Hunger

430

Immediately after Hutch’s rescue from his forced addiction to heroin, he struggles to regain his sense of self. Will the lure of the drug ever fade? Will he ever be a functioning cop again? More importantly, will Starsky be able to rely on him in a crisis?

 

Originally published as a three-part series in The Fix #1, #2, and #3 between 1987-1988.

This story is by April Valentine writing as Laura Scott Butler.

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Part One

It slipped into his veins like molten love, mulled golden wine. Just a taste, and he was all flame, all soaring flight. The world was his own to look down upon, while he floated free above, giddy and joyous.

Yet sadly, the state of euphoria could not last. Little by little, the freedom and thrills began to subside, and he began to sink, his descent a long, slow glide that forced the sweet, glowing warmth out of him, leaving him cold and dry. Try as he might, he could not cling tightly enough to the heights that had been his, he could not stop falling into the prison he could never escape.

By the time he reached the bottom, he was stripped of all he’d had, bereft. Empty and aching, he felt claws of hunger pull at his insides. The gnawing need would not let go.

He couldn’t stand it, had to get back to the high he had known. The emptiness was physically painful, pulling and twisting his muscles into knots, wrenching shivers from him, sending cold sweat to slick his shaking body.

Need… need so bad… medicine… have to get some…

The covers were tangled annoyingly around his legs. He kicked them away, feeling the ever-increasing hunger draw out his spirit, sucking him dry. He made it to a standing position and staggered toward the door.

Know where to find it…

He opened the door, but stopped still. There stood his partner, a look on his face of such disappointment and anger that Hutch had to glance away. He hesitated only a moment, however, then made to push past the judgmental interloper.

… don’t care what you  think… gotta get the stuff…

“Go ahead, Hutch.” Words tossed at him, mocking, disgusted. “I can’t care about a junkie partner anymore.

Hutch wanted to turn around, to stop himself from leaving to get what he needed. He couldn’t, could no longer even beg for the help he, in saner moments, still wanted. “Always knew you were no good…” Two voices chorused in derisive tones; Starsky’s… and his own….

* * *

Hutch wrenched himself awake as if escaping from the clutches of a powerful enemy. He found he was sitting up in his own bed, tangled in the wrinkled sheets, sweat-drenched and panting for breath, alone. Yeah, there’s an enemy, all right, he thought, me.

He raked a hand over his face, shoving back his untidy hair. He wished the feelings engendered by the nightmare could be banished as easily as were its images. Yet though the words and pictures dissipated, the sense of failure hung over him like a roof caved in by the force of a storm. Since the day he had been kidnapped and drugged by Ben Forrest, nothing was right in his life anymore.

It was over a week, now, since it had happened. Hutch wished it had been longer, so it was safely in the past, yet he couldn’t imagine months or years from now. The bruises were fading, but that was all. Inside, the wreck of his body and spirit was still rebounding from the shocks it had received. The memories of pain and torment were still fresh; they showed as little signs of healing as the needle marks at his elbow.

Hutch’s hand went involuntarily to the scarring evidence on his inner arm. Still there, he thought bitterly, his fingers rubbing the tracks as if to blot them out. Maybe they’ll always be there. The mark left by the needle used at the Red Cross when he’d donated blood last year had stayed with him for months, and he hadn’t minded, had barely noticed, in fact. Yet the needle Monk had used to pierce his vein had imprinted a symbol of shame, and left unfading testimony of his trip to hell.

Like the Day-Glo dye in the rubber stamp they put on the back of your hand at a county fair, to prove you paid your entrance fee and can get back in the gate. Return admission guaranteed… Open return ticket… If you want to go back… If you’re tempted…

That was the worst of it. The hunger kept coming back to him. The sleeping nightmares were bad enough, but sometimes the feeling came over him during the day as well. They were a weird combination of dread and need, a sick desire to fill his veins with the golden liquor that seduced with its false promise of nirvana and, when it fled, left him emptier than he had been before. When he was high, he had cared about nothing, so long as the pleasure was prolonged. When he’d come down, the dregs of the poison in his veins made him revile himself.

Never again, he could say, and mean it. Yet nagging at him always, whether coming to him insidiously while he slept or dropped his guard while awake, was the hunger. Just once more, a silky whisper, promising delights, teased at the ragged edges of his conscience.

He shuddered, nausea that was very real taking hold of his gut. Stumbling to the bathroom, he leaned over the sink, gagging, though nothing came up. He turned the cold water on hard, and splashed his face, and the back of his neck. Gasping, he clung one-handed to the chill porcelain, waiting for the sensation to fade. He wasn’t sure what made him sicker, the physical symptoms or the fact that he was disgusted by his own body and soul.

They did it to me. It wasn’t my choice.

The repeated litany did little to alleviate his sense of failure. They may have had him tied to that chair the first time, but by the end, he’d virtually held out his arm for the doses of heroin. When Forest had withheld it, he’d begged to be shot up, buying his high at forfeiture of his integrity.

I should have fought harder… Instead, his condemning mind voice told him, he had participated in his own debasement.

He shoved himself away from the sink and turned on the shower. As the spray heated, fogging the room, he stepped into the stall. The soap lathered readily and he coated himself with it, scrubbing hard, as if to clean off stubborn tar. The sweat and the stink of fear went down the drain, but the sense of being violated stayed, staining him from the inside out. Forest may have started it, but deep down, a part of him believed he must have been pre-disposed to allow what had happened.

Hutch finished showering, then stood under the hot stream, letting it pour over him, trying to believe the heat soaking into his muscles was enough to purge the effects of the drugs. The fine pin-point spray began to sting after a few moments, sending messages of other needles to his nerves. He twisted the spigot sharply to turn off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel.

He walked out of the bathroom still rubbing at his hair and came up short when he saw his partner sprawled on the couch. He swallowed hard, embarrassed both by the fact that he was standing there naked and the memory of the way Starsky had looked at him in the dream.

He was as disgusted with me as he is with some of the crud we have to deal with on the street. I let him down.

Dragging forth a battered sense of determination, Hutch forced those ideas aside. He closed his eyes. Just a dream…that’s all it was. Please… He awkwardly wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the bureau.

“Hi. How ya feelin’?” It wasn’t until Starsky spoke that Hutch realized the silence had stretched out.

He had to clear his throat before answering, “Okay. I guess.” He rummaged in a drawer for a pair of clean shorts, trying to fight off the blush that had crept over him.

It wasn’t as if Starsky had never seen him undressed before. Neither of them had ever pretended too many inhibitions around the gym and shower room. And there had been a time, nearly a year ago, when they had been closer than most partners, more intimate. For a few months, they had been sexually involved with one another. Their closeness had ignited a passion that neither could deny and for a tumultuous time they had allowed its expression free reign. They’d done everything two men could do together and neither had expressed regret.

But after a while, the astonishing passion had cooled a bit and they had begun to be able to more clearly see what the sex between them could do to their working partnership. Then, by mutual consent, they had stopped sleeping together. That had been but one phase of their relationship, pleasurable, but not permanent, a sharing that had taught them more about each other than most partners who remained mere friends could ever know.

Hutch didn’t want to think about that now, as he slipped into his underwear and tossed the damp towel toward the rumpled bed. Those acts of love had been a part of another life, when he’d been more naive than he was now.

Thought I knew it all, everything about love and goodness and pleasure. But Forest had taught him other lessons: that pleasure could come from a needle, that goodness could be corrupted, that love, as in the love he thought he had given Jeannie, was never strong enough to endure.

He stepped into a wrinkled pair of jeans, turning to face Starsky as he zipped them up. There sat his partner, his friendship the only thing in Hutch’s life unshaken by the recent ordeal. Hutch attempted a smile and it came a little easier when Starsky beamed at him in return.

“You bring anything for dinner with you?” Hutch asked, finding a shirt.

”Yeah.” Starsky grinned, looking pleased that Hutch seemed to have an appetite. “Boxa fried chicken.”

“From that place on the corner?” It was called “The Coop” he believed, and served chicken that approximated home cooked. It was one restaurant that he and Starsky could usually agree on.

The dark head nodded. “‘The Coop.’ Plus a container of their mashed potatoes and gravy and a few of those big biscuits.”

Talking about food made Hutch realize he actually was hungry. “I guess we should eat it before it gets cold, huh?”

They chatted about inconsequentials while they ate. Starsky was cheerful, telling him a few of the incidents that had occurred at Metro during the day, but Hutch noted his partner wasn’t going into the usual gory details that often permeated their shop talk. That felt strange to Hutch; a part of him needed to know what had been going on with Starsky out there, to share the job as they always did, while another part of him preferred to shy away.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Starsky quizzed softly.

Hutch shrugged. “Maybe. I was thinking about the job.”

“And coming back to work?” Starsky drew a breath. “I don’t want to pressure you, and I told Dobey not to—but we are kinda shorthanded…” He let the phrase dangle, let Hutch consider the unasked question.

Hutch knew he had to go back sooner or later, but he had put off considering it. He had gone from being the one who saved crime victims to being a victim himself. He didn’t like the feeling of powerlessness and vulnerability, but he didn’t know how to shake it off.

He was afraid. In a word, that summed up all of what he felt. There was the fear of temptation—the clawing hunger for a fix that had tormented him in the dream had left a lingering ache in his body. The drug had been in his system such a short time ago, the need to have it again still existed.

There was more to fear. Formerly, he had waded into any and all possibly dangerous situations, armed with the naive confidence that he could survive unscathed. Now, he’d seen he was every bit as capable of being hurt as the next man.

That he would learn something like that about himself hadn’t even occurred to him. The first thing he’d felt had been the terror—it had made him fight for his life, driven him to escape. Then he had learned pain, worse than that from the beating he’d taken; this pain had besieged him as his body violently defeated the drug that had claimed it. And with that had come anger, though it was mainly misdirected—the kind that made him lash out at Starsky, to throw tantrums, break dishes, yell curses.

When he took to the streets in search of answers from Mickey, the emotion had found its focus as the righteous anger of a person who had been wronged. For a while, it had fueled his strength, given him courage. His energy had flagged, though, and they’d almost gotten him. He remembered realizing that Forest’s goon was about to shoot him up again, right there in the alley. He’d shoved him away, ran for his life, and ended up cowering atop the tall alley fence. And he had fallen gratefully into his rescuing partner’s arms. Starsky’s strength holding him had never felt so good.

A measure of his anger had still been with him when they’d arrived at Forest’s house. All he had wanted was to get his hands on the man who had turned him into an addict. He remembered throwing Ben Forest against his car before letting Starsky take over.

His strength had completely deserted him, then. He’d talked to Jeannie and told Starsky he felt all right. But the ride downtown in the Torino, with Forest handcuffed but talkative in the back seat, had been demoralizing. He had not been able to tell his partner how it had felt sitting there with the person who had hurt him both physically and emotionally.

Maybe Starsky knew—Hutch had seldom seen him in such a state of controlled rage. Yet Hutch had known himself suddenly vulnerable, naked—Forest had indeed stripped him bare of self-respect and dignity. He had been violated; more than physical rest would be required before he could fully recuperate. Trouble was, he had no idea just what it was that he did need in order to recover.

“Hutch.” He heard his name spoken, felt the plea in his partner’s voice.

He looked into the eyes that were watching his face. They were brilliant blue, patient, hoping to understand and help. In his confusion, all Hutch wanted to do was cringe away from them, to react defensively.

Then he recalled a moment, a struggle between them at the door to Huggy’s room. “I just want out. Just let me out,” he had pleaded. He’d wanted his freedom; after the days of being held prisoner there were times when he saw Starsky as just another jailer. He’d had so much anger in him, it had been hard not to resent the friend who was taking care of him. “I just want some candy,” Hutch had lied.

“I can remember a man who hated candy.” Starsky’s words had sounded mocking at first, and Hutch had reacted with anger. But Starsky had understood. Nothing Hutch did could make him pull away. The care he offered was unconditional.

What had he said? Remembering specifics out of those hours of horror was difficult. In a moment, the gruff, tender whisper came back to him. “Now that’s the Hutch I know.”

He heard it again, and felt the clasp of arms that comforted and cared.

That’s what I want to be, Starsk. The Hutch you knew. Can I be him again?

Hutch drew a shaky breath. “I want to go back— I think,” he admitted. “It’s just… I have so many doubts. I don’t know how working on the streets the way we do is going to affect me.”

He saw Starsky swallow, and knew his friend was weighing his words carefully. “I’ll be there, Hutch. You know I won’t let you…”

The unfinished statement was like a cloud hanging over them. Words of denial leaped to Hutch’s lips, but he didn’t say them aloud. What use was denial when they both knew the truth? He shrugged, sighing. “That’s only part of what worries me.” He tore his gaze away from Starsky, a feeling of inadequacy overcoming him.

Starsky shifted in his seat. “Dobey said, if you want to, you could start out on a schedule of light duty. Hutch, I kinda think it’s important for you to go back to work. The longer you hesitate… well, it might be that much tougher.”

“Like falling off a horse, huh? Gotta get right back in the saddle.” Hutch rolled his eyes. “Wish it was that easy, Starsk. I know I’m all right, physically. And I also know how much like a wimp I sound… stalling like this.”

“You couldn’t be a wimp if you tried.” Starsky scowled at him. “Everybody needs help sometimes.” He cleared his throat, looked back at Hutch from the corner of his eye. “Dobey also suggested you might want to talk to the department psychiatrist.”

Hutch’s chair grated loudly on the wood floor as he pushed it back from the table. He started clearing the remains of dinner away.

Starsky hadn’t batted an eye. “I told him you wouldn’t go for that.”

Hutch was facing the sink when he spoke again. “Nobody else in the department knows, right?”

“Nobody.” Starsky moved to stand close behind him.

The idea of going to a shrink sounded too much like admitting failure. He drew what was left of his battered pride around him and turned to Starsky. “Okay. How about I take the plunge tomorrow?”

Strong, slim hands rose to grasp his shoulders and eyes that seemed to hold enough determination for both of them looked deep into his own. “We’ll make it, partner.”

Starsky was there for him. He seemed the one source that could answer all Hutch’s needs, give everything he hungered for. For the first time since his abduction, Hutch let himself believe he could get back to what he had been before.

* * *

Starsky settled on the couch, watching his partner clear the table. Hutch had said he was perfectly capable of cleaning up his own kitchen, especially since it was Starsky who had brought dinner. It was the best sign so far that Hutch was putting what had happened behind him.

Starsky didn’t make the mistake of thinking they were on easy street now, though. He watched the stiff, careful movements, the eyes that darted from one thing to another and knew that the facade Hutch presented was a brittle one. He was still hurting in so many ways.

Thinking about it made Starsky livid all over again. Hutch—Hutch, of all people—the nature-boy, the clean living, health food advocate, force-fed the dirtiest drug a street junkie could get hold of. They’d tied him up and injected him over and over—how the hell did they manage to avoid an O.D.? —until he was hooked. Then, they’d withheld his fix to get him to tell them his girlfriend’s whereabouts. Starsky closed his eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to relax the fists he had clenched.

He couldn’t blot out the memory of the shaking, sweating man he’d held in his arms on Huggy’s lumpy mattress. Somehow, Starsky had found words of reassurance, murmured in an attempt to soothe his suffering friend. But he’d wanted to rage at the hoods who’d done it, and to cry for the damage they’d inflicted.

Starsky had shed a few real tears that night, though he doubted Hutch had been aware of them. He’d been exhausted by then, worn out by the shakes and muscle cramps, depleted by the continuous vomiting. Nothing had stayed down, not the coffee laced with sugar or the candy bars, and not the tea and toast that Starsky had tried to get into him, either.

Little by little, the story had emerged from Hutch’s confused ramblings. He’d tried to tell Starsky in the car on the way to Huggy’s, broken sentences that gave pictures of the struggle at his house and the beatings and the needles. “They wanted Jeannie. I told them where to find her.” He’d said it over and over again, unaware of the repetition, just driven to say it, as if he thought it a crime he must confess.

She wasn’t worth it, partner. Starsky had kept his opinion to himself, though. He didn’t blame her for whatever mistakes she had made in her past, but for hurting Hutch. You’ve got so much love inside you, man. But you wind up getting hurt. I can’t stand to see that happen.

The evidence of physical and emotional abuse had broken Starsky’s heart. Forest was some kind of animal, but because the details of the case—the heroin, specifically—had to be kept out of Hutch’s record, Forest wouldn’t even be charged with that offense. You’ll get sent away, though, scum. And when you get out, if you ever set foot in this town again—

He broke off thoughts of retribution as Hutch returned to the living area. The man still looked like something bad had gone down. The bruises on his face were pretty well healed, but the weight that had melted off during four days of captivity and three of cold turkey withdrawal hadn’t been put back. Hutch had been healthy and in good condition; that much was on his side. But when he’d walked out of the bathroom earlier, Starsky had seen ribs that never used to be so prominent, and dark bruises that hadn’t yet faded from punches that had been pounded into his kidney area. The rope burns still marred the delicate skin of the wrists, too.

And Starsky knew Hutch was self-conscious about his appearance. He’d seen him pull down his sleeves and button the cuffs when he was dressing, and watched the way Hutch had gingerly rubbed the inside of his arm.

Takes a while for those tracks to fade, buddy, he’d wanted to say. He’d seen enough of them in his time. But he kept his mouth shut; Hutch didn’t need the reminder.

There was a time when you weren’t so self-conscious around me, Starsky thought, unable to avoid noticing the grace of the too-thin figure as Hutch crossed the room and folded himself into a chair. Have you thought about all of that lately?

Starsky had never been sorry they’d been lovers for a while. Lovers isn’t quite the right word. He pondered his slang inventory, culled from the various hookers, bookies, hypes, and other street people, including homosexuals, he had occasion to listen to in his profession—it always paid to understand the lingo.

What would some gay guy call what we were? Fuck buddies?

Starsky assumed it meant friends who enjoyed physical pleasures together with no need for expressions of love or romantic involvement.

Earthy, but succinct.

Not incorrect, either, in the case of him and Hutch, but only partially true. There hadn’t been what you could call romantic involvement, though words of love had definitely been spoken.

‘Some kind of love,’ I called it that first time. Don’t know any other word for the way I feel about you. I was only able to make it with you ’cause I love ya. Would never have let another guy touch me.

No, there were no regrets in him for the sex he and Hutch had experimented with.

More than experiments… we weren’t what you’d call clinically detached during them.

But all that was in the past, now. It had brought them closer, but it wasn’t necessary for the continuance of their relationship. It had been sexy fun, a grown-up game they played, a secret nobody but the two of them knew.

Starsky remembered a conversation with some Feds in Dobey’s office, that time the kids had been murdered in a car like his own Torino. Starsky had been asked if he’d been on a date the previous night. The Feds had said something about the reputation he and Hutch had with the ladies. It had been tough not cracking up when their eyes met, considering their secret pleasures.

They weren’t ashamed, nor had they forgotten, but they had moved beyond that kind of sharing. The sex had strengthened the early bond between them. Yet their relationship now was really no less intimate, in many ways.

Who else would you let see you like you were at Huggy’s? The love was still there, whatever kind it was.

Hutch put down the TV Guide he’d been leafing through and got up to switch on the set. Starsky stayed through two situation comedies and an hour of “Charlie’s Angels.” As the credits for that one rolled, he looked toward his partner.

The long legs were halfway to the middle of the room and the blond hair was mussed. Hutch had sunk deep into his chair, and his head lay tilted, pillowed somewhat uncomfortably on the back of the chair. He was sound asleep.

Starsky hated to disturb him, but couldn’t let him sleep like that, not if he wanted to be rested enough in the morning to go to work. He got up from the couch and knelt beside Hutch’s chair.

“Hutch.” He kept his voice soft and the hand he placed on Hutch’s forearm gentle. Even so, Hutch came awake with a jerk. “Easy. It’s just me.”

“Sorry.” Hutch pulled up into a sitting position. “Guess I’m still kinda jittery.”

“I know. It’ll get better.”

“You sure about that?” Hutch’s smile was weak.

“I have confidence in you.” Starsky rubbed the arm he held, trying to soothe the inevitable nervous tension. “Listen, it’s pretty late. You oughta get in bed if we’re hitting the streets together tomorrow.”

“Uh—” Hutch looked a trifle confused for a moment. “Oh, yeah.” He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah,” he repeated, levering out of the chair. Outside, a car backfired. Hutch flinched. His eyes went to Starsky’s. “You mind stayin ‘over again?”

“Not if you don’t,” Starsky countered.

They’d argued about it the night before. “Still guarding me?” Hutch had become sarcastic.

“Not guarding—supervising.” Starsky had prevailed; and when the nightmares had wakened Hutch, he’d been there to banish them. And Forest had a lot of cronies; some of them might have Hutch’s address. Starsky couldn’t stop protecting Hutch just yet.

He met his partner’s weary gaze and moved to stand behind the skittish blond. He brought his hands up to the broad shoulders, his fingers seeking out tension to massage it away. Hutch sighed, deep and heartfelt, relaxing, leaning back toward Starsky like a cat asking to be more thoroughly petted. Starsky turned the massage into a thorough back-scratching session, knowing how much Hutch loved them. Grinning, he finished by sweeping his nails up and down the spine one final time, and ruffled the fair hair.

He accepted the pillow and blanket Hutch handed him and made up his place on the couch while his partner brushed his teeth. He finished the task as Hutch emerged from the bathroom and watched the tall blond covertly as they got ready for bed.

His jitters had disappeared for now, and he seemed comfortable again about undressing in Starsky’s presence. He shed jeans and shirt, leaving them in a heap, and climbed into bed looking exhausted.

Starsky observed his actions with a feeling of mingled concern and appreciation in his heart. Hutch had a beauty that even his current ordeal couldn’t hide, because it came from the inside out. No matter how badly he’d been hurt this time, he was not going to stay down for long.

Starsky sighed, memories tumbling against thoughts of their present problems. Love is still the word, friend.

He headed for the bathroom and came back in a few minutes. Hutch was under the covers, tossing a little as he got comfortable.

Starsky crossed the room to turn out the desk lamp. “Sleep well, partner,” he offered softly.

“You, too.” The reply was sleepy. “Starsk?”

“Yeah?” Starsky had to acknowledge the slight tingle that slid down his spine at the way Hutch said his name just then. It almost distracted him from the man’s next words.

“Thanks,” the muffled voice went on. “For dinner. And for hanging around.” One last shifting of long legs, and he was still.

“Anytime.” There was just enough moonlight to see by. Starsky stood watching over him a little longer. He felt very close to Hutch at the moment; it was good to be with him, to be allowed to share the night, to make sure he was safe from the bad guys on the outside and the demons they’d left inside his head. Yet he sensed a distance between them too, the man’s independence creating a wall that hadn’t been there a few days ago.

He’s getting better, you jerk. Doesn’t need to cling the way he did those first awful hours. He’s getting better. Thank God…

Starsky was tired. He settled on the couch, positioning himself so he could see Hutch if he opened his eyes, then he consciously blotted all thoughts, confusing and otherwise, out of his mind and slept.

 

Part Two

The sun slanting under the curtains woke Hutch to a new day. He stretched, feeling rested, and realized with a bit of surprise that he had slept through the entire night without waking once. There had been no dreams to disturb him, no recurring pain to make him restless. Feeling nearly like his old self, he tossed back the covers and climbed out of bed.

Starsky lay curled under the afghan on Hutch s sofa, his pillow and blanket having fallen to the floor sometime during the night.

Looks like one of us was restless, after all, Hutch thought. Starsky had lost almost as many hours of sleep during the last week as Hutch had himself. Wish I hadn’t had to put you through all this, buddy. Unsure how to put those feelings into words, Hutch sighed and headed for the bathroom.

Starsky was awake by the time he emerged from the shower. Hutch stood a moment, grinning at the incongruous picture of his partner cooking bacon and eggs in his underwear. Starsky seemed unusually bouncy this morning, kind of hopping from one foot to the other as he wielded the spatula.

“I’m out of the shower,” Hutch called as he pulled clean briefs from his bureau drawer. The reason for his friend’s bouncing was revealed when Starsky sped past Hutch and slammed the bathroom door shut.

Hutch finished dressing and moved into the kitchen. The bacon was just about crisp enough, so he slid the strips of it onto some paper towels. Then, he moved to stir the eggs scrambling in his Teflon skillet.

The nausea that swept over him was unexpected but very profound. Hutch dropped the spatula and had to cling to the drainboard, trying to breathe without taking in the smell of the cooking eggs.

“Hey, you all right?” Starsky’s voice came from nearby, but it was muffled by the roaring in Hutch’s ears. A steady hand took his elbow and guided him to the couch. “Hutch?”

“Guess I’m not as okay as I thought I was, huh?” Hutch managed a sheepish smile, embarrassment heating his cheeks.

Starsky squeezed his shoulder. “You’ll make it. Hey, how about a glass of orange juice? That ought to help some.”

Hutch nodded and dropped his head into his hands, trying to regain his equilibrium. Starsky returned with the juice and sat beside him while he drank. “Thanks,” Hutch managed after a moment. “I thought I had it all together this morning. Looks like I was wrong.”

“Stop trying to be so hard on yourself,” Starsky admonished. “Eggs sometimes affect me that way first thing—and you know what a cast iron stomach I have. Come on, Blondie, forget it and try to eat something. I refuse to hit the streets with a partner running on empty.”

Part of Hutch wanted to tell Starsky that he had changed his mind and had no intention of going back to work today. It’s too soon. I’m scared I won’t be able to work the way we always have. Won’t be able to back you up. But he couldn’t look into Starsky’s eyes and tell him that. Sighing, Hutch followed his friend to the breakfast table and choked down some bacon and toast. He decided it would be wise to skip the eggs all together.

A half hour later, he was climbing into the passenger side of the Torino. Starsky had studiously avoided letting Hutch discuss the pros and cons of going back to work; as far as he was concerned, they had made the decision last night. In some ways, Hutch was glad. He felt like he’d been living in limbo, somewhere between the past and an uncertain future. If he was going to find out he couldn’t cut it anymore, he might as well know right now.

It was good to be out of his apartment. The morning sights and sounds made Hutch feel all was normal in the world. It was a clear day by Los Angelos standards, and he squinted up at the sun, feeling it soak into his skin, warming him. It was the kind of morning you’d want to spend jogging; the kind that made you feel like taking a deep plunge into life.

Hutch turned to regard his partner as he drove. Starsky’s eyes were on the rush hour traffic, his hands steady on the wheel. His hair was getting tangled from the blowing breeze coming in the open car window.

“Hey,” Hutch said quietly. “Good morning.”

“Morning, yourself.” Starsky passed him a grin.

Hutch thought his partner looked a trifle smug. You deserve it, buddy. You managed to get me out and about again.

At the station house, Hutch slid into a seat near the back of the room, feeling himself grow nervous as time for role call approached. He’d responded to the welcomes of his fellow officers quietly, not wanting to talk much. They knew he’d been held captive, but it was obvious that word had not filtered out that he’d been strung out on heroin. Their responses were merely typical of cops caring what happened to a brother officer. Still, Hutch felt just neurotic enough to believe that some of them looked at him appraisingly, as if noting how haggard and thin he looked.

Can they tell? Will I give myself away, somehow?

Every cop knew the signs, the symptoms; Hutch knew them first hand now, but he’d received the same training as the others in the assembly room. Self-consciously, he tugged at his shirt sleeves, trying to cover the rope burns, feeling the tracks would show somehow through the fabric of his shirt. A nervous chill convinced him to shrug back into his jacket.

Starsky appeared beside him, carrying two coffee cups. “Here.” He sat one of them on Hutch’s desk and took a big gulp from his own. “Go on, drink some,” he continued in a whisper. “It’s better than usual today, I made sure.”

“Nag, nag, nag.” Hutch smiled at him, appreciative of the continued solicitude, and tasted his coffee. It was black and fairly strong, but good and sweet. He sipped it slowly, not wanting to put too much of anything into his stomach at once.

Captain Dobey appeared at the front of the room, and personally asked the troops to welcome Detective Hutchinson back to work. Everyone turned and grinned at Hutch, clapping and calling encouraging words. Hutch wanted to sink under his seat as he realized these people thought he’d done something heroic in escaping and helping to apprehend Ben Forest.

Can’t they see I’m no hero?

He was glad when the captain turned the morning announcements over to Sergeant Hill and the attention of everyone in the room was directed elsewhere.

To his relief, he and Starsky weren’t assigned anything strenuous today. They would simply continue with a couple of pending investigations. It was the kind of day Hutch usually hated, driving all over the county, tracking down witnesses and questioning them. Today, it sounded like it would be just about all he could handle.

When they were dismissed, he followed Starsky up the stairs. Several acquaintances patted him on the shoulder as they passed, and he stopped to answer them, not wanting to appear standoffish. Starsky was now several steps above him.

“Good to see you, Hutchinson,” Bernie Wilson told him. The blue uniformed cop leaned closer, then whispered. “You look a hell of a lot better than when I last saw you.”

“What?” The look in the man’s eyes was serious, though a trifle conspiratorial. Hutch didn’t understand what he meant, but he felt himself growing warm at the scrutiny. He tried to meet the man’s eyes, determined to act as if he had nothing to hide.

“I was there, in the alley. Don’t you remember?” Bernie went on. When Hutch shook his head no, he continued. “Don’t worry, your partner made me swear not to report anything.”

Hutch had a sinking feeling. Starsky had said no one knew. Even if Bernie had not told anyone else, Hutch still didn’t like it. One person or a thousand; he didn’t want anyone to know. And Bernie said he’d seen him in the alley.

He saw me… like that? Jesus.

“It’s okay, Hutch,” the cop pressed on, genuine caring in his voice. “We all make mistakes sometimes. I’m not judging you. I know something heavy went down with that business with Forest. But I sure hope you’ll be able to kick the stuff now. You look… kinda washed out today, y’know?”

Mistakes, judging… kick the stuff… just what did Bernie mean? Surely he understands that was part of what those goons did to me, that it wasn’t my choice. But does it even matter? However it went down, that’s what happened. I was abducted. I got high on heroin and paid a heavy price coming down. That’s all he sees, all I see when I look in the mirror.

Hutch didn’t know what to say, but Bernie hurried off up the stairs, and saved him from coming up with a reply anyway.

“Hey—you comin’ or what?”

Starsky’s voice came close at his ear, tugging him back to the present. Slowly, Hutch turned, nodded. He felt mechanical as he ascended the stairs with his friend chatting happily at his side.

* * *

Hutch wasn’t up to much conversation, but Starsky didn’t seem to mind. He filled Hutch in on what he had missed during his time off, and reminded him of the particulars of the case they were investigating. Hutch tried to dredge up some interest, but it didn’t seem to matter to him if they found the suspect they were searching for or not.

What difference would it make? There’ll be more of them out there, getting away with every crime in the book. No one can stop them all. What the hell use is it anyway?

He sighed, feeling troubled, feeling annoyed by the sunny day and breezy atmosphere. A hand settled on his shoulder, just waiting there.

Starsk… how do you always know how I’m reacting?

Sometimes it could be scary to know he was so transparent, but this time it made him feel safe. He turned his head, meeting his partner’s eyes. The hand on him squeezed, then moved back to the steering wheel.

Hutch returned his attention to the people walking on the street. Their lives were going on, just as his was. I’ve got to be able to deal with them again, he told himself sternly. His eyes caught a fall of blonde hair, the figure of a tall woman walking slowly. Involuntarily, he sat forward. Jeannie?!

It wasn’t her. Hutch swallowed hard, leaned back, and closed his eyes, feeling very old and tired. The thrill of recognition had blotted what had taken place in the last few days from his mind.

Funny. I thought I’d forgotten her, and what we had together. Now, he realized, he missed her. They had spent practically every waking moment together for several weeks. I loved her. Thought I did, anyway. Hutch remembered the afternoon they’d posed for a photograph together. She’d been warm in his arms, a warmth in his heart. He couldn’t remember having seen the picture in the last couple of days, though he’d kept it on the table near his bed. Starsky must have put it away for him.

Hutch wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Did Starsky think the photo would bring painful memories? Or was he simply helping to get her out of Hutch’s life. He turned to look at his friend.

“What’d you think of her, Starsk?”

“Huh?”

“Jeannie.”

“Oh.” Starsky’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, then back on the street ahead. “She was okay. I liked her.”

That wasn’t all, Hutch was certain. “But—” He knew there had to be a but.

“I was happy you seemed to be so happy.” It was obvious Starsky was equivocating.

But what he said was true. “You were happy for me.” Hutch said it thoughtfully, mulling that over. There had been other girls, and sometimes Starsky had seemed jealous of the attention Hutch paid them. He turned the idea around in his mind. “You could be happy for me… because you knew it would come to an end fairly soon?”

“I didn’t say that.” Starsky’s response came quickly. Then he sighed. “Look. I could tell she’d been around the block a few times.”

“So have I,” Hutch pointed out.

“I know. But is it a crime to want your partner to love somebody that’s worth loving?”

Hutch didn’t know what to say to that. Somebody that’s worth loving, his mind echoed, tauntingly. Maybe that’s the whole problem. It’s me that isn’t worth it.

The Torino bounced over a pothole and the sore muscles of Hutch’s stomach protested. He rubbed his belly, tired of the aches he felt everywhere, tired of analyzing his thoughts and moods. The more he did it, the more convinced he became that it was him who was at fault for the lousy thing that had happened. He wanted to avoid coming to that conclusion, didn’t like to think of himself as weak-willed or cowardly. But he’d been scared this time, for real.

* * *

Starsky watched his partner covertly. The bright sun made Hutch look paler than he’d seemed indoors. The blond was skittish, still, sitting in a tense posture. Starsky wondered if he realized how often he pressed a hand to his stomach or wiped the beaded sweat from above his upper lip.

Still hurting, aren’t you? I figured it’d take a while to work out of your system. Sometimes it takes weeks to get rid of the physical symptoms.

Starsky hoped it wouldn’t take that long. Hutch was worn out already, pressuring himself to get well, yet at the same time scared to death to realize what being well was going to mean.

Hutch set high standards for himself, Starsky knew. And he had a strong sense of right and wrong. Whenever anyone—a bum on the street or himself, it didn’t matter—stepped over the bounds of what Hutch considered decency, that person sank in his opinion.

That’s what’s going on in his head right now. He’s trying to figure out how he’s gonna live with this new side of himself he’s just met—the fallible side.

That wasn’t strictly fair, Starsky told himself a couple of blocks later. Hutch didn’t see himself as some kind of plaster saint. But he lived by a code, demanding much of himself. And because of that, when someone he cared about asked for his help, he’d kill himself rather than not provide it. What Starsky couldn’t understand was how Hutch kept finding the type of woman that ended up using him instead of giving him back some of the love he showered on her.

Jeannie wasn’t all bad. She hadn’t set out to hurt Hutch, or to use him, really. But she was the kind that used without realizing that’s what they were doing. On the other hand, Hutch just had so much love to give that women like Jeannie zeroed in on him.

And instead of judging her, realizing that it was all her fault, he’s sitting there trying to figure out how he could have held out and not told them where she was.

Starsky wanted to shake him, shake some sense into that mixed up blond head of his, tell him he was a fool to waste any more time trying to figure out how he might have done things differently. It happened. It was over. Anybody would have buckled under the shit they put him through—

May as well admit it, the word I’m lookin’ for is torture….

But Hutch couldn’t see that. He could only see that he’d caved in and that because of that, Jeannie was back in the sewer she’d managed to crawl out of for a little while.

What am I supposed to tell him—that some people are gonna end up in the sewer no matter what? Hutch would never believe that. He was an idealist. Who says I want a cynic for a partner anyway?

“You feeling up for some lunch?” Starsky said aloud, trying to break into his friend’s studious silence.

Hutch jumped a little, telling Starsky that he’d been far away mentally, and that his nerves were still wound just as tightly as they had been. After a moment of throat clearing, Hutch answered. “If you think you can find some place that serves food that isn’t too greasy.”

There was a natural yogurt bar up ahead. Hutch had once mentioned the good salads the proprietor made, so Starsky pulled into the parking lot. “What you need is some good, solid nutrition from the four main food groups, buddy.” The half smile he received was enough to let Starsky know his choice of restaurants was appreciated.

Hutch managed to eat a decent meal, salad with a lemon yogurt dressing, a cup of vegetable soup, and a dish of frozen yogurt for dessert. Starsky had soup, a couple of hunks of the fresh four grain bread the place served, and smothered his frozen yogurt in raspberry sauce with wet nuts.

Starsky noted that Hutch seemed to perk up a bit during the meal. He was pleased to see him actually smile, a real smile, not just the ghost of one he’d been displaying lately, twice—and at jokes Starsky had made.

Maybe there really is a light at the end of this tunnel after all, Starsky thought as they paid their tab and headed back out to the car.

“Well, if it ain’t the junkie cop.” A laconic voice cut into the sunshine so tentatively wrapped around the partners.

Starsky looked around and saw Jerry DiMarco, a pusher he and Hutch had busted twice. DiMarco was one of the kind who wouldn’t contaminate himself with the drugs he sold, who felt that his customers were dirt and deserved the way the heroin ate away at their spirits and bodies. Hutch had stopped cold, frozen in the act of pulling open the door of the Torino. To Starsky, it looked like what little color that had been in his face had drained away completely.

DiMarco dared to move closer. “Yeah, it’s all over the streets, guys. Hutch here took a little vacation, tripped out on the best smack money could buy. What were you doing, Hutchinson, slumming? Or was it more some kind of encounter session, so you could learn to understand the criminal mind better?”

Starsky wanted to take the man and wipe up the street with him, but he hesitated, holding his breath while he waited to see how Hutch was going to react. He knew he couldn’t fight a battle like this one for his partner, much as he’d like to knock DiMarco’s teeth down his smarmy throat.

Hutch turned and fixed DiMarco with a cold-eyed stare. “Did you run out of high school kids to hook on the dope you peddle, Jerry? Seems to me I remember you copped a plea the last time we ran you in. I’ll bet Starsky and I here could find a good excuse to get you back in the county lock up where you belong.”

DiMarco seemed unimpressed. “And wouldn’t you just love to hear me tell the judge how you know so much about mainlining H,” he taunted.

That was the final straw. Starsky could hear it break, like it was a pane of glass—or the sound of a man’s jaw being hit by a large, well-aimed fist. In a second, Hutch had the pusher face down on the hood of the Torino, his arm twisted up behind his back.

“You want to say that again, little man?” the blond grated. He exerted just a tiny bit more pressure on the bent arm and Jerry DiMarco cursed. Hutch released him suddenly and the man slid to the pavement. The tall blond loomed over him, eyes flashing fire. “Or wouldn’t you rather just admit you’re slime?” He waited a beat, shifting almost imperceptibly.

DiMarco’s lip curled. “Lay off, Hutchinson.”

“Get out of our neighborhood, DiMarco, or you’ll be wishing your fucking life was over.” He yanked open the door of the Torino, causing DiMarco to hurriedly slide out of its way. Hutch climbed in and slammed his door shut.

Starsky followed suit, throwing the car in gear and making the pusher scramble to avoid being run over as he pulled out of the parking lot. “You put him in his place, Hutch,” he told his partner, proud of the way Hutch had handled the situation.

There was a moment’s quiet from the passenger side. “Starsk,” Hutch said then, softly. “I need a men’s room. Quick.”

Starsky cut in front of another car, ignoring the squeal of brakes as he pulled into a Texaco station. The car lurched to a stop and Hutch was out the door before Starsky could come around to help him.

The men’s room door had been unlocked—luckily, Starsky thought, following him inside. He found Hutch on his knees bent over the toilet, shaking and sweating so hard it looked like he might pass out before he could finish throwing up. There was nothing Starsky could do but wait it out. He wet some paper towels, passing them to Hutch who wiped his face and then threw up some more. Starsky put an arm around the trembling shoulders, and pressed a damp towel to the back of Hutch’s neck. It finally ended, but Hutch stayed where he was, shuddering.

Starsky gave him a minute, then urged him to get up. “Come on. It’s filthy in here.”

The eyes that looked up him were huge, framed in wet lashes and marred by circles of gray. They reproached him, as if to say Hutch belonged in the filth. Starsky sank to his knees beside him.

“Partner, I don’t know how to make things right again all at once. That hurts almost as much as seeing you this way. But you gotta know you can make it through this. You can.” He squeezed the shoulders he held. “I believe in you, Hutch.”

Hutch’s eyes remained downcast. “You ever throw up while tied in a chair and blindfolded?”

“What?” The image those words painted stung in Starsky’s mind.

“That’s what I did.” Shame clung to the quiet declaration. “It made me sick the first time they shot me up. I… couldn’t understand, why would anybody want to do that to himself?” His eyes opened and he looked at Starsky directly. “You know what? No matter how horrible it is, you want it anyway. The high is so…” He shuddered, turning away. “God… I’m so sorry, Starsk…”

“Come on, I said. Get up off this floor.” Brusquely, Starsky pulled him to his feet. “And don’t go thinkin’ you’re some kinda wimp—from what I’ve heard, you’re not the only guy to toss his cookies the first time he took heroin.” God, that came out wrong.

Hutch didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll bet every punk on the street knows by now.” His hands pressed against his aching middle. “Looks like my credibility has slipped, don’t you think?”

“What can I say, Hutch? It happened. You’ve gotta live with it.”

Hutch drew a deep breath, the blue eyes closed. He grimaced, then said, “Okay. I’ll live. But I won’t enjoy it.”

“That’s my partner,” Starsky told him. “I always knew that stubborn streak of yours would come in handy someday.”

Hutch chuckled, albeit weakly. He washed his face at the grimy sink and shoved his hair back in place with his fingers, tucked his shirt into his jeans and stood up straighter. “Am I more presentable now?” he asked, trying to make light of the moment.

Starsky just nodded, and took his elbow as he led him from the room.

* * *

The tension in Hutch’s gut wound a notch tighter as the pair climbed back in the car. I appreciate what you’re doing, partner, he wanted, but couldn’t, say. But it’s not over yet. It hurts so bad, and I wish… damnit, how can you want something you hate so much? Right now, I feel just like I did in that room—my mind saying no, my body craving it all the more. God help me, if I could just get high…

 

Part Three

Hutch settled himself in the passenger seat, adjusting his lap belt without looking toward his partner. The feelings and sensations warring inside him seemed like a betrayal of all Starsky’s loyalty. He locked the car door, then ran a hand through his limp hair, wondering if this was the way it felt to lose your mind.

“How about a little music?” Starsky was already switching on the radio as he pulled out into traffic.

“Okay,” Hutch answered, attempting to sound normal. All he could think of, though, was that nothing was ever going to be normal again. At least, he thought, with music playing he’d be spared the necessity of making conversation.

The Torino cruised at a moderate speed, Starsky thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the rock music he’d tuned in. Hutch stared out the window, his mood refusing to lift. He’d tried people watching to distract himself from his troubles, but it seemed that every down and out loser in L.A. was walking the streets today. Hutch found himself calculating which ones had heroin habits that directed the course of their lives.

How did some of them get started on the junk? A friend get them to shoot up one day, maybe? ‘Try it, buddy, it’s great.’ Then they’re hooked, having to steal to get the bread to pay for it all. Do any of them look back and wish they could start all over again? Did any of them ever try to kick it, coming down slow, getting in some treatment program, or even taking the cold turkey route? They tell us lots of them go through the programs, and lots come back in a few months, hooked again. Maybe now I understand how hard it is.

Hutch tried to shake off the veil of self-pity, knowing he was wallowing, torturing himself. At the same time, he knew only total honesty would help rid him of the doubts he had.

What’s going on in the streets out there isn’t what I had planned for myself. No sir, not young Kenneth Hutchinson. I always thought I was better than people who couldn’t break their bad habits. After all, I had first-hand knowledge of what addiction is like.

He remembered the arguments his parents used to have over his mother’s drinking, his mother screaming that they could afford the best liquor and champagne money could buy, so what did it matter how much she drank? He remembered his father storming out of the house, sometimes not coming back for days at a time, leaving his only son to help his mother pick up the pieces. He remembered having to be the one to take care of dinner and laundry, even grocery shopping and bill paying, telling friends they couldn’t come over because his mother was “sick.” And she was sick, sometimes weeping for hours, falling into terrible depressions, sometimes lashing out with insults and cruel laughter at the boy who tried to help her. If only he wasn’t so much trouble, she’d never have to drink, she told him endlessly.

The scars in Hutch’s heart went deep; he’d often thought those early years had been responsible for the difficulty he had in relationships now.

Always falling for a woman who “needs” me, but who can’t accept what I offer. And if they don’t drop me, I pull out of the relationship before I get too close, scared of how much it’ll hurt when the end comes.

Hutch shuddered involuntarily, thinking back to the few occasions when his mother had tried to stay sober and failed. I never understood how she could want a drink so much when she knew very well it was bad for her. But I do now. I don’t want to end up that way, alienating the people who care about me because I can’t kick it.

He looked over at his partner, who was keeping his complete attention on the traffic ahead. I have something my mother never had, he realized in a rush of warmth. Starsky had been gentle when Hutch was hurting, firm and determined when he tried to avoid talking, and he’d become the original immovable object when Hutch had attempted to get past him and escape the confines of Huggy’ s room.

Thank God he stopped me. I don’t want to think about what I might have done if he hadn’t. And he didn’t lose his patience with me even when I begged him right out loud to get me some of the stuff we both knew was in police custody.

A part of Hutch knew that what he’d said had only been the residual effects of the drug in his system, just as he realized that was what was causing the low-voltage craving even now. But a part of him shrank away in shame at the way he’d acted in front of his partner. He knew seeing his mother drunk and uncaring had forever changed the way he felt about her; he couldn’t help wishing Starsky had never seen him like that, no matter how grateful he was for his partner’s help.

You were there for me, he wanted to tell his friend, the only one I’d ever allow to see me that way. He decided it was time to give Starsky reason to believe his hard work wasn’t going to go down the drain.

“Isn’t anything going to happen on this shift?” he asked abruptly, sitting up straighter in the seat. “This is getting boring.”

Starsky threw him a side-long glance. “So now you’re bored, are you? Sheez, there’s no pleasing some people.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” Hutch shook his head, grinning. He put his hand on Starsky’s shoulder and squeezed.

The police band squawk cut through the sounds of music and traffic. Hutch turned off the radio so they could hear the dispatcher’s voice.

“…a 211 in progress in a bar at twelve-oh-one east Broad street…”

Hutch picked up the mike. “This is Zebra three, we are responding.” As Starsky swerved to make an abrupt change in direction, he grabbed for the Mars light and slapped it on the roof of the car.

Speeding the three or four blocks to the location, Hutch felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. He felt like a cop again, priming himself to hit the sidewalk at full tilt, to know what moves to make and how to make them. He reached to undo the seat belt and opened his jacket so he could more easily get at his gun if it were needed. He glanced at Starsky and knew his partner was feeling the same thing. Their eyes met and held for only a second, but the contact was good; strong as ever.

The Torino slewed to a stop in front of the liquor store, just as two men ran out. Both of them fired. One yanked open the door of a waiting car and threw himself in. Already in gear, the get-away vehicle took off like a shot. The second man headed down the alley beside the store.

“I’ve got that one!” Hutch yelled as he let himself out of the Torino, taking off at a run as Starsky gunned the engine.

He followed the thief down the littered alley, glad for the physical exertion. They crossed a street, traffic slowing Hutch, letting the other man get ahead, but he was determined to catch up. It was a matter of moments before he realized he wasn’t quite up to running a marathon. He slowed, annoyed to feel a distinct stitch in his side. His breathing became labored, his head started throbbing. Up ahead, he saw the suspect open a door and enter a building.

Hutch slowed to a walk, holstering his gun. By the time he reached the door, he knew enough time had passed for the man to have gone anywhere in the building. He pulled open the heavy, graffiti-smudged door and went inside.

The place was dark, and seemed deserted. It must have once housed a factory of some kind; the rooms on the first floor were huge, empty of everything but a few broken pieces of furniture and ancient cardboard boxes. Hutch passed into a corridor, alert for any sound.

The whisper of footsteps seemed to come from overhead. He searched for the stairs and found them. They were cement, nearly covered by trash. As he ascended, the distinct smell of old urine rose up. Hutch fought the sick feeling it caused.

Reaching the top of the steps, he could tell there were smaller rooms on the second floor. The sound of low voices at the end of the hall led him. Hutch proceeded quietly.

The thief might be using the place as a hide-out, perhaps as a place to keep stolen goods. There was more than one person there, probably a partner. Hutch wanted to make this bust so bad he could taste it, wanted to prove to himself—and to Starsky, too?—that he could still hack it out on the streets.

He proceeded carefully, not wanting to step on some trash and make noise that would alert them to his presence. Slowly drawing his Magnum, he inched along the corridor, moving close to the wall. The door to the room the voices were coming from stood halfway open.

Hutch pressed against the wall, leaning to take a quick glance at the interior of the room. What he saw made him forget the bust completely.

The windows had been boarded up; Hutch noticed that newspapers had been added to block the light further. Four men sat on crates or broken chairs, candles providing the scant illumination. The man Hutch had been following sat facing another, who was counting money, probably what was taken in the holdup.

“It’s all there, man.” The thief was impatient, jittery.

“Okay,” said the other. “That makes us even for yesterday and today.”

“Come on, then. Man, I told you I’m hurting.” Shaky hands were wiped on faded jeans. “I had to outrun a cop to get here.”

“What the fuck—?” One of the other men stood, going to grasp the robber’s shirt front. “You tellin’ me you were followed?”

“No! He didn’t see me!” The thief was pleading now, ready to say anything to get what he needed. “Look, man, I’m all paid up, aren’t I?”

“Here, then.” The second man pulled a small packet out of his pants pocket. Hutch could see it contained a white substance.

The man he’d followed reached out a hand for it. “Can I use your works?”

The fourth member of the group handed over an object. Despite the poor lighting and the narrow view he had, Hutch knew exactly what it was.

He closed his eyes and edged back against the wall, not wanting to be seen. His heart was hammering and sweat was pouring down his face. He could feel wet trails of it sliding down his sides and back. He didn’t know what to do. As a cop, his duty was clear. But Hutch hesitated. Almost, almost he wanted to watch, to see the man shoot up.

For a vicarious thrill? Or to remind myself how sordid and low the whole process is?

Yet he held back, fearing he couldn’t trust himself so close to what his body had been begging him for all day.

Hutch didn’t need to look to know what was going on. The sounds and smells were all too familiar to him. They had been all he’d had to go by, tied and blindfolded at Forest’s place. The sound of a match lighting, the odor of melting wax and heating heroin, the clink of a spoon. He could even hear the slight hiss as a tiny portion was let out of the syringe to prevent any air from remaining trapped.

Hutch had strained to hear those sounds, knowing that the euphoria would follow, carrying him away from the present horror and the pain of the past. And he remembered, felt right now, every detail of how bad not having that euphoria could be. Then as now, inches away from him, but he couldn’t have it. He could still hear Forest’s mocking laugh.

I wanted to laugh in his face, tell him he was wrong, that I didn’t need it, that I wasn’t hooked and his scheme hadn’t worked. But I didn’t. Instead, I crawled on the floor, begging…

They’d made him wait for hours, it seemed, ignoring his pleading, his cries for some help. It wasn’t until a few moments before Jeannie had come in that they’d relented, and then only giving him enough to take the edge off. Hutch knew now it was so that she wouldn’t see him in withdrawal.

He’d been out of it when they dragged him out of the house and into the car, barely listening to their conversation until he realized they were planning his murder. Running on unsteady legs to get away, the last of the high had drained out of him, leaving him a shaking, sweating mess when Starsky found him in the alley.

“Nothin’ but sweat and pain for the next forty-eight hours.”

He remembered somebody saying that, over the sound of his own chattering teeth. It had been a lot longer than that already, but it was still inside him; the pain and the hunger were relentless. Standing in the corridor, twelve feet away from nirvana, Hutch struggled with what he knew was right and what his body pleaded for.

An obscene fantasy opened in his head, unplanned and unwelcome. What if… I just walked through that door as a customer? Looking like I do today, they’d never make me as a cop. I could…

In morbid fascination, he let the fantasy spin out: himself walking through the open door, muttering his request to the man in charge. Handing over money and his self-respect in exchange for the white chemical. Taking the used needle, drawing the liquid into it. Preparing his vein to take the shot. The needle, so sharp and cold, touching his skin, slipping inside, the heroin flowing…

Hutch pressed his hands to his head rejecting the image, summoning another: the needle slamming down on the floor, crushed under his shoe, his gun being drawn, his orders being shouted. The stash was in his possession, shoved in his pocket and forgotten as he read them their rights.

There was a stirring inside, and he knew he had to do something. He risked another quick glance and saw the robbery suspect sink down on the floor, his eyes losing expression as the heroin did its number on him. Hutch spent a full minute watching him, knowing the face he saw could be his face five years from now.

I remember listening to my mother’s abuse and vowing I’d never do something like that to myself.

He thought back to the incident in the alley following his talk with Benny, the snitch. “One beautiful pop,” Forest’s goon had promised him.

And I pushed him away… I was strong enough then. And I’m strong enough now.

Hutch found himself crossing through the large workroom on the first floor, almost stumbling in his haste to get out of the building. The sun on his face felt good; it dried the sweat of exertion and nerves. He stood there, breathing hard, when he heard the sound of a car driving up.

Starsky climbed out and went to him immediately. “Hutch? You okay?”

“Did you catch them?”

“Yeah. Pulled them over in traffic, coupla blocks from here. I called for some back-up and they’re taking them in.” He looked up at the building Hutch had come from. “Been lookin’ for you.”

Hutch met his gaze, saying evenly, “The one I was chasing is inside, second floor. There’s a few other guys in there, too.”

“Part of a gang?” Starsky asked, his eyes alert to every nuance of Hutch’s expression.

He shook his head. “It’s a shooting gallery.” His mouth felt incredibly dry.

Starsky’s hand reached automatically for him, taking hold of his arm. He didn’t say anything, but his body shifted closer to Hutch’s.

Hutch drew a steadying breath. “You wanta come up there with me and help catch the bad guys?”

“Sounds fine to me.” Starsky smiled and raised his eyebrows, then pulled open the door to the abandoned building.

* * *

Starsky followed his partner’s lead, all the while conscious of how coming upon the shooting gallery must have affected him. He’d known that sooner or later Hutch would find himself face to face with drugs again—he just wished his friend had had more time to get his act together first.

Hutch looked badly shaken, his eyes wild, his face pale and sweaty, but he was acting like the good cop Starsky knew he was. He was in control as he burst in upon the group of men in the upstairs hideaway. Starsky watched him barking orders, efficiently searching the premises, doing all the requisite work of putting the thief, pusher, and drug users under arrest.

Hutch lifted an overturned trash can, discovering the pusher’s stash. Only Starsky noticed his split-second of hesitation when he looked at the pile of neatly bagged heroin.

Pale blue eyes lifted to lock with Starsky’s. “You uh… want to take charge of this, partner?”

“Okay.” Starsky didn’t want to make a big thing of it, one way or the other.

Two days ago, he would have worried about Hutch even being near the stuff. The man who’d struggled to get past the locked door of Huggy’s bedroom had been in no condition to be out on the street alone, to say nothing of being allowed to handle a quantity of dope. He had a better hold on the craving now, as it slowly worked its way out of his system, and Starsky figured he could have let Hutch take charge of the evidence if he had wanted to play the scene that way. Still, he admitted to himself, he was somewhat relieved that Hutch had offered the job to him instead. Yet Starsky hated to see the shadow of self-doubt that seemed bound to follow Hutch around now.

Hutch took a rough hold on the pusher in charge of the shooting gallery as he cuffed him, shoving the man against the wall and speaking to him with undisguised hostility. Starsky had seen him treat countless suspects that way; Hutch never bothered hiding his feelings when he arrested someone he considered one of the less worthy specimens of humanity. But there was something in the look of his eyes this afternoon that warned Starsky that right now his feelings went deeper. Selling drugs was a personal issue with Hutch, now.

“You know, fella, it’s your lucky day. This customer of yours happening in here is your ticket to a long vacation. And I’m glad to see you being put away,” Hutch grated as he yanked the pusher around to face him.

The man tossed back lank strands of dark hair and smiled thinly. “Aw, shucks, mister policeman, did I break a law or somethin’?”

The disrespect earned him a right cross to the jaw. The man hit the floor and Hutch pulled him up by the shirt front, drawing back his arm to hit him again.

“Hey, take it easy.” Starsky said the words softly while laying a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. The tension in the muscles under his hand relaxed slightly at his touch.

“Yeah.” Hutch answered him without taking his eyes off the pusher.

Starsky reached to take the prisoner by the arm.

Then Hutch turned to the man who had robbed the bar. He was still nodding out, untroubled by the arrest taking place. As Starsky watched, his partner knelt beside the thief, who couldn’t be more than twenty-two years old.

Hutch didn’t say anything to him; he just looked into the boy’s lined face. The thief seemed unaware of the scrutiny. Very gently, Hutch reached out, taking hold of the arm nearest him. The sleeve was still rolled up and the rows of tracks were easy to make out even in the dim light. Again, Hutch didn’t speak. He let go of the young man’s arm and bent to pick up the syringe lying discarded on the floor beside him.

The thief reacted then. “You wanta shoot up, too, pal? ‘S good shit.”

Hutch answered softly. “This why you pulled the hold up?”

“Hey… a guy’s got ta get the bread some way.” The hype laughed, showing stained teeth. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would ya, pig?” His expression cleared a little as he looked at Hutch closely for the first time. “Hey, baby… maybe I was wrong…”

Hutch got to his feet abruptly, pulling the thief to a standing position, but Starsky noticed that his movements were controlled, not rough at all. And there was an underlying tenderness in the way Hutch began reading him his rights that brought a lump to Starsky’s throat.

He kept the same watchful eye on his partner during the rest of the day.

Though his work didn’t show it, Hutch was still vulnerable, his control tenuous at best. His hands shook slightly as he wrote out his reports and his eyes remained downcast. He didn’t say much, and seemed self-conscious when spoken to.

Starsky sighed. It had felt good working with him again; the partner he could trust with his life had come back. But in him now, Starsky saw only the shell of the comfortable, easy-going man he’d known, and he ached to see him hurting that way. It would take time, he knew, to rebuild the self-esteem Forest had taken away with every syringe full of poison he’d injected into him.

Starsky pulled the finished report from his typewriter and looked toward Hutch, elbow propped on the desk, his head rested in his hand. The shadowed eyes were closed, the lips parted slightly. Starsky felt a sudden longing to reach out to him.

If a touch could restore his lost dignity…

He smoothed back an errant strand of blond hair on the furrowed forehead, smiling at the soft feel of it on his fingertips. “Hey, buddy, ” he said gently, “you about ready to call it a day?”

“Hmmm?” Hutch looked up, eyes soft with relaxation. Then, as if he were suddenly reminded of the altered conditions of his life, his expression clouded again. “Yeah. I’m ready if you’re ready.”

“C’mon, then.” Starsky pushed his chair back and stood, slipping into his jacket.

Hutch followed suit, his movements stiff and uncertain. The exhaustion was catching up to him again. He didn’t utter a word as he followed Starsky out of the building and into the Torino. He slumped into the passenger seat immediately.

As he drove, Starsky glanced over at him from time to time. Hutch was dozing, his arms wrapped around his middle, as if to ease continued cramps or to shelter his aching soul.

You’ve always been searching for something, haven’t you, babe? I don’t like to see you gettin’ cheated out of it all the time. What are you dreaming about now? The love that slipped out of your grasp, the pain you’ve been through? Or are you still hungering…?

Starsky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. I don’t want you to want it. Don’t want the destruction it nearly brought you—us. For a while there, I was really scared by how much you wanted the stuff, even though I know it wasn’t really you talking. I could see so much falling apart: the good cop you are, the partnership… the love… I don’t want to lose you, Hutch.

It hurt so much, Starsky found himself driving with his teeth gritted. He consciously tried to relax, wiping beaded sweat from his forehead. He felt like he wanted to wrap his arms, all of himself, around Hutch to shut out the anguish for them both.

Unexpectedly, a memory was called forth: himself hanging onto Hutch and Hutch hanging onto him. They lay twined on a rumpled bed, naked, striving to find yet another instant of prolonged perfection in the meeting of their bodies.

God, it was good with you. For a while there, it was addictive as smack. Why’d we stop?

Starsky eased the Torino into the parking space in front of his house and shut off the engine. He rubbed his aching eyes, realizing he couldn’t remember the process of driving home. He turned in the seat to look at his partner.

He’d never been able to explain the feelings he had for Hutch. Love, to David Michael Starsky, had always meant what a man shared with a woman—life, a home, and children. With Hutch he shared all the ups and downs of being a cop, of being “me and thee,” a concept nobody else could ever understand. They were friends, brothers, soul mates, and he knew—even if he didn’t say it in words—he was very passionate about the commitment he had to Hutch.

Without bothering to analyze any further, Starsky leaned close to the man folded into the passenger seat of his car. His fingers found the sweaty crease of Hutch’s neck, his lips grazed the damp tendrils of blond hair over his temple.

Hutch woke suddenly, with a small, muffled sound of surprise. Before either of them could speak, Starsky leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. It was an abrupt meeting, full of rough need and anxiety, but it was brief, strange to both of them after more than a year of not touching that way.

Starsky wasn’t sure who ended it first. Hutch’s eyes were huge, his cheeks tinged with crimson, but he met his partner’s gaze steadily, a look of subdued pleasure on his face, as if he didn’t believe it was something he deserved. The broad mouth trembled as Hutch licked his lips self- consciously.

Starsky couldn’t find his voice at all.

He opened his car door, concerned he might have set Hutch’s recovery back by throwing something else out to confuse the issues for him. They were at the door, Starsky fumbling with the key, before either spoke again.

“What are we doing here?” Hutch wondered aloud after clearing his throat.

Starsky shrugged. “I wasn’t concentrating, I guess. Drove over here on instinct. You mind? I’d kinda like to check my mail and stuff anyway.”

“It’s fine.” He sat on the couch, quiet while Starsky puttered around. “God, I feel filthy,” he finally muttered.

Starsky turned to him. “Go grab a shower. There’s clean towels in there. I’ll make dinner.”

“You? Out of what?” Hutch mustered a smile.

“Scrambled eggs? I’m probably out of most everything else—I could run to the store if you…”

“Eggs sound fine.” The tall man levered himself off the couch. “Think I will borrow your shower.” He ambled toward the bathroom.

* * *

Closing the door behind him, Hutch lost no time shedding his clothes. He was sweaty, feeling as if all the dirt of the city had soaked into him in one afternoon. He turned on the shower and adjusted the spray to the hottest he could stand. Inside the stall, he leaned against the wall, letting the steaming water sluice over him.

Gradually, the heat began to soak the fatigue out of him, and he let his thoughts run over the events of the day. There had been too much to do during the rest of the shift after making those arrests to spend much time thinking. Hutch had been glad for that. The routine felt good. There had been moments, when he’d lain either sweating or soaring on the grimy bed at Forest’s, when he’d feared he’d have no life at all. He had it back now, and was grateful.

Yes, I can function. And I didn’t go in there and make a buy. So why don’t I feel like it’s all over now?

The emptiness that had gnawed at him for the last three days was still there, still exerting its ability to make him doubt himself, to make him fear his own heart and mind. Hutch knew he was never again going to be the same. The experience had taken the wind out of the sails of the self-assured man he used to be, leaving room for all the insecurities he’d worked for years to conquer to come back to him.

Never good enough… That’s what Mother used to say. If she was wrong, why does it still hurt so much?

Hutch had told Starsky about his mother’s alcoholism, but he had never been able to put into words the way it had affected him—even now, there were still things he was finding out.

If I could tell anyone, though, it would be Starsk…

He pressed his lips together, feeling again the burning touch of Starsky’s mouth. A memory surfaced; the first time he had ever touched his friend sexually…

I drove him to my place without thinking, and he ended up taking a bath.

The coincidence occupied his thoughts for a few moments. It was good, for that time, to be diverted from his other troubles.

The water was beginning to cool down. Quickly, Hutch rubbed himself with the soap, wanting it to obliterate the fear that had initiated the stinking sweat that he felt sill covered him. He ran his fingers over the tracks on his arm, noting that they looked as fresh as the junkie he’d arrested.

I wanted to kill the pusher, but that boy… somehow, I couldn’t hurt him. I hated what I saw in him, but I couldn’t lash out. I understand him now. Many things might drive a man to contaminate his body with drugs and willpower had very little to do with kicking the habit.

Hutch was shivering as he finished. The now cold water felt like a slap in the face, like the hurt in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to feel warm and whole again. He turned off the taps and stepped out, rubbing a thick towel viciously over himself. Dry, he turned to pick up his clothes, but simply couldn’t bring himself to put the grubby things back on.

“Hey, Starsk,” he called, opening the door slightly, “you got a robe or something I can borrow?”

“Just a minute.” His partner’s voice came from the kitchen. Hutch listened to his footsteps moving through the apartment, the closet door opening and closing, the steps approaching the bathroom. The sounds were strangely comforting. “Here.” A hand pushed the blue robe through the partially opened door. “You feeling okay? You’ve been in there a long time.”

“Yeah. I guess I’m all right.” Hutch belted the robe, but hesitated before stepping out of the room to be with Starsky. His uncertainty was somewhat embarrassing. “I’ll be out in a sec, okay?”

“Don’t be too long.” He paused; Hutch thought he sounded slightly uncomfortable. “Those eggs won’t wait forever.”

Hutch felt uncomfortable, too, inexplicably shy all of a sudden. He went to the mirror, looking at the man he’d become, trying to see what Starsky had seen out in the car that had made him want to kiss him. The touch of lips had been a shock, coming right out of the blue. Hutch didn’t even consider the sexual connotations of the kiss. The intimacy came at a time when he needed it desperately, but didn’t know if he was capable of accepting it.

I need something, Starsk. But I don’t know what it is.

The shower had done little to repair his disheveled appearance. He picked up Starsky’s comb and ran it through his damp hair, then appropriated his friend’s mouthwash and used it, finally answering the urge to be totally clean. Refreshed if not replenished, he turned to face Starsky again.

“Hungry?” Starsky smiled at him as he came to the table.

“Yeah. Those eggs look more inviting that the ones this morning.”

Starsky chuckled. “That’s ’cause I cooked them this time.”

“Right,” Hutch observed dryly. He picked up his fork and tasted the scrambled concoction on his plate. It was good; Starsky had added some seasonings, a bit of onion and canned mushrooms. “You’ve been keeping your gourmet ability a secret from me.”

“Everybody’s got secrets.”

“Yeah.” The conversation sounded so normal, Hutch could almost believe nothing had disrupted their lives. “I want to thank you for this afternoon.”

“What?”

“You didn’t lecture me. You didn’t say a word about the… heroin.”

“You handled it fine, Hutch.” He looked up. “It hurt seeing it that way, though, didn’t it?”

Hutch sighed, anguish welling up in him. “Do you really trust me?”

“Do you trust yourself?”

He had to move, put some distance between himself and the tension being generated at the table. Striding toward the living room, he answered in a clipped tone. “I don’t know.”

Starsky followed him. “Hutch?”

“I don’t know!” He whirled, anger coming to the surface and quickly fought down again. “I’m sorry, Starsk… I don’t know why I’m yelling at you. It’s just… I don’t know anymore. I feel… empty, betrayed by myself. I still want it… even though I’d rather put a bullet in my head than a needle in my arm.” There was a pent-up war going on inside him. He didn’t know which he wanted to do first, smash something, scream his frustration, or cry tears of bitterness.

“You’re not gonna do either one.” The blue eyes looking at him were at their most intense.

Hutch swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “Sometimes… I’m not so sure.” He looked away as water filled his eyes. “Damn….”

“Hey.” Arms went around him at waist and shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re gonna make sure it comes out okay, babe. I’m no shrink, but I remember those lectures about victims we had at the Academy. You’ve been victimized—that means it’s natural that you believe part of what happened is your own fault. It’s gonna take a while for that feeling to go away.” Fingers stroked the tense muscles of his nape. “You’re still my partner. I know who you are, even if you’re a little confused about that right now. Let me do the trusting for now, hmm?”

Hutch blinked quickly, ashamed of his emotions. Every part of him wanted to let go, let Starsky take over. He felt the way he had after the shoot out in the alley that day—limp with relief, glad as never before to see his partner’s smiling, understanding face.

I thought it was going to be so easy. You’d helped me kick it and I was never going to feel that hunger again.

“It takes time, Hutch.” The words were whispered into his ear. “It doesn’t go away all at once.” The warm strength surrounding him shifted closer. “Stop being so hard on yourself. It was a big step you took today. That’s something to be proud of.”

“I almost…” It seemed important to make the admission, but Hutch couldn’t say it aloud.

“I know.” There was nothing accusatory in the simple words, only honest understanding. “Almost only counts in horseshoes.” Starsky looked at him. “Forgive yourself, partner.”

They stood that way for a long moment, Hutch aching, Starsky fiercely tender. Slowly, Hutch brought his arms up to surround the friend who held him.

“That’s it,” Starsky sighed, pulling Hutch’s head down to his shoulder. “I’m here.” Hutch felt the warmth of open lips caress his throat.

“Starsk?” He lifted his head to search his partner’s face. Then he was being kissed again, but this time Starsky was not abrupt or anxious, only fervent, his mouth silently affirming how much he cared. The emptiness and hurt inside caved in like a wall and Hutch found himself answering with everything in him.

Feels so good to be held, accepted…

Their knees seemed to go weak at the same moment. Holding tight to each other, they sank to the floor. Starsky unwrapped one arm to shove the coffee table out of the way. A candle on it fell off with a clatter. He ignored it, stroking down the front of the robe Hutch wore, tugging the belt open. At the hot caress of demanding fingers, Hutch reacted with a gasp.

Starsky stopped immediately. “Hutch? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… we decided a long time ago that we wouldn’t and here I am putting this kind of pressure on you now.” He looked away.

Hutch touched his cheek, turning him to meet his gaze. “Don’t be sorry. I think… I think I want to….”

“Maybe you—both of us—need to.”

“Yes.” The word slipped out helplessly. “Please…”

“Shhh.” A kiss, very gentle, was touched to his mouth. “You don’t have to say ‘please.’ Let me please you.”

Tender kisses rained down on his face then, while slim fingers combed through his hair. Hutch took hold of Starsky’ s head, bringing the ardent mouth down to his own. The tension inside him had found its focus; the kiss this time was a true sharing, mutually pleasurable.

Can it be this is what I’m hungering for…?

Their bodies wound together in heated intensity, rolling over. Starsky used to his strength to end up on top and Hutch loved the heavy warmth of him there. The knowing fingers tugged the robe aside, slipping down to caress his chest and stomach. Hutch felt his every nerve open up to accept the touches, his spirit filling up on the need being met, the hunger being fed.

He was deeply moved by the earnest kisses traveling down the length of him; they made him feel cared for and worthy again, as he hadn’t since his ordeal. Starsky intuitively knew how to take away the hurt and give him back that part of himself that had been lost; his touches were cherishing, restorative. He took his time, seducing Hutch, fingers and mouth possessive, directing the pleasure.

He lifted Hutch, pulling the robe off completely, mouthing his shoulder, down his bicep to the bend of his arm. Special kisses found the needle marks there, seeming to absolve his guilt about their presence. Hutch moaned, wanting to share with Starsky, needing to touch more of the friend that was giving him pleasure so unselfishly.

Shirt buttons came open quickly, and the leather belt was easily dispensed with. Hutch felt up the sinewy body moving over him, loving the contrast of tough muscle and sleek, hair-dusted skin. He wanted more, but Starsky was sliding downward, mouth tasting the plane of his belly, the crease of his thigh. Then warm hands took hold of his hardening cock and moist, open lips surrounded it eagerly.

Hutch couldn’t suppress either his gasp of pleasure or the excited arching of his hips. Starsky’s mouth and fingers were doing delightful things to him; the feelings went to his head so fast he could do nothing but lie back and take it, his head thrashing on the carpet, his fingers tangling tight in the dark curls.

“Ah, yes… do it, babe….” The phrases slipped out, whispers really.

Starsky answered, but not with words.

He’d never flown so high, so fast. The sweet soaring seemed to go on forever, the expert mouth never tiring. Hutch blinked sweat out of his eyes, looking down, watching his body being adored by the one person in all the world who knew both the best and worst about him and who would never turn away.

He had to give something back, something of himself, even though it wasn’t being asked of him. He was very close to finishing, but he wanted to share the climax, make it perfect for Starsky, too.

“Hey, partner, you gotta come along with me…” His fingers tugged at Starsky’s head. The man looked up, surprised at first, then as Hutch bore him onto his back, his reddened lips began to smile.

It was a glorious feeling to use his strength, to know his hands capable of giving pleasure. His lips tugged at one brown nipple and Starsky writhed, breath hissing in between clenched teeth. The belt had already been opened; Hutch concentrated now on getting the zipper down, the denim out of the way. Starsky helpfully kicked the jeans aside.

At last they rolled together, skin sliding over skin, hands stroking and squeezing. Starsky was panting, hot and needful. Hutch let him continue taking charge. Trusting Starsky, he was seeing that he could also trust in himself, in his motives and his feelings.

“That’s it,” Starsky murmured from above him, his breath in Hutch’s ear causing chills. “Just listen to me. Gonna take it easy.” He reached down, bringing his own stiff erection against Hutch’s. “Feel good?”

Hutch nodded, incapable of speech, a shock wave reverberating all through his body. He knew it felt good to Starsky, too, when he heard his rough groan of satisfaction.

They were generating heat, sparking a fire. They moved together, creating a dance, their own intoxicating music.

This is what it feels like to be a man…

The fragment of thought burned through Hutch, and he held Starsky even tighter. The sweat between their bellies added lubrication, letting their bodies rub more freely, cocks pressing, pumping.

Hutch looked up at the beautiful, masculine face he treasured above all others and felt the blue gaze dive straight through to his soul. He bent his mouth to Hutch’s, the deepening kiss their final pledge of intimacy. That feeling of emotion tied inextricably to touch was the one that plunged the two of them into climax.

It seemed like a storm full of thunder and lightning was just ended, the silence fell so profoundly. Hutch found himself wrapped around a heavy, languorous body, his head pillowed on the broad chest.

How do you do it? You don’t sit around and worry and analyze. You get out there and take hold of a problem. You sure took hold of me.

A hand slid under and up through his hair, raising goosebumps down his back. His lips lingered over Starsky’s damp collar bone, moved up to his chin, took tender possession of the perfect mouth. Exhausted, they parted with a shared sigh.

“You okay?” A careful whisper.

“Shhh,” Hutch breathed. “My turn to ask you.”

That earned him an expansive smile. Starsky stretched like a satisfied cat. “Mmmm. I’m o-kay. ”

“Me, too, then,” he said with feeling, marveling at the way the hunger inside him had been eased by the comfort, acceptance and reassurance Starsky had provided. He realized what had always been true, that the physical craving for the drug wasn’t going to fool his psychic recovery.

“I think the worst is over.” His partner was slightly smug.

Hutch didn’t mind. “Yeah, I could get hooked on you. You’re a regular walking methadone program.”

“Now I know you’re gonna be okay—if you can make a crack like that.”

“I’m tryin’, buddy. Believe me.” If it gets too rough to handle alone again, I know I’ve got you…

His answer was a bone-cracking hug. “Get offa me, then, ya big, overgrown boy scout.” Starsky rolled him over and hoisted himself off the floor, restoring the normal order of things with his bluster.

Hutch took one more look at the amply curved derriere before it disappeared under the quickly pulled on jeans. When Starsky tossed him the robe, he slipped it on.

Putting on their clothes again did not detract from the sense of intimacy the lovemaking had created. What they had together was something quite apart from the kind of relationships other friends or partners shared.

Hutch found himself wondering how much of his recovery had been made easier by the fact that he and Starsky had been lovers. Even before tonight, there had been that added closeness, that sense of being a part of one another. There had been no pretenses between them, no illusions shattered by the agonies suffered through Hutch’s withdrawal. Despite all he had gone through, Hutch counted himself a lucky man.

Starsky finished dressing, meeting his gaze curiously.

“You’re like nobody else, you know that?” Hutch told him fondly.

The tone of his voice made Starsky step closer. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were full of caring. When he reached out his hand, Hutch took it tight in his own.

finis