’n,” Hutch answered, rushing in on long legs, almost to his desk before the door swung shut behind him. “Sorry I’m late.”

He looked over at his partner, his eyes mixed evenly with concern and annoyance, even as he addressed his boss. But Starsky refused to look at him.

Apparently, Gomez was either fearless or stupid around his superiors. Dobey was still standing there, his mouth open to say something else as Gomez tacked on the taunt. “You oversleep? Did ya have as good an evening as your partner? That must’a been some chick.”

Gomez beat it out of the room just as Dobey was stepping over to get in his face. Hutch ignored both of them completely.

Starsky knew that Hutch was continuing to stare at him. He felt the scrutiny even as he bent his head to shuffle some papers around on the desk. Self-consciously, Starsky tugged at his collar again but it was pointless.

It was just too hot to wear a turtleneck, and the collar of the old button down shirt Starsky was wearing wasn’t nearly high enough to conceal the mottled red and pink markings of the large, fresh, and prominent hickey on the left side of his neck. It was impossible for anyone to miss seeing the passion mark, and it was clear and damning evidence that he’d been on the receiving end of some very intense physical ardor some time last evening between shifts.

Starsky still refused to look up at the tall blond and after a moment, Hutch dropped into his chair opposite him, not breaking his gaze.

Fuckin’ heat, Starsky thought, forcing his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. Th’ hell with it all.

~*~*~*~

“Starsk?” Hutch pleaded. “I’m really sorry.”

Starsky dropped his half-eaten taco back on the plastic tray and wiped his forehead. Even in the shade, it was sweltering. “I know,” he snarled, fixing the other man with a glare. “Ya don’t need to keep saying it!”

“I just want you to understand – ” Hutch’s entire demeanor was open, broadcasting his desire for forgiveness.

“Dammit, Hutch, would you just shut up? Why don’t you run an ad in the ‘Times’? You’ve been goin’ on about this all morning!”

Starsky looked over at Hutch’s tray. He hadn’t touched his taco salad, and that only served to make Starsky even angrier.

“You gonna eat?”

Hutch didn’t answer, his blue eyes downcast. Starsky expelled an angry breath and abruptly stood up. He grabbed the last taco and his soda and stalked off towards his car, hearing Hutch pick up the trays and dump their contents in the taco stand’s garbage receptacle behind him

“Starsk?” Hutch stuck his head just barely inside the driver’s side window moments after Starsky installed himself behind the wheel.

“You gonna get in?”

The blond was quiet for a moment. “Of course.” He moved around and got into the car, moving as if every limb ached.

“Do me a favor,” Starsky continued, completely enraged and not bothering to look at the man in his passenger seat. “If I buy you lunch, would ya eat the damn thing and not play with it and then toss it out? I got better things to do with my money than waste it on you.”

“Buddy,” Hutch begged. “Don’t do this. We’ve got to talk this out.”

“Talk it out! What is this? We’re not married, for God’s sake,” Starsky shot back. “You might need a shrink to figure out what’s going on with you, but I sure as hell don’t! I know what I am!”

And I’m not like you. The unspoken statement hung in the air between them.

Hutch didn’t answer, he was silent as a stone. He either agreed with the accusation or was so insulted by it that he didn’t know what to say. Starsky had no idea which, if either. That last statement had slipped out of him somehow. No matter how mad he still was, he hadn’t meant it. Well, at least not the way it had sounded.

”Nothing’s going on,” Starsky maintained, much quieter now. The dark haired man reached for his soda, only to realize that he’d already drained it. “Shit!”

“Give it to me,” Hutch said, holding his hand out. “I’ll get you some more.”

“Forget it.”

“Give it to me, Starsky,” Hutch repeated, still reaching for the drink. “I mean it.”

Irately, Starsky thrust his hand towards Hutch, almost pushing the cup into his partner’s chest.

Hutch accepted the plastic container, pulling it away from the front of his light blue denim shirt. He got out of the car, came back around the front and leaned a long, pale arm on the open driver’s side window.

“I’m coming over tonight, Starsky,” he declared. He’d dropped the beseeching tone and his voice was even and calm. “We are going to figure this out. We can’t keep going this way.”

Starsky appreciated that he’d finally managed to work Hutch into a temper as well, as the blond peremptorily walked off without waiting for a reply. Starsky watched the man’s long legs move confidently across the parking lot, his gaze shifting up to watch the shifting muscles of his buttocks concealed by the loosely hanging denim fabric of his shirt.

It took Starsky a moment to realize what he was looking for and why he was seeking it out. If he’d been angry before, he was utterly furious now. It was an all-consuming rage. Worse yet, he was beginning to acknowledge that he couldn’t blame this all on his partner.

It was hot as hell, but even so, Starsky didn’t hesitate a moment. He turned the engine over and dropped the gearshift lever down into drive. Hutch was going to have to find another way back to Parker Center.

~*~*~*~

Quite deliberately, Hutch selected some of his best clothing, pulling the pants and shirt off their hangers and tossing them carefully on the bed. Still damp from his shower, he decided to towel off a bit more before getting dressed for the evening.

Naked, he walked back into the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror, pausing as he waited for the cool air from the rest of the apartment to seep back into the bathroom and dissipate some of the steam on the glass.

While he waited, he stepped back a bit from the sink and dispassionately looked down at himself. He wasn’t completely dissatisfied with what he saw.

Hutch knew he was a good-looking man. God knew there’d been enough girls in his life that had assured him of that fact. He was almost thirty-six now and yes, there was a bit more flesh and a little less hair. And the lines in his forehead were pronounced, a legacy of almost ten years of difficult service to the people of Los Angeles. Even so, it wasn’t an unattractive package he could still present to a lover.

He rubbed the towel down his body again, still thinking.

If one considered him good looking now, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to have described himself as beautiful when he was in his twenties and early thirties. When he’d been married to Vanessa, it’d been the union of two gorgeous bodies.

A union that had been literally hell on earth.

So, Hutchinson, he thought, analytically, running the towel through his hair. Why d’ya think becoming lovers with him would be any different?

It was a rhetorical question. He knew his looks would fade; had in fact faded somewhat already. What was important was his soul.

If he did have a soul, and if it did have any good in it … Starsky was the one who’d found the good in him, developed it, and cherished it. And Hutch, for his part, had never loved anyone or anything nearly as much as he did his partner. His love for his partner wasn’t even in the same universe of emotion that his love for anyone else had ever been.

So? he asked himself. Isn’t it only natural that physically, things are starting to get out of hand?

Running his comb through his hair, careful to not snag any tangled strands and pull them out before their time, he headed back into his bedroom, digging into his dresser for some underwear. It would have to be white, as he was going to wear his white linen pants and peach colored silk shirt.

It was a date, and one thing Ken Hutchinson knew how to do was get cleaned up for a special date.

It’s just, well, there’s never been a date as important as this one’s going to be.

As he pulled the briefs out of the drawer, he noticed his hand was shaking a little. Yeah, he’d never had a date that was going to be as important as this one.

~*~*~*~

“Hey,” Hutch offered, tentatively. “Can I come in?”

He wasn’t apologetic anymore. He wasn’t angry, either. No matter what Starsky did or said tonight, Hutch determined he wasn’t going to get angry. He was going to get them through this.

And he’d gotten his hands to stop trembling. He was confident; ready to pressure Starsky to see the light, to see they were ready for this.

And I want it, he admitted to himself.

Starsky stood at the door, holding it open but not moving aside so Hutch could enter the darkened apartment. His face was long and unsmiling.

“Come on, Starsk. Don’t do this.”

You know I’m right, Hutch thought, unaware that he was being arrogant in any way. The faster you accept it, the better off we’ll be.

Silently, the shorter man shifted away from the entrance. Hutch took that as permission to come in. As he walked into the apartment, a place he’d always treated as his home as much as he considered Venice Place to be, he noticed that Starsky, too, had showered and dressed in clean clothes after work. And the apartment was spotless.

“Thanks for letting me come over,” Hutch stated sincerely. For a while today, he’d had genuine doubt about his welcome here tonight.

Starsky was presenting his back to him, looking out the window with his shoulders square and unmoving under the black t-shirt he wore.

“Don’t all criminals return to the scene of the crime?” he asked, not turning around.

Hutch closed the distance between them, careful to not touch Starsky, not even by brushing up against him ‘accidentally.’ He had to win over Starsky’s mind and emotions before he ever moved on his body again.

“I don’t know,” he returned, frankly. “I didn’t know a crime had occurred here. And I sure as hell didn’t know I perpetrated one.”

Starsky turned around, a sudden move. The black of the late evening evident through the uncurtained window was a ghostly, barely visible outline to his black-clad muscular torso. Hutch fought the urge to reach behind him and pull the shade, even though there were almost no lights on in the room.

“What d’ya call this?” Starsky gestured at the mark on his neck, almost as red and angry-looking as it’d been last night, an hour or so after it had happened.

His manner was much quieter than it’d been that morning. He didn’t seem mad any longer.

Not mad, but resigned? Hutch thought. Not pissed-just disappointed?

Hutch had read once in one of his always ultimately fruitless attempts to garner greater understanding of himself- and therefore, happiness- that when one couldn’t stand something about his life, he ad to change it. There was no choice in the matter, because happiness couldn’t be forced and couldn’t exist when something else in life was poisoning it.

Applying that theory to the relationship between him and Starsky, he’d lately acknowledged that the partnership had reached an insupportable position. It had to be either enhanced or ended, because Hutch couldn’t keep going the way he was going. He had to try to move it to the next step. If Starsky couldn’t deal with that, he would find that out, but he had to try.

Gently, Hutch lifted his hand, touching the hickey with soft, loving fingers. No matter his resolve, he couldn’t keep his hands off the darker man.

“I call that evidence,” Hutch declared, quietly, stroking his partner’s skin. “Evidence of how much I love you, in every way. Evidence of how much I want to love you, in every way. If you can’t handle it, let me know. But don’t condemn me for it. We were both there. We both went that far.”

And it’s not like you never marked me, Hutch thought. It’d been, what, two months ago? Maybe a little longer.

~*~*~*~

“God, Hutch,” Starsky breathed. “I’m sorry!”

Hutch struggled into a sitting position, resting his back against the couch. He pushed the sweat soaked hair off his forehead. He’d stripped off his shirt and shoes, as had Starsky, before they’d started. He was wearing only his brown cords and white socks.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured Starsky automatically, simultaneously wondering what his shoulder looked like.

“I didn’t mean to do that!”

Hutch glanced over at his partner. “I know that, Starsk,” he reminded him, with what he knew had to be a weak grin. Stiffly-he was getting too old for this roughhousing -he dragged himself to his feet and headed for the bathroom.

Starsky was right behind him.

As he walked, Hutch craned his head around to try to see his shoulder. However, either the damage was too minor or it was too close for him to be able to see it. In either case, it didn’t hurt and he wasn’t too worried.

“Forget it,” he told his partner. “It’s nothing.”

Starsky didn’t say anything, but his eyes were wide.

“Okay,” Hutch capitulated with a gentle smile. “Let’s see what happened.”

His partner was at his heels. Once he was able to look in the mirror over the sink, with Starsky’s worried face right over his shoulder, he couldn’t believe the man was that upset.

“Starsk,” Hutch chided. “This is nothing.” He turned and grinned at his friend. “Just proves you need a manicure.”

Long red nail marks decorated Hutch’s right collarbone, running down from the side of his neck. There was no expressed blood, but the contrast between the Nordic man’s pale skin and the bright red of the scratch marks was glaring.

It was nothing more than what Vanessa used to do to him on a fairly regular basis, and Hutch reminded Starsky of that. “Come on; Van scratched the hell out of me lots of times. Far worse than this. You know that!”

The toilet seat happened to be down, and Starsky sank onto it, resting his jean-clad rear on the porcelain cover. “Great. Now I’m treatin’ ya as well as the Wicked Witch of Chicago did.”

“Not at all,” Hutch returned immediately. He couldn’t stop smiling and he just couldn’t take this as seriously as Starsky was. “Just cut your nails next time, dummy.”

Starsky looked up at him. “Ain’t gonna be a next time. We’re not going to wrestle anymore.”

Hutch shook his head, wetting a washcloth to clean the sweat from the injured area. “I like to wrestle,” he argued, mildly. “After all day sitting in that car, I need to work off some energy.”

Starsky smiled a bit at that.

“Really, Starsky, I don’t care,” Hutch assured him, wringing out the terrycloth. Starsky relented a bit. “Okay, but I’m wearing gloves next time.”

Hutch turned towards him, dropping the washcloth in the sink. “That’s a great idea, Gordo!” he enthused. “Tomorrow after work we’ll head lo the gym and box for a while.”

Starsky groaned, his face falling. “You’re so much better at that than me,” he lamented, absent-mindedly running his handover the hair on his chest.

“So?” Hutch teased. “I’m better at wrestling, too.”

“I can run faster,” Starsky shot back, and Hutch was pleased to note some fire coming back into the dark blue eyes.

“Only in a sprint,” Hutch stated, accurately, happy Starsky wasn’t dwelling any longer on his scratches. “Face it, you’re just not up to my level.”

“Dream on,” Starsky goaded him. “You can buy lunch tomorrow for that comment.”

“If you win.”

Starsky tilted his head in acquiescence as he got back to his feet. “When I win, you’ll buy lunch. Deal.”

He looked again at his partner. “What’re you going to do about that at work?” he asked, his attention back on the superficial gashes on Hutch’s neck. “Looks like you got in a cat fight.”

Hutch shrugged, walking out of the bathroom and picking up his shirt off the couch. He grabbed Starsky’s t-shirt as well, and thrust it at him. “Wear a turtleneck for a few days, he replied, mailer of factly. “Like I said, this isn’t the first time this has happened to me.”

Starsky was still a bit disconsolate as he pulled his shirt on. “Yeah.”

Hutch reached over and clapped his partner on the shoulder. “Drop it,” he urged. “Let’s see what you’ve got for dinner here besides two day old cold pizza.”

~*~*~*~

Starsky moved unexpectedly, dodging around Hutch, and heading for the living room. He flopped down on the couch, the living area dimly illuminated by a solitary lamp.

Hutch followed him, unable to help himself, but he hesitated as he neared the sofa. “May I sit down?”

Starsky looked up at him, bitter amusement in his eyes. “If you promise not to attack me again.”

“Like I did last night?” Hutch’s voice was still relaxed. You’re not going to get me mad, he resolved anew. And I’m not taking all the blame, either.

Not that there should be any blame.

“Yeah.”

“I could’ve sworn we were both heading to the same goal.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Starsky maintained, dropping his head to stare at the blank TV screen. His voice was soft and uncertain.

Hutch felt such tenderness and love toward his partner at that very moment. Truthfully, he couldn’t get mad, even if he hadn’t already determined he wasn’t going to. Starsky was being difficult and attributing the entire episode to him – which was manifestly unfair – but Hutch just wanted to repeat the passion and the deep, honest expression of their love again.

Don’t be afraid, Hutch thought, looking at the brown curls atop his partner’s bowed head. This is where we’ve always been heading. I’m not scared. It’ll work.

It had happened on this very couch. Hutch closed his eyes for a moment to relive the event. It was a precious memory and it wouldn’t hurt for him to dip back to last night in his mind for a few minutes.

They’d been playing at this seriously for a while – the occasional wrestling bouts had been part of it, Hutch had easily acknowledged to himself – but last night was by far the farthest they’d ventured. The sporadic, friendly hugs had moved to frequent, full-body embraces. Then Starsky’d started kissing him on the cheek sometimes; yeah, usually after they’d been drinking, but not always. Their periodic wrestling bad become veiled with erections both men pretended not to notice in the other, and a heightened awareness of just how… wonderful… Starsky was had invaded Hutch’s everyday thoughts. They flirted constantly, outrageously with each other, more than they ever had. The undercurrent of honesty in the teasing comments had run stronger every week.

Last night, after a long and boring day in the Torino, the two men had decided on pizza and beer for their evening nourishment. Hutch found himself downing a few more than he should have, especially for a work night; a problem that he was encountering with distressing frequency in recent days.

Starsky never drank as much as Hutch did but he’d had a lot to drink, too, which usually made him the life of the party. Last night, he’d been unexpectedly maudlin.

I just wanted to comfort him, Hutch had rationalized. I never meant for it to go so far. I was drunk.

He’d reflected on that for a moment before rejecting the notion. Yeah, right, Hutchinson. You’re a damn liar. The worst kind of liar, because you’re lying to yourself.

Hutch opened his eyes to stare at his partner anew. “You might not have been thinking, but I was,” the taller man countered, decisively. Even if I was drunk. “And I don’t regret any of it.”

Hutch wondered if Starsky was reliving the moment as well. He must be. Sinking down to sit next to his partner, be continued: “It was beautiful, Starsk. You were sad and I love you so much… yeah, I shouldn’t have done a number on your neck like I did, but I just wanted to… ”

“Make love to me.” Starsky was unbending.

Count on him to not beat around the bush, Hutch thought, with a mixture of irritation and resigned acceptance.

“Yes. I admit it. If you can’t handle it-”

Hutch broke off what he was going to say, because he didn’t want to say it. He paused for a moment. Had to say something that wouldn’t be a lie. He reached down within himself for complete honesty.

“But if you want us to go back to how it was before, I can dig it,” he promised, reluctantly. “But we’ve got to set some ground rules, then.”

Starsky shook his head. “Never needed rules before. Not for us.”

“Not for me and thee,” Hutch agreed. He moved his hand slightly so it was resting on his left knee, invitingly close to Starsky. He yearned to touch him, to caress his shoulder. He wanted to show Starsky that everything was going to be all right. His words didn’t seem to be reaching Starsky. He knew his touch could.

Starsky shifted, almost imperceptibly. He turned toward Hutch, his eyes almost black in the meager light. The stare he was favoring the blond man with was intense and purposeful.

Hutch took a deep breath, never breaking eye contact with his partner. A rush of awareness flooded his mind and he knew, suddenly, what was coming. He accepted it. He wanted it, in some odd and inexplicable way.

Maybe it’ll make everything right for us. Even the score.

To make it easier for Starsky and to make it clear he was ready for this, Hutch tilted his head up just slightly, exposing his neck.

Starsky moved toward him.

Hutch felt the gentlest touch of lips and the hint of teeth grace his skin, right where his neck and collarbone met. Hutch pushed his rear down, awkwardly, so that he was reclining against the arm of the couch. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for him, but he didn’t dare suggest Starsky’s bed. That would be too much too soon, and would probably earn him a sock in the jaw from his partner.

Sometimes – actually, quite often – Hutch forgot where Starsky was from; utterly disregarded his background. He loved Starsky for Starsky. It didn’t matter to him if the man was from Mars or Timbuktu.

However, the bottom line was that Starsky was a Brooklyn-born poor boy from the gangs and streets of New York City. Hutch knew he was asking his partner to travel an unaccustomed path now. Hutch had always been the navigator in their relationship, but for this journey, he was- they both were- looking at a bumpy, unfamiliar road.

Starsky instantly moved over him, covering his body with his own. Hutch felt Starsky’s erection press into his leg even through the dark man’s jeans and his own linen pants, but it was almost insignificant. Hutch was concentrating on what was happening to his neck.

Still careful, still loving, Starsky pulled a bit of skin into his mouth and began sucking. He was gentle but determined and Hutch knew that he’d have a fight on his hands if he tried to avoid it. He knew better than to underestimate his partner and he knew Starsky was going to do this.

Hutch had never really cared to be on the receiving end of this kind of loving, but he was relishing it now. It seemed a way that Starsky could mark him, make him his; a way to advertise to the world his claim.

Was that what I was doing last night? he wondered suddenly. Wanted the world to know he was mine?

He realized it was going to be a passion mark to match Starsky’s from yesterday, as Starsky’s mouth kept working on him. The feelings were going straight to his groin.

”That’s it,” the blond breathlessly encouraged his partner, a man who was reaching for the last edge of being no longer a friend but a lover. “That’s it.”

I want this , Hutch reminded himself again unnecessarily, and the pure truth of the sentiment sent a thrill through him. Awkwardly he pulled his arms up and wrapped them around the other man.

I want him.

A beat or two passed as he forced himself to be unreservedly honest with himself.

I love him. God, I am in love with him.

Hutch felt odd. He felt at once great, yet scared. He felt excited, but calm. He felt like he wanted to sing, dance, laugh and cry, all at once. He tightened his grip on Starsky and he made sure Starsky had full access to his neck.

Seemingly emboldened by Hutch’s reactions, Starsky pushed harder against him with his body, robbing his erection against the taller man’s leg. By now, Hutch was fully erect as well, good and thoroughly rock hard as he hadn’t been able to achieve last night, thanks to the booze. He scooted his rear over just enough that the two men were pushing against one another’s erections through their pants.

Hutch moaned. Everything was feeling so good. More importantly, he felts o close to Starsky; so much a part of what they were experiencing together. He’d never felt this close to another human being in his entire life. That he knew. This was love. This was what love was meant to be. He’d finally figured it out, after 35 years on the planet. They were both sober, both thinking, and they were pleasuring each other, by choice, because they wanted to, because they loved each other.

“Please,” he begged him. “Please.”

What are you asking him for? he wondered in some distant comer of his mind.

Starsky ignored him, totally absorbed in sucking on Hutch’s skin and rubbing his hardness against Hutch’s.

Hutch felt his orgasm gather within him. He was going to come, with no hand or mouth on his penis and with no entry into another person’s body. He was going to come in his pants, right here, right now, and that was another source of amazement for him.

“Starsk,” he muttered, rapidly losing his ability to think as he concentrated on the eruption building inside him. “I’m gonna come now, Starsk. I’m gonna come…”

Starsky only grunted, suddenly releasing Hutch’s skin from his mouth and instantly moving over to look down in the clear blue eyes. Startled, Hutch looked up at Starsky just as the dark-haired man took his mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

As Hutch ejaculated, a warm oozing feeling spreading across the front of his underwear and soaking through just a little to his pants, he screamed, breathlessly, into Starsky’s mouth. The smaller, darker man stiffened in his arms. Wrenching his mouth free from Hutch’s, Starsky groaned, a deep, masculine sound. Hutch held him tight as the tremors from his lover’s orgasm peaked and gradually subsided.

They lay just so for several amazing moments. Then, Starsky stirred a little. He looked into Hutch’s eyes again, his darker eyes sleepy and happy.

“Wow,” Starsky breathed.

Hutch was the definition of happy. “Wow,” he agreed. “Wow and then some.”

He squeezed Starsky a bit tighter. “I love you,” he blurted out, not tempering his statement and clearly not speaking as merely a friend.

Starsky’s body seemed to sink down and mold even more intimately to Hutch’s. He could feel his essence gradually cooling and becoming sticky. Starsky either didn’t feel it or was ignoring it.

Several moments passed by. Hutch could feel the pulse in his neck throb just above the site of his new hickey.

“I love you, too,” Starsky finally whispered.

Hutch let his eyes slide shut. Starsky didn’t love easily or lightly and there was no way he was still speaking of brotherly love. He could relax.

They needed some shut-eye and then it would be time to look for their street rhythm again, as lovers who just happened to be cops as well.

Hutch didn’t know how it was going to go, exactly, but he knew it was going to be all right.

~*~*~*~

“Cap’n?” Starsky tried again, looking across the desk at the black man. “What’s up?”

It’s too damned early for this, Starsky sighed to himself, wondering exactly what time it was. Can’t be any later than seven-thirty. He’d made sure they were on time today. When everything else in his life was turning upside down – maybe in a good way, yes, but still damned unsettling – he craved the normalcy of work.

This sure was normal. Dobey was pissed and he was scarcely listening to him. And Hutch was nursing his coffee.

Starsky let Dobey’s words flow over him in a comforting haze as he thought about last night. He’d woken a few hours after it had happened and spent some quality time in the bathroom alone, cleaning himself up and figuring everything out. After staring at himself in the small sink mirror for several long minutes, Starsky had forced himself to face facts.

He was tired, he was cold, and he loved his partner. He loved him enough to try this out. He should have been shocked. He kept waiting for that particular emotion to surface, but… he had to honest with himself. He had to acknowledge the fact that they’d been hinting at this for a while.

He was cold? Tired? Wanting to be with his partner? There was only one solution to that. He’d padded back into the living room, roused his sleeping loverfriend, and pushed him into the bedroom, pulling off only Hutch’s shoes and pants as he put him into bed.

Then he’d crawled in next to him, hoping Hutch would be drowsy enough to not want to talk about everything. As far as Starsky was concerned, the time for talking was over.

Hutch hadn’t ever come fully awake and after he was in bed and reunited with his partner, he’d dropped back into a deep slumber. They’d slept the sleep of the truly happy and sated.

“Did you hear me?” Dobey demanded, his voice loud.

“Sir?” Hutch finally made a half-hearted attempt and Starsky wondered again what had their boss so mad.

However, he was only mildly concerned. He was used to Dobey being incensed with them. He was thoroughly accustomed to him after all these years and be was accomplished at charming and bluffing his way out of trouble with their superior.

This time might be different though, he realized, out of the blue. Suddenly his mild concern was verging on panic.

He can’t want t‘ talk to us about this. Surely it was too sensitive a topic for their very religious, very proper captain.

It’s just your conscience, Davey, he chided himself.

Dobey stood up, intimidating by his sheer size and presence, and walked behind the two seated men. Silently, he stalked around the rear of their chairs and back to his desk chair.

“Gentlemen,” he asked, voice suddenly quiet. “Do you know what significant event happened in the history of the Department on February 15, 1969?”

Starsky was nonplussed. He ran over a list of possibilities in his mind.

Try the humor, he thought. Sometimes he could get Dobey calmed down – well, at least distracted – with just a bit of irreverent wit.

“Dragnet went off the air?” he offered, his eyes alight. Dobey just shook his head, unsmiling.

Starsky frowned, his sense of dread deepening as he tried to pay more attention. This is bad. Didn’t even rise to the bait.

“No,” Hutch added, slowly, seated next to Starsky. “That’s the day we graduated from the Academy.”

Oh. Trust Hutch to remember the date. All he remembered was how proud Johnny Blaine and his aunt and uncle had been of him. How great he felt following in his dad’s footsteps, even though it was with a different department. And how much he liked some of the guys he’d met there and would be working with.

Especially Hutch. Of course. It had always been Hutch, even from the beginning. He hoped it would always be Hutch, right to the end and beyond.

Shit, Starsky, he chastised himself. Can’t think about him every minute of the day. Pay attention!

“Yes,” Dobey confirmed, staring at them. “You both graduated from the Academy. Second and 11th, respectively.”

The second had been Hutch, Starsky recalled without rancor. He’d aced almost all the written tests, even though his marksmanship and hand-to-hand skills weren’t the greatest.

In contrast, Starsky had excelled at those. As Johnny had told him – and he agreed – it was better for a cop to be able to handle a gun as opposed to be being a whiz with the paperwork. After his RVN training and the year of hell in Viet Nam he’d had in the Army, he could match and beat almost anyone in hand to hand.

“What’s your point, Captain?” Hutch asked, respectfully.

“My point,” Dobey stated flatly, “is that you two call yourself Los Angeles police officers. You’re both Detectives First Class, great at what you do, and both in line to make Lieutenant if I could ever get you to take the damn test!”

He dropped his bulk back in his office chair.

“And you show up to work looking like a couple of love sick teenagers, with huge marks on yourselves. What do you think that looks like? To the public, to the officers you outrank who look up to you, to your superiors?”

The two men sat silently. Starsky could sense a ribbon of fear unraveling inside him. He forced himself and really had to work at it – not to look over at his partner.

“Well?”

Better just shut up, Starsky repeated over and over to himself, forcing down with some effort his suddenly roiling stomach. He suspected that this was one situation where fast talking was only going to make things worse.

Dobey waited a few moments, and then continued, fixing both men in tum with a stem gaze. “Let’s try August 23, 1958.”

Starsky wasn’t stupid. He could guess at the playbook.

“You graduated.”

“Yes.” Dobey hunched forward in his chair, leaning on his elbows. “With no undue modesty, I think we can all agree that my career with the LAPD has been somewhat successful.”

Especially for a black man was the unspoken tag.

Hutch nodded while Starsky spoke up. “Sure.”

This was safer territory. Starsky relaxed, sensing Hutch do so as well. The smaller man rested in the comfort of his partner’s emotional closeness as Dobey went on.

“I’ve walked some of the same paths yo two have,” Dobey reminded them, unnecessarily. An expression of deep regret passed over his round face. “I was a rookie, did my time in uniform, got promoted to detective. Had partners that I’ve loved, and lost. The day I found Elmo’s body hanging on that meat hook was one of the worst days in my life.”

Starsky’s stomach flipped in protest with_ the unexpected mention of Dobey’s long dead partner. He and Hutch were both absolutely silent, listening to the wistful tones of their captain’s sorrow.

“I think losing Edith or one of the kids would be the only thing that would have hurt more than that did,” Dobey disclosed. “I was wild with grief, and when we couldn’t find who was responsible, I felt even worse.”

The large man took a deep breath.

“As much as I loved Elmo though, and miss him to this day, we didn’t have the relationship you two do.”

Starsky nodded involuntarily. Even before all this had happened their partnership had been unique, but that was no sin.

Dobey’s tone was deceptively casual. “You know, even before this,” he gestured carelessly at the two men, “I’ve had to run interference for you. For your partnership.”

He seemed to pause then and wait for a comment, but they both held their peace. Starsky didn’t have the faintest idea what Dobey was getting at with his comment about “interference” and he was resolutely blanking his mind. He knew he was an awful liar. Can’t let it show.

“Now, I know you’ve traded girls before – flipped back and forth with ’em, like Detective Johnston – but this is something different.”

Starsky’s heart was firmly entrenched around his lower stomach right about now. And it wasn’t because Dobey had brought up the train wreck their case with Kira had been. They were long over that debacle, even as recent as it had been. Actually, Starsky was almost grateful things had gone down as they had. The thought of a long-term relationship with Kira now had the ability to rob him of his appetite for hours on end. Hutch had ended up doing him a favor.

“For example, if I were to regard this as a case…. ”

Which of course you do! Starsky panicked, still working on controlling his facial expressions. The one thing that was very dangerous to forget about Dobey, older and slower than he and Hutch and very, very fat, was that he was a first rate detective. Really one of the best. Still.

“I’d note that Hutchinson’s decoration in on the right side of his neck, while yours, Starsky, is on the left.”

Dobey smiled grimly, moving in for the kill. “Stands to reason, until contradicted by other evidence, that you,” and he pointed indolently at Hutch “were with someone left handed, who would naturally approach your right side, and you,” he flicked his eyes over to the darker man, “were with someone right handed.”

Don’t say it! Starsky screamed to himself in his mind. Don’t!

Now the silence was long and sustained. If he were a truly brave man, Starsky knew he’d say something and not leave it all up to Hutch, the wordsmith.

But I’m not really all that brave, he conceded rapidly, waiting for Hutch to speak. Just get us out of here with our jobs, babe, he entreated silently, counting on their uncanny ability to communicate without words to convey his message to his lover.

It was probably too late anyway. Starsky knew his facial expressions had probably betrayed him. As good as he was reading Dobey, Dobey was even better at reading both of them.

And apparently the psychic link between Hutch and Starsky was broken today. Stars could effortlessly sense Hutch’s panic, underlain by defiance and the singular love for his partner threading through his soul, but the pale, blond man was as silent as the grave.

Dobey waited almost two full minutes, then shook his head. He got up, moved around to the front of his desk and rested his body back against the front edge of the furniture. He was literally inches from his two detectives, both men silent and Starsky, for one, feeling small in the chair.

“Ken, Dave,” he said, so softly. “You know I care about you. And you know you are two of the best detectives I’ve ever had the honor of observing, not to mention working with.”

They sat, as still as statues.

The heavy man moved even closer to them by straightening up a bit. “You have to connect here, guys,” he warned.

Hutch nodded, woodenly. Starsky felt paralyzed. He really, really didn’t want them to lose their jobs. He didn’t want to live through the comedy of errors again that their last job search had been. A cop was all he’d ever been meant to be. Hutch’s partner was all he’d ever been meant to be.

“I know you love each other. Everyone knows that. It’s clear as the Gospel.” Starsky stared at his boss, his eyes wide as a deer’s caught in a poaching light.

“But I can’t have you loving each other.” Dobey’s voice was apologetic, sad. “It’s not natural and it’s not right. You can’t be this way and be effective in the Department.”

Not natural? Starsky railed to himself, his fear instantly transmuted into rage. Says who?

He couldn’t help it any longer. He shook off his inertia and looked over at his partner. Hutch’s face was white, his eyes, as he gazed back at Starsky, filled with pain and fear. Says who?

Now that the ex-New Yorker was a one time veteran of rubbing off on his partner and orgasming in a foundation of physical and emotional joy that he’d never – never – experienced before, he wasn’t quite so quick to call a love between him as a man, and his partner as a man, anything but blessedly natural.

“You need to work this out and get to some kind of agreement,” Dobey was saying. “I’ll give you until Tuesday’s shift end. Take the rest of the day off, Monday too, work some things out over the weekend. Decide what you are going to do. Then Tuesday after work, we’ll talk.”

Dobey stood full on his feet and Starsky realized the discussion was over. Stiffly, he stood as well and followed his partner out of the room.

At the door, he turned back, Hutch automatically waiting for him scant inches away. “Cap’n?” he started, his hand resting on the doorjamb.

“Tuesday, Dave,” Dobey ordered, kindly. “Talk about it. Pray about it. And I’m sure you’ll see the right way to proceed.” Dobey’s eyes were compassionate but determined. “For the good of the Department.”

I will, Starsky thought immediately. He wasn’t going to pray; he never did that, but he was going to work it out with Hutch. Their solution might not be “right” as far as his captain and the Department was concerned, though.

Setting his shoulders he marched out of the room, brushing past his partner.

~*~*~*~

Hutch stood there, incredulous. He was just inside the doorway of the tiny, dim motel bathroom, watching Starsky scrub out the chipped bathtub with one of the threadbare washcloths furnished by the Traveller’s Refuge Motel. The motel was adjacent to the Pink Parasol Lounge and ever so faintly Hutch could hear the thump of the bass notes emanating from the bar’s jukebox.

“What in the hell are you doing, Starsky?” Hutch asked, mildly; honestly curious.

Starsky ignored him, his arm and shoulder muscles flexing under the fabric of his dark t-shirt, the shoulder holster a lighter contrast in tan leather.

”Starsk?”

Irritably, Starsky craned his head around, still on his knees. “I’m wiping this out, dummy,” he retorted. His head swiveled back to his task.

“Hey,” Hutch protested. No shit, I figured that out all by myself. “Why are you doin’ that? Why are we in this motel, and why Barstow?”

Starsky flung the rag into the bottom of the tub.

“I didn’t grow up with a damn maid,” he shot back, standing and facing his partner. “So I clean. I don’t let things go at my apartment until the place looks like a penicillin experiment. We’re in Barstow because I don’t want to be anywhere near our beat when we settle this, and we’re in this motel because I can’t afford the Waldorf. Any other questions?”

Pushing past the blond who was still standing, stunned, by the door, Starsky headed out into the main area of their rented room. He didn’t get very far though, as Hutch felt something snap inside him. He reached a longarm out, grapping Starsky’s upper arm and swinging him around.

Starsky must not have been expecting that because he easily turned in Hutch’s grip, his other arm akimbo as he was whirled around to face the pale, angry man.

“That’s it,” Hutch vowed. “I’ve had it with being your whipping boy. You want to play the violated virgin, I’ll give you your opportunity.”

It had been two days since Dobey’s ultimatum, and Hutch hadn’t been able to get Starsky to open his front door for him the entire time. Just as Hutch had started counting the hours until they were going to have to go back to work with absolutely nothing resolved between them, Starsky had come by Venice Place, unannounced, and told Hutch he had five minutes to pack some things.

Apparently, Starsky had decided it was time to talk. Hence the long trip to Barstow, even though Starsky hadn’t said a word the entire time.

Now, however, Hutch had been pushed beyond the limit of his patience. He reached for Starsky’s waist, tugging at the t-shirt to untuck it.

Starsky fought him off, pushing his friend’s hand up and off him with an abrupt, violent move.

“Stop it!” he hissed. “You’re not gonna do this to me.”

Hutch’s eyes hardened, but he obediently stayed back. This could be dangerous. If they did ‘t control themselves, they were both going to get hurt, physically. Despite the lighthearted braggadocio they were wont to express, they were quite evenly matched in abilities. What Starsky lacked in height and long limbs, he made up for in uncanny street-fighting smarts. And Hutch’s more genteel upbringing was counteracted by his ability to become thoroughly and swiftly consumed with an uncontrollable rage. They could really hurt each other if pushed to it.

Starsky slowly, deliberately, unbuckled his holster, shucking it off and wrapping the straps around the weapon itself.

“Now yours.”

Hutch shrugged out of his light flannel shirt, letting it drop on the bed next to him. He took off his holster quickly, offering it and the Magnum to his partner.

Well, this is a step in the right direction, he thought.

“I’m going to go lock these in the Torino,” Starsky stated, holding the weapons close to his body under his arm as he tucked his shirtfront back into his jeans. “Stay here.”

Starsky was heading for the door as Hutch spoke up. “How do I know you’ll come back?”

Valid question, isn’t it Starsk? he reflected, his thoughts heavy with sarcasm. Between failing to pick him up for work and stranding him at taco stands, Starsky had done a good job of abandoning him to his own devices for transportation recently.

“I’ll come back,” Starsky promised, his blue eyes almost black in the poor light. “We’re gonna settle this.”

Already? I’ve only been trying to talk to you about this since Saturday. With an effort, Hutch tried to corral his cynicism.

Hutch’s body and mind were working at two different speeds. Hutch stood quietly where he was for the few moments it took Starsky to dart out to the car and back to the dingy room. He listened with half an ear to the subtle boom-boom of the jukebox. But his mind was racing. He bad no idea where Starsky was going with all this.

Once regaining the room, Starsky threw the deadbolt. Without a word, he began to strip. “Starsk?” Hutch asked, uncertainly. We need to talk about this, not ...

Starsky was already pulling down his tight jeans. “We’re going to bed.”

“What!” Hutch protested.

Starsky looked up at the blond with dour eyes. “You were the one who was trying to undress me a few minutes ago.” He wasn’t smiling at all. “I’ve been fighting this too long. We’ve been fighting this too long. Need to see if we can do this thing.”

“What are we doing?” Hutch asked, and he was serious. “Just making love together, or-”

“We can’t fuck,” Starsky said, bluntly, moving to the bed. “We don’t have any stuff.”

“Stuff.” Hutch felt like this was a movie with an ever-shifting plot. “How romantic.”

“Vaseline, KY, something like that, and who the hell wants romance? Shit, we’re a couple of guys, remember?”

Now the covers were down and the slightly yellowed sheets were open and waiting.

l like romance, Hutch thought, in a distant comer of his mind. It beats just jumping in the sack and rutting like an animal. And I want to romance you. You deserve to be wined and dined... not bedded in a motel that rents by the hour.

“So -” he was lost, torn between being angry at Starsky, not really wanting to be here, and daydreaming about maybe, finally, really loving him. He didn’t know what to do or say.

“You gonna strip, Blondie, or stand there talking?”

Talking seemed like the better first move to Hutch. “Starsky, we need to – ”

“Hutch, dammit, you don’t need to keep talkin’, trying to figure this out. Just get th’ hell in bed with me.”

Starsky was naked in the bed, the sheets still turned back, and Hutch allowed himself, for the first time, to look at his partner instead of thinking about their predicament. Instantly, his penis, trapped tightly in his pants, surged full.

“Oh,” Hutch moaned very softly.

Suddenly Starsky’s entire attitude softened. “Come ‘re,” he invited, sitting up. As Hutch neared the edge of the bed, Starsky’s dark arms, dusted with almost black hair, reached for him. He stroked Hutch’s mound under his zipper with the back of his hand, then opened the belt and button of the cords.

“We know we love each other,” Starsky reminded him quietly. “We need to figure out how.”

“I know how,” Hutch stated, his erection immeasurably harder after the touch of his partner. “And you do, too. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Hutch pushed down his pants as Starsky fondled the erection presented to him. “I’m gonna try,” he said. He looked up at Hutch. “You ready?”

“For what, exactly?” Hutch asked, bemused. He had his pants pooled at his ankles, and his tan t-shirt brushing the top of his pubic hairs. Every time Starsky touched him, Hutch felt a surge of desire rocket through him. But at the same time, his mind was cautioned him to slow down, to wait, to discuss this first with his partner.

Starsky didn’t answer him aloud, instead taking his erection into his hand. But Hutch heard him nonetheless.

For me, this way.

It was cold in the room, and Hutch gave in. He gently backed out of Starsky’s light grip, crawling into bed next to him. He pulled close to Starsky automatically. He’d always loved touching him, and Hutch entertained himself by pulling every inch of himself to his partner. The dingy hotel room was receding from his awareness. He only had attention for his partner, and how they were right at this instant.

“Starsky.”

“Yeah.” Starsky’s voice was quiet as well. “You really think this is the way to solve this?”

Starsky turned out of Hutch’s embrace, resting on his back for a moment. He looked over at Hutch calmly.

“I don’t know much, but I know one thing. We’re not going to solve this by talking about it. I know what I’m wanting to do, and so do you. We hafta see if it works for us.”

“It will.” Hutch’s voice was even and full of resolve.

Starsky nodded, as if he’d reached the same conclusion himself. “Yeah, it probably will.”

Hutch leaned up on an elbow. “Then what?”

“Then, we go back to work tomorrow and lie.” Starsky mimicked Hutch’s posture. They faced each other, naked, Hutch’s head propped on his right hand; Starsky’s head resting on his left.

Hutch paused a moment. “Lie?” To Dobey? Is this that important to you? To risk the job?

“I know you, Hutch,” Starsky told him, fondly. “You love hard ,and you love long. We do this, and there’s no turning back. We’ll be a couple of guys who can’t get enough of each other. But if we want to keep our jobs, it’s going to have to be a secret thing.”

“So we lie.”

“Can you handle it?”

Hutch paused, then laughed a little. “For you? I can do anything.” Starsky nodded, but Hutch wasn’t finished.

“And I will.”

He urged Starsky back down on the mattress and into his arms. It was amazing how excited he was, yet so relaxed and ready at the same time. He couldn’t wait to share his calm exhilaration with his partner.

~*~*~*~

“What’s this?” Starsky asked, amazed, as they walked into the squad room together Tuesday morning. He felt like he was on top of the world. Everything had come together last night in that crappy hotel room. They just had to get past Dobey tonight with the Big Lie and they were going to be fine. As lovers and as cops.

His world-their world-had tilted suddenly but had reoriented itself to a new and better reality in less time than it’d taken for their hickeys to fade. Certainly, far more quickly than he had any right to expect. Everything was in its place now and Dave Starsky was a very happy man.

“It’s called painting, dummy,” Hutch answered softly, affectionately, as Starsky stared at the drop clothes and ladders. Their desks had been pushed to the side of the room.

“I know, but-”

“If you’re read the memo last month – ”

“I don’t read admin announcements,” Starsky reminded him, accurately. “That’s what I have you for.”

Well, it’s one of the things I have you for, Starsky thought. He only hoped his face wasn’t as easy to read as Hutch’s was at that very moment. He felt full of love and desire for the man he was talking with, but geez, Hutch was still going to have to work on- what had he called it?- not wearing his heart on his sleeve. If they were going to lie about this to the world, then Hutch had to watch himself.

“Well,” Hutch smiled, looking to Starsky to be a man clearly, obviously, and completely in love. “That’s why-”

“Look!” Starsky exclaimed, gesturing at the center of the room. “A ping pong table!”

“Table tennis,” Hutch corrected him, automatically, and Starsky threw a look back at his partner, rolling his eyes.

“Ping pong,” he repeated. “Don’t go ‘My Favorite WASP’ on me, now.”

Just because they’d decided to become lovers didn’t mean he couldn’t yank Hutch’s chain. He had the right. In fact, he almost considered it an obligation; his own, patented, unique way to keep Hutch’s feet on the ground.

You got it bad, Blondie, he mused, dreamily, unaware of the shamelessly joyful look on his own face. “Ha, ha.” Hutch couldn’t have been more than a few inches behind him as he crossed over to the table.

Starsky agilely swept up the two paddles in his hand. “Here,” he offered one, handle first, to the blond. “Loser buys dinner.”

Almost immediately, Hutch’s face drained of what color it did have as Starsky favored him with an impish grin.

Starsky! Starsky could read Hutch’s silent shout. We agreed!

“I know,” Starsky returned aloud, his voice more soothing now. No one’s gonna know what I meant, babe.

Starsky watched as Hutch forced himself to relax – relax as much as he could given what they were looking forward to doing tonight: after work, a quick session with Dobey during which Starsky was going to attempt his best undercover poker face and Hutch out and out deceived their captain and friend, and dinner, which they’d already planned to eat out.

Then … tonight was the night they were going to physically become one as they’d been emotionally for years and spiritually, seemed as long as forever. They’d planned it all last night, as they’d lain naked together, holding on for dear life for the physical release of orgasm and the emotional closeness they’d already enjoyed.

At the all night drugstore in Venice, they’d gone shopping this morning at, oh, about 3:00 a.m. Separating instinctively, he’d picked up some Vaseline while Hutch had gotten a bottle of some kind of white wine. Starsky’d nagged with his eyes until Hutch’d also picked up enough of Starsky’s favorite snacks to last him the evening, if he got hungry.

If I decide to let you out of bed to eat, Hutch had told him in the car afterwards, with a grin so large that his mustache did a wholly inadequate job of obscuring it.

Starsky bounced the ping-pong ball on the green surface of the table a few times to get Hutch’s attention.

Abashed, Hutch looked over at him. It was a weird feeling. He felt so close, so excited, and so happy about Starsky taking him tonight. Hutch didn’t consider it as Starsky fucking him as much as he did Starsky taking the last of what he had claim to, his body. He already owned his mind and soul. It was going to complete things, somehow.

A shiver of pure excitement traveled down his spine. He had so much he wanted to do. The fumbling, heartfelt hand job he’d given his partner last night was only the tip of the iceberg.

“Hey,” Hutch protested, deciding to pay the Easterner back for the WASP comment. “Have Paddle, Will Lose.”

A delighted look passed over Starsky’s face as he prepared to serve. “What is this, bad show titles? I bet I can get more than you!”

Hutch returned the serve with a flourish, searching in his mind for an apt rejoinder. But he kept coming back to the one eternal, newly revealed, truth in his life.

No, Starsk. It’s just love.