Something to Talk About

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Starsky and Hutch are assigned a case that strikes too close to home, endangering their carefully kept personal secret.

 

This story is part of the 2011 S&H Big Bang.

The writer’s grateful thanks go to:

1. Keri T. – It was a pleasure to work with you on this story, as it is on any story. You inspire me, you encourage me, and challenge me to do the best I can.

2. Laura McEwan. Your vid of the same name inspired this particular story, and your many vids have given me hours and hours of enjoyment.

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“You know, Hutch–” Starsky didn’t bother with the rest of his observation, just grinned at the rigid finger that reached across the chessboard toward him.

“Isn’t going to work, Starsk.” Hutch didn’t lift his intent gaze from the chessboard. “Starsky’s Law has been repealed, so you might as well zip it.”

Starsky felt his grin growing wider as he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. The only thing better than pulling the wool over Hutch’s eyes was when his astute partner wouldn’t let it happen the same way twice. He watched contentedly as Hutch contemplated the board a minute longer, then moved his pony decisively.

“Check.” Hutch mirrored Starsky’s relaxed pose, his blue eyes sparkling as he awaited Starsky’s reaction.

Starsky unfolded his arms and flicked a negligent finger to topple his queen. “You could let me win once in a while, you know.” The complaint was without heat as he leaned back, batted his eyelashes, and flashed his best come-hither smile. “Might work out to be worth your while.”

“When you can beat me without…” Hutch left the rest of his sentence unspoken, cocking his head as the sound of muffled knocking reached them where they had been relaxing over the game in the greenhouse. “Now who the hell?” He stood and moved into the apartment.

Starsky followed, automatically glancing at the watch on his wrist. It was almost eleven. A little late for social calls. A simple knock on the door, even late at night, wasn’t exactly a reason to panic, but it did give Starsky a squiggle of wariness in his gut. Enough of an alert to angle his steps to the right of Hutch toward where his holster and jacket lay on the couch.

As if picking up on Starsky’s mild yellow alert, Hutch paused as the knock sounded again, then took two deliberate steps to the left, leaving the path immediately in front of the door clear.

“Who is it?” Hutch pitched his voice to be heard by the unknown visitor on the other side of the door.

“Dobey. Open the door, Hutchinson.” There was no mistaking the gruff impatience of their captain’s voice, even muffled through the wooden panel.

The familiar voice should have cancelled out the minor alert in Starsky’s belly, but it didn’t. Dobey on Hutch’s doorstep at this time of night could open the door on too many possibilities. An emergency, a dirty job that nobody else wanted to do, or….

Starsky’s wariness grew as Hutch opened the door to let Dobey lumber into the apartment and he saw that the captain was followed by an, unfortunately, familiar face. William Dryden of Internal Affairs was nattily dressed, as usual, and there was nothing in his manner to indicate the discomfort he ought to be feeling as he crossed the threshold. A stranger would be hard pressed to believe that only a few months ago, this same IA officer was doing his level best to prove Hutch guilty of the murder of his ex-wife. A stranger, however, wouldn’t have been likely to notice the brief, bitter glance Dryden threw toward the kitchen table.

“Captain. Dryden.” Hutch greeted the interlopers in a cool tone that fell barely the right side of polite inquiry. “Something we can do for you?” A pointed glance toward the clock added a silent “at this time of night” to his question.

“You can both sit down and listen.” Dobey dropped into the easy chair with a weary sigh. “I’m too tired to drag this out, and I’d like to get home in time to kiss my wife goodnight.”

Obviously, not an emergency. That left a dirty job or… Obediently, Starsky followed Hutch to the couch where they sat side by side and focused their attention on Dobey.

“You’ll have to bring in a chair from the kitchen,” Hutch suggested innocently to Dryden who still hovered near the door.

Starsky coughed to cover his laughter at the sour expression that crossed Dryden’s face. Score one for the home team.

“I’ll stand if it’s all the same to you,” Dryden rejected the offer.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll stop playing schoolyard games and pay attention, maybe we can all get some sleep tonight.” Dobey’s reprimand was aimed at both his own subordinates and the IA officer.

“Just trying to be a good host,” Hutch defended himself with that same false innocence.

Dobey glared a moment, then apparently decided that Hutch might be entitled to his petty revenge. He transferred the glare to Dryden and pointed at the kitchen chair, but didn’t wait for the other man to obey the silent command before he turned his gaze back to the partners. “How would the two of you like to catch a dirty cop?”

More of Starsky’s tension eased as he realized this wasn’t an “or” situation after all. Just a dirty job. He exchanged a glance with Hutch, a silent bit of communication that confirmed they were thinking the same. If Dryden had come to them on his own, Starsky or Hutch probably wouldn’t have let him through the door. Dobey’s presence, however, reassured them both that whatever the assignment might be, it was most likely on the up and up.

“Which dirty cop and what’s he been doing?” Hutch had relaxed against the back of the couch, his attention solely on Dobey as if Dryden wasn’t even in the room, his body language inviting Dobey to brief them as he saw fit.

“Norman Brooks from Rampart.” Dobey’s voice was grave as might be expected given the topic, but his rounded features became even more somber as he continued. “And what he’s been doing is blackmailing a fellow officer.”

Again, Starsky met Hutch’s eyes while mentally thumbing through the officers they knew from Rampart. But he couldn’t put a face to the name. His shrug to indicate the blank he had drawn was synchronized with Hutch’s.

“You probably don’t know him. He’s a sixteen year police vet, but only transferred here from ‘Frisco about two years ago. Not much worth noting in his record.” Dobey’s report was delivered with a mirroring shrug that meant he had no more personal knowledge than they did.

“Who’s he blackmailing?” Starsky gave up his casual posture and leaned forward, both hands clasped in front of him, forearms resting on his knees and alert gaze focused on Dobey. He knew Hutch would interpret the body language and know Starsky’s interest had already been caught.

“A young rookie. Patrol Officer James MacAvoy,” Dobey said.

Again, Starsky reviewed his mental catalogue of colleagues, and once again failed to match a face to the name. “Who is he and what’s Brooks got on him?”

“I’ll let Dryden take it from here,” Dobey said, waving toward the IA officer who finally left his isolation near the door and joined them.

“MacAvoy came to Lieutenant Mason, the head of IA, this afternoon and reported that Brooks was trying to blackmail him. After interviewing MacAvoy and reviewing Brooks’s record, Lieutenant Mason assigned me to look into the accusation.” Dryden was all business now, even the small indications of unease gone.

“Blackmail him over what?” Hutch asked impatiently just as Starsky opened his mouth to ask the same question.

“That MacAvoy is a practicing homosexual,” Dryden revealed.

Starsky’s instincts by-passed yellow alert this time and went straight for the panic button, his belly clenching as he exerted a healthy dose of willpower to avoid looking at Hutch.

“Practicing?” Hutch echoed, laying the sarcasm he did so well over the tempered steel of his tongue. “As opposed to a homosexual who already knows what he’s doing?”

“Hutchinson,” Dobey’s growled warning wasn’t quite quick enough to curb Hutch.

“Didn’t you tell us when John Blaine was murdered that the Department was supposed to be hiring homosexuals not hounding them?” There was more heat in Hutch’s demand than Starsky could have gotten away with for the same question. Everyone knew which one of Metro’s Dynamic Duo was more critical in his views on the two-faced practices of the Bay City Police Department. At least they thought they did.

“You’re missing the point, Sergeant Hutchinson.” Dryden met Hutch’s hostility with cool professionalism. “Patrolman MacAvoy’s sexuality is not the subject of my investigation; Brooks’s felonious actions are. Perhaps if you would allow me to continue without interruption….”

“Chapter and verse.” Hutch’s growl took any hint of civility out of the request.

“MacAvoy insists he’s not homosexual. He says he has no idea where Brooks would get the idea he was. Frankly, I’m not sure I believe everything he’s told me. More accurately, I believe he knows more than he’s saying.”

Starsky exchanged a look with Hutch and saw his own questions on his partner’s face. A lifted eyebrow from Hutch wondered which one of them should ask those questions, and Starsky shrugged in reply, giving Hutch the lead.

“Why bring this to us?” Hutch asked. “This is obviously an Internal Affairs matter.”

“This is a serious accusation, gentlemen. If it’s true, a sixteen-year veteran won’t only lose his career, he’ll also face criminal charges.”

“Same question, Dryden. Why doesn’t your department do its own investigation? As I recall, you think you’re pretty damned good at it,” Hutch said bitterly.

Dobey growled again, wordlessly this time, the sound breaking Hutch’s single-minded focus on Dryden. Starsky almost grinned as he watched a little of the belligerence drain out of Hutch.

“This situation needs some discretion until there is more than hearsay evidence to go on. We’ve done some preliminary investigation into Brooks’s finances and nothing out of the ordinary was found. That doesn’t necessarily disprove guilt or prove innocence.”

“You’re still not saying why us.”

Dobey and Dryden shared a glance that tightened Starsky’s stomach into a guilty knot. He didn’t dare look at Hutch as he struggled to keep his emotions off his face.

“Because you’ve always been willing to do what it takes to keep the department clean. In your own way, you’re as committed to that goal as any IA officer.”

“Insults like that will get you thrown out my front door.” The threat was made quietly enough, but there could be no doubt Hutch meant every word.

Again Dryden looked to Dobey for back up.

Dobey’s expression was sour, but he accepted the verbal baton from Dryden. “Mason asked me for a team to investigate, to go undercover, or whatever else it took to get to the bottom of this. I know how you feel about IA, but I chose you anyway.” He paused, his dark eyes holding first Starsky’s and then Hutch’s eyes. “Corday and Corman and Burke and Iron Mike Ferguson. I know you believe the only place for a crooked cop is behind bars. I assumed that one preying on one of our own would give you just cause for righteous indignation.”

Starsky felt more than a little ashamed of himself, which was probably what Dobey was counting on. The shame, however, wasn’t quite enough to completely quell his wariness.

“All right, Captain. We get your point. We’ll think about it.” Hutch finally offered a very cautious commitment, but his unease was apparent in the tension of his body. Every line of his taut frame warned that the wrong word could easily release the coiled spring inside him into violent action.

In their short acquaintance, Dryden apparently hadn’t learned to read Hutch at all. “What is there to think about? Your captain can order you–“

“That’s it!” Hutch sprang off the couch and advanced on Dryden who had the unexpected sense to back track toward the door. “Get out!”

Starsky was only a step behind his angry partner, close enough to catch Hutch’s arm as it started to rise. He didn’t think Hutch was fool enough to actually hit Dryden, since that kind of idiocy was usually Starsky’s forte. His grip on Hutch’s arm fell more into the category of erring on the side of caution.

“Captain Dobey.” Dryden appealed to the captain who had also left his seat.

Dobey nodded toward the door. “Wait in the car.” The command was quiet and after only a second or two, Dryden obeyed. Dobey rounded on Hutch as soon as the door closed. “What’s stuck in your craw?”

“Besides the bad taste in my mouth from the last time I dealt with Dryden and that slimy partner of his, Simonetti?”

“Simonetti has been transferred. Out into the boonies from what I hear.” Dobey ran a hand over his tired face, wiping away a little of the weariness and leaving a harder expression of expectation in its place. “But Dryden and Simonetti aren’t really the point, Hutchinson. How many times have I backed you two against my better judgment? Put my career and my pension on the line based on nothing more than your instincts? You don’t have to trust Dryden, but you damned well ought to trust me by now!”

“That’s more like it, Captain.” Starsky had to smile at the way Dobey’s reasonable tone had quickly climbed the scale to his usual bellow. The smile faded, however, as he met Hutch’s glare. “The captain won’t throw us to the wolves.”

“Unless he has to.” Hutch’s grumble was barely intelligible and he waved it away himself with a swipe of his hand before he continued. “Okay. If we were working directly under you, maybe, but reporting to Dryden….”

“You report to me as you always do. I’ll deal with IA.” Dobey shrugged and patted his belly. “What’s another ulcer or two.”

“In that case-“

“In that case,” Starsky cut in before Hutch could commit them. “We’ll think about it and let you know in the morning.”

~*~*~

“What did you do that for?” Hutch demanded as soon as the door closed behind Dobey.

Before he answered, Starsky wandered back out to the greenhouse to collect their unfinished beers. By the time he returned, Hutch was parked in one corner of the couch. Starsky handed over one of the bottles, then sprawled in the opposite corner of the couch.

Hutch took a swallow of his beer, feeling Starsky’s eyes following the movement of his throat. It was still so new, that even under present circumstances, that glance gave him a thrill of excitement, a thrill he had to step on for the moment. “So, why?”

“Because, since this started…” Starsky tipped the top if his bottle toward Hutch and then back toward himself. “…we always cave when Dobey plays the trust card. Sure, he’s fished us out of the toilet a lot of times, but he’s also hit the flush when he had to.” Starsky looked down at the bottle cradled between his hands, apparently marshalling his thoughts, then raised his head. “I just wanted to be sure we’re not putting our trust in him now because we feel guilty for hiding how we feel about each other.”

Hutch took a moment to add the truth of Starsky’s caution to his own instinctive reaction to IA, then balanced that against the facts of the case as they knew them. “Maybe you’re right and it’s just overcompensating. But he is right about one thing, the cause is righteous.”

“Righteous enough to put our butts in IA’s sites? Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but we’ve been trying damned hard to make sure we don’t give IA, or anybody else, something to talk about.”

“So, this isn’t really about trusting Dobey, it’s about covering our asses?” Hutch made the accusation a question with the quiet lilt of his voice. This wasn’t the first time since they had becomes lovers that their feelings, instincts, or intellect had been at odds over a case, but none of those cases had had the slightest potential of exposing their secret life.

Starsky acknowledged the truth of that with a nod and a lift of the beer bottle. “Just wanted to talk it out before we jump into the fire, babe, when it’s already hot enough in the pan.”

“Then we talk.” Hutch settled back more comfortably, pulling his legs up and stretching them out until the soles of his stockinged feet pressed against Starsky’s hip. The gesture earned him a smile from Starsky. Connected, yet not so connected that they couldn’t think clearly and talk shop. “My only pain in the gut is Dryden. I don’t trust the bastard.”

“I do.” Starsky’s statement was as surprising as it was simple.

“You do?” Hutch struggled not to feel betrayed, but the investigation into Vanessa’s murder was a very painful memory that hadn’t had nearly enough time to heal.

“Yeah, I do. Far as I’d trust any IA puke, that is.” Starsky shifted, lifting a little so Hutch could tuck his toes into the warmth between cushion and butt. “It was Simonetti who was the asshole, not Dryden. He was worried as hell what I had up my sleeve when we came to arrest you, but he still let me come up alone.”

“He followed you up.” Hutch was unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice as the memory bit him. The brief, disbelieving pain when he had realized that Starsky was there to arrest him. Fortunately, hard on the heels of that discovery had been the revelation of Starsky’s rescue plan.

“Of course he did.” Starsky grinned and cocked his head to the side. “Wouldn’t you? I know I would’ve in his position.”

“Okay.” Hutch always doubted Starsky’s judgment when it came to food, but seldom when it came to people. “And it’s moot anyway if we’re working directly with Dobey. That leaves your doubts. What’s on your alleged mind, partner?”

“The same thing that’s always on my mind. Tucked back here.” Starsky tapped the back of his head. “You, me, us. How much it means. What it could cost. Just don’t want to invite the shit to hit the fan. You know what I mean?”

“Of course I do. It’s all sitting right there in my head, too.” Hutch mirrored the tap to the back of his head. “Don’t want another partner. Sure as hell want to keep my lover.”

“If we both feel the same way, I guess that settles it. We do it.” Starsky was saying all the right words, but his tone was still a little off, just a shade the wrong side of his usual confidence.

“Yeah?” Hutch let the appeal stand between them, watched the flickers of expression pass over the face he knew so well as Starsky applied his own unique brand of logic to the problem.

After an uncounted number of minutes had passed, Starsky’s expression cleared. “Yeah, I got my doubts. But, yeah, we should do it. Where do we start?”

“MacAvoy? Get his story first hand?” Hutch suggested.

“He told Mason he isn’t gay.”

Hutch gave a short, very unamused, huff of laughter. “He’d have to, wouldn’t he? We both know what ‘official’ policy is, and we both know it’s a crock of shit. Why would he open up to us?”

“Because we could charm the flies off dog shit?” Starsky’s grin reassured Hutch that whatever doubts he might still harbor, his partner was trying to give the case his best shot. “Seriously, Hutch. We don’t try to bullshit him. We tell him it’s Brooks who’s being investigated and that whatever he tells us stays with us.”

“Even if we can’t keep that promise?”

Starsky cocked his head. “Who’s gonna work harder to, us or whatever other team Dobey or IA hands this off to? We have a vested interest, right?”

“Right. We’ll have to get Dobey to pull Brooks’s jacket on the sly. Wouldn’t hurt to see MacAvoy’s, too. What else?”

“Not much we can plan until we talk to MacAvoy.” Starsky gave Hutch’s leg a pat, then stood, reaching into a tendon-popping stretch as he yawned. “Sleep on it?” The suggestion was made as he bent to pick up his jacket and holster.

“Hey! I thought you were staying tonight,” Hutch protested. Even before becoming lovers, they had stayed over at each other’s apartments frequently. They had continued that pattern, but had been careful never to indulge their need to be together all night more often than when they were simply friends. Tonight, however, was supposed to have been one of those nights.

Starsky stared down at his jacket, the leather crackling from the strength of his grip. Eventually, he slanted a sideways glance at Hutch. “I was.” A pause while his eyes tracked down Hutch’s body and then back up. “Guess Dobey and Dryden showing up like that kind of put me off my stride.”

Starsky the friend, Hutch knew very well. Starsky the partner, he knew even better. Starsky the lover, however, still held more than a few mysteries. Those mysteries intrigued Hutch, and he looked forward to ferreting them all out over the years to come, but for now, the gaps in his knowledge left him feeling uncertain. When uncertain, there was one, always safe, road to communication between them.

“Damn. I was all set for you to be here tonight,” Hutch said with mock sorrow. “Don’t know if I can sleep without your snoring.”

“My snoring?” Starsky moved to stand over Hutch as he voiced his protest. “One of these days, I’m gonna tape you when the ragweed’s in bloom.”

Hutch caught Starsky’s hand, tugged until Starsky obligingly perched on the couch beside him. “Seriously, babe,” he whispered, sliding his fingers into Starsky’s hair, drawing the face he loved slowly toward him. “I just wanna hold you,” he promised, and brought their lips together in a gentle, tender kiss.

There was no heat in Starsky’s eyes when the kiss ended. No passion, no anger, just the warm glow of his love. Very deliberately, he set his jacket and holster on the coffee table, then slipped his hand around the back of Hutch’s neck. “Can’t say I’ve got any objections to being held.”

~*~*~

“Well?”

Seated across the desk from Dobey, Starsky exchanged one last, confirming glance with Hutch before they nodded in unison.

Dobey leaned forward expectantly. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan? You dropped this in our laps eight hours ago with almost no information, and you expect us to have a plan?” Hutch’s protest was delivered with more amusement than indignation.

Dobey dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t create your reputation, Hutchinson. You two did that yourselves. Plan?”

“Initial plan is that we have to do some background work. We’ll need Brooks and MacAvoy’s jackets, and whatever information IA has from the financial check.” Hutch shrugged to indicate he was stating the obvious.

Dobey picked up three folders and offered them across the desk. “I assumed that much.”

Starsky accepted one of the folders from Hutch. He didn’t open it, but continued to watch Hutch, judging his commitment to the case. 110%. As usual, once Hutch accepted the responsibility, he somehow managed to set aside whatever personal qualms he might have.

Starsky wished he felt as surefooted. It was unsettling to feel even slightly out of synch with his partner, especially on a case that struck this close to home. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t set aside the fear that they would somehow step wrong and be exposed. He wasn’t ashamed that Hutch was his lover; that didn’t mean he no longer appreciated the value of Hutch as his partner.

“What do you think, Starsky?”

Despite the off-track path of his thoughts, Starsky had been giving at least half of his attention to the conversation between Hutch and Dobey. “Once we’ve read this.” Starsky lifted the file he held. “We’ll have to talk to MacAvoy. We’ll need an excuse to approach him, something he was involved in, just in case Brooks is keeping an eye on him.”

“He’s almost due for his end of year evaluations. I can have R&I send me his dailies without raising any red flags,” Dobey said. “Then what?”

Hutch shrugged. “When we’ve talked to MacAvoy, we’ll have a better idea where to go from there.”

“I’ll let you know when I get the dailies.” Dobey reached for his phone.

Both Starsky and Hutch recognized the dismissal and started for the door.

Starsky paused with his hand on the door knob. “One more thing, Captain. What’s the priority on this? We have a full load of case files on our desk now.”

Dobey leaned back in his chair, the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “MacAvoy said Brooks only gave him a week to come up with the money. That moves this case to the top of the heap. If there’s anything on your desk that’s urgent, give it to me and I’ll assign another team. Otherwise….”

“Yeah, we know. Keep up if we can, catch up with it if we can’t.”

The squad room was the usual chaos of first shift arriving and night shift checking out. When they left the relative quiet of Dobey’s office, Hutch circled to his side of the long table. Starsky stopped for coffee for both of them before he took his place across from his partner.

Hutch already had his nose in one of the files and barely nodded acknowledgement when Starsky put the mug down in front of him. As Starsky had already concluded, Hutch was now committed to the case.

Struggling to find that same focus, Starsky opened the file Hutch had passed to him and discovered it was MacAvoy’s personnel jacket. The file was thin. No reprimands. No commendations. There were consistent monthly supervisory notes stating that the officer was competent. The most noteworthy information was that MacAvoy was only twenty-one years old. That would have put him entering the Academy at nineteen.

Starsky flipped closed the file, shaking his head.

“Something wrong?”

Starsky passed over the file, accepting Brooks’s much thicker file in exchange. “Not wrong. Just wondering if MacAvoy is…” He paused and glanced around, ensuring that no one was close enough to overhear. “…you know, why he’d want to be a cop?”

“Why’d you want to be one?” Hutch flipped open MacAvoy’s file but didn’t immediately look at it.

“That’s easy. John Blaine.” Starsky smiled as he remembered his neighbor and mentor, most of the bitterness that had followed Blaine’s death faded now. “I probably would have ended up on the other side of the bars if it wasn’t for him.”

“And I wanted to be one because my family and Vanessa were dead set against it.” Hutch shrugged philosophically. “There are probably as many different reasons as there are cops.”

“Yeah.” Starsky opened Brooks’s file and started to read. He hadn’t gotten very far when he felt a tap on his hand and looked up to find Hutch watching him intently.

“What’s up? Change your mind about taking this one?” Hutch asked.

They were only slightly out of synch, but of course, Hutch had noticed. Feeling both guilty and relieved, Starsky shook his head, then lifted his hand and lightly rapped his knuckles against the base of his skull.

“Yeah, me too,” Hutch agreed.

Suddenly, Starsky no longer felt that quarter step behind his partner. It was only three simple words, yet knowing, despite appearances to the contrary, Hutch still nursed a doubt or two of his own, brought Starsky back squarely beside him.

~*~*~

Sitting in the Torino across the street from Aunt Erma’s Diner, Starsky and Hutch watched MacAvoy and his partner park their cruiser and enter the diner for their Code 7.

“Ready?” Hutch cracked the passenger door.

“Born ready.” Starsky was already closing the driver’s door behind him.

Hutch waited while Starsky circled the Torino’s long nose, and they fell into step as they crossed the street and pushed through the diner’s glass door. There was no need to discuss tactics; they had already decided their strategy. Whichever one of them MacAvoy responded to more positively would take the lead, while the other remained ready to jump in if necessary.

Inside, they went directly to the booth where the two uniformed officers sat.

“Officer MacAvoy? I’m Detective Sergeant Starsky. This is my partner, Detective Sergeant Hutchinson. We’re from homicide. Do you remember the d/b you found in the alley at Fifth and Marshall a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, I remember.” MacAvoy added a nod to his verbal confirmation.

“The file’s been shuffled to us, and there’s a couple of questions we need to ask. Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but would you mind?” Starsky hooked a thumb over his shoulder indicating an empty booth at the back of the diner.

“Uh, no. Of course.” MacAvoy grabbed his cap off the table and slid out of the booth.

“S’okay, Baker.” Hutch laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of MacAvoy’s partner, exerting just enough pressure to keep him in his seat. “We won’t keep him long.”

MacAvoy’s handsome young face was a little less open as he took his seat, a touch of wariness tightening his eyes and mouth when he realized he had been deliberately separated from his partner.

“Don’t worry, kid.” Starsky was quick to offer the reassurance as he slid onto the bench across from MacAvoy.

Hutch took the place beside Starsky. He hoped MacAvoy would recognize the significance of their positions. That the detectives had made no effort to box him in and that the realization might put the younger man at ease.

“I thought the coroner ruled the guy I found was dead of natural causes.” MacAvoy seemed to have picked up the message, his body becoming less tense and his blue eyes less guarded. The wariness returned, however, when Starsky admitted the truth behind their visit.

“He probably did. That was just our excuse to get you back here. We want to talk to you about your visit to IA yesterday.” Starsky appeared relaxed and unconcerned, but Hutch could feel the tension in the thigh next to his. Starsky was poised to prevent any retreat MacAvoy might attempt.

Hutch had lost track of the number of interrogations he had conducted over the years, with or without Starsky, but he had never lost that excited little cramp in the pit of his gut when it hit the perp across the table that he or she was caught. Panic. Terror. That instinctive flight reaction that only slowly recognized the impossibility of escape. MacAvoy, however, wasn’t a perp. Whatever he hadn’t told IA, he was still the victim.

“Easy, kid. We’re the good guys,” Starsky crooned in reassurance. “We’ve been assigned to get that slime ball from Rampart off your back. Now, unless you want your partner to come charging over here, you need to stop looking so much like you need to be rescued.”

Hutch had to give MacAvoy his due, he didn’t regain all of his color, but the initial panic was quickly submerged beneath a more neutral expression.

Hutch noticed the waitress carrying two loaded plates to MacAvoy’s former table and waved her over. “Coffee. Two,” he said to the woman after she set one plate down in front of MacAvoy. “Go ahead and eat your lunch,” he advised MacAvoy after the waitress left.

Obediently, MacAvoy picked up his fork, but his eyes continued to track back and forth between Starsky and Hutch. “I know who you guys are. There probably aren’t a lot of people at Metro who don’t. But I never would have guessed you’re with IA.”

Starsky snorted in derision. “Us, IA? Hell, I oughta shoot you for that.”

MacAvoy’s eyes widened at the mock threat, then began to crinkle at the corners as they met Starsky’s.

Hutch saw the tenuous connection form between Starsky and the young officer and, as they had planned, he eased back more comfortably on the bench, signaling Starsky to take the lead.

“That’s better,” Starsky acknowledged the lessening of tension at the table. “Eat,” he repeated Hutch’s advice and accepted the cup the waitress put in front of him. “So, like I said, me and Hutch are going to take care of this situation for you, but we need to know a little more before we can figure out how.”

“I already told IA everything I know.” MacAvoy had speared a few french fries, but the fork remained suspended above his plate as he looked back and forth between his interrogators.

Hutch noticed Baker glancing their way as he ate, suspicion beginning to grow. Hoping to allay the man’s unease, he fished his notebook out of his pocked and pretended to take notes.

“Have you?” Starsky asked the question gently, but there was steel inside the velvet glove of his tone.

“Yes. I told Mason everything.” MacAvoy insisted. “Brooks approached me the night before last at the end of shift and said he was going to out me to the department if I didn’t pay him $5,000.00. I told him I didn’t have that kind of money, and he gave me a week to come up with it. Then he just told me to keep my mouth shut and split.”

Hutch met the glance Starsky threw his way and nodded a little to confirm he had picked up on the terminology as well. Unless MacAvoy was quoting Brooks directly, if MacAvoy was straight, it was for more likely he would have said “expose me as gay” or “report me as gay.” It was a little detail that may or may not be significant.

“Have you ever worked with him? Ever met him having a beer at Nellie’s or one of the other hangouts the boys in blue favor?” Starsky led the discussion down a short side alley.

“I’ve seen him at Nellie’s, but he doesn’t hang out with uniforms. Sticks with his plainclothes buddies.” MacAvoy’s forehead was creased up with thought, and it was obvious he was telling the truth. He did not have the look, however, of someone completely baffled by a bolt from the blue.

“So, if you’ve never worked with him, never drank with him, never even met him, where do you suppose he got the idea you’re gay?” Starsky brought the subject back to Main Street.

“I…I don’t know.” MacAvoy made the denial with only a small hesitation, but his eyes had dropped to his plate where the cooling burger and fries seemed suddenly utterly fascinating. He picked up the burger, but didn’t take a bite, just held it in front of himself like some sort of greasy, condiment-dripping shield.

Hutch leaned forward, taking the lead for a moment to offer a little good-cop reassurance. “This is just between the three of us, MacAvoy. Nothing’s being written down.” He turned his notebook to show the blank page. “And me and Starsky have the worst memories in the department when it comes to details that are nobody else’s business.” He leaned back and spread his hands in a make-peace gesture.

“That’s right. Swiss cheese has less holes.” Starsky took his turn leaning forward and tapped his fingers on the table. “We don’t care if you’re gay, straight, or a little green man from Mars. But even IA ain’t dumb enough to think Brooks pulled this idea outta thin air. There has to be a reason he thinks you’re gay and would be willing to pay that kind of money to keep it quiet. There’s not much profit in trying to blackmail somebody with a lie.”

Slowly, with obvious reluctance, MacAvoy carefully laid his burger back on his plate, his head lifting. A pair of uncertain blue eyes met Hutch’s, and Hutch tried hard to project nothing but understanding to them. The eyes traveled on to Starsky, hesitated, then seemed to find what they were looking for.

“I’m not gay.” MacAvoy’s tone assured Hutch that he was telling the truth. The same truth he had told IA, but still only a part of the truth. “I know why Brooks thinks I am, but it isn’t my secret to tell.”

“It’s up to you, kid,” Starsky reassured him one last time. “We’ve already told you we know how to keep our mouths shut. We want to help, but ignorance has us cuffed.”

MacAvoy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then started to talk, his voice low and intense, and to Hutch’s ears, full of relief. “It’s my brother who’s gay. Me and William are fraternal twins, but we look identical. Even our mother can’t tell us apart unless we want her to.”

Once again, MacAvoy hesitated, but the recognition of his limited options was easy to read in his resigned eyes. “Last Saturday, William called me and told me on Friday night he was at a gay club in Rampart called the Outer Limits when it was raided by the cops. He said the guy in charge of the raid took one look at him and made sure he slipped out of the net. He didn’t get the detective’s name, but when Brooks approached me Sunday night, I figured he had to think it was me at the Outer Limits that night.”

“Why didn’t you tell IA all this?” Hutch asked.

“I told you, it isn’t my secret to tell,” MacAvoy said bitterly.

“But if your brother goes to gay bars, he must be–“

“An asshole!” MacAvoy cut in on Starsky’s conclusion, speaking quickly with a full load of pent up anger behind each word. “A horny idiot who thinks his luck is going to last forever. I’ve told him and told him he has to be careful, but–” The tirade ended abruptly as MacAvoy bit his lip, making an obvious effort to calm himself. “My brother’s in the Air Force. Training to be a pilot.”

“Shit,” Starsky whispered and Hutch echoed him silently as their eyes met. Gay in the police department where official policy forbade discrimination was hard enough. In the armed forces, where there was no such official sanction, it had to be damned near impossible.

“Okay, MacAvoy, we’ll take it from here. If Brooks contacts you again, tell him you’re still getting the cash together. Let us know if he moves up the pay day.” Hutch paused to let his thoughts skip ahead a few possible steps. “If it comes to it, do you think you could pull off a sting? Meet to pay him, wear a wire, play the part you’ll need to?”

“I wish I could say yes,” MacAvoy said, obviously ashamed by either his lack of courage or acting ability. “But I don’t lie very well.”

“You do need to work on your poker face, kid,” Starsky agreed, patting MacAvoy on the arm. “A few more years on the job and you’ll be able to play five card stud with the best of ’em. Now, go on back to your partner, eat your lunch, and quit worrying. We’ve got your back, and your brother’s, too.”

They waited until MacAvoy was back in his seat, then Starsky and Hutch left the diner, throwing a casual “thanks, kid” MacAvoy’s way as they passed the table.

“What do you think?” Hutch asked as they climbed back into the Torino.

“I think I’m hungry,” Starsky complained predictably.

~*~*~

Hutch followed Starsky into the Pits. They both waved to Huggy at the bar, but didn’t stop, going directly to their favorite booth and sitting opposite each other.

It wasn’t long before Huggy, dazzling as usual in a lime green satin shirt, joined them. “To what do I owe the honor of this rare appearance?”

“Lunch?” Hutch suggested.

“Information?” Starsky added.

Huggy heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Shoulda guessed. Haven’t seen you two outside of business hours since you tried to get me killed for a peach pit. I’m beginning to think I got some kinda social disease.”

“Haven’t you heard, crime’s on the rise,” Hutch said, feeling a sharp pang of guilt at the familiar complaint. Huggy wasn’t exaggerating or being paranoid. It had been months since he and Starsky had shown their faces around the Pits in their off-duty hours.

“Crime’s always on the rise. Never stopped you from stopping by for a game and a beer before.”

“Are you feeling neglected, Huggy Bear?” Starsky asked with mock sympathy as he rose and attempted to throw his arms around their skinny friend. Huggy fended him off and Starsky sank back down on the bench. “Seems like a change in tune from ‘cops give the place a bad name.'”

“Hey, when was the last time I made you use the service entrance?” Huggy shared a glare equally between the two of them, then shrugged as if to dismiss his own objections and gave them his wide-lipped smile. “So which is it today? Lunch or the beat on the street?”

“Both. How about a couple of specials.” Starsky patted the bench next to him. “Take a load off a while, my man.”

Huggy bellowed their lunch order at Anita, then sat down beside Starsky. “What do you need to know?”

“Anything you might happen to have heard about a detective out of Rampart named Brooks.” Hutch automatically lowered his voice although there was no one within earshot.

Huggy’s mobile features crunched into a grimace. “You know I don’t like to talk to cops about other cops.”

“We know you have your own unique code of honor.” Starsky patted their friend’s shoulder reassuringly.

“And you know we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Hutch added.

“Yeah. Yeah. Brooks. Brooks.” Huggy hummed the name to himself, scratched his head, and then shook it decisively. “Personally, I never laid eyes on the dude. You want me to make some inquiries?”

“You know how to reach us if you find out anything interesting,” Starsky said.

Huggy waited while Anita served their lunches, then slid out of the booth. “I’ll let you know what turns.” He started to turn away, then paused. “Seriously. Do we have a beef?”

“No beef, Hug.” Starsky’s reassurance was quick, but didn’t ring quite true. “We’ll be around.”

“We’re going to have to deal with that sooner or later,” Hutch said after Huggy left, searching Starsky’s face for some clue of what was going on behind the placid features.

Starsky shrugged and picked up his hamburger. “Do you have any bright ideas how?” He took a bite of the burger and chewed methodically, his expectant gaze on Hutch.

“Would an evening here once in a while, shooting pool and shooting the breeze with a friend, really be that big a risk?” Hutch wondered aloud. A strict social ban was part of their strategy to protect their secret from becoming grist for the gossip mill. Like an undercover operation, the fewer people who knew equaled a lesser chance of exposure. The idea had been Starsky’s, and Hutch had gone along with it, but he had never been certain whether they were being overly cautious or simply prudent.

Starsky’s gaze dropped to his plate, but not before Hutch saw the reluctance in his eyes. He continued to chew, perhaps for the first time in his life going for the recommended chews per bite, obviously giving himself more time to think.

“We know what’s at stake,” Starsky said after he finally swallowed. “On the job, I’m not saying it’s easy, but I can do it. You’re my partner, my friend. But when we’re off the clock, it’s like something inside unlocks and what I feel comes out and doesn’t wanna hide out again ’til it has to.” He paused, picked up the ketchup bottle and liberally doused his fries. “Maybe, if I hadn’t locked it away for so long, it’d be easier.” His eyes asked Hutch for understanding.

That expression slipped Hutch back in time a few short months to the moment when Starsky had changed the fabric of their lives….

“Are you sure you’re okay? Want a beer or something?” Starsky asked, settling beside Hutch on the couch only after Hutch had rejected the offer of alcoholic comfort.

 Hutch forced a smile for the friend who had more than proven his loyalty over the last few days by helping him clear himself of the murder of his ex-wife. Starsky had gone beyond any reasonable call of partnership or even friendship. Now that the crisis had passed and the inevitable emotional aftermath had started to set in, Starsky still hovered protectively, ready to comfort, shield, or chide as needed. As he always was. Since he and Starsky had met, all of Hutch’s most serious entanglements seemed to end in tragedy or travesty, but Starsky was always there to lessen the blows.

 Hutch slid down on the cushion until he could rest his head on the back of the couch. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes. “I really do have lousy luck with women, don’t I?” He made no effort to disguise the bitter irony of the observation or his spirit’s weariness with the truth of it.

 There was no answer from Starsky, but Hutch hadn’t really expected one. Although words could sometimes be a struggle for Starsky, Hutch knew his friend would find some way to express himself. A pat on the shoulder. A squeeze of his arm. Maybe a hand that ruffled the hair at the back of Hutch’s neck. Brief gestures that came from the heart and spoke more eloquently than words ever could.

 Hutch waited patiently for his comfort, feeling the dip of the cushion as Starsky shifted and then the subtle warmth as Starsky leaned closer. Silent minutes passed, and eventually, Hutch’s patience began to wear thin when the expected comfort was withheld and the ache for contact grew in his chest. His friend was close, but not close enough.

 When Hutch heard Starsky’s sigh of frustration, he opened his eyes and found his friend closer than he had expected. Starsky’s face hovered only a few inches above Hutch’s, the blue eyes begging for understanding.

 “Starsk?” The name came out a husky whisper, the sense of hanging suspended between the unhappy today and the so much more promising tomorrow demanding respect the way a centuries old cathedral commanded reverence.

 “I’m so tired of standing by and watching other people break your heart. I love you, Hutch, and I’d never hurt you. You can knock me into the middle of next week, but I just gotta….”

 Starsky’s declaration of love and devotion ended with the press of his lips to Hutch’s in a kiss that made the same promises and a hundred more. Only as the tender kiss took possession of his mouth, his heart, and his soul did Hutch realize it was the kiss he had been waiting for his entire life.

“Hutch? Hutch? What are you thinking about?”

Hutch reluctantly let the memory of that very first kiss fade, but he could feel it lingering on his smiling lips. He blinked and ducked his head, poking at the fries on his plate and struggling with the need to re-enact that memory here and now. “Nothing that makes it easier to remember we are on the clock.”

“Damn,” Starsky swore softly, the struggle to resist his own needs coloring his voice in ocean-deep hues. Abruptly, he picked up his burger and took a huge bite. “Eat.”

Hutch followed the advice, concentrating on biting and chewing and swallowing until he could once again look across the table and see his partner rather than the man he was hopelessly in love with. “Do you think this honeymoon stage is ever going to end?”

Starsky pushed away his empty plate, stole the last two fries from Hutch’s plate, and managed an imitation of his usual cocky grin. “Sometimes I wish it would, but most of the time, I hope it never does.”

Hutch let the contradiction warm him for a few more seconds, then said what he had to say. “Dobey’s going to be expecting a brilliant plan.”

It took a few seconds longer for them to make the transition, then the habits of six years of partnership finally rescued them.

“First things first, I guess we’re going to have to check out this Outer Limits joint.” The wattage of Starsky’s grin dimmed a little. “How fucking ironic. We’ve been so careful we’re practically hermits, and now we’re gonna go hang out at a gay bar.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Hutch, but neither was the bitter edge to Starsky’s voice. “I guess it’ll be like we’re using what we are to each other,” he suggested gently, feeling his own resentment and knowing for Starsky, who had hidden the secret so much longer, the knife must cut deeper still.

“Yeah, it is, Hutch,” Starsky agreed after a moment of thought. “But you and me have always used whatever we had to when the cause was righteous. I can’t think of anything more righteous than putting this bastard behind bars.”

Starsky stood behind Hutch reading over his shoulder, one hand resting on the back of Hutch’s chair. Silently, he reached toward the report they were both reading, underscoring one line with the pencil in his left hand, then circling one name. Hutch nodded silently, then flipped over the stack of similar reports they had already read and closed the file.

They both looked up when they heard the door across from them open. Dobey stood in the doorway, a silent question on his face. They answered wordlessly, collected the many files from their research, and followed Dobey into his office.

“Now do you have a plan?” Dobey asked as they all settled into their usual positions on either side of the desk.

“It’s starting to come together,” Hutch said, and Starsky nodded in agreement.

They had spent the afternoon in more research, taking turns searching out reports at R&I themselves rather than putting in requests and letting the clerks do the grunt work in an effort to keep the subject of their interest from flashing through the department’s grapevine like greased lightning. That gossip grapevine in any police department was usually far more efficient than the official lines of communication. It was an undeniable reality that the more people who knew about any part of an undercover operation was directly proportional to its chance of failure. As far as Starsky and Hutch were concerned, there was already one more person involved in this assignment than necessary, and they sincerely hoped that Dobey had been able to maneuver Dryden as far out of the loop as possible.

“What have you got so far?” Dobey sat back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach, his expression expectant that the team he had chosen for the assignment were, as usual, about to confirm his faith in their abilities.

Hutch set the files he held on Dobey’s desk, but didn’t open any of them. “MacAvoy gave us more than he told IA, so we understand why Brooks thinks he’s a target. As Dryden suspected, MacAvoy was telling the truth, just not all of it.”

“Do I need to know?”

Starsky met the look Hutch threw his way and shook his head. They trusted Dobey, but they had also seen how important it was to MacAvoy to protect his brother. “Let’s just say it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

Dobey looked back and forth between them, then shrugged. “Official department policy is that it doesn’t matter if he is or he isn’t, so I’m willing to leave it at that. Did he tell you how he happened to get mixed up in this case of mistaken identity?”

“Looks like it came out of a raid at a place called The Outer Limits.” Hutch pulled one file out of the stack and handed it to Dobey. “Those are reports of raids that were conducted there over the last three months. You’ll see Brooks’ name as one of the officers involved in the majority of those raids. He isn’t always in command, but often enough. One other detail, Captain, is the number of injuries, especially injuries serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital, is sixty percent higher when he’s in command.”

Dobey opened the file and scanned two or three pages before closing it again. “It does appear he might be prone to excessive use of force.”

Hutch snorted with disgust as he accepted the return of the file. “Excessive use of force? Let’s face it, Captain. The man’s a homophobe who uses his badge and his duty as an excuse to get away with gay bashing.”

Silently, Starsky reached out and laid a cautioning hand on Hutch’s arm. “Easy, partner,” he murmured, reminding Hutch that politic discretion might be more appropriate than soap-box passion at the moment.

For a moment, it appeared Hutch would ignore the warning, then his body relaxed and his gaze softened to something less than laser intensity. “We haven’t worked out the details yet, but the simple plan is to be at the Outer Limits the next time Brooks raids it and see if he tries to blackmail us.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to wire up MacAvoy and let him meet Brooks for the pay off?” Dobey’s suggestion was the simplest and most obvious plan.

“It would be if the kid wasn’t green as grass,” Starsky agreed. He collected silent agreement from Hutch before confirming their judgment. “If Brooks has any kind of savvy at all, he’d see through the kid in about ten seconds.”

“Then it will have to be your show. What do you need from me?” Dobey asked.

“Patience to start with, Captain.” Hutch smiled at the captain’s dismissive grunt. “If we want to keep this under wraps, we’ll have to work our regular day shift, but spend nights hanging out at the Outer Limits. Overtime pay would be nice, but we’ll be happy if you just cut us a little slack if we’re late in the morning and try to keep our caseload down to a dull roar.”

“I’m glad you’re not expecting me to authorize overtime for spending your nights drinking and dancing.”

“Hey. Have you see him dance? I oughta be getting danger pay,” Starsky cut in sourly, but in reality, a wave of excited anticipation had just churned up a flock of butterflies in his belly. It hadn’t occurred to him until this very moment the freedom this undercover assignment offered. To dance with Hutch. Hold the person he loved in his arms and let that love show all over his face. In every little touch or gesture or word spoken. In public. If only for a few days, he could openly love Hutch and accept Hutch’s love in return. Without any risk.

It was, however, obvious when their eyes met, that the possibilities hadn’t yet presented themselves to Hutch. He was still frowning over Starsky’s comment, his eyes promising payback at some future time.

 “Anything else?” Dobey asked.

Despite the fact that Hutch remained clueless, it took an effort of will for Starsky to pull his eyes away from his lover’s face. No, not lover. Partner. Whatever freedoms the undercover assignment held for them, Starsky couldn’t exercise them here in front of a superior officer who knew them all too well.

Hutch’s frown turned to puzzlement, but he returned his attention to Dobey. “Two things. First, we’ve never laid eyes on the target, and as far as we know, he wouldn’t know us from Adam. Is there a mutual case with Rampart we could use to set up a meet? Nothing antagonistic to get his back up. Helping hands. That sort of thing.”

“There has to be something,” Dobey confirmed. “You said two things?”

“If we can find out when the next raid is, we’ll have a better idea how to work this. The officers assigned might not know in advance, but somebody in command over at Rampart has to know. Do you have any sources you can tap over there? Unofficially.”

Dobey gave it a moment’s thought. “I owe Captain Peterson lunch as I recall.”

Starsky and Hutch nodded together and then stood.

“We asked Huggy to ask around discreetly,” Hutch said as they accepted their files back from Dobey. “If he tells us anything you need to know, we’ll pass it on.”

“One more thing.”

Starsky and Hutch were already half way to the door, but they stopped and turned back to face Dobey.

“Try not to be too late in the morning.”

“Will do, Cap,” Starsky promised and then hustled Hutch out the door. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and fidgeted impatiently while Hutch tidied their table. “Would you hurry up.”

Hutch gave him a puzzled look, but obligingly grabbed his jacket and followed Starsky out of the squad room.

Starsky took the stairs two at a time, impatient for the semi-privacy of the Torino. He could hardly contain his excitement and was anxious to share his realization with Hutch. Anxious to share the excitement. Anxious to see the same excited anticipation on Hutch’s face.

“What the hell’s your hurry?” Hutch was breathing a little heavier from their sprint to the car, his expression sour as he closed the door behind him. “The Outer Limits doesn’t even open for hours yet.”

Starsky turned the key in the ignition and backed out of the space, through force of will alone keeping his attention on what he was doing and not the man beside him. Once they were on the road, pointed toward Venice Place, Starsky could contain himself no longer.

“You know, Hutch, I love you, but sometimes I wonder if all you’ve got under that pretty blond hair is solid rock.”

“Wait a minute, we all know who the brains of this outfit is,” Hutch protested.

“Oh, yeah? Is it the guy sitting there clueless in the passenger seat, or is it the guy over here in the driver’s seat? The guy that’s figured out tonight we can be as far out of the fucking closet as we want to be and not have to give a flying fuck who sees it?” Starsky took his eyes off the road long enough to see the light bulb go off on Hutch’s face.

“Oh,” Hutch murmured. The possibilities were parading themselves across his face as clearly as they had marched across Starsky’s mind. When Hutch’s eyes met his, Starsky was satisfied to see the same anticipatory excitement in the wide clear depths that bubbled inside himself.

“Yeah, oh.” Starsky dropped his voice into a deep, sexy growl, then forced his eyes back to the road. He wasn’t taking any chance that his inattention would cause an accident and rob them of the most wonderful night of their lives.

~*~*~

Wearing his tight, faded-in-all-the-right-places jeans, but still barefoot and shirtless, Starsky stood in front of his closet trying to decide what shirt to wear. The red t-shirt that Hutch said made him look like an irresistible devil, or the blue shirt that Hutch said made his eyes look so deep and dark, he just wanted to dive into them and do the backstroke down into Starsky’s soul?

Starsky smirked at his thoughts. He always had known how to make himself more attractive, but now he only cared what attracted Hutch. What put that glow of love, or sparkle of desire in his lover’s eyes. Especially tonight, when there was no need for either of them to hide the light of their love under a bushel of denial.

“You, buddy boy, have got it soooo bad.” Starsky grinned, grabbed the blue shirt, then pointed at his reflection in the mirror. He pretended to shoot himself in the heart, grabbed his chest, and then staggered away, laughing at himself with the sheer joy he could barely contain.

Starsky’s excitement had begun during the ride to his place and had grown deeper and harder to contain while he showered and shaved and squeezed into his jeans. As he finished dressing, the prospect of tonight’s freedom was making him a little giddy and anxious for Hutch to return so the night could begin. He knew they were going to be working, reconnoitering, and discreetly questioning staff and patrons. But they wouldn’t be working all night; they would also be dancing. Together.

“Come on, you big, blond, gorgeous Blintz, get over here already!”

As if Starsky’s demand had been sent by telepathy, Starsky heard the rough, rattling arrival of Hutch’s car. He took one last look in the mirror, then charged to the door in time to throw it open as Hutch reached for the knob.

“What took you so long?” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm and pulled him into the apartment, flipping the door closed behind him. He let his gaze run over the dark brown shirt, wide at collar and shoulder and shaped down long torso to the creamy cords that wrapped snug around hips and down long, long legs, until he reach Hutch’s feet. Boots, with heels that were going to put Starsky at a slight disadvantage when they danced. The thought of that disadvantage sent a shiver of arousal down his spine. He loosed a low whistle of appreciation.

“Next time you drop me off and I’ll do the complaining.”

“I did drop you off, remember?”

If Hutch heard the protest, he ignored it. He walked by Starsky, apparently unaware of the appreciative gaze that continued to follow him. He walked as far as the couch, hesitated, then turned back and let his eyes give Starsky the once-over twice from hair to shoes and back up again.

“Well?” Starsky’s demand was made with hands on hips and one leg bent slightly forward to highlight his assets.

“You look good in blue.” Hutch plunked himself down on the couch as if he planned on parking there for a while. “But you already know that.”

Knocked abruptly from overdrive into neutral, Starsky hesitated, then slowly moved to join Hutch on the couch. “Is something wrong?”

“You look like you’re wired for sound. We’re working tonight, remember, partner.” The dent between Hutch’s fair eyebrows was a Grand Canyon of disapproval.

“Of course we’re working.” Starsky tried to read past the critical, somewhat hauty expression on Hutch’s face, looking for a spark of his own anticipation, wondering if Hutch was playing one of his often badly-timed jokes. “But we’re going out, too,” he ventured, willing to let Hutch spring his joke and get it over with.

Hutch didn’t spring any joke. He didn’t smile, or look like he had something up his sleeve. He looked grim and the sigh that slipped out of him was sadly resigned. “You’re looking forward to that, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” Starsky answered hesitantly, suddenly realizing that he had somehow charged into an emotional mine field and uncertain how to negotiate it. “Aren’t you?”

“I guess it was bound to happen.” Hutch sighed. One of those heavy, deep out of the belly and a troubled soul type of sighs that usually meant his very worst fears had been realized. “Maybe what we’ve been trying to do was unrealistic. You’ve been missing going out. Getting restless. You were never meant to be a hermit.”

Starsky began to protest, then paused, taking a little time to think before he spoke. He had long known that an ounce of keep your mouth shut beat a pound of apology, but had learned early in their new relationship that that moment of forethought could be worth a ton or two. Hutch was one of the most complicated people Starsky knew, with a multitude of layers, and the closer the layer was to his heart, the more fragile it was. Learning to handle those layers delicately had been a challenge, but it was one Starsky was more than willing to accept for the prize of Hutch’s love.

Starsky tried to reach for Hutch’s hand, but his grip was eluded. Nothing as obvious as an outright rejection, just Hutch lifting his arm to lay it over the back of the couch at the same moment Starsky reached for his hand. Easily a coincidence, or even an accident of timing. Starsky knew it was neither. He eased away a few inches and, once again drawing on a resource of patience that was for Hutch alone, prepared to delve into the unknown territory of Hutch the lover.

“Yeah, Hutch, I’m excited about going out tonight because I’m going out with you.” Starsky tried to explain his enthusiasm.

“Are you sure about that? Or are you just excited to be going out? Away from these four walls. Like I said, you aren’t the type to be a hermit.” Hutch’s eyes were fixed on the television, just as if some fascinating drama was playing out on it rather than the blank, dark screen of non-function.

“It was my idea, remember, Hutch?” Starsky said gently. “My idea to keep to ourselves to protect us.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time one of your bright ideas backfired in your face.”

Starsky hesitated, searching past the obvious bitterness of what Hutch was saying to the tiny clues on Hutch’s face. Hutch wasn’t giving Starsky his eyes to read, but Starsky could still ferret out clues in the subtle tic of the muscles beside those evasive eyes and the taut, controlled set of the sensual lips. Pain, not anger. The expectation of rejection that Hutch had, somehow, brought on himself.

“You don’t have to do it, you know, babe.” Starsky reached for Hutch’s hand and refused to accept rejection a second time. He entwined their fingers securely, remaining silent until Hutch turned his head and let Starsky nab the same secure lock on their gazes. “You don’t have to drive me away before I leave you.”

Starsky felt Hutch try to pull away and tightened his grip. “You feel that, Hutch? The way I’m hanging on to you? That’s because I know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’d be a fool to let you go.” He squeezed the hand in his more gently and offered a tentative smile. “You’ve called me a lot of things, but never a fool.”

Hutch’s lids came down, veiling the expression in his eyes as, slowly, the hand within Starsky’s relaxed. “No, I’ve never thought you were a fool. But you always loved going out a lot.”

“No, Hutch, I went out a lot. First I was looking for love where I was never going to find it, and then I was looking for something to help me keep my love for you to myself. Staying home with you these last few months has been better than any going out I’ve ever done with anybody else. And I don’t just mean the sex, either. But tonight…” Starsky stood, tugging Hutch to his feet as well and then sliding his arms around the slim waist. “Tonight I can go out with you. Dance with you.”

“Even if I’m a lousy dancer?” Hutch grumbled, but the objection was token. His expression had lost its bitter expectation of pain and was becoming cautiously optimistic, his eyes beginning to sparkle with guarded excitement.

“Even if you step on my feet. Even if we can’t figure out which one of us should lead.” Starsky pulled Hutch closer to him, smiling with delight when Hutch returned the firm embrace. “We’re gonna dance together. In public, Hutch.”

“It is kind of intoxicating, isn’t it?” Hutch agreed hesitantly, offering his shy smile that always caught at Starsky’s heart and reeled it in–hook, line, and sinker.

“Intoxicating as that damned innocent-boy smile of yours,” Starsky growled. “Now how about bringing it down here. Give me a kiss for luck, then let’s go play while we work.”

Hutch accepted the invitation, delivering a kiss that reassured Starsky all of his lover’s doubts had been dispelled, and just incidentally reminded Starsky of how very sweet being home alone with Hutch could be.

Starsky could feel Hutch’s smile on his own lips when Hutch finally ended the kiss. He gazed muzzily up into the china blue eyes until Hutch laughed.

“Shouldn’t we be going?”

“Going?” Starsky echoed, the only going he could think of now was the few steps to his bedroom or, better yet, the single step to the couch.

“The case. Dancing in public.” Hutch’s eyes and smile were brimming with self-confidence now.

Starsky blinked and shook his head. “Damn. Forgot. Forget everything when you kiss me like that.” He released Hutch and stepped back, lifted his arms above his head and undulated his hips. “Are you read to rumba, partner?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

~*~*~

The Outer Limits wasn’t located in one of Rampart’s better areas. In fact, the address was probably in one of the worst. The kind of area tourists only wandered into by accident. A place where just about anything–from drugs to sex to a human life–could be had for a price. The same kind of place where Starsky and Hutch had spent most of their partnership.

Like the Green Parrot in Metro, there was nothing on the outside of the Outer Limits that hinted at its nature. Nothing to distinguish it from the rest of the long block of bars, by-the-hour hotels, and porno palaces. Once inside, however, it was immediately obvious that the Outer Limits lacked even the tawdry class of the Green Parrot.

There was no fancy bar, no glittering bead curtains, and no stage with its promise of racy entertainment. Just one large, dimly lit room, a utilitarian bar, and a few bedraggled decorations. The place smelled of mold and spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke, and yet Hutch felt a wave of excitement sweep over him as he and Starsky stepped through the door and Starsky reached for his hand.

Their eyes met for a moment as they waited just inside the door, the sparkle in Starsky’s encouraging Hutch to let the excitement inside him grow. Hutch tried to frown, to remind Starsky silently that they were on the job, but his lover’s grin was irresistible, infecting Hutch with the same eagerness that bubbled inside Starsky. Whatever misgivings or doubts that still lived inside Hutch had no hope of being heard over the thunder of his own pulse.

“Work before pleasure.” Hutch tried to sound stern and in command.

Starsky saw right through him, his grin becoming a knowing smirk. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

With an effort, Hutch tore his gaze away from Starsky, letting his eyes sweep the room as Starsky towed him toward the bar. The place was busy, for a Tuesday night, with perhaps forty men of varying ages dancing on the square of tiles beneath the flash of the disco ball, sitting at the small tables that formed a semi-circle around the dance floor, or simply lounging against the walls of the open end of that circle.

They bellied up to the bar and Starsky leaned over to shout their order to the bartender above the blare of disco music that boomed from the mammoth speakers on opposite sides of the dance floor. Hutch picked up the beer that was placed in front of him and turned to lean his back against the bar while Starsky paid the tab, continuing his visual reconnitoring.

Despite his experience at the Green Parrot, it was still something of a shock to Hutch to look around a bar and see nothing but men. Men seated in couples or groups at the tables, men dancing together to the Bee Gee’s falsetto, and men posing on what Hutch recognized as a meat rack. Showing off their assets in half buttoned shirts and crotch-hugging jeans, their calculating gazes evaluated each other, looking for like-minded partners packaged in same-sex bodies.

“First time?”

Hutch turned his head toward the speaker, a man perhaps ten years older than himself, with a little salt in his dark side burns and a mustache to match. The red lips under the mustache quirked.

“Yeah, first time. Goes to the head the first time. After that…” A broad pair of shoulders lifted and fell. “…the shine wears off and you can see what a dump this place is.” The man offered his hand. “Jim.”

“Ken and Dave,” Hutch said, pointing to himself and then to Starsky. “So why keep coming back?”

A short parade of emotions passed over Jim’s face beginning with surprise that quickly marched into speculation and finally settled into a knowing smirk. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out before the night’s over. Whatever else the old Limits is, it’s better than the men’s room at the bus station.” He shrugged again as if to dismiss his own gloom. “You two together, or just together?” He nodded toward Starsky.

“Together.” Starsky joined the conversation with a definitive declaration of possession, his free hand sliding around Hutch’s waist.

“Lucky you,” Jim said, though he didn’t indicate which of them he considered more fortunate. Maybe both, Hutch thought, when the man reached for his drink and Hutch saw the plain gold band on his third finger.

“Is it always this busy here?” Starsky asked, leaning across Hutch to be heard.

“Tuesday and Wednesday nights, usually. Closer to the weekend, so-so. There are a lot of family obligations on the weekend.” Jim openly twisted his wedding ring with his thumb. “And the Outer Limits isn’t always the safest place to be come Friday or Saturday nights.”

“Gets a little rowdy?” Hutch asked.

“Could call it that.” Jim slid off his stool as the fast song ended and a slower one began. “See you around.”

Hutch watched as Jim made his way to the meat rack, approached a younger man and the two of them glided onto the dance floor and into each other’s arms.

“Wanna dance?” Starsky’s grin and lifted hand dismissed the invitation. “I know, business first. Let’s grab a table.”

They chose a table in the darkest corner, sitting close together and incidentally putting both their backs to the wall. Holding hands, nursing their beers, they settled down to watch and learn.

Almost immediately, Hutch noticed a feature his first observations had missed. His attention was drawn by an intermittent flash of light, as if a door was opened and then closed, that revealed a previously unnoticed corridor at the end of the bar. He gave Starsky a nudge with his shoulder and nodded toward the area. As they watched, a couple left the dance floor and headed toward the area, the brief flash highlighting them before darkness descended again.

“Quickie in the can?” Starsky shouted into Hutch’s ear.

“Maybe.” Hutch mouthed his conclusion rather than trying to shout above the music, and continued to watch.

Over the next thirty minutes, couples headed into that corridor and others returned, but the appearances and disappearances weren’t always accompanied by the flash of light.

“There’s something else back there.” They were between songs, so Hutch was able to communicate his observation to Starsky in a softer tone.

“Back entrance. They could be gettin’ it on in the alley.” Starsky suggested.

Hutch swept his gaze around the inside of the bar, then stood and offered his hand down to Starsky. “We need to know the back way out of here anyway. Let’s check it out.”

Hutch led the way as, hand in hand, they wove through the tables back to the bar, hanging an abrupt right just before they reached it. As they entered the corridor, a door opened and a couple emerged, sliding past them in the narrow space. Before the door swung closed, Hutch saw stalls and a couple of urinals.

The flash of light from the men’s room had revealed that the corridor was deeper than it had appeared from the barroom, and they continued along it, hugging the far wall in the almost complete dark. A dozen steps further along, Hutch’s ears caught the sound of a moan. He froze and felt Starsky bump into his back and then freeze as well when the moan was repeated. Repeated and echoed by more than one or two voices. If the music hadn’t been muted here, they might have misinterpreted the sounds as pain or missed them entirely. In the semi-quiet, however, the moans were easily heard and more easily interpreted. Men in the throes of pleasure, an abrupt shout revealing at least one man’s release.

Straining his senses against the darkness, Hutch slowly realized that the sounds were coming from above them and that there were stairs in the deeper darkness leading upward. Hutch’s imagination leapt ahead, flashing him alternating images of an orgy in progress or semi-private cubicles of bare mattresses. Whatever the amenities, it was obvious there was no need for the Outer Limit’s patrons to utilize the bathroom facilities for brief encounters, the management provided other options.

“I think we just found the Outer Limit’s special features. No wonder this dump is so popular.” Hutch leaned close to Starsky to whisper his conclusion.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Starsky breathed softly and Hutch silently agreed. Sex on the premises was one huge risk, for both management and patrons. “Why would anyone take the chance? If there’s a raid, you’re trapped up there.”

“But it makes sense if a lot of the men who come here are married and don’t have anywhere else to go.”

They heard footsteps coming down the stairs and hurried forward to avoid detection. Another twenty steps brought them to the end of the corridor and, Hutch’s blindly seeking hands discovered, a door. He fumbled around a little more, found the knob, and tried to turn it. Locked.

Hutch turned to report his discovery to Starsky just as the beam of a flashlight swept over them. Startled, they both jumped, automatically falling into defensive stances.

“What are you doing skulking around back here?” The voice behind the light sounded like gravel in a cement mixer.

Hutch slowly straightened, lifted his hand to shade his eyes, and squinted, trying to pick out features from the shadowy hulk.

“A smart fox always knows enough to find the back way out,” Starsky said.

The light swung toward the ceiling. No longer blinded, Hutch could now see that they were being challenged by a small mountain of a man, presumably the bouncer. Clad in a leather vest, with the light reflecting off bulging biceps and barrel chest, the bouncer looked as if he would be right at home keeping order in a biker bar.

“Never hurts to be cautious,” the bouncer agreed. “But it won’t do much good. When we get raided, the bulls always cover the back before they come bustin’ in the front. You’re new, or you’d know that.”

“Do you get raided a lot?” Hutch asked, injecting a note of nervousness into his voice.

“Easy, babe,” Starsky murmured right on cue, his arm sliding around Hutch’s waist and drawing him closer.

Hutch saw some of the suspicion leave the bouncer’s face and realized the man had recognized the naturalness of Starsky’s actions. A naturalness that, even as easily physical as he and Starsky had always been with each other, wouldn’t have been as convincingly smooth if they hadn’t really been lovers.

“More than we used to,” the bouncer admitted candidly. “Up until about a year ago, the cops pretty much turned a blind eye to us. Lately, hell, sometimes they’ll clean us out three times in a week. Never know. It’s meaner now, too. You’re as likely to catch a billyclub even if you are goin’ along quietly. There’s a new guy in charge of most of the raids, and the bastard’s meaner than snake piss.”

Hutch exchanged a look with Starsky, surprised by the bouncer’s honesty. “Thanks for the head’s up.”

“Owner’s policy. Figures a man has the right to know what he’s letting himself in for.” The bouncer shrugged, his expression neutral, not revealing whether he agreed or disagreed. “It’s common knowledge on the circuit, anyway, so why try.”

Now that they had discovered the Outer Limits ‘secret’, it was obvious to Hutch why it had been the target of so much concentrated attention from Rampart’s vice squad. What still remain a mystery, however, was why that secret hadn’t been mentioned in even one of the many reports they had read.

“Has this new guy ever tried a shakedown?”

The wide shoulders lifted and fell again. “If he had, the owner’d pay. Cost less than repairs and lost business. I think the bastard just hates us.”

That was probably a factor, but Hutch was certain Brooks’ reasons were more practical. Despite the lack of evidence in Brooks’ financial records, MacAvoy couldn’t be the first victim of his blackmail scheme.

“Like I said, we appreciate the honesty.”

“Yeah, well, return the favor. If you wanna get it on, keep it outta the alley and the john. Take it upstairs or take it home.”

“Will do,” Starsky said, sidling around the bouncer back toward the main room. “Come on, baby, I think I hear them playing our song.”

Hutch followed, allowing Starsky to lead him directly onto the dance floor. They slid into each other’s arms and began moving stiffly to the slow rhythm of the song.

“Can we go off the clock now?” Starsky asked plaintively.

Hutch pretended to consider while he stroked his hands over the muscles of Starsky’s back. He could feel the coiled tension of his lover’s eagerness in the taut flesh.

“Come on, Hutch. The bouncer confirmed what we already knew from the reports, and we got the layout in our heads.” Starsky moved in closer and swayed his hips, rubbing his groin against Hutch’s leg. “All work and no play, you know.”

Hutch let his body relax, mentally punching a time out card in his mind. He dipped his head, pressing his mouth over the curls covering Starsky’s ear. “Wouldn’t want you to ever find me dull.”

Starsky tipped his head back, his face transforming as the cop slipped away and the excited lover emerged. “Never gonna happen, sweetheart. You turn me on like nobody else ever could.”

“Then let’s get this party started,” Hutch agreed just as the slow song ended and a faster one began.

With Starsky’s many criticisms of his abilities in mind, Hutch reluctantly released Starsky and began moving to the faster beat. He felt stiff, acutely self-conscious next to Starsky’s more fluid movements. That same awareness wouldn’t let him relax enough to let the music catch him. He couldn’t sink into the rhythm or let the vibration of the percussion invade his blood while it felt like every pair of eyes in the place were glued to them. Hutch hadn’t been sure why the idea of dancing together in public had been such a turn on for Starsky, and with every awkward moment that passed, the whole idea became more ludicrous.

In a desperate attempt to forget the other occupants of the bar, Hutch focused every particle of his attention on Starsky. It took him only seconds to realize that Starsky wasn’t dancing for the joy of it the way he usually did. Starsky was dancing just for Hutch. Every undulation, every hip thrust, every movement of his hands was aimed at Hutch. This dance was a silent seduction, a wordless invitation to look his fill, to enjoy, to let his body respond to Starsky here on the dance floor the way it did in bed.

The spell captured Hutch, luring him closer, flowing through him until his body moved in perfect counterpoint without effort. When the next slow song began, Hutch stepped into Starsky’s arms without hesitation, and their bodies fit together smoothly, their movements perfectly coordinated.

There was no need for words, not with their bodies speaking so eloquently, the freedom to flaunt their love an uncut narcotic flowing through their veins. Wrapped in each other’s arms, or joined only by the heated lock of their gazes, they flirted and flaunted and silently promised as the hours flew by.

Hutch’s cock had been hard for most of those hours, waxing and waning, but never completely losing its tumescence. As last call approached and Hutch slid into Starsky’s arms for another slow dance, his cock suddenly lost its patience, flaring to full erection against Starsky’s belly. As intoxicating as this mating dance was, Hutch didn’t want to reach the point of no return still upright and fully clothed. As far as Hutch was concerned, it was time to follow the bouncer’s advice. Very deliberately, he stepped on Starsky’s foot.

Starsky hesitated, their smooth rhythm broken for a moment, but then he began moving again. Apparently, Starsky was content to be the last couple standing.

Hutch had other ideas. For a second time, he made sure Starsky’s foot was under his and stepped down harder.

 

 

Starsky jerked to a halt. “Hey! What gives? All of a sudden you’re a klutz?”

“Maybe I’m tired,” Hutch purred, nuzzling into Starsky’s ear.

“Tired?” Starsky protested, rearing back to look into Hutch’s face. “I’ve seen you dance all night long. Remember Vegas?”

“Tired of having so many clothes between us,” Hutch clarified in his sexiest growl.

Starsky’s eyes widened in surprise, followed by a smile of appreciation and the filthiest laugh Hutch had ever heard. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I just did, babe. As the man advised, let’s take it home.”

~*~*~

They were barely through the squad room doors the next morning before Dobey appeared.

“It’s about time you two showed up. What do you think this is, a vacation resort? My office. Now!”

Dobey could be a pretty good actor when he wanted to be, so Starsky wasn’t sure whether the bellowing was for the benefit of the other officers in the squad room or if the captain really was pissed by their two-hour late arrival. He could feel amused glances following them as he and Hutch hustled after Dobey into his inner sanctum.

The thunderclouds had left Dobey’s face, however, by the time Starsky and Hutch were seated across from him at his desk, his expression expectant as his eyes tracked back and forth between them.

Starsky crossed glances with Hutch and shrugged. The case had been the last thing on their minds by the time they left the Outer Limits the night before. They had, however, talked about it on their way in this morning, specifically the fact that the management apparently provided facilities for sex on the premises, and the fact that was one detail that had never appeared in any of the raid reports. They had decided, for the time being, to keep the information to themselves as well.

“We went to the Outer Limits last night and cased out the place. There wasn’t a lot to see. No better than most of the dives on our porno row. Business was pretty good. A lot of guys wearing wedding rings and looking for a different type of action.” Hutch’s tone was level as he gave his report, nothing in either his voice or his manner to indicate whether he approved or disapproved.

Starsky took his cue from his partner as he picked up where Hutch had left off. He kept his report strictly professional, being careful to keep his personal opinions to himself. “We talked to the bouncer and he confirmed what we know from the records. They’re raided a lot. More than any straight bars in the area. He also said that the raids are more violent whenever Brooks is in charge.”

Dobey’s expectant expression had become grim as Starsky spoke. “So, Brooks is guilty of more than one crime.”

“Let’s face it. Gay-bashing is just barely considered a crime, even if the basher is carrying a badge,” Hutch said bitterly.

“No officer under my command–“

“We know, Captain,” Starsky quickly cut into Dobey’s offended objection. “Anyone under your command crosses the line and you’d have his badge and his balls on a platter. But you’re not in charge of every precinct in Bay City. The fact is that gay-bashing is one of the least prosecuted crimes in the city.”

Dobey grunted and shifted in his chair, apparently mollified. “Being so honest with a couple of newcomers can’t be good for business.”

“Seems to be management policy, from what the bouncer told us,” Hutch said. “It’s a close knit community. Has to be, I guess, since the majority of patrons are in the closet. I guess they must feel like their options are limited.”

There was more bitterness in Hutch’s tone now, and Starsky flashed him a silent warning before he changed the subject. “What about meeting this bum? Did you find a case we can use as an excuse for a meet?”

Dobey picked up a file and offered it across the desk. “This is one Babcock and Simmons have been working. A jewelery store heist from a couple of weeks ago. They’re almost certain this case is an insurance fraud, but the m/o is similar enough to three robberies Brooks is investigating in Rampart to warrant a friendly exchange of information.”

Starsky accepted the file, flipping it open and scanning the report quickly before passing it on to Hutch.

“I’ve already called Larry Petersen, Brooks’s captain, and laid the groundwork. Brooks should be expecting a call from you.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Starsky said as he rose, recognizing their dismissal. He followed Hutch to the door, but stopped short of opening it when Dobey spoke again.

“Are you planning on going to the Outer Limits again tonight?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

They spoke together, their contradictory answers raising Dobey’s eyebrows, and, Starsky was willing to bet, Hutch’s as well. He avoided Hutch’s eyes as he explained to Dobey. “You haven’t been able to find out when the next raid will be. Brooks only gave MacAvoy until Sunday to come up with the money. If there’s a raid planned we don’t know about, we could miss the opportunity to change Brooks’s interest from MacAvoy to us. If that happens, we’ll have to rely on the kid, and I don’t think he’s up to it.”

Dobey considered for a moment, then nodded. “Makes sense. I’m meeting Petersen for lunch tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll be able to give you a heads up after that.”

Hutch held his peace while they called Rampart to set up the meeting with Brooks, but they had been partners long enough that Starsky didn’t need to hear Hutch’s thoughts to know what was buzzing around in that blond head. Hutch had to know that Starsky’s quite logical excuse to return to the Outer Limits had been nothing more than that. An excuse, not a reason, and certainly not Starsky’s reason.

Brooks wasn’t available to meet them until close to the end of shift, and Starsky’s reprieve continued while he and Hutch worked at reducing some of the backlog of paperwork that always littered their desks. Normally, Starsky despised this part of the job, but he welcomed it today. It had been well after 4:00 o’clock this morning before, passions finally exhausted, they had fallen asleep tangled up in each other’s arms. When the alarm went off four hours later, Starsky had wanted nothing more than to heave it across the room and snuggle back into the warm nest with his lover. Tired as he was, however, he was looking forward to a repeat performance of all of last night’s activities.

“You are so full of bullshit,” Hutch said when they were finally alone in the Torino. “Dobey bought it, but you can’t fool me, buddy.”

Starsky slipped the key into the ignition, but didn’t start the car. Instead, he turned in his seat toward Hutch and shrugged. “I never expected to fool you. I knew you’d know what I was thinking, but I don’t mind admitting it. I enjoyed last night. Enjoyed the hell out of dancing with you and flirting with you. Feeling and seeing you hard and knowing it was for me. Loved the way it felt not to hide how much I love you, and I sure as hell loved how crazy we were for each other when we got home.” He paused, offering a scapegrace grin of apology for the analogy he was about to make. “It was like getting all the best treasure chest cards one right after the other.”

“Yeah. It was one hell of a night,” Hutch agreed, but the sigh that followed his statement wasn’t the same one of remembered pleasure that swelled in Starsky’s chest. “You better start this tomato or we’re going to be late.”

Starsky hesitated long enough to assess Hutch’s less than happy expression, then started the car and guided it onto the road. “Damn it, Hutch, why do you have to analyze it? Can’t you just enjoy it?” He paused, hoping for some response from Hutch, but a quick glance toward the passenger seat revealed the same troubled emotions. “This case has given us an opportunity we’re not going to get again until we’ve put in our twenty years and can tell the department to go fuck themselves. Even if the department is forced to be more tolerant of homosexuals, they’d never let us stay partners.”

“I know that, Starsky, and that’s what worries me. Last night was as fucking awesome for me as it was for you, but it scares me, too.”

“Scares you?” Starsky was startled. Of all the feelings Hutch could have expressed, fear was the last one Starsky would have expected, and he didn’t understand how they could be so out of tune.

“Hell, yes. We were both high as kites on the freedom last night, and it scares the hell out of me how easy it would be to get hooked on that high.”

Belatedly, Starsky noticed the amber light they were approaching turn red and hit the brakes, automatically throwing out his arm to protect Hutch as they were both tossed forward. He turned to check his partner was safe and met Hutch’s concerned gaze.

“We’ve been so damned careful up to now, but if we get hooked, how easy would it be to start taking risks.” Hutch’s appeal was made quietly, reinforced by the fear in his eyes.

“You got a point, babe,” Starsky reluctantly allowed his partner’s caution to leaven his excitement. “It could get addictive. I don’t know what we can do about it now. I already opened my big mouth to Dobey, so we gotta go.” He pressed down on the gas pedal as the light turned green.

“Of course we do. And the way we feel about each other, I doubt we’ll be able to resist making the most of it while we can.” Hutch paused, stretching his arm across the back of the seat, his hand settling on Starsky’s shoulder and squeezing in reassurance. “I’m just saying we need to have our eyes open going in.”

“And watch each other’s backs?” Starsky added as he turned into Rampart’s parking lot, though he didn’t mean in the literal sense.

“Like always, me and thee,” Hutch agreed.

It had been their mantra from the beginning of their partnership and had only become more true when they had fallen in love. They would protect each other, watch over each other, even if the threat came from each other. It was a balancing act, but they had been perfecting that balance for many years.

“You ready to put a face to this slimeball?” Starsky asked as he slid the Torino into a parking space and shut down the engine.

“Let’s go,” Hutch agreed.

They made their way through the precinct to Brooks’ squad room and were directed to a desk deeper in the room where two men were playing hunt and peck with a couple of Smith-Coronas. They didn’t announce themselves immediately, but hovered near the door as they made a fast visual assessment and formed their first impressions.

Hutch was surprised, almost shocked, by this first actual sight of their quarry. Despite the picture in his file, Hutch had formed a mental image that was far from the reality. He had expected slovenly–cheap wrinkled suit and mustard stained tie, topped by an unshaven face and maybe even unwashed hair. The reality was a neatly-dressed, well-groomed image of a detective any captain would be proud to have on his roster.

Hutch asked a silent question of Starsky with raised eyebrows and received a shrug in response and a nod that started Hutch moving toward Brooks’ desk.

“Brooks? I’m Ken Hutchinson from Metro. This is my partner, Dave Starsky. We spoke on the phone this morning.” Hutch introduced them.

“Yeah, I remember. You’re the hot shot detectives from Metro gonna show us what we’re doing wrong” With no more than two sentences and a sneer, Brooks unknowingly shot his good first impression all to hell. “I thought you two were homicide. What are you sticking your noses into penny ante robberies for?”

Ignoring the less than warm welcome, Starsky grabbed a chair and sat on the back of it, planting his sneakers firmly on the seat. “We’re a zebra. Work on whatever comes our way,” he explained, his tone strictly informative and his expression friendly. When they had been assigned to the zebra unit it had been an experimental idea, but the experiment had proven so successful that there was now a long waiting list of officers hoping for the versatile assignment.

Hutch claimed the chair beside Starsky’s, but sat in it normally. It was more his nature, and Starsky had already made his silent point by hovering over the other team. “That’s us. Jack of all trades, master of none,” he said, casually dismissing the unique position they held in comparison to Brooks’.

It seemed to have the desired effect on Brooks. The belligerence slowly faded from his regular features and some of the hostility left his suspicious eyes.

“If you’re worried about losing your cases when you’re the ones who put in all the leg work, don’t be. You’re three to our one. Collar’s yours if we do come up with something.” Starsky leaned over and plucked the file Dobey had given them from Hutch’s hands and pretended to study the facts.

“I don’t know that our case is even similar to yours. But Dobey’s a buddy of your boss and asked if you guys wouldn’t mind taking a look.” Hutch’s inquiring expression tracked from Brooks to his partner, a younger officer who had remained neutral since their arrival. From their research, they knew that Jackson was new to plainclothes and had never been involved in any of the raids. He also appeared to be working hard not to alienate his more aggressive partner.

“Jackson, take a look,” Brooks ordered and Starsky surrendered the file to the younger man. Jackson accepted the file and ducked his head over it, focusing all of his attention. After a moment or two, he reached for a note pad and began scribbling.

“We’ve been leaning toward an inside job. Maybe even the owners. Insurance fraud,” Starsky said, leaning over Jackson’s shoulder to point out Babcock’s almost illegible notes.

“We’ve been thinking insiders, too,” Brooks admitted. “The owners are all Jews. Who the hell else owns jewelry stores in this town. But there aren’t any in common. The only common thread is–“

“A-One Security!” Jackson exclaimed excitedly.

Brooks shot his partner a glare for the interruption, but allowed himself to be mollified when Jackson immediately handed over the report to him. Brooks put on a pair of stylish reading glasses and started reading.

Starsky stirred restlessly, and Hutch pressed his shoulder against his partner’s knees to remind him there was only one purpose to this meeting. The outcome of the case wasn’t their concern; they were just there to make sure Brooks knew who they were.

Eventually, Brooks tossed the report back to his partner. “Do you need us to copy this, or can we keep it?”

“Keep it,” Hutch said generously as he climbed to his feet. “Route it back to Metro when you’re done with it.”

“If you sew it all up, we’ll owe you a drink. Always nice to have one less file sitting in the unsolved drawer.” Starsky dismounted from his chair and, after a brief hesitation, offered his hand across the desk to Brooks.

“We’ll take you up on that,” Brooks said, rising as well. He shook Starsky’s hand, then offered his hand to Hutch who reluctantly accepted it.

Alone in the elevator on the way down, Hutch realized he was rubbing his hand against the leg of his jeans. He laughed when he saw Starsky was doing the same thing. “If you didn’t know better, and he never opened his mouth, you’d think he was a real credit to the department.”

“But we do know better. Damn, I feel like I need a shower.” Starsky gave up on the rubbing and shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. “I really feel sorry for his partner.”

“Just look at it this way, babe. If all goes well, in a couple of days, Jackson will have himself a new partner.”

Starsky rested his uncontaminated hand on Hutch’s shoulder, using his grip to propel Hutch through the elevator doors as they parted. “Now let’s go home. I not only need a shower, I want a nap.” He performed a smooth cross step and spin around the hood of the Torino. “Want my batteries fully charged for tonight.”

~*~*~

Hutch found a parking spot half a block up from the Outer Limits and slid the LTD into it. For the second night in a row, Starsky had refused to drive the Torino, unwilling to leave it unattended in this neighborhood. It was just as well. The LTD blended in with the other cars of similar vintage parked up and down the street where the flashy muscle car would have stood out like a sore thumb.

Hutch shut down the engine, but turned in his seat toward Starsky before he opened the door. He had intended to issue a cautious reminder, but the sparkle of excitement in the eyes that met his was so damned hard to resist. Hutch knew the extra tight jeans and red t-shirt had been chosen for his benefit, just as his faded blues and form-fitting green tee had been chosen because he knew the combination was a favorite of Starsky’s. As much as he tried to deny it, Hutch was almost as eager for another taste of last night’s freedom as Starsky was.

“I’m tryin’, Hutch. I really am,” Starsky said as if Hutch had voiced the caution, an earnest expression trying to mask the excitement that practically crackled around him.

“I know you are. But I can tell you aren’t gonna be able to keep your mind on the job for five minutes.” Hutch wondered honestly if he would last that long himself.

“Five minutes? I can do five minutes. Piece of cake.” Starsky shifted restlessly, drawing Hutch’s eyes down over the red t-shirt to the bulge that already swelled the crotch of Starsky’s jeans.

Hutch’s cock began to stir in sympathy, lengthening and seeking room to grow in already snug jeans. He felt himself blushing when Starsky laughed.

“We aren’t even going to make it out of the car!”

That was a prediction that could easily become a reality if they didn’t quit teasing each other. Determined to keep the case in mind for at least a short while, Hutch left the car and followed Starsky toward the Outer Limits. Watching the ripe ass in its denim second skin twitch and sway in front of him wasn’t helping the cause at all, and Hutch quickened his stride until they were stalking down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder.

“Ready to Rumba?” Starsky asked as he had the night before, opening the door to the Outer Limits and waving Hutch in ahead of him.

Unfortunately, Hutch knew they were both too ready to forget their reason for being here entirely and indulge themselves. Hutch’s excitement ebbed a little once they were inside, and he realized that the place was packed. The Outer Limits had seemed well populated the night before, but tonight, the place was jammed.

“Wednesday must be the safest night,” Starsky shouted, leaning close to Hutch to be heard above the blaring music.

Hutch scanned the room, taking in the men standing two-deep at the bar and the dance floor where couples gyrated so close together it was hard to tell just who was dancing with whom. He shrugged a question to Starsky, wondering whether this was going to prove to be a waste of time both personally and professionally, but Starsky just shrugged in return, grabbed his hand, and began shouldering his way toward the bar.

As they pushed through the crowd, Hutch saw a hand reach out and briefly cup the cheek of Starsky’s ass. Before he could protest, the hand was withdrawn, and Hutch felt one from the other side groping his butt. He twisted away and pushed up closer behind Starsky, protecting his property rights as Starsky leaned over the bar to shout their order.

While they waited, Hutch studied the crowd. He recognized a few faces from the night before, but saw there were far more unfamiliar and younger men, many of them dressed more flamboyantly than last night’s crowd. There were even a few who were shirtless.

“Thanks.” Hutch accepted the glass Starsky handed him, then looked around helplessly. Every table was taken, and though there seemed to be some leaning space available on the meat rack, Hutch had no desire to advertise either himself or Starsky as available.

“Follow me.” Starsky didn’t wait for Hutch’s response, he simply grabbed his hand again and towed him toward the table where they had sat the night before. The table was already occupied, but Starsky squeezed them into the small space behind its occupants. With the corner at their backs and the table in front of them, they were protected a little from the ebb and flow of the human tide.

Hutch felt a nudge on his thigh and looked down, ready to object to the familiarity. He bit off the rebuke when he saw that one of the men seated in front of them was Jim, the man they had spoken to at the bar the night before. Jim’s lips were moving, but Hutch couldn’t hear above the music. He tugged his hand from Starsky’s and bent toward Jim, resting his hand on the back of the chair for balance.

“You’re back,” Jim shouted into Hutch’s ear, the obvious statement followed by a laugh and a wave. “Don’t worry. Another half and hour and most–“

Hutch straightened abruptly as the current song ended and a comparative quiet fell.

“As I was saying, another half hour and most of this…” Jim waved his arm toward the mayhem of shifting bodies. “…will disappear.” He pointed upward and then toward the door. “Wednesday’s hook up night.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky to see if he had also heard and received a nod of confirmation as another song began. It was a waste of time trying to talk in this. They would have to bide their time. Switching his drink to his other hand, Hutch slid his arm around Starsky’s waist, drawing him closer and a little in front of him. Obligingly, Starsky leaned back, putting his ear within range of Hutch’s lips.

“Watch?” Hutch suggested and received another nod from Starsky. He pressed a kiss into the soft curls, then turned his attention to the crowd.

As Jim predicted, over the next half hour, the crowd began to thin as wordless propositions were made and accepted. A discernable flow became apparent as the resulting couples headed for the dark shadowed corridor and the staircase within it or for the street door. The noise level dropped as the room slowly emptied, even the volume of the music was lowered to closer to last night’s level.

“Join us?” Jim asked. He and his partner snagged two chairs as they emptied and spun them toward their table.

“Sure,” Starsky accepted the invitation.

Hutch released Starsky and they sidled around from opposite sides. Hutch adjusted the chair a little before he sat down so that he would be seated so he still had a clear view of the room and wasn’t surprised when Starsky did the same.

“Dave and Ken, right?” Jim asked, then indicated his tablemate. “This is Roger.”

Starsky accepted the hand Roger offered across the table and Hutch nodded acknowledgement of the introduction.

“Guess I should have warned you last night,” Jim said. “Sorry about that.”

Starsky shrugged off the apology. “That was somethin’ to see.”

“Yeah. Like watching salmon swim upstream,” Roger said. He shook his head of stylishly blown-dry brown hair. “One of these days, the cops are going to bust in here on a Wednesday.”

“They better bring reinforcements if they do,” Hutch said, wondering how the raid night was chosen or if anyone at Rampart had realized that their pattern had been recognized.

“Looks like they missed their chance tonight,” Starsky said.

“Don’t be fooled. There are probably fifty guys upstairs right now. If you hang around long enough tonight, you’ll see them come down, pick up new partners, and head back up to the den,” Roger said.

“You’ll notice if you can take your eyes off each other, that is,” Jim said, smiling knowingly. “You two looked like you were really enjoying yourselves last night. I thought you were going to close the place.”

Hutch felt his cheeks heating as he met Starsky’s eyes. He had known he and Starsky had behaved completely without restraint last night, totally immersed in each other and as close to oblivious to the rest of the world as they could ever allow themselves to be. Yet it was still a shock to hear that that single-minded focus had been observed.

“Might have, too, if we hadn’t had better things to do with the rest of the night,” Starsky said, his sparkling eyes surrounded by an expression that could only be interpreted as adoring.

“Yeah, that’s the look both of you were wearing last night.” Jim laughed for a moment and then sobered. “You made a point that you were together last night, but do you mind if I ask if you’ve been together long?”

Hutch had to force himself to look away from Starsky. “Why?”

“I’ve been hanging out in places like this for almost twenty years. I’ve seen guys who look at each other the way you two do. Like you’ve just found something brand new and exciting. Except they don’t…I don’t know, move together like you.”

“Maybe we’ve just got rhythm,” Starsky joked while Hutch’s mind filled with memories of the many years, the many life-threatening and life-defining moments, that had taught them, long before they had become lovers, how to make two bodies move as one when necessary.

“Speakin’ of which, sweetheart, let’s dance,” Starsky said, and in a moment was standing impatiently beside Hutch’s chair.

“We need a plan.”

Hutch was surprised when, after inviting him onto the dance floor and into his arms, instead of whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Starsky wanted to talk shop.

“Any suggestions?” Hutch asked to give himself a minute to switch mental gears. It was Starsky who had chosen to wear boots tonight, leveling their height difference and incidentally putting them groin to groin as they swayed to the slow song. The feel of Starsky’s cock stroking against his own with every movement of their bodies seemed determined to keep euphoria pumping through Hutch’s brain.

“If Brooks came busting into a mob like tonight’s, we’d be on our way to the station in a wagon before he even knew we were here.”

“But, ah…” The name of their acquaintance escaped Hutch’s memory as Starsky arched against him, avoiding a collision with another dancer. For the sake of his brain, torn between work and pleasure, Hutch grasped Starsky’s hips in both hands and separated their bodies a critical inch or two. He could still feel the heat of Starsky’s cock through their clothes, but at least the press of the hard length no longer distracted him. “Jim said it only happens on Wednesdays and doesn’t last long. If they were going to raid tonight, they missed their opportunity.”

“Were there ever any raids on a Wednesday?”

“Don’t know,” Hutch said, disconcerted to discover he couldn’t seem to access his memory of the many reports they had read. His mind was too fractured, the mental battle between business and pleasure short-circuiting his ability to focus on the case.

Fortunately, the slow song ended and a fast one began. With the physical stimulation removed, and if he didn’t watch Starsky, Hutch’s brain slowly recovered. Halfway through the song, he was able to recall the dry facts of their research.

“No other raids on Wednesdays,” Hutch confirmed when the third song brought them back in each other’s arms.

“Maybe it’s Brooks’ bowling night,” Starsky suggested with a grin. This time it was his hands on Hutch’s hips, maintaining that critical separation of their bodies, his eyes acknowledging his understanding of the necessity. “We should still have some kind of plan. The only way Brooks can blackmail us is if he catches us, then lets us go. He can’t do that if any other officer sees us. We gotta have some place to hide until the time is right.”

Hutch reviewed their knowledge of the Outer Limits, his eyes scanning, lighting briefly on each feature as he considered and dismissed possibilities. The back exit was locked and, from what the bouncer said, would already be covered. As quickly, Hutch dismissed the rat traps of the upstairs den and the men’s room. That left under the bar, but that possibility led to another.

“Kitchen.”

They said it together and grinned at each other at the predictable concordance of their thoughts.

“Even if they don’t serve food, they have to have a place to wash the glasses,” Starsky said.

Hutch nodded agreement as the music changed yet again and they separated. Hutch watched the bar as they danced and knew Starsky was doing the same. It wasn’t lost on him, however, that focused on the case, he seemed to have lost that connection from the night before that had allowed him to match Starsky move for move no matter the music, the synchronization so smooth and seamless that even a complete stranger had taken notice. He wondered if it would return once they had confirmed their plans, or if it had only been the complete novelty of that very first taste of freedom that had created it.

Hutch wasn’t so distracted by his thoughts, however, that he missed the detail both he and Starsky had been waiting for. From the opposite side of the bar from the corridor that led to the men’s room and the den, through a previously unnoticed swinging door, appeared one of the bartenders carrying a case of clean glasses.

Hutch telegraphed his discovery with a nod to Starsky who performed a flashy spin. He returned Hutch’s nod when they were face to face again.

After that, it seemed to Hutch the latest disco anthem lasted a short lifetime, dragging out interminable minutes before it finally ended in a percussion crescendo. He and Starsky stood impatiently waiting for the next song to begin, smiling at each other when a slow song began to ooze from the speakers.

Hutch wasn’t surprised when, as soon as they were in each other’s arms again, Starsky began leading him around the floor, unobtrusively positioning them closer to the bar.

“This about right?” Starsky asked as he stopped leading and started propelling them in a slow, shuffling circle.

“On the money.” Hutch confirmed that Starsky had chosen the exact same vantage point as he had. They could watch the front entrance from here, while a couple of steps and an easy leap over the bar would put them within reach of their proposed hideout if blue uniforms began pouring through the door.

“I wouldn’t mind a look behind the door,” Starsky said. “But I doubt we’ll get the chance.”

Hutch considered two or three possibilities. Without appearing far too curious, however, none of them were truly workable. “Won’t be the first time we’ve had to improvise cover.”

“Not perfect, but we can keep an eye on the action. Make our move when opportunity comes knocking.”

They were as ready as they could be with the information they had. Ready and, therefore, now free to put their duty on the back burner and indulge themselves in a repeat of last night’s love-drunken indulgence. As Starsky’s arms drew him closer and their bodies began to brush and stroke with every step, Hutch realized his assumption was wrong.

Reluctantly, Hutch resisted the strength of Starsky’s arms and his own desire to surrender fully to that embrace. “Can’t,” he said, and saw a flash of rebellion on Starsky’s face and then the same reluctant understanding as his own. Without any certainty of when a raid might occur, they had to stay alert. Their selfish indulgence the night before could have proven disastrous if there had been a raid. They had been lucky, but couldn’t count on that luck to continue. If they blew it, they’d have some tall explaining to do to Dobey and IA.

“Probably a good thing.” Starsky’s disappointment was obvious, and most of the sparkle was gone from his eyes.

Hutch had to agree. He had, after all, been the one counseling caution. But that didn’t stop him from feeling cheated or his body from reacting to the restraint. He felt stiff and awkward in Starsky’s arms, the easy concordance that had thrilled and aroused him gone.

The lack of that magic connection must have been as obvious as its presence had been the night before. Where last night they had been left to themselves, within the space of only another song, a man appeared behind Starsky and tapped him on the shoulder.

They stopped their slow circling, parting enough to face the interloper, but Hutch felt Starsky’s arm tighten around his waist.

“Mind if I cut in?” the man asked, his eyes on Hutch, one hand already reaching out toward him in the assumption of Starsky’s permission.

“Get lost,” Starsky growled, stepping between Hutch and his admirer and leading Hutch briefly out of their chosen vantage point.

“That wasn’t very polite,” Hutch teased, both amused and thrilled by Starsky’s possessive rudeness.

“Polite my ass,” Starsky said in the same growl, this time aimed at Hutch. “In case you missed the news at six, you’re mine.” His arm tightened, jamming them so close together Hutch wouldn’t have been surprised to feel sparks flying from their clashing belt buckles.

There had never been a single doubt in Hutch’s mind that Starsky loved him. He said it. He showed it. The reticence that had marked his reluctance to engage in what he termed soapy scenes had apparently disappeared the moment he had revealed his love to Hutch. This pit bull protection of his territory was a side of that love that had never before been revealed to Hutch. As a man who had always valued his freedom, had been careful to preserve a small portion of it even when married, the possessive declaration ought to rankle. It didn’t. Instead, it aroused him in a way that even last night’s heady indulgence couldn’t begin to match. For the first time in his life, Hutch knew the utter security of being loved completely.

Starsky was watching him, a little uncertainty creeping into his face, the strength of his grip easing as the end of the song approached and Hutch’s reaction remained in doubt.

Hutch pulled him closer, dipping his head so he could deliver that reaction directly into Starsky’s ear. “In case you missed the update at eleven, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

~*~*~

Starsky gave his hair one last brisk rub with the towel, then wrapped the sodden material around his waist as he walked through the open bathroom door. He hesitated at the foot of the bed, his eyes on Hutch, who stood in front of the mirror on the other side of the bed, studying himself critically.

Hutch must have caught sight of Starsky’s reflection in the mirror. “I hope you don’t mind.” He lifted his arm, indicating the black shirt he wore.

“Don’t mind at all.” Starsky let his appreciative gaze slide over Hutch from freshly washed blond hair, over the black shirt that fit like a tailor-made glove, to the faded almost-to-white jeans that hugged slim hips. “I sure as hell never looked that good in it. Maybe you should keep it.”

Hutch’s cheeks flushed just a little as both hands ran down his torso, emphasizing the flattering cut of the smooth cotton. “Maybe this wasn’t a good choice. Dobey couldn’t tell us if there’s supposed to be a raid tonight, so we’ll have to keep our minds on the job.”

“I’m made of sterner stuff than that. I can resist,” Starsky insisted, though he wasn’t too sure whether he was speaking fact or a way too optimistic fiction.

“Oh, really,” Hutch’s eyes traveled down Starsky’s body, pausing pointedly at the erection tenting his towel.

Starsky moved quickly around the end of the bed, slowing into a predator’s stalk as he approached Hutch. Playfully, Hutch dodged one way and then the other, but Starsky stayed on course, reaching out to catch one belt loop as Hutch tried to slip past him. He hooked his finger into the sturdy loop, using it to reel Hutch in toward him until he could secure a second, anchoring grip.

Once Starsky was sure Hutch’s mock efforts to escape had been subdued, he transferred his attention to the shirt in question. His hands started at the top and slowly thumbed open each button, deliberately brushing the satin skin of Hutch’s chest as the cotton parted. By the time he reached Hutch’s belt, the snug material of the faded jeans was stretched to its well-worn limit.

“We could be late,” Starsky suggested, tilting his head back a little and giving Hutch his best heavy-lidded, over-the-top seductive leer.

“Cocktease,” Hutch growled. His hands flashed into Starsky’s wet hair and, quick as a striking cobra, his mouth claimed Starsky’s lips in a brief, hard kiss.

Hutch laughed and released Starsky’s hair, planting a hand in the middle of his chest and giving him a gentle push. “No, we can’t be late. But just think how good it’s going to be when we get home.”

“Any better than last night, and I’ll die a happy man,” Starsky declared dramatically, but allowed Hutch to slip past him.

“Get dressed.” Hutch escaped through the bedroom door.

Whistling happily to himself, Starsky threw his towel on the bed and attacked his closet. The assault yielded a pair of brand new black jeans and a red silk shirt that he wriggled and shrugged into before sitting on the bed to pull on his boots. He had liked the way the boots’ heels had evened their heights the night before, putting them chest to chest and groin to groin as they danced. They might not be able to completely indulge themselves tonight, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy the fleeting opportunity the assignment gave them.

Standing back in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Starsky heard the phone ring, but left it to Hutch as he struggled with his hair. By the time he had imposed some kind of order and joined his partner in the living room, Hutch was just hanging up the phone.

“That was Huggy. He says…” Hutch’s report ended in a whistle of appreciation as, swinging his hips deliberately, Starsky sashayed into his line of sight.

“Huggy says…?” Starsky puckered up and echoed the wolf whistle.

Hutch acknowledged the joke with a smile. “Huggy says Brooks reputation on the street is rude and crude, with a side order of excessive force whether it’s called for or not.”

“About what we expected.” Starsky picked up his wallet and tried to force it into his back pocket. Even by his usual standards, the new jeans were excessively tight. Accompanied by the sound of Hutch’s amused laughter, Starsky was forced to remove everything from the wallet except cash before he could wedge it in.

“I guess I’m paying tonight.” Hutch dipped two fingers into his own back pocket, lifting his wallet and then pushing it back in.

“They’ll loosen up in the car,” Starsky predicted.

“If they don’t cut off your circulation first.” Hutch was nearly choking on his laughter now.

Starsky planted his hands on his hips, spread his legs and tilted his pelvis forward. “You complaining?”

Hutch sobered abruptly. “Who me?” He shook his head emphatically, his long hair flying. “No, sir. Not me.”

“That’s better.” Starsky stalked to the door and reached for the knob. He opened it and waved Hutch through with a flourish just as the phone rang again.

They stopped, eyes meeting.

“Could be important,” Hutch said.

With a sigh, Starsky flipped the door closed, a feeling of foreboding settling over him as Hutch bent and picked up the phone.

“Hutchinson. Yes, we’re just on our way out now. You do? When? Okay.” Hutch hung up the phone, his expression unrevealing. “That was Dobey. Petersen just let him know there’s going to be a raid tomorrow night.”

It took a second for the meaning of the news to set in. When it did, Starsky wanted to throw something. He wished he hadn’t already closed the door so he could slam it so hard his neighbors would think the big one had finally arrived.

“I guess we’re not going out after all,” Hutch said and tossed his keys onto the coffee table.

Starsky stared at Hutch, his mind going into overdrive, trying to come up with a reason. Any reason, however flimsy, that would let them hold on to this last, golden opportunity. “We might find a chance to get into the kitchen. Scope it out before we have to use it for cover.”

Starsky tried to remain optimistic as Hutch took a few moments to consider the possibility, but the stubborn expression on his partner’s face wasn’t promising. Unfortunately, when it came down to a contest of stubborn will against pig-headed determination, they were pretty damned evenly matched.

Slowly, Hutch shook his head. “That’s an excuse, Starsky, not a reason. We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be, and now we know there’s no reason for us to be at the Outer Limits tonight. The only excuse we have is to indulge ourselves.”

Starsky left the door and moved toward Hutch, his hands outstretched in a pleading gesture. “Is that so bad?”

“Maybe not.” Hutch’s words implied capitulation but his expression remained adamant. Even his body language screamed determination–spine rigid, shoulders back and his feet planted on the carpet as if he expected to have to resist Starsky’s physical efforts to move him. “But it isn’t good, either. We already talked about it, and I thought we agreed that protecting our relationship is more important than a couple of hours of cockteasing.”

The sting of Hutch’s disapproval cut into the disappointment Starsky already struggled to contain, igniting his temper. “Cockteasing, huh? Stupid me. I thought I was making the most of showin’ even a small part of the world how much I love you.”

“Love, Starsk?” Obviously stung himself, Hutch was instinctively employing the second most deadly weapon he possessed. His Magnum might be the biggest handgun in the world, but it was only slightly more lethal than his tongue. Honed to a cutting edge and tempered in sarcasm, it could cut a man to ribbons. He laughed bitterly. “Lust more like it. You’ve always been an exhibitionist.”

Starsky knew the accusation was the truth, and that only fed the blaze of temper. Hutch knew him so well. Too well, in fact, because he knew what buttons to push and exactly how hard to push them. “I wasn’t out there on the dance floor alone, Mr. Morality. I wasn’t the only one sportin’ wood.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed at the reminder. “I guess the difference is I know when to stop.” He dropped onto the couch and spread his arms over the back of it. The black shirt gaped, the smooth, golden skin of his chest presenting a tantalizing contradiction to the disapproval of his laser gaze. “Huh. If we went back there tonight, I’ll bet you’d try to get me upstairs. Just teasing and taking it home has gotta be getting old for you by now.”

Starsky saw red. A starburst of fury that exploded before his eyes. He took one step toward Hutch, intent on wiping the condescending smirk off his face, before he spun on his heels and stalked to the door. He flung it open, the crash as it hit the wall satisfying his need for violence, and he churned through it. He attacked the stairs with the heels of his boots, setting up a staccato clatter to rival the banging door.

He was almost at the bottom when the stupidity of his retreat hit him. His headlong rush slowed, then halted only a step from the street. It was one of those forehead slapping moments when foolish caught up with you and made you look in the mirror at your own sheepish mug. The Torino sat as if waiting for him to compound his idiocy with lunacy. Fortunately, the keys were upstairs.

Starsky turned and stared up the stairs to his open apartment door. With his fury defeated by embarrassment, Starsky knew he had no option but to climb back up those stairs and face the music of Hutch’s disdainful laughter. Knew it, but couldn’t. Not yet. He needed a minute, or maybe a few dozen minutes, before pride would let him make the humbling trek.

He sat down on the bottom stair, planted his elbows on his knees and his chin in cupped hands and just breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Until he was certain he had his temper firmly under control no matter what sensitive buttons Hutch might choose to push.

Hutch was still sitting on the couch when Starsky finally returned, but he had given up his arrogant pose. His hands lay quietly in his lap, and his expression was carefully neutral.

“That was dumb, huh? This is my place. I’m supposed to throw you out.” Starsky continued to hover in the doorway, somehow feeling he required Hutch’s permission to enter his own apartment.

“Do you want me to go?” Hutch asked with serious diffidence.

“No.” Starsky answered immediately, but he still couldn’t seem to convince his feet to move. Awkwardness settled between them, a feeling that so seldom existed it had the power to cut into Starsky deeper than any of Hutch’s most telling sarcasm. “I guess we just had our first fight.”

“I guess.” Hutch looked down at his hands for a moment, then half lifted his head, sending a glance toward Starsky that offered a tentative apology. “Come in, if you’re going to, and shut the door. No sense broadcasting our troubles to the whole neighborhood.”

Starsky did as Hutch bid, but still felt indecently uncertain as he approached his lover. He perched on the couch, beside Hutch but careful not to touch him. “I’m sorry,” he said as sincerely as he knew how.

“Takes two to make a fight.” Hutch shouldered his share of responsibility. “I shouldn’t have baited you like that.”

It was true, Hutch had pushed his buttons, but Starsky was shaken by what he had almost done. When he had taken that single step toward Hutch, he had fully intended to lay violent hands on the man he professed to love. “I was gonna hit you.” He had to be honest, but couldn’t force himself to look Hutch in the eyes while he made the confession. The rest of the words seemed to stick in his throat, choking him until he felt as if he would suffocate if he didn’t cough it up.

“You were right. Maybe that’s what made me so mad. I thought about takin’ you upstairs. The first night and even last night. Thought about those men up there seein’ us together. But it wasn’t because I’m an exhibitionist or a hedonist, or any other ‘ist’ you can come up with, it’s because…”

Starsky hesitated again, an instinct, perhaps even survival instinct, prompting him to hold something back. Some small part of just how hopelessly, helplessly, completely Hutch held his heart. But it was already too late, far too late to clothe this vulnerability, to be anything but emotionally naked. “It’s because every one of those men would know that this walkin’ talkin’ wet dream wanted me.”

“Oh, Starsk,” Hutch murmured, reaching out.

But Starsky curled his hands into fists, unable as yet to accept the comfort Hutch offered. “I didn’t suggest it because…because as much as I want to show you off, I don’t want anyone to look. Sounds pretty screwy, huh?”

When Hutch reached for his hands a second time, Starsky couldn’t resist. He allowed Hutch to coax his fists of denial open and twine their fingers in a complicated tangle that all too accurately reflected their lives.

“Then I guess I’m pretty damned screwy, too.” Hutch’s grip was firm and possessive.

Needing more connection, Starsky withdrew his hands from Hutch’s and reached for him. He wrapped his arms around his lover and pressed both hands flat against Hutch’s back. He held on tight, feeling Hutch’s hands pressed hard into his back as the aftermath of the unexpected emotional storm thinned and faded.

Eventually, the security of the embrace worked its familiar magic, and Starsky offered no protest when Hutch eased away from him.

“If you’d really wanted to hit me, you would’ve. You know that, right?” Hutch asked gently.

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky agreed. Even as angry as he had been, even if he hadn’t chosen retreat, he knew he would have chosen some inanimate object to vent that fury on. “Thirty Goddamned seconds, Hutch. If Dobey had called thirty seconds later, we would’ve already been out the door.”

Hutch didn’t reply immediately, but Starsky could see he had something on his mind. Something heavy enough to dig the dent between his eyebrows deep and tighten his jaw.

“Come on, Hutch. This seems to be the night for telling it like it is.” Starsky flopped back against the couch, bracing himself to accept whatever inconvenient truth might come out of Hutch’s mouth next. “You might as well spit it out before it gives you an ulcer.”

A brief smile twitched Hutch’s lips but didn’t ease the serious expression in his eyes. “I know you were disappointed. I was, too. But I think the problem goes a whole lot deeper than that.”

“You think I’m addicted to the rush?”

Hutch shook his head. “No. But like I said before, I just don’t think you were ever meant to live like a hermit. You like to dance and go to movies and go bowling or just hang out playing pool at Huggy’s. You like to go out, Starsky.” Hutch hesitated a moment. “And so do I. I’m not saying I regret one minute of the months we’ve spent together just the two of us, and I’m not saying you do, either.”

Starsky could hear the but at the end of that sentence as if it had been shouted into a bullhorn. “But?”

Hutch shrugged and spread his hands. “But I don’t know what to say. I’m just worried. When this assignment is over, if we go back to the way we were, are we going to end up resenting each other and the way we have to live because we love each other?”

It felt to Starsky as if his heart froze in his chest, then dropped directly into overdrive as the implications of Hutch’s question became clear. He struggled not to jump to conclusions, not to let fear spark fury and invite the storm that had just passed to circle around and take another shot at tearing them apart. The sudden terror must have shown in his face, however, because Hutch immediately reached out and covered both of his hands, squeezing tight as if he feared Starsky might choose another instinctive retreat.

“Don’t look like that, babe. I don’t want us to go back, try to stop being in love.” Hutch gave a short, sharp bark of what was probably supposed to be laughter but sounded more like a warning growl. “I know I couldn’t.”

“Damn,” Starsky whispered. He had to move. The adrenaline that had rushed into his veins was still coursing through him, clouding his ability to think with the demand that he somehow physically hold on to what he knew he could never live without. Hutch knew him so well, before Starsky’s hands even twitched, Hutch released him and Starsky gratefully jumped to his feet. He paced aimlessly for a minute, then headed for the kitchen. By the time he grabbed a couple of beers from the icebox and returned to Hutch, he felt he had gained some control over his racing thoughts.

“I can’t go back, either, Hutch. So I guess that means we gotta figure out some way to keep going forward. We’ve been trying to hold onto it all. What we got here.” He pointed to the floor beneath his feet, then hooked a thumb back over his shoulder toward the door. “And what we got out there on the streets. If we start taking risks and people start talking, someday, we’re gonna hafta choose.”

“I made my choice when I didn’t belt you one the first time you kissed me.” Hutch put down his beer and held out his hand.

Calmer now, an almost eerie serenity settling into him, Starsky accepted the hand and the commitment it represented. He made his own commitment with the strength of his grip as he sat back down beside the man who would always be his best friend and lover even if an uncertain future meant Hutch couldn’t be his partner. He would never trust Hutch’s life to anyone else, but should they ever be discovered and the department split them up, there were other ways to make a living.

“We’ll just have to decide what risks are worth taking.” Hutch sat back against the cushion, freeing his hand and throwing his arm over Starsky’s shoulders, pulling him against his side. “We’ll figure it out when this assignment is over. After the last couple of nights, a night in doesn’t sound so bad. What do you think?”

“It’s not too much of a risk to stay again tonight?” Starsky asked, leaning his weight into Hutch, silently indicating his opinion.

“Oh, I think that’s a risk worth taking.”

~*~*~

From their research, Starsky and Hutch knew that the most likely time for Rampart’s officers to stage their raid on the Outer Limits was between ten and midnight. They made sure they were in place an hour before, staking out their patch of dance floor while the beers Hutch bought sat on a table going flat.

Despite the fact that he had spent the past hour dancing with Starsky, Hutch hadn’t had any trouble staying focused on the case. He could tell by the tension in Starsky’s body, whether they were parted by a fast song or wrapped in each other’s arms for a slow one, that Starsky was just as alert. This was probably the last time they would dance together in public for the foreseeable future, but for tonight at least, the drug of freedom had lost its allure.

“Should be any time,” Hutch said as they came together for yet another slow dance. He received a nod of acknowledgement from Starsky, but no verbal reply. Starsky had hardly spoken since they arrived. Admittedly, the loud music didn’t encourage much talk, but the continued reticence was becoming a reason for concern.

“Something wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” Hutch finally asked.

Starsky’s arm tightened as he arched his upper body away a little, his somber eyes meeting Hutch’s. “No. Nothing wrong. I’m just thinking how lucky we are to have each other. Look at all these desperate people.”

As they circled on the dance floor, Hutch’s eyes passed over their fellow patrons lounging at the bar, dancing cheek to cheek, and posing on the meat rack, and saw what Starsky meant. There was desperation on the faces of most of these men. Quiet in some, frantic and hungry in others, but it wasn’t a desperation, as far as Hutch could see, unique to the Outer Limits.

“No more desperate than they were in the places we used to cruise together.”

Starsky shook his head emphatically, his expression earnest. “Yeah, Hutch, they are. They have to be. Why else would they take the risk? They could be arrested, maybe even beaten up. How many of ’em are married, like John was? Not every wife can be as understanding as Maggie.”

Hutch had no answers for the questions Starsky asked, or for the ones in the intent gaze that searched his face. The desire he felt for Starsky was unique, no other man had ever aroused him, so the motivation of the men willing to gamble everything for a fleeting hour or two of stolen pleasure were a mystery to him. He drew Starsky back close to him, melding their bodies in an easy embrace that only seemed to underline their good fortune. Whatever challenges their love for each other threw at them, they would face them together.

“You’re right, babe. We’re so damned lucky.”

Hutch wanted nothing more than to take Starsky home. The Outer Limits and all it had represented were no longer of any interest to him. He had only one purpose in mind now, to put Brooks behind bars where he belonged. What patience he had had when they arrived tonight was worn thin, almost exhausted as the minutes ticked by and the raid failed to materialize.

“Maybe Dobey got it wrong,” Hutch said at the same moment he felt Starsky stiffen. His back was to the front entrance, but Hutch didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. He just followed Starsky’s lead as his partner pulled out of his arms and charged for the bar. Two steps, a smooth leap, followed by a few steps more, and they were safely in the temporary sanctuary of the kitchen.

Hutch took a moment to scan the room behind them, and finding it empty, returned his attention to the bar. Starsky held the door open a crack, and Hutch moved into position behind him so that he could see what was happening.

What was happening was pandemonium. The music had been cut off mid-song, its disco rhythm replaced by the shrill whistles of the officers charging into the bar and the shouts of prey and predator alike.

After a few moments, one voice began to rise about the clamor and Brooks appeared in their limited range of vision.

“Walters, Lester, upstairs. Catch the fudge-packers with their pants down. Colton, check the can. Told you before these cocksuckers got a fondness for the john.” Brooks stood in the middle of the dance floor bellowing orders.

As the initial shock passed, most of the patrons who were probably veterans of more than one raid, controlled their panic. They offered no resistance as officers with clubs in hand began herding them toward the front door and the waiting wagons. Their passive acceptance of their fate didn’t always save them from the sting of a club or a solid fist. Hutch cursed softly when he saw Brooks stalk over and sink his fist wrist deep into the belly of the bouncer who hung suspended between two officers almost as big and burly as he was. He laid a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, restraining his partner’s instinctive reaction, sending a mental promise of retribution to the gagging bouncer as he was dragged away.

It became obvious that whatever else they were, Brooks and his team were well practiced in this particular duty, efficiently subduing all resistance. Hutch’s body tensed, preparing for action as the room cleared. He was only a split second behind Starsky when, seeing Brooks momentarily alone, Starsky thrust open the door to the kitchen and charged. A second leap carried them back over the bar, Hutch staying hard on Starsky’s heels as they ran, as planned, toward the back exit and escape.

“Stop! Police!”

Brooks had been slower to react than they had expected. They had almost reached the corridor before the demand rang out. Again, as planned, they ignored it, but slowed their headlong rush, allowing Brooks to catch up. Their plan was only going to work if Brooks was the only one to see them, and they had calculated their best hope of success would be in the darkness of the corridor.

They reached their goal, but only by a second or two before Hutch felt a hand grab the collar of his shirt and pull him backward. He grunted in protest, nearly falling in the sudden inertia. Before he regained his balance, he was freed and realized that, somehow, Starsky had slipped between him and the detective.

“Keep your fucking hands off him!” Starsky growled. Even in the poor light, Hutch could see the maddened fury on his lover’s face and wasn’t sure how much of it was an act. Legs spread, feet braced and hands clenched into fists, Starsky stood in front of Hutch, ready to protect him.

“I said stay the fuck away–“

“Jesus Christ. Starsky? Hutchinson?” Brooks’ incredulous growl of recognition cut across Starsky’s warning. “What the hell?” The startled confusion slowly cleared. “You’re undercover?”

“Of…of course we…we’re undercover,” Hutch said, stammering deliberately over the truth, ensuring that it would be taken for a lie even without Starsky’s defiant interference.

“No, we’re not under fucking cover,” Starsky growled, prompting Hutch to again lay a restraining hand on Starsky’s shoulder.

Brooks looked over his shoulder, when he turned back to them, there was barely veiled cunning on his face. “Get out.”

“What?” Starsky said, belligerence gone from his tone. “You’re letting us go?”

Brooks gave them a false smile. “Let’s just call it professional courtesy. Now get out of here before anyone sees you.”

Obediently, Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm and retreated. They charged through the exit, pounding up the back alley and cutting up the next one away from the Outer Limits. They had taken the precaution tonight of parking several blocks away, and they kept to a flat out run in the warren of alleys until they reached the street where the LTD waited.

They paused in the alley, catching their breath, ears alert for any sound of pursuit. When he could hear the silence past the thundering of blood in his ears, Hutch leaned cautiously into the street, head swiveling quickly before he retreated back.

“Coast is clear,” he reported and they left the alley and walked as casually as they could to the car.

“Are you okay?” Hutch asked, eyeing Starsky who had collapsed as bonelessly into the seat as if he had been shot.

“Jesus,” Starsky breathed, his head tipped back against the rest. His eyes were closed, but his features remained taut, the fury that had been directed at Brooks still simmering beneath the tight jaw. “What a bastard. Professional courtesy, my ass.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. He started the engine and guided the car away from the curb. “Wonder how long it’ll be before he puts a price tag on his courtesy.”

“Soon, I hope, Hutch. I don’t wanna hand this over to MacAvoy. I wanna nail this bastard myself.”

Hutch took his eyes off the road long enough to cut a glance toward Starsky. He didn’t like was he saw. Starsky could assume a role like a chameleon when he had to, project fury or cocky defiance or whatever emotion was called for by the circumstances. But he could also drop the mask in a heartbeat. Not tonight. Starsky’s anger was still palpable, crackling in the car like static electricity. There was little Hutch could do about it here, however. Whether he needed to provoke an explosion or coax a more gentle release of pent up emotion remained to be seen, but the middle of downtown traffic on a Friday night wasn’t the place for either.

“Can’t this bucket go any faster?” Starsky demanded.

Obediently, Hutch turned his full attention to the road and put his foot down.

Starsky barely noticed when Hutch pulled the car up in front of his place. Tangled in his own thoughts, it was several moments before he realized the car was still running.

He glanced toward Hutch and saw the question on his face. His lover was never this uncertain of his welcome, and Starsky knew he was at fault. His silent, broody and monosyllabic replies when Hutch tried to coax him into talking had sent a clear message.

Stay or go, Hutch’s lifted eyebrow asked.

Starsky hesitated. The way he felt, angry, indignant, and a host of other negative emotions, were a damned good reason to send Hutch packing. They were also the very same reasons he needed Hutch to stay.

“You’re wastin’ gas,” Starsky finally said and heard Hutch’s sigh of relief.

Maybe Hutch needed him, too. The idea melted some of the ice that gripped Starsky’s belly. He didn’t understand how he could feel such hot fury and such icy fear. Why one didn’t cancel out the other.

Upstairs, Starsky paused just inside the door. He didn’t know if he wanted to sit, stand, run a mile, or just fall into bed. With Hutch. He felt Hutch behind him and moved further into the apartment before Hutch could touch him. No, no falling into bed with Hutch yet. Sometimes, they wrestled playfully for dominance, but with the cauldron of confused emotions bubbling inside him, Starsky wasn’t feeling playful.

“Do you want a beer?”

Starsky shook his head, repeated the motion again and again to the offers of cocoa and the late show. He paced the living room, weaving in and out around the furniture, acutely aware of Hutch’s eyes following him from where he had taken up station on the couch. Eyes that watched with growing concern for every circuit Starsky completed.

“We should have gone to my place.”

Starsky was behind Hutch when he made the quiet suggestion. He stopped, his eyes on the back of the blond head until Hutch twisted on the couch to look up at him. “Why?”

Hutch shrugged, the motion stripped of any casual intent by the visible tension in his shoulders and neck. “We both always feel better in the greenhouse.”

Starsky closed his eyes, tried to imagine the peace that always seemed to close in around them when they retreated to Hutch’s jungle. The smell of wet dirt and the sight of green life were soothing. Even the intrusive bustle of the outside world was muted in Hutch’s personal sanctuary.

The peace eluded Starsky, just as, he was sure, it would continue to slip through his fingers even if they went to Venice Place now. Starsky didn’t want to go back out into the world tonight, not even for the relief of the greenhouse.

He opened his eyes, let Hutch read the answer there, and returned to prowling like a caged tiger, the predators of his own emotions barking at his heels.

Starsky made a few more useless circuits before Hutch made another attempt to break through the bubble of isolation surrounding him. “Babe, please, talk to me.”

The appeal was familiar enough to accomplish a small measure of what Starsky’s restless stalking could not. Connection. The possibility of understanding. If nothing else, the relief of a burden shared. “I don’t even know what I want to say. I probably wouldn’t make any sense.”

“What’s new about that?” Hutch offered a strained smile as he threw out the gentle tease.

It was their patented method for dealing when life became too huge, too painful to look straight in the eye. Retreat into their own special brand of humor that so few others could fathom.

“Don’t shut me out,” Hutch pleaded.

That was an appeal to which Starsky could never fail to respond. He had to reward Hutch’s courage. He returned the smile with a quirk of his lips and an attempt to force his jumbled thoughts into words.

“It isn’t you I want to shut out, Hutch. Never you.” Starsky moved closer to Hutch. Still unable to open their physical connection, he was, nonetheless, drawn to be nearer his lover, where connection no longer seemed quite so impossible.

“It’s the rest of the fucking world.” Starsky drew his hand back through his hair, frustrated by this inadequate means of communicating. It was so much easier when Hutch could read a gesture or interpret an expression. Better yet, eavesdropped on his thoughts directly. He laughed bitterly. “Right now, I’d like to lay in a year’s supply of groceries and put six deadbolts on the door.”

Starsky hesitated, watching Hutch’s face and saw understanding and perhaps even a sympathetic concordance. “I don’t understand it, Hutch. How lovin’ you makes somebody like Brooks hate me so much.”

Hutch reached out his hand toward Starsky. He continued to hold the invitation there, steady and certain, while Starsky hesitated. Hesitated as long as he could, a moment or two more, before Starsky accepted the hand that had protected him, loved him, and comforted him through a hundred crises.

“Same way people like him hate a black man for loving a white woman,” Hutch said as he stood. “Or any other way of love that doesn’t fit their narrow definition of what love should be.”

No longer afraid that touching Hutch might set a spark to the volatile emotions inside him, Starsky allowed Hutch to pull him into his arms. The safety and security of that embrace, the certainty that what they had was fine and good washed over the storm, sapping some of its strength.

“I think I know what we need,” Hutch whispered. Gently, he released Starsky, his hand sliding down Starsky’s arm until they were hand in hand again. He started backing toward the bedroom door.

Starsky hung back, tightening his grip when Hutch’s fingers would have slipped away, but holding his ground. “Don’t know if that’s a good idea. I’m pretty wound up.” He felt calmer now, but still feared the confusion that haunted him. This wasn’t the right frame of mind to take his lover to bed. The last thing he ever wanted to do in this life was hurt Hutch.

“Oh, I know you are, babe,” Hutch agreed. “Protective and possessive and a whole bunch of other ‘ives’ neither one of us has names for.” Slowly, but firmly he took another step back. “Trust me?”

Starsky had trusted Hutch for a very long time. He had bet his life on that trust more than once. Loving him, Starsky had found that trusting Hutch was easier than breathing. Without further protest, he followed Hutch, hesitating a second when Hutch began to circle the bed, but offering no protest, allowing Hutch to place him in front of the full length mirror beside the bed.

Neither one of them had given much thought to what they wore tonight. As a result, the reflections that looked back at them as Hutch slipped behind Starsky looked like dark and light reflections of each other in uniforms of white shirts and work-a-day jeans.

Starsky met Hutch’s eyes in the mirror as both big hands settled on his shoulders. He relaxed beneath the grip, seeing his own eyes beginning to sparkle with the love that already shone in Hutch’s.

“Last night, you called me a wet dream. Talked like there was some reason I might not see you the same way.” Hutch pulled down the collar of Starsky’s shirt, nuzzling beneath his curls to place a firm kiss on the back of his neck. “I don’t tell you enough.”

Starsky began to protest, but Hutch’s fingers pressed over his lips, silencing him.

“Shhh.” The sibilant whisper shushed into Starsky’s ear. “I don’t give you the news at six or tell you you’re a wet dream.”

Starsky remained very still, waiting. Despite his automatic protest, what Hutch said was true. Hutch showed his love in a multitude of ways every day, but he wasn’t prone to making the kind of statements that Starsky did.

“See, babe, you know it’s true, and I’m sorry I haven’t been giving you the words you need. You are my wet dream, Starsk, but more than that, you’re all my dreams.”

Starsky wanted to melt, just ooze into a puddle of besotted mush all over the carpet. Only Hutch’s intent gaze kept him on his feet as Hutch slowly began to undress him, offering a confession of the depth of his love for every article of clothing he took away.

“I dream about security, and when I wake up, there you are.” The buttons on Starsky’s shirt fell victim to busy fingers as his heart fell victim to the whispered confession.

“I dream about certainty, and find you beside me.” The white shirt floated to the carpet, while Hutch’s fingers worked Starsky’s belt with confidence.

“Always hoped to be loved for the good of who I am, and found you, who’ll love me for the good, the bad, and everything in between.”

Mesmerized by Hutch’s voice, Starsky gasped in surprise as his jeans were pushed down his thighs, shivering a little as the cool air suddenly kissed his hard cock. There was something deliciously vulnerable about standing naked while Hutch remained fully clothed. The exposure seemed to tap into the fierce protectiveness that had possessed him in the bar tonight, tempering it as he gave up control and surrendered himself to Hutch’s will. He shivered again as Hutch pressed against his back, rocking back a little on his heels as the cotton shirt brushed his back and the heavy jeans rubbed his bare ass.

And then Hutch began to caress him, deep passion-hoarse voice sliding over him in concert with the hands that knew his body so well.

“You’re so good at hiding your pain, but I can always see it here,” Hutch said, his right hand wrapping around Starsky’s throat. The pressure over his Adam’s apple was just enough to be felt but never threaten.

“And your pleasure… Ah, Starsk, you’re such a hedonist.” Hutch had both hands in play now, his fingers plucking and squeezing Starsky’s nipples to hardened points.

Starsky couldn’t prevent himself from arching forward, moaning softly as the teasing fingers were replaced with the moist heat of Hutch’s palms.

“Such hard little tits. Throbbing a little. A soft counterpoint for the way your heart races. I love the way they taste. The way you gasp and groan when I bite them oh so carefully. Yeah, just like that.”

Starsky gave voice to his pleasure as Hutch’s palms kneaded his chest, the rhythmic squeeze and release almost as good as the magic Hutch could work with his mouth.

“Macho man,” Hutch teased as his hands parted, combing through the hair on Starsky’s chest. “So proud of your hairy chest. Soft,” he whispered as his hands crept lower. “Soft, soft, soft. Oh! Not so soft.”

Hutch chuckled, his fingers lingering at the demarcation line. “This is where it changes.” One hand remained splayed over Starsky’s belly while the other slid, ever so slowly lower, sinking into the wiry pubic curls. “They seem to tangle my fingers. Hold them here, and here, and here,” he chanted while his fingers inched lower, somehow avoiding the hard length of Starsky’s cock.

Starsky ached for those fingers to encircle his cock, to cup the drawn-tight sac of his balls, but he couldn’t speak. Beyond mesmerized now, he felt hypnotized by the overwhelming pleasure of both seeing and feeling Hutch play his body, plucking reaction from every sensitive nerve, strumming the music of Starsky’s desire to hum to his will. He saw his body with new eyes. Hutch’s eyes?

Starsky’s eyes flew up to Hutch’s and were captured by the hunger he saw in them. Captured by the desire and held fast by the love, Starsky remained a prisoner of those eyes, even when Hutch’s hand encircled his cock and began to stroke, milking firmly from base to tip and back again.

“Is this how you want it, babe? Wanna watch me stroke it out of you? Come all over the mirror. Or…?”

The alternative was left unspoken, explained by the sudden thrust of Hutch’s still enshrouded cock against Starsky’s ass.

The last thing Starsky had thought himself capable of when he had walked through the door tonight was surrender. Yielding had been the furthest thing from a mind that struggled to decipher the knotted cats’ cradle of its own thoughts. But Hutch had used love and passion to untangle those knots, leaving Starsky not only willing but eager to be claimed by the man he loved.

“Do it,” Starsky demanded, pushing his ass back into Hutch, wishing for the magical power to effortlessly disappear the last barriers between them.

No magic was necessary. Just Hutch, steel in his voice as he released Starsky and commanded, “Don’t move.”

Obediently, Starsky held himself still, mentally urging Hutch to hurry as he heard the rustle as Hutch’s clothes were carelessly discarded. Released by the touch of Hutch’s hands, Starsky wriggled and squirmed to aid the quick removal of the rest of his clothes. Anxiously, he watched Hutch lean past him to retrieve the lubricant from the bedside table.

“Hang on to this.” Hutch pushed the tube into Starsky’s hands while his hands returned to Starsky’s body.

Their eyes held as Hutch caressed him, revving the engine of Starsky’s need higher and higher while their eyes remained locked in the mirror.

“Now,” Hutch commanded.

Without looking, Starsky squeezed the lube into Hutch’s waiting palm and tossed the tube on the bed. He leaned forward, bending, bracing his hands on either side of the wall beside the mirror. He kept his head up, holding onto Hutch’s eyes with the determination of a drowning man holding fast to the last plank of a sunken ship.

Starsky gasped a little as the cool, slippery lube was slid down between his cheeks. He spread his legs wider as Hutch’s blindly seeking fingers found his opening and pushed into him. He squirmed, impatient with the preparation, anxious for Hutch to make him fly.

The position was new to them, but not the act, and it took only a moment for Hutch to position his cock.

Starsky pressed back into the familiar pressure, biting his lip as pressure became stretch became an aching burn. He saw the strain of going slow in Hutch’s eyes, felt the fingers on his hips dig in deep as his body held out.

“Easy. Easy,” Hutch crooned in his ear.

“Never easy,” Starsky ground out between clenched teeth. He commanded his body to surrender to both their wills. “Always worth it,” he moaned as his body resisted one more endless second then suddenly yielded, giving him the prize of the relief and joy that leapt into Hutch’s face as the long cock slid into its sheath.

“Yes!”

The shout of triumph left both their throats, echoed by grunts of effort and the slap of flesh on flesh as they began to move together, as smooth in this drive for the goal of mutual release as they had ever been for lesser rewards on the streets.

Starsky’s body was singing, pleasure rebounding through his body as Hutch thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew, until all hope of control was gone. Until all Starsky could do was drink in the pleasure on Hutch’s face as that unbearable moment of utter pleasure was reached and his body spasmed. Filled by Hutch, surrounded by Hutch, Starsky cried out as his balls clenched and liquid fire streaked up his cock into Hutch’s iron first.

Starsky struggled to hold onto awareness. To hold back that moment when overwrought senses shut down long enough to see climax rush into Hutch’s face. To feel the thump of the long cock inside him give up its seed.

Shaking, uncertain whether he still had feet, never mind if he could move them, Starsky locked his knees and elbows, holding them both up as Hutch collapsed against his back. Just when Starsky was sure his strength would give out, and they would end up a tangled mass of exhausted flesh on the floor, Hutch lifted his head.

“Sorry,” Hutch mumbled. With obvious effort, he planted his hands on the wall on either side of Starsky’s and slowly lifted his body.

Starsky hissed as Hutch’s sated cock slipped from his ass, hating the separation but bowing to the necessity. Uncoordinated, helping each other as much as they could, they stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto it.

Several minutes passed, the silence broken only by their panting, before Starsky felt enough strength return to attempt to move. A few more minutes of scrambling finally brought them under the covers in a contented tangle of arms and legs.

Starsky sighed as he settled his head on Hutch’s shoulder, wriggling just a little to perfect the fit of their bodies. He smiled as he felt Hutch’s fingers tangle into his hair.

“Better?” Hutch asked, the purr of utter confidence making it a rhetorical question.

Starsky answered anyway. “Best.”

Hutch chuckled softly, then sobered. “What about the rest of the world?”

It was still waiting outside their door. Those who would approve, those who would disapprove, and those who wouldn’t give a damn. Starsky wasn’t going to let those ghosts into bed with them. Not tonight. Tomorrow was soon enough.

“Bolt’s on the door, sweetheart.”

~*~*~

Hutch hung up the phone, collected Starsky with a glance, and headed for Dobey’s office. He gave a perfunctory knock, then opened the door without waiting for permission. He waited until he heard the door close behind Starsky before he shared his news. “Looks like Brooks has taken the bait.” He didn’t bother trying to hide his excitement.

“Don’t just stand there. Sit down and give me your report.” Dobey looked just as excited as Hutch, his normally somber expression lightened by a pleased smile.

Hutch ignored the chair, too charged up to sit. He judged they would only be here a few minutes in any case. “Brooks just called. He said there’s been an interesting development in that robbery case of Babcock and Simmons’. He wants a meet at a diner in Rampart’s territory in an hour.”

Some of the excitement left Dobey’s face. “Suppose that’s what he really wants to meet for?”

“And suppose I’m gonna sprout wings and fly south for the winter.” Starsky parked a butt cheek on the corner of Dobey’s desk, picked up the phone, and offered it to the older man. “You better get Dryden on the phone and get him mobilized.”

Dobey accepted the phone, using it to point at each of them in turn. “You two better get to supply and get wired up.” He put the phone to his ear and punched a few buttons.

Dismissed, Hutch led the way as he and Starsky hurried down to supply. “Which one of us is wearing the wire?” he asked in the elevator.

Starsky grinned, spread his half-buttoned shirt a little wider, then pointed at Hutch’s chest. “You gotta ask?”

Hutch winced but conceded the point.

They entered the diner early and one look around revealed that Brooks hadn’t yet arrived. Starsky started to move toward a booth at the back, ingrained habits prompting him to put the wall to their backs. Hutch held him back with a light touch to his arm and pointed at a booth directly in front of the street window.

Starsky nodded understanding, changed direction, and slid into one side of the booth first. He pulled aside the dingy half curtain to look out the window.

“Can you see them?” Hutch reached across and pulled back the curtain on the other side of the booth before he sat down beside Starsky.

“Don’t see Dobey’s car. They must have brought Dryden’s.”

“As long as they’re out there listening.” Hutch turned his attention of the waitress and ordered two coffees.

He remained silent until the woman filled the order and retreated back behind the counter.

Starsky picked up his coffee, took a cautious sip of the steaming liquid, then set the cup carefully back in the saucer. “If Brooks comes here for the coffee, he must like battery acid.”

Hutch didn’t bother to sample it. If Starsky, who could drink the sludge at the bottom of the pot at the end of shift, was complaining, it had to be well beyond bad.

Hutch glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. If he’s on time.”

Starsky grunted an acknowledgement but didn’t lift his eyes from his cup, apparently fascinated by the slosh of the liquid as he turned the cup around and around in its saucer.

“I need you to promise me somethin’, Hutch,” Starsky finally broke the silence. “Don’t let me kill the bastard, okay.”

“Want me to take your gun?” Hutch asked, only half joking. This was serious business and he wasn’t taking it lightly, but Starsky had grown increasingly grim since their light banter over who would be wearing the wire.

Starsky lifted his head, turning eyes on Hutch that burned with suppressed fury. “I won’t need a gun.”

“Easy, buddy,” Hutch advised quietly, slipping his hand under the table, giving Starsky’s thigh a hard squeeze. “Brooks’ going to get what’s coming to him.”

Starsky sighed. His body relaxed a little, enough that Hutch felt it was safe to remove his hand. He threw his arm over the low back of the booth instead, and they waited in silence as the minutes ticked away.

As if they had synchronized watches, Brooks strode through the door at exactly ten o’clock. He paused a moment, then slid into the booth across from them.

“Starsky. Hutchinson,” Brooks said as he signaled the waitress for coffee. “Dobey must give out merit badges for being early.”

Both Starsky and Hutch managed to produce grimaces that might pass for smiles.

“You said there was a break in the case. We told you to just go ahead and work our file with yours,” Hutch said, anxious to get this over with.

Brooks took a sip of his coffee, his eyes on them as he pretended to savor it. He put the cup down and gave them an evil smile, brushing away Hutch’s words with a wave of his hand. “Not that case. See, I got a new case. Couple of under-the-covers cops, if you get my meaning.”

Hutch met Starsky’s eyes as adrenaline leaped into his veins. So the fish was caught after all. Now all they had to do was reel him in. Give him just enough line to hang himself out to dry.

“I’m thinking you two wouldn’t want that cover blown. Everybody knows you like the limelight. Pictures in the paper and on the evening news every time you turn around. Just imagine what the papers’d do with this. I can see the headline now.” Brooks lifted his hands in illustration. “Metro’s sweethearts–on and off the job.”

Hutch shrugged casually. “Homosexuality isn’t against regs.”

Brooks’s face grimaced in disgust. “Yeah, yeah. Downtown wants a whole department of you queers. Officially.” The nasty smile returned. “But we all know the reality. If it comes out you’re a couple of fags, you can forget promotions, maybe even kiss Zebra Three goodbye. As for back up? Huh. Next time you put out a call, your asses will be new-mown grass.”

Unfortunately, Brooks was speaking nothing but the truth and it infuriated Hutch. If they hadn’t been playing a role at the Outer Limits last night, but had been fools enough to patronize the place on their own time, this homophobic disgrace to the force would have them solidly by the short and curlies for the rest of their careers.

Hutch felt his hands curling into fists and struggled for control. He had promised to hold Starsky back, but who was going to prevent Hutch from doing something monumentally stupid? Would Brooks have the balls, considering his own reputation, to scream police brutality? More importantly, did Hutch want to sink to this slimy bastard’s level?

“What happened to professional courtesy?” Starsky spoke calmly, with perhaps even a touch of amused resignation in his voice.

“I’m prepared to be courteous.” Brooks spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. “We can keep this between you and me. And all your cocksucking buddies, of course.”

Starsky stood and Hutch tensed, ready to restrain his partner, but Starsky, it seemed, had himself well in hand now. “That’s really white of you, Brooks. Thanks. Come on, Hutch.” He gave Hutch a nudge in the shoulder. “We have work to do.”

“For a price.”

Already on his feet, Starsky suddenly bent forward, bringing his hands down on the table with a resounding smack and his snarling face within inches of Brooks’. Brooks had the sense to retreat back as far as the bench would allow, his hands lifting while his nervous gaze shot to Hutch.

Right on cue, Hutch put his hand on Starsky’s arm, tugging until, with a menacing growl, Starsky sank back down beside him.

“You ought to put a leash on him,” Brooks snapped. Regaining his composure quickly, he sneered at Hutch. “Or is it you who wears the dog collar, pretty boy?”

Again, perfectly timed, Hutch growled, “Starsk” just as Starsky started to rise again. He laid his hand on Starsky’s arm again as if to hold him in place. “How much?”

“Well, let me see.” Brooks felt he was in control again. He paused to look them over as if calculating their worth. “I hear Zebra gets paid a whole lot better than the rest of us plainclothes stiffs.”

Hutch almost laughed. It was a common rumor, one he wished were true.

“How much?” Starsky repeated.

“I’m not greedy,” Brooks said. “I figure five grand a piece ought to erase my memory. That’s not too much to pay for your jobs, maybe even your lives.”

Five grand this time. If this were real, Hutch knew how it would go. They would each pay up, and a few months later, there would be another call. Maybe Starsky was right. The only way to protect what they had was to ensure no one else knew.

It was Hutch’s turn to lean over the table this time as that possible future imbedded itself in his brain. He stuck a rigid index finger under Brooks’s nose. “One time, asshole. I’m only gonna pay one time,” he growled, remembering another undercover role. He hadn’t paid then, and he sure as hell wasn’t planning on paying now.

This time, it was Starsky who laid a hand on Hutch’s arm, apparently curtailing imminent violence. “So, just to be sure we know where we stand….”

Starsky left it hanging. If Brooks was any good at his job, had any kind of instincts at all, Starsky might have just overplayed their hand.

Obviously, Brooks was stupid as well as a bigoted asshole, however, because he didn’t recognize the set up. “You pay me five grand a piece by, say, next Sunday. Yeah, Sunday. It’ll be like making a donation to the collection plate. Only this time, all your sins will be forgotten instead of forgiven.”

Hutch heard the metal door of a holding cell clang shut in his head. He met Starsky’s eyes. “Do you think that about covers it, Stanley?”

Starsky’s smile of triumph widened into a grin. “Yes, Ollie, I believe it does.” He leaned closer to Hutch’s chest. “You can come in now, Captain Dobey.”

In thirty seconds, the door opened and Dobey, Dryden, and two uniformed officers boiled into the diner.

“What the hell is this?” Brooks demanded, jumping to his feet.

Dobey grabbed Brooks by the arm, dipping his hand into Brooks’ open jacket and lifting his gun from its holster, neatly disarming him.

“Smile, asshole,” Starsky advised, reaching to pull open Hutch’s shirt, revealing the microphone taped to his chest. “You’re on Candid Camera.”

“All yours,” Dobey said and passed Brooks off to Dryden.

Dryden held up his cuffs, his inquiring gaze offering either Starsky or Hutch the honors.

Hutch waved the invitation away. “I wouldn’t touch that slime ball with a cattle prod.”

Hutch slumped back in his seat, feeling the adrenaline begin to dissipate and suspected that Starsky was experiencing that same slow decline from red alert to normal.

The reprieve didn’t last long. Dobey watched Dryden march Brooks through the door, then rounded on them. “What are you two sitting there for? You have reports to write. On my desk. In triplicate.” The bluster suddenly evaporated as he looked first at Starsky and then Hutch. “Good work,” he added gruffly and then followed Dryden.

Feeling anti-climactic, Hutch looked at Starsky. “Doesn’t feel as good as it should.”

Starsky shrugged. “Never does when it’s one of our own.” He paused, his grim expression giving way to a satisfied smile. “But it does feel pretty damned good anyway.” He started to slide across the seat, nudging Hutch out of the booth. “Let’s get those reports done.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, resting his arm over Starsky’s shoulder, allowing the feeling of a job well done to possess him for a while at least. “If we get them on his desk before end of shift, that oughta really curl his hair.”

~*~*~

Starsky sat comfortably sprawled on Hutch’s couch, both feet propped up on the coffee table. He contemplated the spider plant hanging above the TV as he listened to Hutch on the telephone with Dobey. From where he sat, it sounded like a pretty one-sided conversation, but since Hutch’s “yes” and “no” and grunted acknowledgements sounded generally pleased, he assumed there was no cause for alarm. As far as Starsky was concerned, Dobey and IA ought to be damned pleased with them.

“Thanks for letting us know, Captain,” Hutch said into the phone, his tone indicating that the end of the conversation was approaching. At least Starsky hoped it was. They were, after all, officially off duty.

“Tomorrow? Thanks, Captain. We’ll see you on Monday morning. Yes, sir. On time.” Hutch hung up the phone and came to stand in front of Starsky, hands on hips and a very pleased smile on his face.

“Sounds like Dobey is a happy camper.” Starsky slouched a little lower on the couch until his head could rest comfortably on the back and his butt balanced on the edge of the cushion.”

“Happy enough to give us tomorrow off.”

Starsky closed his eyes to savor the novelty. “Mmmm. All day Sunday, and Saturday night, too.” He basked in the pleasure a few moments longer, then asked. “What else did our fearless leader have to say?”

“The DA is going to plead Brooks out and recommend ten to fifteen. No parole for eight.”

Starsky’s lips twisted in disgust. “Oughta throw away the key.”

“I don’t disagree. But at least MacAvoy won’t have to testify. And we both know former cops don’t do easy time.”

“True.” Starsky remembered the times he and Hutch, either collectively or singly, had faced the possibility of finding themselves on the wrong side of the bars. He shivered a little and wished Hutch would come and sit down beside him to chase away that little cold breeze of past possibilities.

He cracked open one eye. “How come you’re just standin’ there when alla this…” He swept one lazy hand down his body. “…is just sittin’ here waitin’ for you?”

“I was just wondering what you wanted to do tonight,” Hutch said seriously.

Starsky thought he had already made his preferences pretty clear, but Hutch was wearing the somber expression that always meant he had something serious weighing on his mind. “Any suggestions?”

Without answering, Hutch went to the closet, pulled out a paper bag, and returned, finally joining Starsky on the couch. “We could install those,” he said and dropped the bag onto Starsky’s stomach.

The surprisingly heavy weight landing on his relaxed belly pulled a grunt out of Starsky. He straightened as he grabbed the bag, sliding his butt back onto the cushion. He unrolled the top of the bag and peeked inside. “Dead bolts?”

“You said six, but I thought three for each place ought to do it,” Hutch said in that same serious tone.

Starsky remembered what he had said the night before, but after the conversations they had had since Dobey and Dryden had appeared on Hutch’s doorstep almost a week ago, he was surprised that Hutch was the one visiting the hardware store. Briefly, he wondered if this was one of Hutch’s practical demonstrations, designed to show Starsky the flaws in his reasoning. But Hutch’s face was too earnestly grim for this to be a game, even a serious one.

Slowly, Starsky closed the bag up and leaned forward to set it on the table. He sat back and studied Hutch’s face again. “Don’t tell me while you’ve been convincing me we shouldn’t be hermits anymore, I’ve been convincing you we should?”

“I don’t know,” Hutch admitted, allowing his confusion to show. “I thought I was right, but this morning when Brooks was spewing his filthy predictions, it really hit me that every one of them is true.”

“Ah, babe,” Starsky murmured, holding out his arms. He held on tight when Hutch came into them, squeezing for all he was worth until Hutch grunted in protest. “Okay?” He pushed Hutch to arms length, judging the softening of his expression and the lessening of tension in the shoulders under his hands.

“Better,” Hutch allowed, leaning back, separating them physically, but the connection had been opened now. “I convinced you, huh?”

“Well, sorta. I mean, if I get an urge to dance with you again, I’ll probably just clear the furniture and dance with you here.” He laughed, keeping it low and sexy in his throat. “Much shorter trip to bed that way.”

Hutch glanced toward the alcove. “Much,” he agreed, acknowledging how long the trip had seemed from the Outer Limits that first night while their desire for each other had been barely controllable until they were decently behind closed doors.

“Doing nothing but going to work and coming home might be the safest thing for our partnership, but I don’t think it’s the best thing for us anymore. You and me.”

“What changed your mind, Starsk? You’re not just pissed off that today could have been real?”

“It wasn’t Brooks who changed my mind, it was you, Hutch. Last night. Maybe you were right. Maybe part of the reason I wanted to hide out with you was because…because I wasn’t secure. Didn’t want pretty girls or good lookin’ guys flirting with you. Maybe reminding you that you had…other options.”

There was so much shame in Hutch’s face, Starsky had to reach out for him again, but Hutch rejected the embrace, holding up one hand between them. “I thought you were happy.”

“I was happy,” Starsky insisted earnestly, because it was the truth. Whatever clouds might have been hovering around their personal paradise of love, Starsky had been happier than he had ever been in his life.

Hutch shook his head. “How can you say you were happy if all this time you didn’t trust me? Was it because of my divorce?”

Starsky laughed without humor. “Hell, no. I met Vanessa, remember. And you need to get something straight, I always trust you. Even if you decided you loved someone else, or just didn’t love me, I know you’d just tell me.” He laid his hand over Hutch’s as he delivered the painful truth, a truth Hutch may or may not have ever been aware of. “You were always holding something back, Hutch. I didn’t know if it was because of all the times you were hurt and maybe it would go away when you were really sure of me. Or if it was just your nature. Remember what you said about me loving the good and the bad, well, I did.”

Hutch’s hand turned under Starsky’s, his fingers gripping tightly, his expression earnest. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll try harder–“

Starsky shook his head and gave Hutch’s hand a sharp yank as he interrupted. “You don’t have to try anything, Hutch, that’s what I’m telling you. Last night, when you were making love to me, you weren’t holding anything back. There was no little Hutch on the sidelines last night, and he’s not there now. I don’t know how or when or why he split, but he’s gone. I can let other people look now, because I know the only one you’re looking at is me.”

It was a defining moment. For Starsky, for Hutch, and for their future together, and it demanded expression. An embrace whose strength seemed to illustrate the forged iron of their commitment and a kiss whose tenderness confirmed that their love could also be gentle.

The moment stretched and stretched even after the kiss ended, continuing as their eyes held. It didn’t have to end. Never, Starsky hoped, would end. But it could mellow, bend to humor or diversity, but never yield.

When he left his lover’s arms, Starsky picked up the bag from the table and handed it back to Hutch. “I hope you can get your money back for those.”

“I’m sure I can.” Hutch accepted the bag. “So, it’s Saturday night. What do you want to do?”

Starsky hesitated a moment. Just long enough to be certain. Or, as Hutch had so often said, simply because he had a flair for the dramatic. “I’ve got a craving for a couple of beers and a Huggy Bear special. How about you?”

Hutch hesitated that same second, his eyes searching Starsky’s face and that beautiful smile appearing as he found what he sought. “I think a cold beer would go down just fine.”

Starsky stood, offered his hand down, and tugged Hutch to his feet. He wrapped his lover in his arms in the tightest bear hug his strength would allow, only releasing the pressure when he had squeezed the breath out of Hutch.

“You’re sure, Starsk? We’ll be taking the chance of giving them something to talk about.”

Starsky squeezed Hutch hard one last time, then danced clear of his arms. “Let ’em talk, babe. Let ’em talk.” He picked up Hutch’s wallet and tossed it to him. “Better bring that. It seems like a long time since I beat you at pool.”

“Ho! Ho!” Hutch crowed as he followed Starsky. “You haven’t beat me since we met.”

Starsky glanced back over his shoulder before he opened the door, grinning his challenge while the joy bubbled around inside him. “I got a feeling, sweetheart, that this is going to be my lucky night.”

The End