Morning Glow

Alternate ending for The Set-up to tie up some of the loose ends.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2010 zine.

Morning glow, morning glow,
Starts to glimmer when you know.
Winds of change are set to blow,
And sweep this whole land through
Morning glow is long past due.
Stephan Schwartz, Pippin

The moon looked like a flat silver dollar in the black sky, surrounded by more stars than Hutch had seen since he backpacked into the wilderness of Minnesota when he was twelve.

But this wasn’t Minnesota, and it wasn’t a pleasure trip. Against the moonlit sky, the low rolling desert hills covered with scrub and chaparral were indistinct smudges of soot. Glad someone else was driving them through the desert, Hutch wearily leaned his head back against the seat of the car, feeling the rotation of the tires on the uneven pavement through every aching muscle. The distance between Death Valley and Bay City seemed to stretch out like a rubber band. It was taking much longer to get out than it had to come in. Flying over to the Castle in the open plane had been a harrowing journey, but at least they’d all been excited, anticipating the resolution of Terry’s dilemma.

Now, with the whole rescue mission behind him, Hutch was desolate. What had they accomplished? Nothing was resolved, nothing proven. Terry Nash would still go on trial for the murder of Durniak. Starsky’s attempts at justification, that there couldn’t be a trial since there was no ‘real’ Terry Nash, notwithstanding, the man they knew as Terry had physically pulled the trigger. All he could hope for was a plea of insanity, which would leave him in some place like Cabrillo State for decades, his life destroyed in the process.

For what?

Who was he? Who were any of the people they’d found in the Castle? What about George? Who was he?

Dobey had gotten the Fed’s medical examiner to confirm that there had been two bodies in the helicopter that Terry shot down, but since they had no clue who George really was, Terry’s ID was nebulous. Surely George was not the mastermind behind the plot. So then, who was? Who had the kind of power, the authority, money and influence to pay off people like the manager and all the employees of the Century Park West Bank, as well as the security guard at the apartment complex and a fake FBI agent? Who had hatched such a Machiavellian plot?

How exactly had the shadowy organization selected their victims? Did the brainwashing process work on specific types, or was the potential there to alter anyone’s psyche beyond recognition? Hutch shuddered, imagining his own mind wiped clean. This was the kind of murky conspiracy stuff Starsky usually liked to indulge in, although Hutch suspected that actually seeing the heartbreaking results would change Starsky’s tune. No out-there theories on Kennedy’s assassination or who actually murdered Martin Luther King here.

Terry-Nash-who-had-no-fingerprints, and therefore, no real identity, was the murderer. Deborah of the blank-eyed stare could have been the next unwitting killer on the docket. Was it possible that this evil organization had been behind countless other unsolved deaths?

Unraveling this Gordian knot would take years, countless reams of paperwork and research. So many innocent people swept up in the maelstrom. Hutch sighed, his spirits at an all time low. How badly had the whole thing tarred his and Starsky’s careers? They had a Federal murder warrant hanging over their heads, not to mention charges of conspiracy, theft, kidnapping, and assault. There were probably a few he’d left out–no matter that they were only culpable in a few of them.

Yes, they’d kidnapped Thistleman. Hutch winced in memory. And attacked the Castle with automatic weapons, shooting down half a dozen guards. Would their actions be justifiable under the auspices of a sanctified investigation? Or were they completely screwed?

Dobey would back them to the wall, but Hutch could easily foresee days of sitting through rigorous interrogations by Internal Affairs, Federal prosecutors, as well as the District Attorney and half a dozen other alphabet agencies. The FBI, Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, and maybe the Drug Enforcement Agency, just to name a few. The search of the Castle had turned up several dull-eyed postulants being brainwashed into programmed killers. They had found enough guns to arm a small country and stocks of strange drugs that the experienced medical examiner couldn’t identify. The DEA had come in to take the stuff away for analysis. Hutch was left with a weird flashback to that horrible day after Starsky was poisoned when they didn’t know what deadly secrets Jennings’ compound harbored. He grimaced, his belly rumbling.

They’d been at the Castle for over twenty-four hours, sweating out the beginnings of the investigation, all hope of any plausible explanation draining away as more and more evidence of an intricately woven, complex conspiracy surfaced. Like an iceberg, this was most definitely only the tip of what was to come.

He glanced over at Starsky. His partner was curled in the backseat of the car with his head lolling against the window, his mouth open in a gentle snore. He was filthy–they both were, and neither had eaten nearly enough in the last couple of days.

For a place devoted to programming unwilling participants into a whole new life, there had been far too little food in the Castle kitchen. And no one had been too eager to eat anything that may or may not have been doped up with the unidentifiable brainwashing drug. So, for the first six hours after the offensive, he, Terry, Starsky and the stunned Castle inhabitants had subsided on the meager rations the Black Baron brought with him. Hutch had gotten a single mouthful of the freeze dried tuna casserole with peas and mushrooms. Tasty, but not enough to go around. Merely something to put in the stomach to ward off the post-adrenaline shakes.

When the local police arrived in the first wave of the emergency vehicles, they’d taken one look at the situation and called in reinforcements. By the time Dobey had come up from Bay City, the FBI and all the other agencies had swarmed in, and not one of them had thought to bring a single morsel food.

Hutch almost chuckled, remembering Starsky’s consternation; his plaintive, “but I’m hungry!”

The locals trucked in sandwiches and coffee in the early hours of the next day–which was now 18 hours ago. His belly rumbled again. In the past, he’d managed to fast for two days, maybe even longer, and felt strong and clean afterward. He just felt dirty, discouraged and hungry now–ready for this thing to be over, and well aware that this was only at the beginning of the nightmare.

Agent Wilson and his FBI cohorts had carted Terry and the other unfortunates away, leaving Starsky and Hutch to wearily explain their own presence for the umpteenth time. Hutch had resented the disbelief on the investigators’ faces. Hell, he wouldn’t have believed himself, if the tables were turned.

Starsky had stormed out of the last session, luckily about the time that Dobey called a halt to the interrogations.

“You will find my men back in Bay City, available for questioning whenever you need to clarify a point,” he’d said sternly, his dark face stormy. “We all need to regroup, unwind and get something decent to eat!”

Hutch had never been so proud of his captain.

Ready to leave this hellhole and get back to Bay City, Hutch went looking for his partner. He had found Starsky sitting hunched on a stone wall, staring out at the desert dotted with black and whites, CHP cars, the sinister black sedans favored by the Feds, and various other emergency vehicles. The one conspicuous absence was the Black Baron’s plane. He must have flown out at some point during the chaos, disappearing into the ether.

“They blew up my car,” Starsky said tiredly.

Hutch rubbed Starsky’s back, feeling rock hard tension under his hand. “After everything we’ve gone through, that’s what you’re thinking about?”

“Hutch!” Starsky nearly shouted. He flinched at his own outburst and got up restlessly, pacing back and forth in the yard littered with rifle shells. “I don’t have a car! I loved that car.”

“I know.” Hutch nodded, watching him stomp around, wondering where he found the energy. He thought about going home, driving around with Starsky in the striped Tomato, and realized he’d miss that damned car, too. He had some money, money Starsky didn’t even know about. If there ever was a worthy cause, this was it. Even if his conservative father would never agree. “Maybe…?”

“I was sitting there,” Starsky said with an angry glint in his eye. “Remembering my car blasted to kingdom come, the candy apple red paint all blistered and the windows shattered. There ain’t no way to repair it. The electrical system’s caput.”

“You talked to Merle already?” Hutch asked. When had he had the time?

“Nah.” Starsky scratched his stubbly chin. “I worked in my uncle’s body shop long enough to know that much.” He sat down on the wall again, leaning against Hutch’s shoulder and playing with a tiny green seedling growing improbably in a crack between the stones. “You remember that Torino, looked just like mine, back in ’75? Spring, I think.”

“Everyone thought you’d been shot point blank through the windshield, but it turned out to be two kids smoking weed,” Hutch agreed. Where was this leading?

“The case finally settled,” Starsky said, still apparently intent on gently tugging the tender greenery free of its mooring. “After more’n a year of extensions and whatnot.”

“You’ve been following that trial? Why?”

Starsky held up the weed, roots and all. “‘Cause of the car!” he said, as if that explained everything.

And maybe it did. Hutch sat up straighter, dislodging Starsky. “Where is that Torino now?” he asked.

Starsky winked with a crooked grin that didn’t quite alleviate his look of utter exhaustion. “You’re getting the picture. Been in impound all this time. I’ve looked in on it a coupla times. It wasn’t in bad shape the last time I checked. I bet I could work a deal with the department–they’re just going to sell it at auction in a month or two, anyway.” He brightened talking about his beloved baby. “The paint job’s a little dull and I’ll bet it needs new oil, shocks, that kinda thing, but Hutch! It’ll almost be exactly the same.”

“Do you need…” Hutch started, loving the joy in Starsky’s eyes. Wishing he had put it there. Wishing for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that seemed impossibly out of reach.

“I got money saved up,” Starsky said looking out across the scrubby dunes as if he could see the shiny red car sitting there on a pedestal. “I mean, nothin’ lasts forever, I knew I’d have to replace the Torino sooner or later.” He sighed, tossing the little weed out onto the dry earth. “Just not this soon.”

The memory fading away, Hutch slouched in the back of a dark FBI sedan, watching a green highway sign loom ever nearer. He couldn’t stop thinking about the smoking remains of the Torino in the medical center’s parking lot. The fate of the demolished car seemed to mimic to their own lives right now. Nothing left but the outlines of their former selves. Why hadn’t they suspected anything when the pretty young woman approached them with her plight of a dead battery? Were he and Starsky just too chivalrous for their own good? Were they supposed to assume everyone had ulterior motives? That the world was out to get them?

Sure felt like it right now. Was he even going to be allowed into his own home when they got back to Bay City, or did he have to spend the night in Federal lock-up? That was a scary thought. Police never did well shut in with other criminals. Hutch simply didn’t know who to trust anymore.

Except Starsky. Starsky was his touchstone when everything else seemed soiled and distorted. Starsky was constant–with his surprising optimism in the face of all odds, his love of the red and white rolling Coke can, and his steadfast loyalty. For a guy who’d lived through all that Starsky had, it was astonishing that he still held such a true belief in the goodness of his fellow man, a capacity Hutch wished he had more of. He gave to the needy, anguished over the drug addicted and impoverished, and mourned the murder victims, but for all his good works, he never seemed to quite fill the void inside. Except when he was with his partner. Starsky filled him up just by being there.

Hutch inhaled slowly and exhaled, opening his eyes as the car passed a dimly lit sign: Bay City 90 miles. They had gone just over half way. Another hour and a half to two hours before they even got to Metro–and then who knows how long until they could escape the ‘debriefing,’ in the parlance of the Feds. The basic amenities like a bed and food hovered like far off fantasies.

His belly rumbled again. Next to him, Starsky muttered in his sleep, his face crunched up against some dream terror.

“Starsk.” Hutch shook his ankle to get him to wake up. Starsky blinked, the whites of his eyes surprisingly bright in the dim interior of the car.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?” The first words from their driver–whom Starsky had dubbed their jailer–in nearly sixty miles. “I need a cup of coffee, and there’s a diner up ahead. You want anything?”

“I gotta take a leak, and I need food!” Starsky grumbled, sitting up and rubbing his flat belly.

“Big Ed’s Diner it is,” their driver said cheerfully. “One and a half miles ahead.”

Hutch stretched in the narrow confines of the back seat, working the kinks out of his back. “What time is it?”

Starsky peered at the illuminated dial on his watch. “Two forty-five in the a.m.” He tilted his wrist so Hutch could verify the hour. “Last time I was up this late…early, was that floater those fisherman pulled out of the bay.” He grimaced. “Gruesome. If I gotta be up in the middle of the night, I’d rather be watching some old Cagney movie.”

“I’d prefer just to sleep.” Hutch yawned, the memory of the bloated, water-logged body just one more nightmare image to jangle around in his brain.

“Hutch,” Starsky started and looked away from him, as if embarrassed by what he was about to say.

“What?” Hutch asked softly, still wrapped in the glow of his admiration for his partner.

No, admiration was the wrong word. Friendship didn’t even begin to explain their unique relationship. Love, then.

Love.

He gasped, stunned, accepting the truth.

True, romantic, real love.

Astonished by his personal revelations, Hutch didn’t even notice that Starsky had begun speaking. “W-what?” he stammered.

“You’re not even listening to me?” Starsky gave a snort that fell halfway between indignant and amused. “I repeat. Do you think what happened to Terry could happen to just anybody. Like me? Like you?”

Bizarre how closely his morbid thoughts had paralleled Starsky’s. “I’d like to think that wasn’t possible,” Hutch said slowly, jolting in his seat as the car pulled onto the off-ramp leading to the rest stop. Bright neon signs advertised the wonders of McDonald’s, Shell gas and Big Ed’s De-licious Diner.

He didn’t even want to contemplate the idea of Starsky with no identity, no memory, no soul. It scared the bejezus out of him. “Maybe, people who are…strong emotionally, who have a true sense of themselves,” he started, not exactly sure where he was going. It felt like uncharted waters with sharks swimming all around. “Aren’t as vulnerable as those who have…”

“No connection to someone else,” Starsky finished softly, closing his fingers around Hutch’s wrist as if proving their own link. “Terry…you think we’ll ever find out who he is? Where he came from? He reminds me of some of these guys that come back from ‘Nam and left some part of themselves back in the jungle.”

“The center does not hold…” Hutch quoted Yates into the darkness and felt Starsky tighten his grip. Was he frightened, too?

The car ground to a halt in front of a diner with a garish neon sign of a huge man with a tiny hat perched on top of his balloon-like head. The red and white stripes of his hat and shirt blinked on and off repeatedly, giving Hutch an instant headache. He would have far preferred sitting in the quiet car talking to Starsky than go into the overly loud, overly bright restaurant for a plate of greasy food.

Then his stomach growled ominously.

“Sounds like you’re hungry, too!” Starsky grinned at him, all teeth and shining eyes. Something in his expression told Hutch that he understood, that this conversation wasn’t over.

Hutch would have followed him anywhere.

“Gentlemen, food and bathroom facilities,” their driver announced, getting out of the car. He had greenish eyes and his skin was such a pale brown it was almost golden, He looked uncomfortable in his FBI-type dark suit, as if he would rather be wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

“No french fries at 3 am,” Hutch warned, opening the car door. The desert night was cool this early in January and he shivered, snapping up his letterman jacket.

“Nah, it’s breakfast time, Hutch!” Starsky rolled his eyes. “Hey, I never got your name, g-man,” he said, scrambling out to catch up to the driver. “I was too sleepy when we left the castle, but I figure since we’re driving and eating together, we ought to get to know each other. Dave Starsky.” He stuck out his hand. “The blond guy is Ken Hutchinson.

“I knew that. Wilson gave me a play-by-play on you two.” The other man laughed, nodded and shook Starsky’s hand. “Shad Collier. Special agent, I guess I should add.”

“Where’d you get a name like Shad, Special Agent Collier?” Starsky asked, holding open the door to Big Ed’s so Hutch and Shad could pass through.

“You read the old testament?” Shad asked. “My mama was a real attached to her Bible.”

“It’s the only part my people know,” Starsky joked, obviously thinking about the name quite seriously.

Hutch could almost see the wheels in Starsky’s head turning. He loved watching his partner. Starsky was like a big Labrador puppy, interested in everything, even when things weren’t going so well, like lately. He still could find the energy to contemplate an obscure Biblical reference instead of sinking in the doldrums the way Hutch did. It was easy to imagine a tail wagging behind that well shaped ass. Just the fact that he was looking at Starsky’s butt almost stopped him cold.

He was in love.

“Shadrach!” Starsky guessed suddenly, just as the hostess came up to seat them.

“Meshach and Abednego?” she asked coquettishly, hugging menus to her nicely formed chest.

Hutch found himself looking at her with surprising disinterest. Nice tits, long blond hair and pretty face but compared with Starsky, suddenly there was no contest. He wanted tight abs, an asymmetrical but beautiful face with sharp cheekbones, a mole like a beauty mark and black lashed blue eyes.

“Bingo.” Shad touched his nose. “My brothers’ names.”

“I’m Sara, your server. Is this some kind of Biblical twenty questions game?” She led the way to a small table in the back of the diner.

At not quite three in the morning, there were very few people in the place, and even the radio playing golden oldies in the background was turned down low enough that Hutch felt like he could eat in peace. “Didn’t Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego have something to do with Daniel in the lion’s den?” he put in to show he was paying attention.

“That was later.” Shad scooted a chair back to sit at the table. “First they had to survive the fiery furnace.”

“Just about what we escaped.” Starsky held out a chair for Hutch, his right hand sliding smoothly from Hutch’s belly to his back as Hutch sat down. “With too many devils shooting bullets at us.”

Relishing the genuine care of Starsky’s caress, Hutch reached over and patted his partner’s thigh, so close beside his when Starsky sat down.

Starsky sucked in air like a drowning fish and looked at Hutch, his lips parted in surprise.

“I thought it would be blazing hot out here in the desert,” Shad said. “I never been to this part of the country before. I’m from Missouri. I’d heard California was always hot and you could surf on Christmas day. I’m here to tell you, I no longer believe that.”

“It may not snow, but it does get cooler in the winter. Especially at night in the desert,” Starsky said absently, running a finger down the list of breakfast foods. “What’d you want, Hutch? I’ll get an southwestern omelet and you can eat the vegetables that come with it. You want any toast or an English muffin?”

So they were going to share. Hutch almost smiled. Actually, they always shared–since that first day in the academy when Hutch was sitting with John Colby in the cafeteria and Starsky came over, introduced himself, and stole a handful of Hutch’s potato chips. “English muffin.”

“I thought so.” Starsky grinned at him. “I’m starving, where’s that waitress?”

Breakfast proved easier and better than Hutch expected. In fact, everything seemed a little better after food. Shad Collier was a nice guy, despite who he worked for–and that for all intents and purposes, they were in his custody. Hutch felt like he could confront those damned Federal investigators with Starsky by his side.

He dozed in the car after they got back on the road, dreaming of blank eyed women with no memory coming at him with submachine guns.

“Hutch,” Starsky whispered in his ear. “Wake up.”

“Huh?” Hutch inhaled sharply and coughed. The car was parked in Bay City, but they weren’t at Metro. “Where are we?”

“FBI wants to have a little chat with us, remember?” Starsky waved a hand at the tall Federal building. “Collier’s waiting to turn us over to other agents like we’re some kinda fugitives or something.”

“Damn.” His belly clenched up. Was this it? No longer cops? What would the department do to two police officers with Federal raps hanging over their heads? Who knows how long the whole mess would take to put right, and by then he and Starsky would be out of a job, maybe even out of their homes if they weren’t earning paychecks any more.

He remembered Starsky saying, “I got money saved up,” and despair rolled over him again. Because of all this, Starsky had lost his beloved car and might need that savings for food and shelter in the future instead of a used parade float. At least he had what he’d always considered ‘the albatross,’ the trust fund his Grandfather Mathiasson had left him. Hutch hadn’t even looked at the account in years–there was certainly enough to support him and Starsky if they had to look for other work.

“Blondie, you’re thinking too much,” Starsky observed quietly.

“We need to think about the future, Starsk,” Hutch insisted. “What if…”

“Ain’t no what-if’s here, babe,” Starsky patted his hand.

It was still dark, but he could still make out the fond smile on Starsky’s face. Hutch stole a glance at Starsky’s watch. Five-thirty in the morning. No sun yet, just what felt like eternal night pressing down on Hutch’s head.

“Looks like salvation is at hand.” Starsky pointed to Shad Collier talking to two other men.

“How can you say that?” Hutch groaned. His career–his life–was flowing through his fingers like sand, impossible to hold onto. “We’re in Federal custody!”

“We weren’t the ones who started this,” Starsky said with such utter confidence that Hutch felt buoyed up. “We were on the side of good, Captain America, and if these yahoos will just listen to reason, we’ll be outta here in no time.”

“This isn’t a Marvel comic book, and we don’t have secret identities. They probably already have Thistleman’s statement that we kidnapped and threatened him, we…harbored a man who murdered a Federal witness…”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed solemnly.

Hutch got the impression he might have said more, but then the two Feds called Trevennan and Armanski came to escort them into the building. All four of them boarded an elevator, riding upwards into the building without chit-chatting. Hutch was grateful for small favors; the Feds hadn’t handcuffed he or Starsky, and while neither dark suited man had said more than a gruff “follow us,” they didn’t seem threatening or angry. Just–Hutch eyed the two blond men standing side-by-side like a set of fraternal twins. They looked blank–no emotion, no expressions on their faces. They could have been a couple of the brainwashed victims themselves.

“Listen,” Starsky said into the emptiness just as the elevator doors slid silently open, “How long d’you think this is going to take? Because I need to buy a car.”

Hutch inwardly groaned with embarrassment.

Starsky’s question did switch on the two agents. Armanski snorted, apparently amused by Starsky’s naiveté. He smoothed back a lock of surfer gold hair. “This isn’t traffic court, Hutchinson.”

“I’m Starsky, he’s Hutch,” Starsky said tightly, still congenial but his cocky, street attitude was surfacing.

“Noted,” Trevennan said with a nasty grin. “The government’s wheels turn very slowly around here. Don’t expect to get your walking papers anytime soon. You two stepped in some major shit, my friends.”

“Why don’t you gentlemen take a seat in here?” Armanski said, opening a door marked ‘Interrogation #4.’

Hutch knew it wasn’t just his opinion that Armanski gave the word gentlemen a sneer that would have made a villain in a melodrama proud.

“Don’t worry about us, ladies.” Starsky leaned into the taller man, tapping his finger aggressively on Armanski’s wide green and blue striped tie. “We were trying to right a wrong back there. What’s your excuse?”

“Starsk,” Hutch hissed when he and Armanski looked ready to come to blows.

Starsky glanced back at him, his blue eyes glittering like marbles, but he took a breath and backed off. “Captain Dobey told us to report back to our precinct. You’re keeping a couple of cops from obeyin’ a direct order.” He walked past their captors, pulled out a chair at the table and flipped it around, straddling the chair backwards as he always did.

Armanski laughed, “Federal government trumps city and state every time.”

“Bet you got an A in civics class in high school, g-man,” Starsky said dryly. “You got any coffee?”

“Coffee it is.” Trevennan nodded, sounding relieved to be doing something. He held out a pack of Vantages. “Cigarettes for the condemned men?”

“No,” Hutch said quietly, even though a hit of pure nicotine right now sounded better than sex. “We’re good.”

He didn’t feel very good when the door was closed and locked behind them. Hutch looked around, not surprised by the layout of the room. It was quite similar to ones they had back at Metro; a table, four chairs, and a large window that appeared to be a mirror but Hutch knew was two-way glass. Walking up close, he peeked through the silvered surface, but didn’t see anyone on the other side. At least no one was watching them surreptitiously.

“Just another fine mess you’ve gotten me into, Ollie,” Starsky said, resting his chin on his arms folded on the back of the chair. “And by that, I don’t mean you specifically, just…”

“I know.” Hutch dropped his hand on Starsky’s shoulder. Weirdly, the old quotation had momentarily lifted his spirits. “Starsk…”

“Yeah?” Starsky turned his head, peering at him over his shoulder so that his chin grazed Hutch’s hand. There was something in those beautiful dark eyes, oddly tipped because of the angle, so he looked like an exotic cat, that caught Hutch and drew him in.

Starsky gently rubbed his bristly chin over Hutch’s knuckles, a tired and slightly resigned smile on his face. “Hutch? You started to say something?”

“I?” Hutch inhaled sharply. Good God, this was not the place to spill his heart out. Not when they were about ready to be jailed for all manner of illegal acts. “I forgot…”

He pulled away. Grabbing a chair at the end of the table, Hutch sat so that he wasn’t looking directly into those gorgeous eyes and imagining himself touching Starsky–not in a friendly, brotherly way but in a way usually reserved for a man and woman. Sensually.

Bile rose in his throat and for a moment, he thought he’d throw up. How could he be having these thoughts, here, now, with this uncertain future hanging over their heads?

“Sword of Damocles,” Starsky said absently.

“What?” Hutch jerked up. Could Starsky read his thoughts?

“Uncertain doom.” Starsky leaned his cheek on one hand, his fingers curled delicately under with the tip of one pinkie resting on his bottom lip.

Hutch had a sudden, overwhelming urge to kiss that lower lip and soften the frown. He cleared his throat, wanting to speak, wanting to do something to relieve the pressure that seemed to be squashing him flat against the floor.

“Feels like…” Starsky shrugged, his earlier optimism apparently evaporating. “We’re just waiting, like anything can happen. We could be exonerated or stuck in the clink for the rest of our lives.”

Like anything can happen…

Summoning up his courage, Hutch sat straighter, needing to do this before their fate was sealed. No long explanations, no lengthy outpourings of adoration. This had to be simple and quick. Still, the words stuck on his tongue. He looked straight at Starsky and felt stabbed through the heart by the look in his partner’s eyes. “Iloveyou,” Hutch said all in one breath.

Starsky jerked back as if shot. He opened his mouth just as the door behind him swung inward and Trevennan walked through with two cups of coffee. “Hutchinson, you’re up first. We’ll be moving Starsky to another room.” He placed one coffee in front of Hutch and handed the other to Starsky.

Unmoving, Starsky never took his eyes off Hutch. He swallowed, and Hutch tracked the movement of his Adam’s apple up and down the long column of his neck. Starsky looked like he was in shock, and Hutch suddenly wanted to take back everything he had said so that the words didn’t hang in the air between them, unwanted and unclaimed.

“Starsky?” Trevennan nudged his arm, the coffee splashing over the rim of the cup.

Starsky shot up, wiping fruitlessly at the scald on his hand. “What’d you do that for?” he cried, the tone and pitch of his voice shrill, as if he was holding in a scream.

Hutch sank far deeper into despair than he’d ever been before. So what if he was going to prison? Starsky didn’t love him back, that was certain.

“Something going on between you two?” Trevennan asked, glancing between them. “You could cut the tension with a knife.”

“Whose fault is that?” Starsky plucked the cup out of his hands and took a quick gulp. “Tastes like dishwater!” He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, turning away from the agent to face Hutch at the end of the table.

“C’mon, Starsky, you’re down the hall,” Armanski said, holding the door open wider. “Give your buddy and Trevennan a little privacy.”

Hutch looked up at Starsky. This was the end, then. They were being separated, probably forever. All for the best, really.

Starsky mouthed a single word, “Hutch.”

He’d seen his own name often enough on his partner’s lips, and felt a certain comfort. Starsky’s lips continued moving, forming other shapes. A wide, open mouth, then his tongue reaching up to tip against his top teeth for the letter L. His mouth partially closed on the V, and finally, his lips pursing, as if in a kiss, to make the U shape.

I love you.

Armanski drew Starsky away, pulling him out the door. Hutch stared at the back of Starsky’s scuffed brown jacket, trying to assimilate what had just happened. Had he dreamed the whole thing? Or had Starsky just returned his declaration of love?

“Hutchinson, this is Director Boland,” Trevennan said as a thick necked, burly man with curly brown hair lumbered in. He could have been Dobey’s blue-eyed twin, down to the same horrible plaid jacket and tie that was all wrong for the suit.

“Sit,” Boland said brusquely when Hutch started to stand. “You’ve got a laundry list of charges against you, son. Let’s start with hiding a fugitive for murder. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“We–my partner Detective Sergeant David Starsky and I agreed to meet with the man known as Terry Nash at a bowling alley…” Hutch began, frantically trying keep his wits about him. He ruthlessly shoved aside thoughts of Starsky’s face, pale and sincere, mouthing that special phrase. It was difficult to remain composed and ignore what he felt about Starsky when he had to keep saying his name every few moments during his long explanation.

Amazingly, the Feds listened to him with a certain amount of respect. Boland, in particular, interrupted numerous times, mostly to clarify points that Hutch didn’t always know the answer to himself, and other times to question why on earth he and Starsky would have trusted Terry Nash so implicitly. Hutch wasn’t sure of that either.

“It’s just that he seemed…”

Lost. Alone in the world without someone by his side.

Hutch’s coffee went cold as he repeated the same facts over and over again–yes, he and Starsky had trusted Terry, especially after visiting the Catholic school. Yes, they had kidnapped Thistleman, the bank manager. Yes, they had hidden a known fugitive and assaulted a castle in the desert with automatic weapons.

His mouth felt furry and his head was pounding after an hour. His butt was numb after the long car ride and soul-draining interrogation. He knew very well that this could go on for the rest of the day. Usually, he was the one grilling a weary suspect. The longer the prisoner had to keep going over the same story, the easier it was to break him.

A little intimidation, a little exhaustion, a little pushing, and bam, the criminal often folded like a deck of cards. Hutch couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow himself to crumble that easily, not when he had Starsky by his side. Maybe Terry Nash had lost his real life, but Hutch had just found his.

“Tell me again about this Baron, and his role…” Trevennan asked, a knock on the door cutting off the end of his sentence.

Armanski opened the door a crack, “Director Boland, there’s a phone call. It’s urgent.”

“I’ll be right back.” Boland lumbered to his feet, panting with the effort. The door locked behind him.

Hutch looked over at Trevennan. “Guess I’ll hold my recap of the attack on the Castle until he gets back, huh?” Starsky would have been proud of his sarcasm.

“You’re still in a kettle full of trouble, Hutchinson.” Trevennan brushed his dark blond hair off his forehead. “Good intentions can’t help you when you broke that many Federal laws.”

Doubt settled in Hutch’s stomach like one of Starsky’s favorite spicy burritos. What if they were both convicted and sent to a Federal pen? Not likely he’d ever be allowed conjugal visits with his male ex-partner.

Wow. A what-if, which was generally Starsky’s purview, and then thoughts of…sex with Starsky, all at once. He’d laugh at the sheer bizarreness if he wasn’t already in the most serious trouble of his life.

Hutch noticed that his hand shook when he picked up the cold cup of coffee to take a sip. Bitter, coffee flavored water, but he drank it anyway.

Boland wasn’t gone five minutes. He came back in, standing silently in the doorway, his face pale with two fiery red points on his cheeks that extended back to both ears. His mouth was set in a grim, angry line and he didn’t speak for ten seconds or more which jacked up Hutch’s stress until he was sure he would burst from the pressure.

“Director?” Trevennan asked, starting to stand.

“You’re…” Boland said in a hoarse voice as if he’d been yelling. He cleared his throat, looking straight at Hutch. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” Trevennan shouted in astonishment, jumping to his feet.

Hutch gripped the edge of the table and inhaled sharply. Had he heard right? “F-free? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Boland admitted, scrubbing at his face with one blunt fingered hand. “That was a call from the Justice Department, and…” He seemed to shrink into himself, no small feat for a man that big. “This case is closed. We have been ordered to cease and desist. No more investigation.”

“They broke the law!” Trevennan insisted. “There has to be some recompense.”

“Someone very high up shut us down, Ross.” Boland shrugged and began collecting the pages of notes he’d taken. “It’s out of our hands.” He tapped the sheath of paper on the table, looking ruefully at Hutch. “You should probably leave as quickly as possible.”

Hutch didn’t have to be told twice. He just wanted to find Starsky and get the hell out of FBI headquarters. He turned left out the interrogation room door so fast that he ran right into Shad Collier.

“Hutchinson! Where’s the fire?” Shad asked, glancing past him at his boss and Trevennan. “You finished already?”

“We’re done here, Collier,” Boland said with a tight shake of his head. “Find Hutchinson’s partner and escort them from the building.”

Hutch wasn’t about to say a word and jinx the first true miracle he’d ever had in his life. No, meeting Starsky had been the first, but this was definitely the second one. “Where is Star…”

“Hutch?” Starsky appeared behind him, coming out of ‘Interrogation #3′ with a big grin on his face. “It’s over!”

“Come on,” Hutch hissed, grabbing Starsky’s arm. “Before they change their minds.” He caught a brief glimpse of Collier’s stunned expression, and began walking swiftly down the hallway in the direction of the elevators. With every step, Hutch was sure one of the agents would call out their names and slap on the cuffs.

Starsky hit the elevator call button hard with the flat of his palm, standing so close to Hutch that they touched from knee all the way up to shoulder. The elevator ride down felt endless. Surely it hadn’t taken this long to go up!

Starsky counted the floors under his breath until the car jolted slightly as it reached the lobby. Neither of them said a word while walking rapidly across what seemed like a vast expanse of space leading to the large glass and metal doors.

Hutch sucked in cold, fresh air when he passed through the front doors of the building, his heart drumming in his ears. It wasn’t until he and Starsky were standing on the sidewalk that Hutch remembered they didn’t have a way to get back to Metro. Starsky’s car had been blown to bits, and his was still at Venice Place.

He looked up at the eastern sky, struck dumb. It was still the same day, only an hour or so had passed since they’d arrived. Brilliant golden streaks heralded the coming of dawn. A fiery crescent was just barely visible past the range of mountains that ringed the Los Angeles basin. As he watched, the sun rose, the first glow of true light throwing long black shadows over the downtown cluster of buildings. They’d made it through the darkness and emerged into day, free men.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, and turned to Starsky, seeing the shining sun reflected in his blue eyes.

“What the hell was that?” Starsky asked all in a rush, bouncing on his toes as if he had to release several hours worth of pent-up energy. “I mean, what the hell happened in there, can you tell me that?”

“I haven’t a clue.” Hutch touched his own chest because he couldn’t touch Starsky. Couldn’t sweep him into a bear hug and kiss him over and over the way he wanted to.

“What did Armanski tell you?”

“Nothing.” Starsky swung both arms wide, like he couldn’t encompass all that they didn’t know. “That the case was closed.” He started walking down Wilshire in the direction of Parker Center. “What’d you hear?”

“Same, that someone in the Justice Department stopped the investigation. What do you think it means?” Hutch felt an odd sort of fear, a tight band around his chest. What had they gotten themselves into? And were they completely out now? What about Terry Nash and all the brainwashed victims? What about…?

Starsky stopped abruptly, putting out one hand to stop Hutch, too. His palm landed on Hutch’s belly, causing his thick fisherman sweater to ride up.

Hutch suddenly wanted more than anything to have that damned conjugal visit. Very, very soon. His cock swelled, pressing hard against his zipper. What a time to throw a boner!

Starsky glanced down at Hutch’s very obvious erection, a mischievous grin blossoming on his face. His fingers twitched like they were eager to clasp the shaft tenting Hutch’s jeans. “Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, I thought you weren’t carrying any longer.”

“Shut up!” Hutch said, incredibly embarrassed and aroused at the same time. Luckily, there were very few people out on the sidewalks at–he grabbed Starsky’s left arm and lifted his watch into view. Seven a.m. “On any other day, we’d be late for Dobey’s morning briefing, but I suspect that he’ll forgive us this once.”

“Think so?” Starsky nodded, yawning. “He’ll want us in there, asap, for a wrap-up, no matter how lenient he’s feeling.” He was still looking down at Hutch’s groin, with a wry expression. “You’ll get blue balls long before we have time to deal with that thing.”

“Hell,” Hutch groaned, but the thought of Dobey seeing him like this did what Starsky’s heated gaze did not, deflated his hard-on. “You really want to?” He flicked his hand between them, and Starsky laughed.

“Yeah, Hutch. I wasn’t lyin’ back there.” Starsky took one step forward.

They were so close Hutch could feel Starsky’s breath on his cheek. He realized he was trembling. This couldn’t happen on Wilshire Boulevard with cars going by!

“I love you,” Starsky whispered. “You love me. It’s always been and will always be. We just gotta find a better time to act on it.”

“Promise?” Hutch asked, light-headed and giddy.

“Yeah.” Starsky tapped his forefinger on Hutch’s breastbone, over his heart. “Right there.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Despite the abrupt and unexplained reprieve, Starsky and Hutch still had to talk to Dobey, to the District Attorney, the DEA, ATF and a dozen other agencies. It was a long three days punctuated by far too little sleep and far too much coffee. There was no time to come together, even if the desire was there. Every once in a while, Starsky would brush his fingers across Hutch’s belly, or Hutch would touch Starsky’s waist, and it was like electrical charge through his body. How such tiny contact could cause such amazing arousal was a mystery, and Hutch was eager to explore his partner’s body in an intimate way at the earliest opportunity.

He never did find out what happened to Terry Nash, or where he had gone. Huggy reported that the Baron had flown the coup without filing a flight plan in advance. When Dobey tried to get a copy of the bank surveillance tape to place in evidence, he discovered that it no longer existed. All proof that they had ever launched an investigation into Joe Durniak’s murder and the weird circumstances around Nash’s brainwashing was vanishing right before their eyes.

Somehow, that made replacing Starsky’s bombed car that much more important. As he had hoped, the Torino which was shot up two years ago was for sale. Starsky laid out cash and got the car for a steal. It needed a little body work, a new front windshield and a few minor adjustments, but it was exactly what he wanted. Hutch privately admitted that having the Torino back seemed to reconnect them with their norm, even if he still had to regularly rib his partner about the vehicle.

“Every part of this case is being wiped away like it never was,” Starsky said with a shake of his head. “Just like Terry-whateverhisnameis’ life.” He ran a reverent hand along the red hood of his brand new/used Torino. “Like some weird episode out of time that doesn’t really fit in anywhere. The only thing to prove that we ever were mixed up in that crazy case is this car.”

“That doesn’t prove a thing,” Hutch pointed out. “This looks just like the old striped Tomato did–with a few minor differences. And the burned hulk of the previous in-car-nation…” he laughed. “That was a pun, did you get it?” He elbowed Starsky who groaned on cue. “Is already a metal pancake at the scrap yard.”

Starsky put both hands over the red and white car’s side mirror as if protecting her from his partner. “Don’t talk like that in front of her, you’ll frighten her. She had a really rough early life.”

Hutch rolled his eyes, glad of something so idiotic to talk about instead of the secrecy and conundrums surrounding their last case. “You make her-it-sound like an abused child, mushbrain. It’s a car.”

“It’s my car,” Starsky corrected, leaning his butt against the driver side door. “Love me, love my car.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” Hutch braced both hands on the closed side window, bracketing Starsky with his arms. They were in the abandoned car impound lot. The only other person around was Old Joe McMillan, a cop with less than a year to go to retirement. He sat all day in the little office near the front of the lot, dozing in the sun.

This was Hutch’s chance. “So, if I did this…” He leaned forward, keeping his weight on his hands as if he was doing push-ups. Barely touching Starsky’s mouth, he pursed his lips. “Would I have to kiss your car, too?”

Starsky gasped, closing the miniscule gap between them, kissing Hutch with all the fervor of a teenaged boy with his first date. They were both awkward and slightly self-conscious, but very game to follow that first clumsy kiss with a smoother second one.

Hutch had thought it would be different kissing his old friend, a man he’d known for nine years. Starsky didn’t look, feel, smell or act like a woman. But the only difference between Starsky and the dozen or so women Hutch had kissed in the last year was that Starsky was better. Kissing Starsky aroused him like no female had ever done. He wanted to kiss Starsky for a month, maybe even a year.

From Starsky’s immediate reaction, he felt the same way. Somehow, Hutch had his arms around Starsky’s shoulders and was pressing him hard against the metal body of the car. Their ribs rose and fell in sync, both panting with the effort to remain locked together. Tongues tangled and danced, lips sucked and teeth nipped at soft, luscious skin.

It was the best kissing Hutch had ever done. Even more stupendous was the heated rod Hutch felt butting against his upper thigh.

Starsky was hard as a rock. For him.

“Starsk?” Hutch inhaled, his brain reeling from all the incredible, erotic stimuli. He couldn’t get enough of Starsky. Running his hands down Starsky’s long, muscular torso, he inserted two fingers into the waistband of Starsky’s jeans just as Starsky sucked hard on the side of his neck. Hutch felt the tingly, almost pain of a hickey just below his jaw, and laughed at the pure joy of loving his partner.

“H-hutch,” Starsky drawled on an exhale, licking the tiny wound he had made. “Your cock is about to drill a hole in my belly.”

“Tell me about it. You feel like hot steel.”

“Yeah?” Starsky looked surprisingly pleased by the compliment and ground his hips into Hutch’s. The small height difference didn’t quite line their groins up perfectly, Hutch’s was more centered over Starsky’s abdomen than directly opposite his shaft, but it didn’t matter.

Just the smallest amount of friction lit Hutch from within like a Roman candle about to explode. He rocked into Starsky, matching his partner’s give and take in the oldest dance on earth. Here, Hutch was graceful as a swan.

Starsky caught Hutch around the waist and lunged, their groins mashed together to produce a cataclysmic orgasm when Starsky bent Hutch into a back-breaking dip.

Hutch didn’t see stars, only Starsky’s deep blue eyes, the pupils dilated wide and dark, looking back at him. He glowed like the morning sun, the brightest star in Hutch’s world.