Layers

354

Some things are hard to hide.

 

First published in the 2018 SHareCon zine.

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The sounds coming from the kitchen promised breakfast. A real breakfast is what Hutch would say, Starsky thought. Since he’d been released from the hospital, Hutch had been cooking him three real meals a day. Hutch was a great cook, and even if those real meals didn’t include pancakes and onion rings, they did include frittatas and roast chicken.

Starsky dropped his head down under the beating spray, enjoying the feel of the hot water on his back and shoulders as he wondered how something could feel so old and familiar, and new and exciting at the same time. Hutch puttering around in his kitchen, home, and life was certainly not new. He’d done all those things for years as if he owned them all. It was just the way they had always been with each other. Now was no different, and yet it was all different.

He carefully reached an arm up to run a hand through his wet curls, helping the shampoo rinse away. Turning around to rinse his front one more time, he thought he needed to add that to the growing list of things he swore he’d never take for granted again. Not even something as simple as a shower. Not when that, and more other things than he could count, had been denied him during his long hospital stay. In his first post-surgical, post-coma, post-having-died week, he was too out of it to notice or care that he was receiving daily sponge baths by faceless nurses. The second week brought more surgery and more sponge baths. The third week, when every waking minute was either filled with pain or pain medication, brought a shower chair and a nurse helping him no matter how much he protested. Until Hutch walked in one morning when he was supposed to be at work. His partner took one look at the situation and talked them into letting him be the one to help Starsky in the shower every morning.

Things got a lot better right around then.

Starsky turned off the shower and grabbed a towel, knowing as he’d always known, that everything they could do together was better than anything they did alone. That didn’t mean it wasn’t damn fine to be able to take a shower on his own again.

“Starsk,” Hutch shouted through the partially closed bathroom door.

“Yeah?”

“Are you out of the shower?”

“Do you hear water running?”

“No,” Hutch answered, still speaking loudly.

“Then I’m out of the shower.” Starsky knotted a towel around his hips and draped a second one around his neck to catch the droplets from his dripping curls. He opened the door wide to face his grinning partner.

“I thought I was the sarcastic half of this duo?” Hutch said in a normal tone of voice followed by a grin that Starsky decided was positively beaming. He had a beaming partner.

“No worries, your title is intact because I was just stating the obvious, and the obvious is not at all sarcastic.”

“You might have turned the water off and then decided to drip dry while still standing in the shower.”

“This is a dumb conversation, Hutch. Are you bored or something?”

“Bored? I’ve been slaving away while you’ve been in here so I hope you’re hungry,” Hutch said. “I made a casserole.”

Starsky shook his head and sighed. A man did have his dietary limits. “Hutch, it’s not even seven-thirty in the morning. Could we have the casserole for lunch, and maybe have some Fruit Loops for breakfast?”

“This from the man who used to eat cold pizza for breakfast at least two mornings a week?” Hutch sounded a little indignant. “And the other mornings you ate whatever you hadn’t finished eating the night before!”

“I ate plenty of Fruit Loops.”

Hutch moved in a little closer. “You are a Fruit Loop.”

“I was going to kiss you good morning, but if you’re gonna call me names….”

“Then I’ll be the one to kiss you, because you know that’s the best way to start our mornings,” Hutch said, completely eliminating any space between them, “and I’m never gonna stop calling you names.”

Since the shooting, Starsky had been asked a few times if his life had flashed before his eyes while it was happening. He’d always answered truthfully: the only thing that had flashed before his eyes before the bullets slammed into his body was a blur of blue uniform. But in this microsecond of waiting for Hutch’s lips to capture his own, he was flooded with memories of how often he had imagined Hutch kissing him over the years of their partnership. Sometimes, the fantasies ended with just a sweet kiss, and sometimes they ended with much more, but they were always, always imagined fantasies. Nothing he ever put a name to. Nothing he ever thought he could have. And nothing like the real thing. The full, soft lips that caressed and enticed. The bristly mustache that Hutch used to every advantage to tantalize. The slippery tongue that urged his mouth open wider and wider, as if Hutch was going to swallow him whole.

Hutch knew how to kiss him right.

Starsky let Hutch continue to lead until he felt a familiar quiver in his thighs, and his own need to possess this man took over. He shifted slightly so that his tongue could plunge the interior of Hutch’s sweet mouth, not enough to take them back to bed, but enough so that Hutch knew he was right where he was meant to be.

Their mouths separated at the same time. “Okay, okay, I’ll eat casserole,” Starsky said, giving Hutch’s ass a squeeze before they released each other. “Please tell me it isn’t tuna casserole, though? I mean, tuna shouldn’t be eaten before noon, Hutch.”

Hutch’s eyes were soft and glittery, just from kissing Starsky. Starsky was alive and in love with someone ridiculously in love with him. It never ceased to amaze him.

“It’s a breakfast casserole, Starsk. Eggs and cheese and potatoes. It looks really gooey, so I think you’ll like it.”

“That sounds pretty good,” Starsky said, the description starting a little appetite surge. “Go get it on the table and let me finish up in here and get dressed.”

“Don’t do anything on my account.” Hutch’s eyes were roaming over his nearly naked body. “I’m good with you wearing a towel to breakfast, or nothing at all if you’d be more comfortable.”

“Well, I would, but I’d hate to make you feel overdressed, seein’ as how you’ve got on your fancy BCPD sweats. ‘Course, your socks don’t match.”

“They don’t?” Hutch leaned over to peer at his feet. “They were folded up together.”

“One’s white and one used to be white. Doesn’t count as a match.”

“Good thing I have you around for fashion advice.” Hutch leaned against the counter and grinned at him some more. “What else do you have to do in here? I turned the heat off the oven, but should I leave the casserole in there to stay warm for a while?”

“I have to shave and cream my puckered parts.”

“That sounds dirty and I’ll definitely stay to help.”

Starsky laughed and grabbed the large jar of medicinal cream sitting on the counter. He handed it to Hutch. “Here, you know where everything is puckered better than I do, but stay above the towel, partner.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No, you don’t, but you really have me in the mood for breakfast now.”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

The snort Starsky let loose could not be stopped. “I always told you your sense of humor would show up one day.”

“Just turn around, smartass, or I’ll be calling you bare ass.”

Starsky did as he was told, turning his back to Hutch and facing the mirror so he could shave. “How’re they looking today?”

“Good,” Hutch answered. “Like I told you yesterday, and the day before that-”

“And the day before that,” Starsky said, lathering his face with shaving gel. “You forgot the part about how there’s real improvement.”

“There is real improvement, Starsk.” Hutch’s gentle fingers massaged the cream into each of Starsky’s scars. “I’m not even comparing them to what they were like…in May. I mean real improvement from two weeks ago.”

Starsky quietly shaved one side of his face and his chin while he gathered his thoughts. It was true, they had basically the same conversation every morning. And every morning he fought back the frustration and tried to concentrate on his partner’s optimism and easy acceptance of the reminders marking his body. If he would only… Starsky forced his mind to the task at hand and quickly finished shaving. “Guess I should be more grateful that you don’t find them repulsive, huh? I mean, you’re the only person who’ll ever see me with my shirt off again, so I really shouldn’t give a shit that I’m scarred up.”

Hutch didn’t respond to that, but he did stroke Starsky’s back. “If you’re done shaving turn around and I’ll do your front.”

“They’re worse in the front you know, especially right after the shower when they’re redder. Like look at this one here-”

“Shut up, Starsk,” Hutch interrupted, and then placed his lips on the spot Starsky had pointed to. “There’s nothing repulsive about you. You’re more beautiful to me now than on the day we met, and I thought you were the best-looking guy I’d ever seen that day.”

“Sure didn’t act like it.”

“If I had, you’d have bloodied my nose for me.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Definitely. But all I care about is how you feel today and if you believe me today.” Hutch gave him the full battery of his soulful blue eyes, something Starsky could never resist.

“I believe you, even if you are half-crazy.

“Then I’ll get your food.”

~*~*~

Hutch had put out a bowl of sliced fruit and a stack of buttered toast along with the casserole, and Starsky gave him an appreciate wink as he pulled out a chair for himself. “Looks like I timed it just right, you have everything waiting for me and I don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Your timing has always been better than mine,” Hutch said, carrying two cups of coffee to the table and then serving them both helpings of the casserole and fruit. “Dancefloors, shooting ranges, knowing when to make a move….”

“Ha! I couldn’t take a chance on waiting for you to make your move. Too scared you were going to bolt once I’d figured out that you’d figured it out.” Starsky smiled at his partner, knowing his heart. “But like I’ve told you a million times, it was all over your face that night. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.”

“I think you kissed it,” Hutch said.

“Yep, started with your lips.”

“And I kissed you back, harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone before, and the next thing I knew we were both naked.”

“And then I kissed the rest of you,” Starsky said. “Lingered in a few spots, too.”

“And all the games, all the lies, all the pretending was all over.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch before he helped himself to a slice of toast and took a healthy bite. Hutch’s happiness was completely his responsibility now. Not that he hadn’t taken on a lot of that responsibility in all the years before they’d become lovers. Both in the name of partnership and in the name of love, but their relationship had evolved and he wanted to be careful. “The games and lies with each other, I mean the shit we were shoveling that last twelve months, yeah, that was over. The pretending with everyone else was just gettin’ started.”

Hutch looked him straight in the eye and that stubborn expression that Starsky knew so well was blazing. “I don’t care. I’ll pretend to Dobey, to the chief, to the mayor, to the governor of California-”

“I don’t think the governor is paying attention to us, Hutch.”

“I’ll pretend to anyone or anything, if it means I can have you and you can have the job.”

That startled Starsky. “You want the job, too, right? I mean, if there was something else we could do together would you want-”

“I want the job, Starsk, now more than ever. It’s going to take months, maybe even years, to find every rat who was ever part of Gunther’s organization, and I plan on both of us being in the thick of every detail.” Hutch’s tone was low and dangerous. “I plan on you being the one to put the handcuffs on the very last rat we nail.”

“Eat, Hutch, your eggs are getting cold.” Starsky took a few bites of food and watched Hutch spear a strawberry. “We don’t know how long it’s gonna take for me to get cleared for street duty. The therapist says-”

Hutch jumped on that quickly, “That you’re doing incredibly and working harder than anyone he’s ever seen.”

“You’re exaggerating what he said, Hutch. What he said was that I was making good progress.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“That’s not what you wanted to hear.” Starsky held up a hand to forestall Hutch’s argument. “I’m making good progress. We can both agree on that, but even if I was breaking some kind of PT record, we still don’t have a date on when I can get off desk duty.”

Hutch pushed his plate aside and took a sip of coffee. “We’re getting back, both of us, because it has to be us who finishes Gunther. That sonofabitch put you behind a desk. He’s responsible for costing you more physical pain than I can stomach remembering, and not just when you were in the hospital. You still have it every time you work in therapy and every time you reach too high for something. Every time.”

“I’m gettin’ better, Hutch,” Starsky said gently. As good as things were between them, they’d just had four days as lovers before the shooting. The only thing they had figured out was that they were in love with each other. They’d gone from the highest of highs to almost permanent separation in under a week. In a lot of ways, they were both still reeling. Hutch, who poured his optimism out on Starsky as fully as he poured his love and passion, could bottom out without warning and become angry and depressed when he thought too much about what they’d almost lost. “And I want you to get better, too.”

“Me? I’m great! All those exercises I’ve been doing with you at home for the past ten weeks  have even toned me up some in case you haven’t noticed,” Hutch said. “In fact, I’m going to have more fruit right now.”

“More fruit? You’ve eaten one strawberry and you know your prime physical condition was not what I was referring to.”

“You want my brains to get better, ’cause they’re pretty damn good as is.”

Starsky gave the lame joke the attention it deserved and moved to the point. “Your emotional health is a little shaky.”

Hutch got up from the table and went to the sink where he started to run the faucet. “I’m happy, Starsk,” he said barely above a whisper. “God, you have to know how happy I am.”

“I do,” Starsky said, leaving the table to join Hutch. “I do know, but every time we talk about Gunther you get so furious. How’re we going to work the case professionally if you can’t keep your emotions under control?”

Hutch turned the water off without adding soap to the sink. “Don’t you think I have a right to be angry? He almost put you in the ground.”

“Of course, you’ve got the right, always, but if you react with…I don’t know…if you can’t even say his name without the rage, let alone us having a conversation about him…don’t you think he’s still screwing us even from jail, then?”

“Jesus, you’re not going to ask me to take the high road or some shit like that, are you?”

“Maybe not the high one,” Starsky put his arms loosely around Hutch’s waist, “but could we shoot for the middle road?”

“Are you shooting for being my lover, my fashion counselor, and my shrink, Starsk?”

“Who better than me?”

Hutch sighed and then gave Starsky a small smile. “No one. That much I’m clear on. Okay, Dr. Starsky, I’ll shoot for the middle road and practice saying the motherfucker’s name in the mirror twenty times a day until I can do it rage-free.”

“That sounds like a good start.”

“Done,” Hutch said, “you’ve got it. Now that we’ve arranged my therapy plan how about figuring out what we’re doing today. We don’t have work and you don’t have PT. We could go to the movies later, or maybe grab some books and a blanket and read at the beach?”

“Well,” Starsky said, his arms still around Hutch. “I wasn’t quite done with your therapy session, Mr. Hutchinson.”

“Oh, geez, I cooked you breakfast and you torture me. Okay, what’s the next topic: why do I take so long brushing my teeth?”

“You do? I never noticed that but I’ll time you tonight.”

Hutch pulled out of Starsky’s hold and grabbed a sponge. “Just tell me, what’s the next issue?”

“My scars.”

“There’s nothing about them that bother me, Starsk, and I keep telling you that.”

“That’s kind of the problem, Hutch. Your telling me how you think they’re no big deal, healing miraculously, blah, blah, just makes me feel guilty about how much I hate being scarred up like this. Like if you say they’re nothing, I should just shut up and be grateful to be alive.”

“So, this is really your issue, because I know it’s not mine. And if you want to really talk about how you feel having the scars now, I’m here for you. I’m sorry if I was shutting you down, but you just can’t fucking know how much it means to me that you’re alive.” Hutch shut his eyes for a moment and Starsky could see the deep breaths he was taking. “I just think the scars are a really small price to pay.”

“Maybe,” Starsky said. “But, Hutch, I’m the one payin’ the price. I’m happy to pay it, because I’m pretty fucking happy to be alive, too, but the damn things still cost me.”

“Okay, maybe I don’t really understand, but if we keep talking about-”

Starsky took a step until he was facing Hutch, and with his left hand he swept Hutch’s long hair off his neck and nuzzled the tender flesh beneath. “Are you sure you don’t really understand how I feel, Hutch?” Starsky asked in a whisper, and then continued to nuzzle even when he felt Hutch stiffen. “Are you sure you don’t remember exactly what I’m feeling and what kicked off the year before Gunther?”

Hutch pulled away again. “That’s different. That was…different, and it was just…different.”

“How was, and more importantly, is, it different? Do you remember that morning?”

“I remember,” Hutch answered. “It happened in April, during the week we were having those weird late rains.” Hutch said no more, and Starsky joined him in remembering.

~*~*~

There was no such thing as a typical morning in their jobs. Nor did Starsky have any reason to think that this morning was going to be particularly awful. Difficult, yes, but they did difficult in their sleep. There was no sense of doom.

They had just arrived at a side street in their district, one that fed into a larger web of back allies. Two teenagers and one middle-aged homeless man had been found in this area in the last thirty-six hours. Two dead, the third close to it, and all ODs. The partners intended to do some foot canvassing after they observed the area and see if they were dealing with new product on the street or a new dealer. Or both.

“Did the captain tell you how long he wants us to sit and watch while I was in Records?” Hutch asked, his gaze scanning his side of the street.

“Same as always…” Starsky started with Hutch immediately chiming in so they spoke in one voice. “As long as it takes.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hutch said with a grin. “One of these times, though, the answer is going to be ‘two hours and then go to lunch’. One of these times real soon.”

“You know, it messes with my concentration when you say sunshiny things like that.”

“How come?” Hutch asked.

“Out of character. Optimism doesn’t suit you.”

Starsky was about to reach for the binoculars when Hutch opened the passenger door. “Whadda you see?”

“Block, block and a half down, south, three of them and one’s in trouble.”

Starsky nodded, although he hadn’t seen anything yet. They burst out of the car at the same time and started running. It had been raining that morning and the concrete was still wet and slippery, and their footsteps were hard and loud against it.

They both slowed to a stop as they approached the threesome. All three appeared to be in their late teens at most. One was on his feet and had red hair and a switchblade. One was on the ground, as thin as a rail and semi-conscious, and the other one was hunched over him and definitely holding something obscured. This was the one that made Starsky’s nerves twinge. He was huge, and in his hunched over position could easily spring on them. Plus, the blood on the ground made it clear that this was already a violent crime. Starsky glanced at Hutch who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. They were about to move into their positions when a nervous, high-pitched shout came from the redhead. “Get out’a here! Get out’a here or we’ll cut ya, man! Get out’a here!”

“Shit,” Starsky whispered so only Hutch could here. “Higher than a kite and armed with my least favorite weapon.”

“Yeah, and the injured one isn’t moving,” Hutch whispered back.

“I’ll take the one with the blade, you start tryin’ to talk to the one on the ground, okay?” Starsky slowly drew his gun out.

“Okay,” Hutch agreed and took a few steps closer to the trio, holding his hands out in front of him. “We’re police officers,” he said gently. “That man is injured. No matter what just happened here we can help you all, but you need to place your weapons on the ground. Then we’ll call an ambulance for your friend and sort this out.”

“Cops!” The redhead yelled. “Fuckin’ cops!” Then he bolted, a loose run, arms flying, switch blade still clutched in one hand.

“Go!” Hutch said to Starsky while drawing out his gun. “I’ve got these two.”

Starsky nodded, quickly jammed his weapon in his waistband, and took off after the runner who was gaining speed. He chased him two blocks at a full-on sprint, when the teen abruptly stopped and then flopped to the ground like a rag doll. Starsky pulled his gun back out and approached him cautiously, unsure if this was an attempted fake out. As he reached the boy he could see it was real, though, the kid was unconscious and the switch blade was now lying next to his open hand. Starsky scooped it up and placed two fingers against the teen’s carotid artery. Faint, but there, he was still alive but barely. He had to get back to Hutch and then get to the car to call this in and get ambulances and back up on the way.

He ran back as fast as he could. Hypes made him nervous and whatever drug they were dealing with was a bad one. One last burst of his legs and he was back with Hutch and the other two, and immediately his stomach roiled miserably. “Whose blood is all the fuck over you, Hutch? Is that your blood?”

Hutch was sitting next to the two teens, now handcuffed together, and Starsky noted that his gun was shaking slightly but was covering the pair. The bottom half of his face was dripping blood and so was his neck. “What happened!”

“It was a fake out,” Hutch said thickly. “Both had blades. It turns out we stumbled into a buy going very badly.” He coughed and rubbed his left hand over his nose and chin, smearing blood everywhere. “Our ‘injured’ felon got a few swipes in before I was able to subdue everyone.”

Starsky grabbed his handkerchief and knelt next to Hutch. “You’re bleeding like crazy,” he said, trying to gently swab away enough of the blood so he could see where it was coming from. “I’ve gotta try and get it stopped so I can call this mess in and get you to a doctor.” He pressed a little harder, and Hutch pulled away.

“Ouch! Not in front of our guests, okay?” Hutch said.  “And what happened to your guy?”

“Passed out cold two blocks from here.”

“You sure?”

“Barely a pulse. Stop wriggling and let me see how bad you’re cut.” Starsky tried again to grab Hutch’s face without jostling his gun or his own. Hutch kept wriggling.

“I don’t think it’s that bad. Just give me the hanky and go call it in.”

Starsky sighed. “I hate it when you tell me something’s not that bad. You know I hate that!”

“Yeah, I know,” Hutch said, taking the hanky from his hand. “Just go call.”

Starsky started running and was halfway to the car before it dawned on him that he should have stayed with the prisoners and sent Hutch back to the car to call this giant fuckup in. Hutch was injured and shaky and the users were violent and unpredictable. “Shit,” he said out loud to the empty street, now worried in a different way for Hutch. There was no more time to waste on thoughts, though, so he just ran faster to the Torino and to help.

~*~*~

“Do you remember laying on that gurney in the hallway at the hospital for hours?” Starsky asked, watching Hutch carefully as he washed their breakfast dishes. “I was ready to pull my gun on someone if they had taken another minute to find a doctor for you.”

“They were swamped that day,” Hutch said quietly. “Other ODs plus the one we brought in who had conveniently collapsed on you, and the huge guy had to go to the hospital, too, since he had the gut wound.”

“Right,” Starsky said. “We sure read that scene wrong when we first approached them. It was the skinny one on the ground who was the most dangerous of all, and the only one we were able to put in jail that day.”

“Yeah.” Hutch’s tone sounded resigned. “Bad day for us on the street and in the hospital. I remember the nurse said there were three heart attacks…just a bad day in the ER.”

“I held your hand,” Starsky said. “I remember the smell of blood. The nurse had cleaned you up some and put those bandages on, but there was still blood everywhere. Your shirt collar was soaked, your hands, my hands. Every time I took a breath I thought I was breathing in your blood.”

“Yeah, I was a mess,” Hutch said with finality and put the sponge down. “So, what do you think, beach or movies? I think that Sci-Fi one you wanted to see is still playing, or we could see the comedy everyone’s talking about with whatshisname in it.”

“By the time an actual doctor saw you he didn’t want to put the stitches in himself, ’cause it was your face and all, and he thought you needed a plastic surgeon to do it,” Starsky continued determinedly.

“If we go to the beach, we can take the fruit from breakfast and some chips and beer. Kind of a picnic, and you could finish your book.”

“Do you remember the plastic surgeon?”

“Yes, Starsk, I fucking remember the plastic surgeon! Just where are you going with all this remembering?”

“It was another hour before the ER doc found the on-call plastic surgeon-”

Hutch moved to the couch and sat down, clasping his knees. His eyes were soft and sad. “By the time he was able to fit me in his schedule he said it was too late for him to be able to do much good, we’d waited too long, the tissues had… it was too late, like we’d been sitting there playing poker. You’d been yelling at anyone in a white coat to stop and take care of me. You tried, but the tissues-”

“It was too late to prevent a scar, especially the way it was positioned between your nose and upper lip. Tender skin there,” Starsky said. “You were going to have a permanent scar on your face. On your permanently beautiful face.”

“Yeah, well, the junkie could have taken out my eye, so I got off light, right?”

“I think so. He could have slit your throat instead of slashing the back of it. I could have found you bleeding out on the pavement, so, yeah, we got off light because the thought of you being dead puts me in the fetal position, but there’s still scars.”

“Hey, I dealt with them,” Hutch said. “I dealt with mine just like you’re dealing with yours.”

“You think so?” Starsky asked. “Because I remember you not wanting to talk about them at all back then. Kind of like you don’t wanna talk about them now except I’m making you.”

“You’re not making me do anything, Starsky!” Hutch’s eyes were no longer soft, they were now flashing electric blue. “I was fine talking about them then or now. It just wasn’t one of the best topics of conversation, but by all means let’s examine it further.”

“Thanks, I’d like to,” Starsky said and joined Hutch on the couch. He picked up Hutch’s right hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing it softly. “You stayed home from work for two days, then came in with the big bandage wrapped around your throat and the small one over your mouth. I was so proud of you, ’cause I knew you were still shook up-hell, you’d lost a lot of blood-but there you were ready for duty.”

“I don’t like you on the street without me.”

“I know, but I also think you’d made up your mind to ignore what happened and just plow through like you weren’t wearing bandages. I had to go around the squad and tell people to stop asking you how you were after that poor dumb rookie made the mistake of asking you how long you’d have to be bandaged.”

“Well, shit, Starsk, he asked like I had come to work wearing an Invisible Man costume! It was just a few bandages and I didn’t want him drawing-”

“-attention to them,” Starsky finished. “It was right around then that you stopped shaving.”

“You can’t shave with a bandage on!”

“The bandage was only over your lip, you could have still shaved your cheeks and chin, but instead you grew a beard.”

“That pissed Dobey off.”

Starsky laughed. “Yeah, well, you also let your hair get longer, remember? Dobey said you looked like you needed to resign from the Bay City police department and go to work for the Berkeley City police department with all the hippies.”

“He thought he was insulting me,” Hutch said.

“What does he know? He still thinks hippies are communists. You looked real cute with the beard. Even when it got scruffy.”

Hutch squeezed Starsky’s hand and Starsky could feel him untense a tiny bit. “I didn’t have it too long, just a few weeks.”

“True, but when you lost the beard you kept the mustache.”

“Which hides my scar,” Hutch said resignedly. “And keeps me from frightening small children.”

“You couldn’t frighten small children if you were wearing a Frankenstein mask. I told you, your face is permanently beautiful, scar or no scar.”

“You haven’t seen it without the mustache in over a year. You haven’t seen the scar.  You might think I was butt-ugly now.”

“Not a chance, but even if you were I would love you just the same. I’d want you just the same.” Starsky caressed Hutch’s crotch lightly. “You’re the only person who will ever be in my bed or my life for the rest of time.”

“That sounds familiar,” Hutch said, widening his legs for Starsky’s petting.

“I thought you’d recognize your own words when I threw them back in your face. I mean them the same as you always do.”

Hutch pulled Starsky onto his lap and kissed him deeply, lovingly, permanently. When he was done he looked at Starsky hard. “Bottom line this for me, okay? Do you want me to be brave and shave off the mustache? Face the world head on, scar first?”

“Hell, no, I love your mustache. You have no idea how good it feels when you’re giving me head.”

“It’s not a sex toy, Starsk.”

“It is when I want it to be.”

Hutch shook his head. “So, you want me to keep it for your physical pleasure?”

“I want you to keep it because it looks great on you and because it feels great on me, so I win twice, but I mostly want you to know it’s a mustache and not a disguise. If you ever decide to shave it you’ll still be Hutch. Beautiful Hutch.”

“And if you ever decide to let someone besides me see you with your shirt off again-like say the locker room at work, the beach, the gym-any of the places that are part of our regular lives, you’ll still be Starsky. Beautiful Starsky,” Hutch said, and he was beaming again.

“So, are we agreed that scars matter. They do change us and need to be respected and not ignored?” Starsky asked. “And that you’ll let me be pissed about mine once in a while? And at the same time will you know, really know, that I don’t care about yours?”

“Is that what this was really all about, Starsk?”

Starsky thought about that while Hutch looked at him like he was about to reveal the secrets of the universe. He thought about the other things, other scars, that had happened to both of them in that last terrible, wonderful, kaleidoscope of a year they had shared between Hutch growing the mustache and Gunther almost murdering him. He thought about how far they had drifted from each other when all either wanted was to hold on tight. He thought about that look of adoration and hopeless desire in Hutch’s eyes that night, four days before he almost died, when he’d finally figured it out. And finally, he thought about how lucky they were. They had what others could only dream about. He thought about all those things and answered Hutch to the best of his ability.

“Yes,” Starsky said simply. “Now let’s get ready for the beach.”

The End