Sweet Comfort

Starsky’s attempt to requalify after Gunther’s hit doesn’t go as he’d hoped.

First published in the zine, Lifeline: A Decade of Sweet Revenge, in May, 1989, on the 10th anniversary of that episode.

Special thanks to Donna F. for helping to digitize this story for the archive.

The police physician finished his examination and returned to his desk, regarding Starsky thoughtfully. “Sergeant, your reaction time is down, so is your stamina. You don’t have the lung capacity for the endurance you’d need on the streets.” Starsky stopped listening as the doctor enumerated his shortcomings, hearing only the final statement. “I’m afraid your days as a homicide detective are over.”

The shock hit hard. Starsky didn’t care that he could take a desk job, that he would not actually be considered disabled. He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before Gunther had tried to take it all away from him. Hastily pulling on his clothes, he left the doctor’s office and stumbled into Hutch’s arms, heedless of other cops passing by in the hall.

The world narrowed down to the tight embrace in which Hutch held him. “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay,” Hutch repeated over and over. “We quit once and maybe that was the right decision. We’ll go away, make a new life…”

*****

Starsky’s distress was palpable, worrying Hutch. Even on his worst days in the hospital, his spirits had not seemed to sink this low. For a moment, Hutch’s anger toward Gunther resurfaced. Goddamn bastard took so much away from Starsky…from us. Yet he knew he had to control his own feelings now. Starsky needed his strength.

They stood together for a few moments longer. Though there were people passing by in the hallway, Hutch was aware of the wide berth they were being given, the respect other cops accorded them, obviously understanding what was going on outside the review board office. Starsky’s urgent clasp had not slackened, and Hutch now tried more verbal soothing.

“Take it easy, babe. I’ve got you.” He ran his hand in a gentle, circling path down his lover’s back, sensing the trembling Starsky attempted to control. Hutch’s heart was being torn in two. Don’t let him have his way, he wanted to admonish Starsky, don’t let this break you… Those words would hurt too much, though, and he choked them back. Instead, he slid his fingers up into Starsky’s hair, caressing the nape of his neck. Finally, Starsky drew a deep breath, calmed himself with effort, and straightened in Hutch’s embrace.

The blue eyes looked dark as sapphire and they were glistening with unshed tears. Hutch met their gaze, trying to transmit his understanding and support. He raised a fingertip to trace the line of an unruly eyebrow, then cupped the sad face in his hand. “Let’s get outta here,” he whispered, knowing that if he spoke any louder, his shaking voice would betray him.

Starsky nodded, and Hutch kept one arm around his shoulders as they turned to find the exit. Neither man spoke, even when they emerged from the building and the brilliant California sun stabbed their eyes, the bright daylight seeming to mock them. Starsky kept his head down, eyes squinting. Hutch walked him around to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for him, glad that today they had driven over in Hutch’s car rather than the Torino. Starsky slid in and moved to pull the door shut while Hutch rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t until they reached the safety of Venice Place that Hutch spoke up again.

“Wanta talk about it?” He watched as Starsky threw himself into a chair.

“No.” The voice was tight, emphatic.

Okay, Hutch told himself, you’re not ready yet. He decided to allow Starsky the time he needed to digest the news, though he hoped his partner wouldn’t keep it all inside. Let me help…

Partner… The idea stung. They had intended to be partners on the street again. Now that hope had been crushed. But you are my partner, Hutch thought, looking at him, feeling the love rise up in him anew. Partners in every way, since that morning two months ago when you came over here for breakfast. We looked at each other, reached out at exactly the same time… Christ, that was the most intense, the most fulfilling, it had ever been for me. I don’t think I could keep these feelings secret from the world much longer. We’ll go away now, get out of this sick town, make a life together somewhere else. The hurt will fade, and we’ll have so many beautiful nights together…

Hutch tried to let the fantasy supplant his troubled thought. From his own seat on the couch, he watched Starsky. The man had seemed to fold in on himself, chin tucked low on his chest, face closed in an expression of mingled hurt and anger, hands pale and clenched on his knees. Don’t keep it to yourself, love, Hutch wanted to implore him, let me take part of the hurt for you.

“Starsk?” His voice came out in a strangled whisper. It was not acknowledged, and Hutch too subsided into silence. When you’re ready, I’ll be here. He tried to send the message with his eyes, with his presence, but Starsky was not receiving. Instead, he was locked inside himself and Hutch knew better than to intrude.

The afternoon passed slowly, the dreary atmosphere in Hutch’s apartment at direct variance with the sunny day outside. At one point, Starsky had turned on the television, but he wasn’t really watching. He just sat staring at the screen, idly changing channels every few moments with the remote control. The constant zapping tormented Hutch’s already frazzled nerves, but he kept quiet, knowing a complaint from him would only exacerbate the situation.

Finally, he realized he’d better start thinking about dinner. He rose from the couch and headed for the kitchen area, opening the refrigerator and staring at its boring contents for a long moment of indecision. Slowly he realized that there was little in the way of groceries because they hadn’t bothered to shop, instead planning to order out from Chez Helene tonight. To celebrate… He finally unearthed a package of frozen lasagna that Starsky’s aunt had sent over a couple of weeks ago. He pulled off the freezer wrap and covered the casserole with foil, then set it in the oven, figuring an hour and a half would be long enough to heat it through. Then, having nothing else to do, he busied himself with watering the plants and tending to a little mail that had accumulated in the last week.

When the lasagna was cooked, Hutch tossed a salad, set the table, and poured a little wine. Starsky finally got up from his chair when he called him the third time. They sat at the table, wordlessly picking at their food. Hutch reached the point where couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“Starsk,” he tried to begin gently, “you can’t just hold it all inside you. C’mon, it might help to talk about it.”

Starsky didn’t look up from his plate. “What’s there to talk about? I failed the review board. That says it all, doesn’t it?”

“I failed.” Hutch heard the self-recrimination in the words. You’re no failure, Starsky, he wanted to tell him, though he feared the reassurance would sound hollow. You managed to recover from massive injuries– it’s a miracle you’re still alive. That’s not what I consider failure.

“They must have told you something,” he urged quietly. “Is there any kind of position on the force you could–?”

“Yeah. They offered me a desk job.” Starsky paused a moment, contemplating the forkful of lasagna he held. “Don’t you see, Hutch? That’d be even worse than not bein’ a cop at all. I couldn’t stand to watch all those other guys going out there, on the street. Couldn’t watch you…”

“If you’re not going to be a cop, then I’m not either,” Hutch broke in. “I told you that back at headquarters and I meant it. We’ll go away…”

“Shit, Hutch, that’s just a fantasy! What do you expect to do, move to San Francisco and go out to a job of your own every morning while I sit in an apartment and play housewife?”

Hutch absorbed the cutting words, trying to fend off their hurt. “No,” he said softly, “that’s not what I expect. But I do want to live with you.” The dark blue eyes flicked up to meet his own, but before he could say anything the troubled gaze darted away again. “They didn’t say you’re totally disabled, did they? You can go out and earn a living, can’t you?”

“Doing what?” Starsky dropped his fork; it clattered loudly on the plate. “I’m not fit for anything else! I’ve got no education, I can’t do heavy labor… The way I see it, there’s not very much difference between being ‘partially disabled’ and ‘totally disabled’. It all stinks.”

“Yeah, it stinks. But I never figured you to be a quitter.” A small portion of anger found its way into Hutch’s voice. He wanted to get up and shake some sense into Starsky. “Is that what you want– to really let Gunther win?”

Starsky looked at him steadily for the first time. “That’s a fucking unfair thing to say and you know it.” He pushed back his chair and got up from the table.

Hutch followed him into the greenhouse. “Yes, it’s unfair. The whole fucking situation isn’t fair! But I thought you learned a long time ago that life doesn’t always turn out that way.” He tried to stay calm, but knew his own temperature was rising along with Starsky’s. “You’re not gonna lay down and quit, though. I’m not gonna stand by and watch you ruin your life with a bunch of self-pitying bull crap.”

Starsky turned on him, fists clenched at his sides. “That’s always been your style, Hutchinson, hasn’t it? Hit a guy when he’s down.”

“You’re not defenseless. Fight back, damnit! So what if Gunther cut your career short– you’re alive, man. You knew you’d done about as much on the streets as you could. It’s time to move on. Go back to school, get your degree. Or find something creative to do– you’ve got so many talents. Don’t let your life be a waste…”

“That’s bull, too, and you know it,” Starsky interrupted him. “I don’t want to be patted on the head and told about all the kinds of things I can do. I don’t plan on becoming a bum, so don’t worry about that. But don’t you see, Hutch? I thought you were with me– all these months you helped me try to get back to street strength, and you never said a word about not making it. Were you just sitting there, waiting for the inevitable? Were you hoping it’d turn out this way?”

It was Hutch’s immediate inclination to say yes. But he bit his tongue. “Honest, Starsk, I really thought you’d be able to get back on the force.”

“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Being a cop doesn’t mean the same thing to you anymore. But it still did to me. You’re ready to give up on those ideals we had. And that’s where Gunther wins. Not by my layin’ down now.”

“If you let this break you, it does.”

Starsky ignored that comment, coming to stand face to face with Hutch. “You’re the quitter! You don’t care about the people anymore! You just want to save your own skin!”

“That’s ridiculous!” He knew what Starsky was doing, lashing out, trying to deflect his own pain, pouring abuse on him because the real target, Gunther, was locked safely away in prison. But he felt his pulse rate quicken, his defensive armor clicking into place. “I’m no coward, damnit! It’s not cowardly to want to see you not risking your life out there!”

“It’s the risk to your life you’re worried about! Why don’t you just admit you’re scared to be my partner anyway? You’re glad this happened, because you were certain you could never trust me out there again!”

He grabbed Starsky by the shoulders, barely stopping himself from shaking him. “Shut up, damnit! Just shut up! This issue isn’t black and white. Of course I’d worry about you backing me up. But you’d worry about me, too. This isn’t some kind of contest– it’s about two people sharing strengths and weaknesses, complementing each other. Or at least that’s the way it used to be!”

Starsky reacted to the last statement as if he’d been slapped. His eyes squeezed shut, he averted his face. “The way it used to be,” he breathed, all the fight going out of him. “That’s what I can’t stop thinking about. That’s what he took away, and what I can’t get back again. He did win.” Tormented eyes looked up. “He did win, Hutch.” He sighed. “I’m not mad at you. I don’t blame you…”

“I know.” Hutch tried to draw him close, but Starsky tensed and pulled away. He watched as Starsky went to stand and stare out through the screening. His broad shoulders were bent, and in the fading light, Hutch could see them trembling.

It’s like a death, he realized slowly, and we both have to grieve for what’s been lost. It’ll take time. Just let me be strong enough for him, to be what he needs…

Starsky choked out a shuddering breath, and his whole body looked like it was shaking now. Hurting, Hutch went to him, wrapping his arms around him from behind, molding the quaking body to his own.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Let it out.”

Starsky tried to stop the heaving breaths, still trying to fight the overwhelming emotion.

“It’s okay,” Hutch admonished again. “It’s just me here. Let me hold you.”

Starsky turned swiftly in his embrace, fingers clenching on the material of Hutch’s shirt. One wracking sob escaped, and then the full force of his grief erupted. The tears were harsh, punishing, but he didn’t try any more to abate their flow. Hutch held him tight, supporting most of his weight while his lover cried in his arms. Finally, though Starsky seemed oblivious, Hutch slowly helped him into the bedroom. He lay quietly holding him then, fingertips gently wiping the tears from Starsky’s cheeks.

A long while later, Starsky finally seemed cried out. He lay resting in Hutch’s arms, his breathing shallow, his heart a trip-hammer throbbing against Hutch’s chest. Hutch stroked his back, noting the dampness of his shirt. Not wanting him to catch a chill, he slipped open the shirt buttons and carefully pulled the fabric off Starsky’s shoulders. The man was heavy, weak-limbed with exhaustion, and Hutch thought him nearly asleep. When the shirt was off, he pulled him close again, using the bunched garment to dry the sweat-dewed shoulders and back. Starsky lay against him, sighing, accepting the comfort. Long after the dampness was gone, Hutch continued stroking the long, supple back, his hands replacing the crumpled shirt he’d let fall to the floor.

As Starsky’s breathing evened, Hutch let the motion of his hands still. They lay quietly for a long moment, but Starsky was not yet asleep. He seemed to miss the touches, snuggling nearer, tacitly asking that they continue. It was easy for Hutch to oblige. One of Starsky’s hands slipped around his waist, pulling at him, needing him close.

“I’m here.” Hutch whispered the words against Starsky’s temple, his lips pressing the tender flesh there. Starsky sighed and Hutch repeated the kiss, grazing Starsky’s temple, his earlobe. There was a moment of incredible, heart-stopping silence, then Starsky turned his face up to Hutch, eyes closed.

Hutch touched his fingertips to the other man’s chin, contemplating the parted lips being offered. He bent to them, bestowing the gentlest kiss he could. The warm lips clung to his and Hutch lingered there, exploring their moistness. His hand slid down the smooth throat and shoulder, finding its way to the heated chest. Starsky made a sound in his throat, like a trapped bird, like a lost soul hungering for love.

Whatever you need me for, I’m here, Hutch thought, his heart breaking, opening wide. Starsky’s arms went around him, the tension in them desperate. Hutch covered him with his own body, kissing him deeply. The slender form arched up against him and Hutch stroked down along his side, fingers sliding down the edge of the curling body hair, over the wide leather belt and down the seam of the denim jeans.

The kiss broke, Starsky gasping in air. His eyes were wide now. “Hutch?” It was a plea, a heartfelt question.

“I love you,” Hutch told him, meeting the anxious eyes. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed the lips again. “Beautiful.”

He shifted to his side, hand coming up to explore the muscled chest. Starsky seemed to be holding very still, breathless. Hutch mouthed one coppery nipple, catching the slight gasp the touch elicited. He licked the textured flesh, sucking it gently between his lips. Starsky’s sigh seemed to come from deep in his chest.

“That’s right, babe,” Hutch murmured. “I’m gonna take care of you so well… love you all night…” He trailed loving kisses over the tanned skin, granting equal attention to the scars Gunther had seen fit to give him. Starsky seemed to tremble then, muscles tightening in obvious fear. Hutch looked up, found the man’s face averted. He reached to touch his chin, direct his gaze.

“Watch me, David. You’re beautiful. Everywhere…” He knew Starsky was looking as he pressed a line of kisses along the pale, vertical scar that divided the masculine chest, knew he could tell he wasn’t pretending when he said he found him attractive still. “That’s better,” he whispered, smiling. He found the other nipple, laved it slowly while his fingers twisted in the curls that surrounded the first, and Starsky bucked suddenly, his breath a sharp, indrawn hiss.

“Beautiful,” Hutch repeated, lips descending along the line of curls that bisected the lower belly. The warm flesh there was pliant, muscles shivering at his touch. Hutch’s tongue explored the indented navel as his fingers unclasped the belt.

He paused, having to devote full attention to unzipping and removing the jeans. As he pulled them free, Starsky’s legs fell open, and the jeans dropped ignored to the floor.

Hutch used both his hands to massage the tense thigh muscles, drawing out long caresses, watching as Starsky’s head tossed on the pillow. He stroked the creases where thigh met belly, then his fingers wandered underneath, Starsky lifting up to give him access. Rubbing warmed the rich curves, made Starsky sigh without stopping.

The dark cock was hardening before his eyes, and Hutch could sense his partner’s urgency. Starsky still hadn’t said a word; Hutch knew how drained he was emotionally, how sweet the loving must feel to him. Have to show you how precious you are to me… He bent, opening his lips to taste the moistening tip of the penis. Starsky grew very still, very quiet, as Hutch slowly sucked the cock into his mouth. Only his lips and tongue touched the straining organ; his fingers were busy elsewhere, still attending the hardened nipples, circling the delicate anal opening, rubbing the crease between the legs, up under the balls. His hand took possession of the furred sac, gently pulling, squeezing, as he bore down on the cock with his mouth.

Slim hips lifted from the mattress, feeding the cock to him in long, slow strokes. Hutch finally brought his other hand up to help, allowing his tongue to lick the hard organ all over, flicking it swiftly up along the underside the way Starsky liked it best. The cry that reached his ears was one of desperation.

Take it slow… Hutch showed him what he meant, easing the pace, continuing the foreplay, showering Starsky with all the love, all the special caresses he could imagine. He hated to pause for very long but took a moment to find the tube of gel on the nightstand, keeping it near for when he would need it. He left no inch of skin unexplored, planting moist kisses on the downy inner thighs, in the warm spots behind each knee. Starsky was sensitive everywhere, on his ankles, the arches of his feet; as Hutch’s mouth slowly worked its way back up one leg, his fingers reached higher.

The cock that thrust lazily into his hand seemed even harder now. Hutch gradually brought his mouth up to it, prolonging the anticipation for both of them. His lips engulfed the glans, beginning to suck, as his hand pumped gently, rubbing the tender opening to Starsky’s body, seeking admittance.

Hutch’s own body glowed with sensation, his arousal directly linked with Starsky’s. Being able to impart such pleasure meant so much to him; he was doing his best to make this slow loving as unforgettable as he could, wanting to purge the fear, the grief and the sense of loss, replace it with only beauty.

Starsky’s hands had come up to encourage the motion of his head, now they tangled in his hair. The wide-parted knees drew back and Hutch slid first one finger, then two into him. He continued the fellatio, unable to suppress his own groans of eagerness. He rotated his fingers, felt fluttering muscles accommodate them, react to them.

Starsky drew a harsh, deep breath; his hips lifted high off the mattress. Now was the moment, Hutch knew. He quickly altered their position, wrapping his hand around Starsky’s wet penis, pulling himself up to his knees, replacing his fingers with his own rigid cock. As he slowly began to press inside, Starsky’s eyes flew open.

Hutch couldn’t look away. He wanted to watch it happen for Starsky, see the strong features transformed by love.

“You are beautiful.” He sighed the words, wondering if his lover could hear him over the sound of his throbbing heart. He sank full length into welcoming heat, feeling as though his soul touched Starsky’s in that deepest of secret places. Starsky was relaxed, eager for him, as Hutch initiated long, slow strokes. They were heading quickly for the inevitable, and Hutch tried to draw out the moment, make it last as long as the infinite love he felt. But the long foreplay hastened the result, made it slip up over them. He gasped, unable to contain his surge of pleasure. He felt his orgasm begin deep in his belly, reaching swiftly to take over every pore, every nerve ending. The cock in his hand throbbed, semen flowed, and Starsky was gasping with him.

Hutch drew out all the bursts; they seemed timed to his own pulsations. Starsky was shuddering, his body curled around Hutch’s, hands and legs gripping tight. And he was beautiful in his release, face and body purified by the act of abandoning himself to sensation. Your heart always was pure, Hutch reflected as he felt tears form in his eyes. “You are beautiful…” He had to say it again, just as now he had to melt into Starsky’s embrace and share the last sweet, poignant spasms while lost in a kiss.

*****

Starsky had never felt such a sense of wonder, had never known himself to be so beloved. The deep, perfect communion of their bodies had seemed to tend the wounds to his spirit. The ache inside him, the burning disappointment, still existed, but he felt he could bear it now. The unstinting love his partner gave had made him feel worthy and strong, blessed somehow.

I never needed you as much as I did just now, he thought, wrapping grateful arms around his exhausted lover. The uncontrolled weeping had left him wrung out, empty; he had needed, had actually craved, that exquisite form of comfort–being made love to–and you knew, without my even asking…

He was wiped out, tired as Hutch, but he had to say something, express his pleasure and satisfaction. He stroked the broad back, smoothed the tangled hair that draped the long neck. His voice, when he tried it, seemed tiny and tremulous.

“I love you,” he managed in a whisper.

Hutch nuzzled his chin, his cheek, his mouth. “Love you, too. Never want to be without you.”

Starsky couldn’t answer. All he could do was tighten his embrace.