Priorities

After long hours of stakeouts in an enclosed space, Hutch’s bad back receives the care it needs from the only person that can make him feel better…in more than one way.

Originally published in the zine THE PERFECT COUPLE, published in 2010 by Flamingo and Keri T.

Hutch couldn’t take it one second longer. The stereo made a roar out of the whispery “Do it!” in The Hustle‘s intro, and the melody would just be worse, its music notes dancing on spiked heels all over his brain. He didn’t have a garden-variety headache he could complain of, something the other party guests would instantly understand. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Yvonne from R&I or Jerry from Ballistics, that a chronically bad back, when aggravated by two shifts of stakeout duty crammed into a wooden chair in the broom closet at a phone-booth sized dive bar, could shoot pain from tailbone to skull. Now, every noise battered him, every movement tore at him with raptor talons.

He had already broken the news to his date for the evening, muttering tired excuses and apologies that had to sound forced, or worse, rehearsed: sorry; no, not sick, just beat, that’s all; long shifts; need a good night’s sleep; wouldn’t be much good to you like this; mind if I take you home earlier than we planned? Sara Jo did mind. She minded all the way over to Barry Narada, one of the Robbery detectives who had come stag to the party. After a few minutes of eyelash fluttering and giggles—from both of them—the new pair left the party arm in arm. Hutch didn’t waste five seconds on disappointment or a bruised ego… and not just because his bruised back hogged all of his attention.

Refuge. Solitude. Quiet. He sought all three in Starsky’s bathroom. At least he could close the door against the barrage of music, glass clinking, laughter, and meaningless conversation. He didn’t blame his partner. The occasional party like this one was more necessity than pleasure: a duty he and Starsky traded every month or so.

In the bathroom Hutch found a fourth source of comfort. Leaning over the sink, palms on the counter, he breathed deeply, drawing in the familiar sandalwood scent from the soap bar in its little hollowed out baseball dish. Just a few moments, he promised himself, a few deep breaths of this, and he would pull himself together, say goodbye to the co-host, and head out to Venice.

His tortured back didn’t approve of the plan.

He could stand in a near approximation of straight… if he didn’t open his mouth and let out a yell they would hear in Billings, Montana. Hutch cursed himself. Desperate, he turned the cold water on full blast, counting off the time it took for the water to reach the chill he needed, and thrust his hand under the gush, holding it there until he wouldn’t have known he still had a hand without looking at it. Rucking his tucked corduroy shirt up in back, he slapped his frozen hand against the muscle group throbbing hardest.

“Shuh-it!” The word stayed trapped behind his tightly clenched teeth.

Well, now he had a painfully thawing hand in addition to his bastard of a back, and that drive to Venice still ahead of him. Resigned, shaking sensation back into his hand, he turned off the water before some curious guest—or worse, Starsky—came to see who was trying to turn the bathroom into Niagara Falls.

In the absence of gushing water, he tried to pick out sounds: muffled disco beat, tipsy dancers bumping into coffee table or throne chair, Starsky’s voice. He heard nothing.

The door opened.

Hutch couldn’t have whirled around if his life depended on it. He stayed put. One sideways glance in the mirror told him how badly he’d failed at keeping his predicament from Starsky. From the neck down his partner looked the part of host extraordinaire in tight dark jeans and a red shirt that hugged him around the chest and biceps. But he wore an expression that belonged in the waiting room at County Receiving.

“What—?” Hutch started.

“Sent everyone home.” At Hutch’s grimace, Starsky gave him a quick headshake. “Nah, didn’t let on it had anything to do with you. You know me better’n that. Told everybody I’d promised my old neighbor lady I wouldn’t drown out the mornin’ birds with bad disco.”

“Okay. Thanks. Really. Give me a minute and I’ll clear out, leave you and Maxine in peace.”

“Hutch. Open your ears. I sent everyone home. Maxine caught a ride with Jerry and Linda.”

Hutch stared at him. “Starsky, you didn’t have to do that. Maxine’s been playing hard to get for weeks. Long time since you had to bird dog that hard, partner.”

Starsky shrugged. “Yeah, and I got her to agree to come to the party tonight. Mission accomplished.”

Bullshit, Hutch almost said out loud. That mission wasn’t usually accomplished until the lady in question landed in the bed just a few feet from where Hutch stood right then.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. Part of it, anyway. Told her Dobey warned us we might get called in early tomorrow.”

“You know you’ve crashed that plane before it left the runway.”

“Yep.” Starsky flashed him a smile. “Hutch, she was my date. You’re my partner.” He moved into Hutch’s space, behind him, close enough to transfer body heat; cupped Hutch’s shoulders in warm hands and pressed a kiss against the shell of Hutch’s ear. “My priority. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“How bad’s the back?”

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s…” Hutch bit his tongue.

“Eleven?” Starsky guessed.

“Nine,” Hutch grudgingly admitted.

“That means fifteen on anyone else’s scale. Thought so. I knew you were in for it. Four outta the six short breaks we got from that stakeout, you sent me outside, trying to spare me a little torpedo tube mania.”

“Claustrophobia’s no laughing matter, Starsk, even a really mild case like yours.”

“Your back’s no laughing matter, either, and it’s in a whole different zip code than mild. Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You took care’a me, now it’s my turn.”

Starsky stroked down Hutch’s arms, over to unsnap the metallic buttons, teasing the shirt open, his touch that perfect blend of seductive and therapeutic. Naked to the waist, Hutch sucked in his breath when that touch flickered over his groin, expertly finding his snap and zipper and making quick work of both. His breath whooshed out with the sudden, fierce tug of his pants and briefs down his hips.

“Do that again sometime,” he said, “when you can bend me over the counter and finish it right.”

Starsky didn’t answer in words. Hutch got to see the answer reflected behind him, in the intensity darkening Starsky’s eyes and the bob of his Adam’s apple in a hard swallow, before Starsky dropped to his knees to rid Hutch of the khakis and shoes. At each tap of fingers against his shins, Hutch lifted his leg, and just like that he was down to socks and a smile.

His ass got a swat on each cheek. “Go on, go sprawl on the bed, or get on the bed whichever way won’t murder your back, and I’ll be there in a sec. Can you lie on your stomach?”

Funny, how a love-swat from Starsky could leave him tingling all over, not just his ass. “Doubt it.”

“Your side?”

“Yeah.”

“Side, then. Just wanna get my hands where the soreness is.”

Hutch found he did best lying on his left side, with fewer twinges of pain if he kept his right leg bent at a slight angle. He waited, thinking he probably looked weird with his socks on and how comforting it was that with Starsky he didn’t have to worry about looking weird. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the feel of Starsky’s sheets under him; burrowed his face in the perfectly smushed pillow he always claimed for his own when he slept over.

Here was safety. Pain didn’t stand a chance.

He next felt the mattress dip behind him as Starsky joined him on the bed. The jolt of discomfort he experienced with the slight jarring eased immediately under warm, soft wetness.

“Umm.”

“Like that?” Starsky’s chuckle was softer than the fluffy washcloth pressed to Hutch’s back.

“Sure do.”

Hutch enjoyed the press and glide of moist heat as Starsky moved the cloth, covering the problem areas along both sides of his spine, in the small of his back, then up the spine to just below the shoulder blades, but he wanted the loving, callused roughness of Starsky’s hands.

Ever in tune, Starsky must have sensed something. “What you need?”

“Little less cloth, little more you.”

“No seducing me with that sexy mouth’a yours while I’m trying to keep you out of the doctor’s office!”

Hutch smiled. “Whoops.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not your fault you seduce me just breathin’.”

That wiped the smile off his face, but not in a bad way. He had to grit his teeth against a shiver of need and mushy pressure in his chest matched by hardness elsewhere. The wet warmth disappeared from his back; in its place, Starsky pressed one warm palm against Hutch’s spine, gently nudging him.

“I think I can lie on my stomach now.” Hutch tested his theory and discovered he could.

“Perfect. Don’t budge an inch.”

Hutch wouldn’t have wanted to move if the bed burst into flames. He lay still, a little breathless in anticipation of Starsky’s bare hands on him. Starsky didn’t prolong the suspense. He started with light, fingertip kneading, rubbing circles into that tense hollow just above the waistline. After each set of circles, he glided both hands up Hutch’s back, squeezed his shoulders, then raked his fingers harder down the knotted muscles. Every now and then Hutch felt the cool metallic touch of Starsky’s watch or pinky rings, a sexy reminder that his lover, not a clinician, was in charge of this therapy.

Starsky knew where to rub, where to knead, where to apply pressure, and seconds before one particular touch grew uncomfortable, he would draw both hands down to Hutch’s ass and knead with his thumbs along either side of that cleft. Each time Hutch felt a thumb-nail scrape between his cheeks, flashes of heat lightning lit up the darkness behind his eye lids.

In minutes—how many, he didn’t know—he melted from solid, rusty iron into a molten river that flowed where Starsky wanted, guided by those knowing hands. His breathing evened out, no longer hitching with flares of soreness. He sensed Starsky at his side, pulling him, and he obligingly rolled over into the full body embrace offered.

Yawning, he blinked his eyes open as the texture of cotton tickled his skin instead of Starsky’s chest hair. “You’re still dressed,” he mumbled.

“You noticed.” Starsky rubbed his knuckles under Hutch’s chin, tilting his head downward to peck him on the bridge of his nose.

“You remembered.”

“Your little thing for being naked while I got clothes on? How could I forget?”

For that, Hutch risked stretching himself over Starsky in search of an open-mouthed kiss, pinning him to the mattress, naked heat against answering heat in denim. They grappled for the tightest hold possible, kissing harder, wetter, deeper, until Starsky called a halt, wriggling to the side.

“Hey, what’s the big…” Hutch yawned …”idea?”

“Big idea is, you move too much right now and you’re gonna undo all the loosening up. I got you right where I want you, about to nod off, so nod already.”

Hutch settled against Starsky’s side, sharing the perfectly smushed pillow with him. “Damn. First you send Maxine packing for me, and now you won’t let me repay you for the massage. In the words of Audrey Hepburn to Cary Grant, you know what’s wrong with you?”

Hutch knew Starsky could quote Charade chapter and verse, but true to his nature, he played along. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Starsky pulled the sheets up around them. “Toldya. I got priorities.”

I love you, too, Starsk, thought Hutch… and fell asleep.

THE END