During the episode, Ballad for a Blue Lady, things are not going well for Starsky and Hutch, either professionally or personally. Hutch, working undercover, needs to get close to a woman to convince her to testify against her boss, the mobster, Joe Fitch. But the strain from the case is pushing Starsky and Hutch to a tipping point in their partnership—and their sexual relationship.
Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine Code 7 # 4 in 1987.
The oven timer went off, rousing Hutch from his semi-doze on the couch. He dragged himself to a sitting position, raking back long, tousled hair. Getting up, he crossed to the stove and bent to retrieve his meal from the oven.
The frozen TV dinner looked dried out and unappetizing when he peeled off the foil, but Hutch picked up his fork anyway. Though he was perfectly capable of cooking, he just hadn’t felt like it, not tonight or any night recently. He was too dragged out at the end of a workday to do more than finish off a gravy-laden sliced turkey or meatloaf washed down with a beer, and drop into bed.
He remembered a time when his appetite had been good after a satisfying day at work. Mornings, he used to whip up a healthy concoction for breakfast that got him started on the right foot. Lunch was usually eaten on the go, but he would cook dinner when he got home, watching his nutrition as well as his calories. Starsky had been the one with the bad eating habits in those days. Now, Hutch just didn’t have the interest in the job or himself to bother. A meal, like the current one with its pasty mashed potatoes and overly-sweet blueberry crisp, was merely something to replace the calories he had burned up during the day.
Hutch was staring into the lumpy mass of stuffing when someone began banging a staccato rhythm on his front door. That sounds like…
“Starsky?” he called out, still seated.
“Yeah. Lemme in!” His partner’s muffled voice competed with the tempo of his pounding.
Hutch let his fork fall to the plate as he pushed back his chair and got up. He was pleased to have the company, though somewhat puzzled. Starsky hadn’t dropped in on him without prior notice lately. The evenings the partners spent together off duty had been few and far between in recent months.
Hutch opened the door, heading back to the table as Starsky stepped in. When he reseated himself, he found he had been followed across the room.
“That what you’ve been having for dinner?” Starsky peered at the food in the aluminum foil tray.
“So? You used to live on this stuff as I recall.”
“Yeah. Me—not you.” Hutch shrugged as piercing blue eyes met his. A grin replaced Starsky’s scowl. “Besides, I brought eats with me.”
For the first time, Hutch noticed the pizza box Starsky was carrying, along with a moisture-dripping six pack. His guest pulled up a chair, opened the box and popped the tab on a can of Coors. The first piece of pizza was generously passed to Hutch.
He took it and returned Starsky’s smile. It tasted of pepperoni and mushrooms and was gummy with lots of mozzarella. Junk food by definition, but at least it was fresh. Pushing aside the TV dinner, Hutch suddenly discovered he was hungry. He finished his first slice before he spoke again. “So, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Starsky smiled at him again, warmly. “It’s your last night. You are still goin’ under tomorrow—Stanton didn’t come up with any last minute changes, did he?”
Hutch grimaced. “No, not that I didn’t expect him to. That idiot only cooked up this half-baked undercover assignment yesterday and expects me to go in without a fully established cover.”
“The Fitch case is the biggest he’s ever been on.” Starsky was matter-of-fact. “Guess he sees it as a route to promotion.”
“Or not. Fitch isn’t going to go before that grand jury if he can help it.” Hutch started on another slice of pizza. “I haven t even had time to do much of a background check on that sister of Harry Owens.”
“She’s a singer, right?” Starsky licked cheese off his thumb. “Well, you’re musical.”
“Sure. I play a little acoustic guitar. She sings in a jazz club, Starsky. Stanton wants me to tell her I’m a record company executive, believe it or not. She’s done a couple of albums, years ago. She won’t fall for a line like that.”
“What then? I mean, I assume my beautiful partner can come up with a better plan than Lieutenant I’ve-Been-Off-the-Streets-for-Five-Years Stanton. Is she clean? Could you get some charges against her and turn her?”
Hutch shook his head. “I’m an admirer of her music. Had a couple of her records, ever since way back. I just came in from Nashville where I decided country definitely wasn’t my thing. I want to get back to my jazz roots.”
Tipping back to drain the last of his beer, Starsky kept his eyes on Hutch. “Very good, beautiful partner.”
“Hey,” Hutch demurred with mock-modesty, “beauty is as beauty does.”
“I should hope so.” The blue eyes were twinkling and Starsky’s voice carried a throaty suggestiveness. So, he’s in a flirting mood… Hutch felt warm under the slow smile his partner bestowed. That kind of warmth, the sort that generated sparks, had been rare between them lately.
They finished the pizza, the talk ranging from details of the Fitch case to teasing repartee. When both men had eaten their fill, Hutch dumped the empty box and beer cans, along with the remains of his frozen meal, into the trash while Starsky ambled into the living room. A record dropped onto the turntable and the sweet, sad voice of Marianne Owens drifted into the room.
“That’s her?” Sounding impressed, Starsky turned at Hutch’s approach. “Real torchy.”
He nodded. “Hear the pain in that voice? That’s the kind of emotion that can’t be faked.”
“She’s good. And I guess she has had some rough times. What’d she do—five years?”
“Yeah. She could be pretty tough by now. It’ll be hard to get close to her.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll charm her. She sounds lonely.”
Hutch couldn’t disagree. There was an aching vulnerability in the woman’s expressive voice. Yet maybe that softness and need had been sapped during her years behind bars.
Starsky reached out abruptly and lifted the tone arm. Hutch found blue eyes watching him intently.
“What?” he asked. “I thought you wanted to listen.”
“You’ll be hearing enough of her in person at the club.” The reply was noncommittal, but the arm that slipped around Hutch’s waist rekindled the earlier warmth. “Come on, babe. Sit over here with me.”
Starsky guided him to the couch and sat sideways on the cushions, facing Hutch, his knee in contact with Hutch’s thigh.
“Babe,” Hutch reflected, how long has it been since you called me that? Too long. He had missed the endearment, he realized.
He felt affectionate fingers slide to his nape, under the long hair. Starsky’s other hand was on his chest, pressed over his heart, making Hutch suddenly aware of how fast it was beating. The hands began to move, the one at his neck massaging away the tensions of the day, the one on his chest encouraging the shiver of arousal.
Basking under the gentle touches, Hutch’s eyes went to Starsky’s mouth. It was moist, lips slightly parted. Far too long, Hutch thought again as the mouth neared his own.
Starsky’s lips touched his, brushed, pressed, opened, and clung. The kiss deepened and a well of need opened up in Hutch, desire that had never been fully quenched blossomed. Hutch reached out to pull the man closer. Under his hands, Starsky’s shoulders felt hard. The arms tightening around him were assertive, demanding. Hutch marveled for the hundredth time how holding Starsky like this was so different from holding a woman. It evoked needs and emotions in him of such power that Hutch had never been sure he wanted to fully understand them.
The sex play between them went back years. There had been a different sort of chemistry between them, even from the earliest days of their friendship. At the Academy, they had wrestled and rough-housed, given each other massages, had towel fights in the shower room. Hutch had never wanted another man, yet he had had to acknowledge the fact that besides the urge to protect Starsky and to share with him and to work with him, there was also a very strong need to be intimate with him.
They’d been at Starsky’s place the first time it had happened, talking about sex, teasing, and making remarks with broad innuendoes. Starsky had told Hutch about the mirror on his ceiling and Hutch had said he wanted to see it. He’d been looking up into the mirror when he saw Starsky’s arms come around him from behind and hug him close. They had stood that way for a long moment, Starsky’s body rubbing suggestively against Hutch’s. Then Starsky had toppled them over onto the bed.
It had been good; fast and hard and filled with unexpected passion. Their inhibitions had faded as their clothes came off. They had rolled together, rumpling the bedspread, tangling arms and legs and bodies. Both hard, ready, their similarities had evoked instant arousal. The understanding of what touches felt best had been a delight, differing so much from their sexual experiences with women, where they could see the results of their touches but not truly comprehend the way they felt. Matched against Starsky, inch for inch, Hutch had felt himself shaking, vibrating with pleasure. They had rubbed together eagerly, feeling too good to do more than press tightly as they climaxed in an explosion of joy.
Talking it over afterward, they had both agreed. They both still wanted women, but didn’t want to forgo the pleasures they could share together. The sex between them wasn’t serious, it merely added an extra dimension to their deepening friendship and partnership. Touching each other felt so damn good…
Starsky’s hand pressing against the front of his jeans felt good now. Hutch refocused his attention, coming back to the present. He echoed his friend’s touch and a contest began to see whose fingers could do the unzipping fastest. Starsky won this time. It was easier for him, being left-handed.
Making up for lost time, Hutch pressed Starsky back until he was lying on the couch. He maneuvered his fingers inside the open jeans, and Starsky squirmed. Smiling, Hutch felt his own pants being tugged down; he sensed cool air, then two heated palms sliding over his skin.
Hutch wanted more. He slid lower, going to his knees beside the couch. As he moved, Starsky’s hands grasped the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it off over his head. Strong fingers tangled in his hair, urging his head down.
It had been months since he had sucked Starsky. Now the taste of the hardening flesh made Hutch all the more hungry. As it had been the first time, the intimacy of the act was nearly overwhelming. Starsky’s trust in him, and need for him, brought out Hutch’s instincts to love and protect. Knowing the pleasure he was capable of giving his partner was enough to intensify his own arousal. He made his touch delicate, adoring, his fingers skimming, probing, his tongue swirling over and around. Then his open mouth took the moist cock in and he tried to swallow it up, savoring the full essence of the man he was making love to. There was an emptiness, that well of need, way down inside him, and only Starsky could fill it.
Hutch felt his concentration dividing between his actions and his thoughts. Perhaps because it had been so long since he had touched his partner sexually, he found himself analyzing his motivations and feelings. He realized he had let things drift between him and Starsky lately. The relationship had always been so good that, once established, neither of them had really worked at keeping it that way. They had begun taking each other for granted. Now Hutch wanted to make up for that. With new tenderness he set out to increase Starsky’s enjoyment, to make him moan and writhe and tremble under the kind of love Hutch could give him.
There should be more, a way to fill the emptiness inside me, inside him. Desperation seized him suddenly with the ache of heretofore undefined desire. There is… we’ve never…
For a moment he froze, thoughts of final consummation driving everything else out of focus. They had never gone further than mutual masturbation and oral sex, had never even discussed trying more.
Maybe because it would have been too serious, too absolute. Partners might fool around with each other, but men who aren’t gay don’t fuck each other.
“Hey, babe…” Fingers nudged at his cheek. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”
Hutch looked up into eyes that held a combination of desire and concern. “I…” He closed his eyes, lips returning to Starsky’s cock. He didn’t know what to say, he was reeling with the force of acknowledging that he wanted to take this man.
Actions speak louder than words…
If he could just get things going in the right direction, he thought he could make it happen. Yet his thoughts were in such turmoil that his hands became fumbling and awkward and he paused again, drawing a ragged breath.
“Hutch—” His partner was more insistent this time. “What’s wrong?”
Certainty made Hutch decisive, calmed his raging nerves. “Let’s go to bed.” I’ll give you all of me. He climbed to his feet and offered Starsky a hand up. Walking the short distance to the bedroom, he kept an arm tight around his partner, needing the closeness, the continuing heat of contact.
Already mostly undressed, they shed their remaining clothes and tumbled together on the cool sheets. Starsky ended up on top, his kisses drinking from Hutch’s lips, his hands commanding a response. Hutch locked his legs around his waist, feeling the hard column pressed to his groin. You want me… He tried rolling them over, wanting to show Starsky how he felt, how good it could be.
But Starsky had other ideas. His hands were moving, his lips finding sensitive spots all over Hutch’s chest. “Just stay right where you are.” It was a breathless directive. “I’m gonna gobble you up.” Starsky pulled away a moment, turning, moving to Hutch’s cock as he offered his own.
Hutch didn’t mind, precisely. The total reciprocity of the position had made it a favorite of theirs. Yet he had been so anxious for more this time.
“Starsk, wait… listen.” He attempted to alter their positions.
“Shh… no talking. Got better things to do with our mouths.” Starsky’s tongue was doing imaginative things to him.
“No. I mean—”
Starsky stopped again, raising up enough to meet Hutch’s eyes. “What the hell’s the matter? You wanta stop or what?” There was a note of aggravation in the man’s voice.
Hutch sighed. He didn’t want to spoil things, after all. It had been too long since they had been close like this. Don’t rock the boat… “No, of course not.” He answered verbally, then reinforced it with touch, pulling Starsky’s hips toward him once more.
He pressed the warm, willing body close, trying to devour the man, show how much he cared for him. Slowly sinking his lips to the base of the shaft, Hutch held the tight-fleshed ass in his hands, massaging, squeezing, glorying in the pliant, live feel of it. His fingers wandered, sliding down the crease, seeking the hidden part he had just realized he wanted to possess. Starsky was tight, closed to him, the secret there seemingly denied to Hutch, a locked-away private part of him that could never be breached. Still sucking on his penis, Hutch parted the rounded buttocks, wanting to see. He was unprepared for the rush of desire that very nearly swept him away. All he could do was reach, however awkwardly, just to stroke the puckered opening with the tip of his forefinger. Starsky shivered as he did it, whether from the touch or some other response Hutch didn’t know.
His friend was loving him so expertly that Hutch could soon concentrate only on the sweet sensations generated in his own groin. Starsky licked him thoroughly, up and down, finding especially sensitive spots to nibble, to bathe with his tongue’s moisture. Then, with exquisite slowness, sucked just the head into the warmth of his mouth, tightening his lips under the glans as he swirled his tongue over and over again. One hand grasped Hutch at his base, initiating a random rhythm calculated to drive him wild, while the fingers of the other hand embraced his balls, fondling, cuddling them securely.
Hutch knew himself to be treasured, cared for, a feeling he had known only with Starsky in his entire life. This is so good, why ask for more? The answer, which was more an idea of a heightening of the joys they could share, was shaken out of him before he could grasp it by the orgasm overtaking him. Hutch felt a trembling that began deep inside his body, a feeling of being hot and melting from that heat, at the same time as Starsky’s hips arched toward him. He recognized the signs, knew what his partner wanted now, and he gave it. He sucked hard, his hands encircling the bucking hips, letting Starsky’s frenzied motion in and out of his mouth speed them both toward their finish.
Perfect timing, once again. They fell back gasping, shaking with reaction. Most of his feeling of total satiation, Hutch knew, came from the fact that he and Starsky had not made love in many months. It was like coming home after a long time of living all alone. Yet he couldn’t help feeling a little let down, with his new understanding of what they could give each other. If they dared…
Starsky wriggled closer to him, warm and moist all over and smilingly content. Hutch kissed him, all his caring expressed in the gentle pressing of his lips to the mouth that had given him so much. He wanted to talk about his sudden revelation, yet he was still so uncertain about what it meant, and how it could change their relationship, that he kept his silence.
“Hey.” Drowsy blue eyes opened, looking deeply into his own. “What’d you start to say, back then?’
Hutch blinked; his partner’s memory was like an elephant’s. “Doesn’t matter.” He tightened his hold on Starsky, settling the head of unruly curls into its perfect resting place on his shoulder. He felt satisfied, yet not completed. The emptiness was still there inside him; the well was bottomless. It would never be filled up.
I could cover you with my body, shield you, love you, protect you… give you all of me, if only…
The words just wouldn’t come. He wanted the closeness with Starsky to last—now was not the time to begin analyzing what they did together and why.
He couldn’t suppress a sigh, though, and Starsky nuzzled into his neck, lips softly caressing as if to soothe whatever troubled Hutch. Springy dark curls caught in Hutch’s mustache as he turned to kiss the top of Starsky’s head.
“How was that for a send-off?”
The question threw Hutch for a moment. Then he remembered his undercover assignment. He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t want to not do it, either. Like so much of his life, on and off the job, it seemed easier to go along with things as they were, as they always had been, than to tread the unknown pathways into change.
“Fine, partner. Just fine.” Held in Starsky’s embrace, Hutch tried to shut the world out… for just a little while longer.
* * *
The club was crowded, though the hour was late. Hutch sat at the bar, a glass of beer going flat by his elbow. He glanced at his watch. Marianne Owens was late for her final set. In the last week, Hutch had memorized her schedule, and had spent more hours listening to the blues singer’s repertoire than he would have thought possible. Her final set was due to begin at eleven thirty. She was already twenty minutes late.
Hutch had managed to become friendly with Marianne, but so far, he had learned nothing significant. He had seen Joe Fitch, recognizing the man from his photograph, but the boss didn’t spend much time in the club. And his acquaintance with Marianne was still strictly on the small talk level.
She had been interested in his story about getting fed up with Nashville, not questioning its truth. It had been relatively easy for Hutch to discuss his discontent; all he had to do was project his attitudes toward his real profession to the one he was fabricating. He still did not know if he would be able to get any useful information on Fitch from Marianne, but by the way she steered conversation away from the specifics of her job at the club and the bar’s ownership, Hutch thought she might know enough to be brought before the grand jury herself.
Her accompanist, Chickie, had returned to the piano, Hutch noticed. Chickie played a couple of slow jazz tunes and Hutch enjoyed the music. Yet he was becoming concerned. Not only had Marianne not appeared, neither Fitch nor any of his people had been visible during the last hour.
Hutch’s eyes were on the curtain that separated the public area of the club from the hall leading to private, employees-only rooms, when it was pulled hack for just a moment, as if someone were back there, checking on the crowd. After a few seconds the curtain moved again, this time wide enough for Marianne to enter. She hesitated briefly, as if experiencing pre-performance jitters.
Hutch watched her closely, realizing that this was the first time he had seen her look nervous. Usually, she appeared to ignore the presence of the audience, as if singing for herself alone. Now, he thought she looked preoccupied, flustered. It seemed obvious that something had happened to upset her.
She stood smoothing her hair with a self-conscious gesture, then drew a deep breath and stepped forward, coming to the piano. She met Chickie’s eyes, and at her subtle signal, he began to play.
The emotion with which she sang was deeper and more profound than Hutch had heard before. The song was a metaphor for pain, for a life of desperation. “But Lord, look at me. I am rooted like a tree…”
Me, too. Marianne. I can’t go anywhere, can’t escape, can’t change. I’m not even sure I would if I could.
She made eye contact with him and the look held. It seemed to Hutch that, just for a moment, a measure of warmth and understanding built between them. He hoped the intensity would last.
At the end of the set, he gave her a smile and after only a slight hesitation, she came over to him.
“Care to join me?”
She nodded and slipped into the chair beside him.
Hutch signaled the bartender and turned back to Marianne. “That was lovely.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “I don’t know how I sounded tonight.”
“Something wrong? I mean, you were late for the set, and…”
“You noticed. I’m flattered.” Marianne broke his look and concentrated on the cocktail napkin she was twisting between her hands.
Hutch shifted slightly, leaning closer to the singer. His voice was low, more intimate. “Everything all right?”
She looked up. “When is it ever?”
Her hands were trembling. Hutch covered them with his own. “Can’t be all that bad. Can it?”
She attempted a smile; it came out rueful. “Guess not. I’ll get by, I suppose. I just wonder sometimes—you know, what’s the use?”
“What’s the use of what?”
“Hanging in there. It’d be so easy to give up.”
Tell me about it. But ‘Ken’ wouldn’t feel that way. Try the supportive role, Hutch told himself. “Come on. You’ve been singing too many sad songs—and listening to them.”
“I thought you said I was good. Didn’t you ever hear that an artist has to suffer for her art?” She was teasing, but there was a note of self-mockery in the remark.
He smiled gently. “Don’t carry it too far.” Edging closer, he lay one arm across the back of her chair. “How about a change of pace tonight?”
“Sing something happy?” Her eyes, meeting his, looked very bright.
“Yeah. Why not? But I meant, would you like to get together? You are finished for the night, aren’t you?”
Her eyes lost focus for a moment as she considered.
Thinking over the consequences? he wondered. Don’t you want to spend some time with someone besides Joe Fitch’s crummy crowd?
She was smiling when she answered. “That would be nice.”
* * *
Her studio apartment was a world apart from the dim, smoky atmosphere of the club. Hutch walked around, inspecting the well-cared-for plants while Marianne fixed coffee. When she returned from the tiny kitchen area, he sat beside her on the couch.
He noticed that her hand was trembling as she retrieved her cigarette from the ash tray. He tried again to find out what was troubling her. “Marianne? Something’s on your mind. Would talking to a friend help?’
She looked up, hesitation in her eyes. “Some things aren’t easy to talk about.”
“I know. But it might be worth a try.”
A shake of her head set her long, loose curls tumbling. “No. Talking’s not what I really need.” Her eyes were twinkling now, smoky gray and inviting.
Hutch accepted the invitation. The kiss began with light exploration, then spoke of building passion. Her arms came up to twine willingly around his neck and she clung to him. Her body vibrated with need, and he gave what he could to answer it.
Hutch had thought he would feel no emotional response, but he was wrong. Marianne had turned to him, vulnerable in her loneliness, and just being there for someone felt good. For a little while he could be strong and supportive and giving. Her unconditional acceptance lent an urgency to his touch and his feelings.
Her bed was soft, with downy coverlets and sheets printed in a design of green plants. Her body was welcoming and he knew just what she wanted. It happened to be exactly what he wanted—needed—to do.
The feminine legs tightened around his waist, surprisingly strong and limber. He set the rhythm and she followed, her head tossing on the pillow, her eyes looking more blue than gray in the pale light from the small vanity lamp. Hutch leaned over her body, feeling possessive, covering her, tempering his strength to surround her with his passion. As his lips tasted her open ones, his fingers drowned themselves in the mass of dark curls.
He broke the kiss to look into the face beneath him. Ringlets, dark and springy, eyes hot and hooded, the brows drawing together in concentration and the anguish of delight… It was a face he didn’t really know at all, yet it was oddly precious to him. And so much like... oh God… Starsky…
Caressed inside her body by anxious muscles, he gasped, coming to fulfillment in long, deep bursts of pleasure. He collapsed over her, his eyes closing in exhaustion, his mind blank, shying away from the thought that had possessed him at the moment of climax. Marianne stroked his back and held him close in a silent, comforting embrace.
Hutch felt good, content and drowsy, safe and strong at the same time. His body was sated, but his mind was alight with thoughts that seemed profound in the afterglow. Making love with Marianne had been so uncomplicated. Man and woman together, no need for words, both wanting the same thing…
She did want it. I didn’t have to ask, to make do with substitutes. Why can’t it be that way for Starsky and me?
Because we’ve gone on in our accepted, expected pattern for too long. With the certainty came resignation. The kind of total joining with Starsky he had begun to want seemed impossible to achieve. But Hutch wanted it, wanted to do with his partner exactly what he had just done with Marianne. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as easy, but the completion he sensed they would know would surely be worth the preparation and risk.
Marianne shifted, reaching for a cigarette box on the nightstand. Hutch watched her light up and inhale, noting the sigh of satisfaction that followed. She turned to him, smiling.
“Do you write songs as well as you make love?”
He laughed self-consciously, aware of the flush of warmth that spread over him at her words.
A soft hand stroked his cheek. “You’re blushing. I guess your songs are good.”
“I’ll have to write you one so you can judge for yourself.” Her gentle teasing sounded very sweet to Hutch’s ears. He pulled Marianne close, knowing how easy it would be for him to become involved with her. He almost wished he could; escaping into her arms at night could be very pleasant. And it would mean not having to face the complicated entanglements of his relationship with Starsky.
She was tracing patterns on his back with a lazy finger. “Write me a love song, Ken from Nashville?”
She pulled back, looking into his eyes searchingly. “Make it a slow song, full of softness. I’m so sick of violence, so tired of death.”
“I don’t write about death or violence.” Even though I live with them… God, what a phony I am. Who am I kidding, thinking I could have some sort of relationship with her? I’m here to gain her confidence, to get information. Yet she seemed so vulnerable. Her expression now echoed her earlier skittishness at the club. Just trust me, Marianne. I’d like to help you, at least… “What’s the matter?”
She turned over, fitting her back to his front with the closeness of nesting spoons. Her voice sounded brittle. “It’s nothing. Forget it. Forget I was late for the last set. Forget everything.”
Hutch encircled her in the safety of his arms. “I won’t forget this.” He took the cigarette from her fingers and crushed it out in the ash tray, then drew her around to face him. He began making love to her again, offering what comfort he could, taking the solace he needed for himself. He wouldn’t be able to call Starsky at the arranged time, but he didn’t want to hear his partner’s voice tonight anyway. He was already too confused about that part of his life. Being undercover meant staying in role, losing oneself in another world. Doing that was a very inviting thought at the moment.
* * *
The ringing of the telephone took a long time to penetrate through the fog of sleep enveloping Hutch’s brain. Home and in his own bed for only a few hours, he just lay there hoping it would stop and let him alone. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He dragged his legs out from under the sheet and staggered over to the couch, picking up the annoying receiver.
“Yeah?”
“Hutch?”
Starsky. Of course.
“You still asleep? What time’d you get in last night, anyway?” There was a note of incredulity in the teasing voice.
“What’s it to you?” Hutch didn’t feel like tempering his early morning grouchiness.
Starsky took it in stride. “Hey, I ain’t jealous, partner. I’m just surprised. Last time we talked, you said you hadn’t made much progress.”
Not jealous? Maybe I wish you were. “Yeah, well…” What can I say, that I wish you’d let me do to you what I did to her? Or… oh my God… that I want you to do it to me…
Hutch closed his eyes and the erotic images took on shape and substance: himself, lying on a bed, being made love to, held, positioned, taken, willingly allowing Starsky the most intimate of touches, giving all of himself, for love…
“Hutch? You goin’ back to sleep on me?”
“No.” His voice sounded detached, strangely normal. “What did you say?”
“Dobey wants us to meet him and Stanton over at the Bellevue Hotel. Somebody got to Charlie Barren last night.”
All other thoughts vanished from Hutch’s mind. “He’s dead? When did it happen?”
“They’re not sure yet. Someone in the hotel lobby said they saw his bodyguard come down around eleven to get some food. That must have been when they broke in on him.”
“Shit.” Hutch closed his eyes, the reality of the case coming back full force. Why would Charlie Barron excuse his own bodyguard that late at night? Maybe he had a date…
He didn’t want to connect Marianne with Barren’s murder, but he couldn’t help wondering. She had been late for the last set… “Dobey’s at the hotel now?”
“Yeah. He wants us both right away. And, Hutch, Stanton was hoping to hear from you before this. He’s not in the mood to be patient at the moment, if you know what I mean.”
“I know. I’m not in the mood to be very patient, either.” Hutch put the phone back in its cradle. Marianne had looked nervous, upset, she had been talking about violence and death.
God, Marianne, how did you ever get so tied up in Joe Fitch’s world? Would you do anything for him and that brother of yours? What will you do for me?
* * *
By the time Hutch found the room at the Bellevue Hotel where Charlie Barren had been beaten to death, he had worked himself into a surly mood. He felt partially responsible, as if Barren’s murder was his fault because he hadn’t gotten close to Marianne sooner. And, thinking about it another way, he found his handling of the situation last night lacking as well. Marianne had been unable to open up to him enough to ask for help. He could see that now, and realized that, if she could not relinquish the hold Fitch and her brother had over her even under such painful circumstances as being an accessory to murder, getting information on Fitch from her might be totally impossible.
Yet Hutch still berated himself. There ought to have been some way, his conscience insisted, to have made her believe in him and his ability to help her. Times like this, he wondered why he still remained on the force. He hardly seemed competent at the little things anymore; what gave him the idea he was capable of running a successful undercover?
Still, upon arriving at the scene of Barren’s death, Hutch’s anger found a new focus: Lieutenant Stanton. The man had no concept of how to accomplish what he wanted; all he saw was the necessity of getting Fitch brought before the grand jury. And one of his two witnesses was already dead. Barren had died messily, beaten without mercy. Hadn’t anyone heard the commotion? Had someone—some woman, Hutch corrected mentally—screamed?
A cigarette with lipstick on it lay on the carpet.
“The lady did not do the beating.” Hutch saw Starsky’s reaction to his snapped comment, but he turned away from his partner, the tension winding tighter inside him. She had been here, he was convinced now, but he wanted to deny her involvement in the actual murder.
How was she tied in? Had she been the lure, the reason Barron had dropped his guard?
Hutch re-analyzed her behavior at the club. Marianne had appeared shaken. Seeing a beating like the one inflicted on Barron would have had that effect. Yet she had also seemed… guilty, as if she knew herself to be a betrayer.
Honey, I sure know how that feels.
Hutch recognized the uncomfortable irony of how much he and Marianne had in common.
He turned to speak to Captain Dobey but Stanton interrupted, asking how he was doing with Marianne. In a moment, he would go too far, blame her for the crime itself. Hutch felt certain she had been an unwilling accomplice. He had to shut the police lieutenant up.
“You’ve been undercover for a week,” Stanton was saying in a tone of accusation, “and you still don’t have anything.”
It was too much. Hutch’s temper snapped and he found himself shouting in Stanton’s face, grabbing the man’s lapels, shoving him out the door.
For a moment the release of tension, of acting on his emotions and needs felt good to Hutch. He leaned heavily against the wall, the stunned silence of the other cops in the room swallowing up his anger, leaving him alone in the emptiness that engulfed him. He expected Dobey’s voice to reach him first, carrying the chastisement he deserved, but his captain remained quiet, urging the others to get back to business.
It was Starsky who approached Hutch instead. Yet this time, his partner’s unswerving support gave no comfort. Starsky’s touch at his shoulder grated on Hutch’s already raw nerves. Scowling, he turned to meet Starsky’s intense gaze. Hutch couldn’t speak, couldn’t explain—and didn’t really want to.
Starsky’s look said explanations weren’t necessary. Hutch sighed, retreating behind closed eyes and inescapable duty.
“I’d better get to work,” he said softly. As he turned to exit through the hotel room door, Hutch let his left hand slide across Starsky’s chest in wordless apology.
* * *
As it turned out, there wasn’t much work he could do that day. Marianne was neither at her apartment nor at the club, so he couldn’t arrange a ‘chance’ meeting with her. Instead, he drove aimlessly around the city, feeling out of place, at odds with his emotions and his conscience. He recognized the symptoms of burnout, of depression. Just because what he did to people to get information on a case was legal didn’t mean it was right. Lately it was getting harder and harder to believe in what he did. The hours he spent trying to rationalize, to justify, only served to make him more uptight.
Late in the afternoon he returned home and sat down at the piano, noodling with chord progressions and half-remembered melodies until his tension finally began to ease. The job was still there, though.
Toward evening, he got dressed, slipping on the comfortable fringed suede jacket she had said she liked, and headed for the club to catch Marianne’s performance. As he descended the stairway into the dimly lit cellar, he began to feel better than he had all day. Playing the role of Ken from Nashville seemed easier than being himself right now.
She, too, had relaxed since the previous evening. Her singing was mellow and sweet, their shared conversation at the bar light and teasing. Hutch thought he was making some headway when she introduced her brother, Harry. Hutch was curious about him; there was something in the man’s rabbit-nervous movements that told Hutch he was about to take care of important business for his employer, Fitch. Harry seemed slight, unassuming; how did he manage to influence his apparently stronger sister?
Marianne’s touch at his waist and shoulder spoke of familiarity and trust. She was comfortable in his presence and he felt their rapport blossoming. Hutch found he really liked her, liked playing enigmatic man of mystery to her damsel in distress. Maybe the roles they had adopted, he thought wistfully, were not too far from the truth after all.
Then a heavier reality, in the form of Joe Fitch himself, interfered with the fantasy Hutch had created. It was not so much her brother that held sway over the woman, Hutch saw. Fitch’s hold over Harry extended to his sister. Marianne was suddenly looking at Hutch out of eyes that had become haunted and vulnerable again, and he felt himself a stranger once more, locked outside the dark underworld in which Marianne dwelt against her will.
Hutch went as far as he dared in acting the put-upon suitor. “Hey, look, Mister. Try being a little polite. Marianne and I are not interested in your invitation, thank you very much all the same.”
Fitch looked up at Hutch from his lesser height as if the man in the fringed jacket were an insignificant hayseed. His “You’re welcome” was perfunctory; his cold, dismissing gaze slid over Hutch and he turned to ascend the stairs, confident that Harry and Marianne were following.
“Wait a minute.” Hutch caught at both brother and sister as they hurried after Fitch.
She drew away from him. Don’t touch, said her skittish gaze. All the warmth was gone, and in its place was a no trespassing sign. Hutch was certain she didn’t like being forced, however subtly, to renounce her new friend in favor of going with Fitch and Harry, but he could see she couldn’t do anything else. And he recognized something else in her: self-hatred for letting herself be used. He had too often felt the same thing.
“I can’t explain,” she said, her tone brittle. “I’ll see you later.”
Hutch could not cross the boundary constructed out of her ties to Fitch. What would happen to her brother, he wondered, if Marianne refused?
He returned to the bar, signaling for another beer.
Last night he had slept with Marianne, now it appeared he was back to square one. He had held her in his arms and with her had committed the most intimate act of which two human beings were capable. Yet, the intimacy had been physical only. She had kept her emotions private, closed off from him. He’d been a fool to think that in bed her barriers might come down.
What was I giving her? A little piece of myself? It goes both ways… But for this to really work with her that’s what I have to do. It’s what I was sincerely trying to do, at least. Yet how much of myself is there to give for her, and for all the Mariannes in my life, before I run out of me? Until there’s nothing left of me to give to Starsky…?
Thoughts of his partner redoubled Hutch’s feeling of contempt for life’s ironies. It had been so easy to achieve the physical intimacy with Marianne; so much easier than achieving the kind of total joining he was coming to want with Starsky.
And yet with him, I have all the trust and emotional bonding she could never allow—
Thoroughly confused, Hutch fingered the damp cocktail napkin next to his glass. It was the one on which he had written his song lyric for Marianne. In sudden annoyance, Hutch crumpled the napkin in his hand. He had to stop thinking about his work and his personal life in the same light, had to keep them separate.
The beer seemed bitter as he drank it down. Hutch tossed some coins on the bar and turned to go. He briefly considered heading home to phone Starsky. The job required that he did; personal conflicts made him balk. Hutch didn’t feel much like talking about anything anymore tonight.
He bar-hopped his way home, wanting to escape both sources of conflict and managing to become more confused instead. He dragged himself up the stairs to Venice Place at three a.m. and dropped into bed. In his dreams, he had quit the force to become Marianne Owens’ road manager. The easy escape from his real problems made his sleep peaceful.
* * *
Hutch didn’t wake up until after eleven the next morning. He pushed himself to get up and take a shower, trying to wake up under the pounding spray of hot water. The remedy worked; he emerged feeling more energetic and with a fresh resolve regarding his ability to get close to Marianne.
He could hear her voice as soon as he began descending the stairs to the club. Leaning against the piano, she looked lonely and vulnerable. Her need called out to him. Hutch wanted to help her, wanted to find the way to make a difference in her life. It wouldn’t work to build a false friendship with Marianne; she needed something real, a connection to the world outside of Fitch’s sewer.
The warmth seemed to have come back to them as they talked lightly of the incident with Fitch the night before. Hutch couldn’t resist asking about the man, hoping his interest would be interpreted as a friendly inquiry. But he couldn’t get more than a noncommittal answer of ‘family business or intrigue.’ When he pressed for more, she distanced herself from him again.
Outside the club she looked pale standing in the bright sunshine, as if somehow she didn’t belong, as if casual window shopping was completely alien to her life. He tried again, but she still attempted to back away from him. This time the reason was more obvious. Fitch’s men were standing guard, observing her interaction with Hutch, monitoring her behavior.
“Please, you’re going to get hurt.” She turned, ready to run away from him again.
“Will you let me worry about that?” He took hold of her arm, heading down the street. The dash through traffic and pedestrians became a contest between Fitch’s thugs and himself. The desire to remove her from their influence escalated into something more—they were the enemy, he was the white knight who could protect her and provide a safe haven, an alternate existence.
She was panting, shaking with both fear and anger, about to protest him shutting the door they’d hidden behind. There was no way to explain; they’d be overheard, caught. Hutch held her tight, a hand clasped over her mouth ensuring her silence. His own heart was pounding hard and fast, and as he slipped the fold of her skirt from where it had caught in the door, he eased his ungentle hold. He drew a deep breath, consciously avoiding thinking about the uncomfortable resemblance between his tactics and those of Fitch’s men.
Why would she want to reveal their position to them, anyway? he wondered. She might be annoyed at his rough treatment at the moment, but if he could help her in the long run, he figured she would forgive his abruptness.
Back at his place, however, he began to realize the ill-thought-out plan might have backfired. Marianne did not seem to relish the freedom he had helped her achieve. Instead, she seemed more tense than ever, and with her aimless pacing, more than ever, caged.
She had been quiet all the way to Venice Place. Hutch pretended not to notice, chatting idly as he made coffee even though she didn’t respond.
He placed a cup on the coffee table for her. “Here you go.” His light comment dropped like a dead weight before her gloomy countenance.
She picked up the mug and tasted the coffee.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Voice gentle, Hutch tried once more.
Marianne nodded, then rolled her eyes in self-derision. “Here I go, trading one set of bosses for another.”
“What do you mean?” He sat down, close beside her.
She turned away fractionally. “Just that I must really be one prize fool. I thought I wanted to live my own life, but as usual, here I am taking the easy way out, letting myself be manipulated.”
“Marianne, that’s not what I want to do.” He reached out, taking the cup from her hand and returning it to the table. Then he brushed the wispy curls back off her forehead and leaned in to kiss her. “I just want to be with you.”
“Oh, please.” She moved out of his attempted embrace, reaching for her coffee in a defensive gesture. Standing, Marianne put as much distance between herself and Hutch as she could. “This isn’t what I need,” she muttered from across the room.
Hutch moved, too, needing his own space in which to regroup. He wandered over to the piano. “Do you know what you need, Marianne?”
The quiet question seemed to deflate her defensive posture. “I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.” She took another sip of coffee. “Listen, you don’t want to get involved with someone like me. I don’t need to get involved right now.”
“But the other night…” He felt rejected and hurt, even in circumstances like this.
“It was just one night.” She met his gaze, her eyes like fathomless stones. “I can’t let it mean any more than that.”
“Why not, Marianne? Is it so wrong to open up to someone? You’ve got so much to give…”
“Stop looking at me like that!” The outburst took him by surprise. “You look at me like you see someone special, like I’m someone you’ve been looking for. And I’m not. I can’t be your image, your fantasy…”
“Don’t. It’s not like that,” he told her honestly. Still, he couldn’t yet say what it all really was, and, down deep, he felt the truth in her appraisal. She was becoming a fantasy to him, a fantasy of a fight he could win, a reason to take one more chance with his job, with society, with himself. He turned from her intense gaze to touch the cool keys of the piano.
Marianne fingered the leaves of one of the hanging plants. “I shouldn’t be here.”
I’m blowing it. He couldn’t let it go wrong with her like this. Had he misread her entirely? He had thought the haven of friendship he could offer would be enough, but Marianne was too afraid of his approach. She didn’t like being used by Fitch through her brother, yet she couldn’t break away from them. Instead, she was taking her anger toward them out on the available target Hutch had made of himself. His head hurt.
“You float into my life one night; next thing I know I’m in another movie.”
Who am I, indeed? Do I think I’m Simon Templar, John Steed, and David Jansen as the Fugitive all rolled into one, going through life looking for some poor slob to rescue?
Knowing he was floundering, trying too hard, Hutch felt at a loss. Begging her to let him help her wasn’t the way to go.
“The next thing I know, you’ll tell me you’re a cop.”
He could have denied it, would have been able to at one time in his career. But he couldn’t look her in the eye and lie to her now.
Doesn’t honesty count for anything anymore? he wanted to ask as the admission shone in his eyes.
“You are?” A pause, her voice torn with disappointment. “Aren’t you?” The cigarette was stubbed out; the purse angrily grabbed up.
He pursued her, wanting to appease, convince, comfort. It was too late. She was defensive, righteously indignant. A person… not to be used unless it was by her own choice.
“I’m not going to blow my brother’s brains out for you or anybody.”
That was the key, big sister doing whatever she could to take care of little Harry. He’d found it too late. She saw through him, damned him for the platitudes he uttered, threw old cliches back into his face.
He reached out his hand and she flinched away. “Go find a rock and crawl under it.”
His own hand turned the door knob to let her leave. There was nothing he could say. It was all he could do to avoid being hit with the door as she shoved past.
Would’ve deserved getting a black eye, he thought in disgust. What’s that old excuse? “I ran into a door”?
Sick of himself, of the job that had corrupted him, of not being what anybody in his life needed him to be, he leaned heavily against the closed door.
* * *
How many hours he sat in the solitude of his apartment, he didn’t know. How long he had been sitting where he was now, on the steps in the dimly lit corridor outside the detectives’ office at Metro, he could not say either. The gold-tinged light there was soothing to his shattered spirit. White knight, cut down to size…
He kept going over it in his mind, and the conclusion was always the same. Had he not been so self-involved, he would have been able to get the required information from Marianne. Now, he had both ruined the undercover and hurt Marianne in the process. He had always been able to use his compassion to help the oppressed people he encountered, but Marianne hadn’t wanted his pity.
He sighed, glancing up for a second to look through the glassed wall of the office. Starsky was in there, on the phone, working the case, as Hutch had known he would be. The sight of him was oddly comforting, yet somehow painful, too. How good it would be if his partner would put down the phone, come out and sit beside him. Starsky understood. He’d been in nearly the same situation a year ago, with Rosey Malone. For a few moments—and that was all it would take, Hutch was sure—they could just be themselves, commiserate a little on the problems of being a cop, talk about how going under could mess up your head. Starsky would look into his eyes in that disarming way of his, tease him a little, touch him, and everything would be back in perspective. Maybe even the shame Hutch felt would recede a little.
He had had a call from Stanton earlier. The lieutenant had been livid, about Benny Paycheck’s murder, about Hutch’s continuing lack of progress. The detective had mumbled reassurances that he would soon be able to deliver Marianne as a witness against Fitch. The lie had come easily to his lips.
The office door opened and Starsky emerged, looking him over. Hutch sat, head hanging, lost in his confusion.
Starsky asked the obvious first question. “Where you been?’
There was no answer, really, no excuse for ignoring procedure, not calling in.
“You hear about Benny Paycheck?”
“Yeah.” Let’s not talk about the case new. Can’t we talk about us?
“Five slugs in the back.”
“I don’t believe it.” I don’t believe any of this.
“Neither does Stanton, He’s lost both witnesses.”
Okay. You want to talk about the case, we will. “Yeah. Now they want Marianne.”
“Well, he doesn’t have much choice. Neither do you.” A pause, then the inevitable. “How’s it goin’?”
“Well, she knows I’m a cop.” Don’t you remember how that feels, Starsk? When a woman you’ve held damns you for being a phony?
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what’s she gonna do? Is she gonna blow the whistle on you…” The words jumbled together, bruising the tender places where Marianne’s anger had left him hurting.
“Starsky, will you get off my case? We’re not talking about a—”
“We are talking about Joe Fitch…”
All right, okay. Have it your way. Forget our feelings, my feelings. They don’t exist. There’s only the case.
“She needs help, Starsky. She’s caught between Fitch and her brother.”
“And you.”
“And me? There’s no room for me.” Never, it seems. “She’s scared; she won’t let me in.”
Starsky’s intense gaze was unrelenting. “Hey. You’re a cop. Your job is to get her to testify—”
“I know what my job is.”
“—not to hold her hand.”
“Thanks a lot.” Have to get out of here…
“Where you goin’? Hey—she takes it to Fitch, you’re a dead man.”
Who the hell cares?
Starsky didn’t come after him. Hutch strode through the double doors and out of the building, not wanting to think about why.
* * *
It was morning. The record was still spinning on the turntable, but Hutch stayed where he was, too exhausted to care about the incessant, grating sound. He lay on his bed, still dressed, boots off, shirt open, clinging to the phone and connection he’d kept trying to make with Marianne all night.
He checked the time, rubbed at the stubborn ache in his forehead.
Where is she? Why doesn’t she answer?
Maybe, like the sound of the phonograph needle scraping the last band on the record, she’d grown accustomed to the sound of the telephone ringing.
He gave it up, finally, dropping the receiver.
Nothing so lonely as that sound…
Hutch closed his eyes, drawing in a deep sigh. He should have stayed with Starsky, talked it through. His personal feelings weren’t important right now. Lives were at stake.
“Joe Fitch is murdering witnesses…”
Damn it, I can’t stop them all, Starsk. We can’t. There’s only the two of us against all the crime in this fucked up city.
Only the two of us, me and thee. Whatever happened to that part of it? Hutch asked himself. Why didn’t you come after me, Starsky? Why didn’t I hang in there and stay with you?
Me and thee sounded like ancient history. Those words had come from two much younger men, two very earnest cops who thought that talisman would keep the world at bay.
The other night, it seemed like that old ‘me and thee’ magic still existed, didn’t it, babe? He closed his eyes, visions of the pleasure he and Starsky had shared a week ago in this bed brushing across his memory. I should have told you what I wanted, gotten that part of my head together. Maybe then I could have concentrated on Marianne.
No. That’s wrong. I’d only just realized it. There wasn’t time to think it through. And if we’d done it, maybe we’d—I’d—be so much more confused now, or so much more in love with you than I am already that the case would have gotten even more screwed up.
After this case is over, Hutch silently promised his absent partner, we’ll take the time…
He almost laughed aloud. The idea seemed absurd. What would they do? Honeymoon somewhere, say, Dobey’s cabin at Pine Lake? No. Better to keep things as they were, friendship with a little physical fooling around, a partnership that included just a bit of sex. Nothing heavy. Nothing philosophical.
Hutch couldn’t imagine a conversation between himself and Starsky where it all came out in love words and promises. That wasn’t their style.
And we used to take such pride in the fact that we didn’t have to depend on words.
It had to be in code. Key phrases like ‘who do we trust’ and ‘me and thee.’ Familiar touches. Comfort. Simple endearments. Sex play that didn’t mean anything serious, nothing that would add up to a big change in their lives.
Dammit, why?
The longing rose up in Hutch, tense nerves winding tight around his aching body. He’d been under stress all night long, unable to sleep, to get any rest. If only he could relax, just a little…
The fantasy image came to him softly, merged with his longing to caress his tormented mind. His hand did the rest. Hutch let his fingers trail up and down his chest, softly at first, then with more conviction. Descending to the front of his jeans, his hand found a growing erection.
Just let it all go; just to get a little sleep…
He unfastened his pants and slipped them off, lying back down on the bed. Both hands in play now, and behind his closed eyes he conjured Starsky’s face, Starsky’s touch.
I want him. I want him. It’s true what they say. Sex alters a friendship. If we’d never... but we have, and we can’t go back. Don’t want to. Why can’t we go forward?
What would it be like, possessing his partner? Hutch made a tight tunnel of his hand, pumping up and down, flexing his hips. He couldn’t imagine. Maybe there’d be pain—he’d never want to hurt Starsky—but maybe there would be sharp pleasure so intense there would be no more need for words. Total fusion of two bodies, joined physically to repair the emotional rents in the fabric of their relationship.
Hutch saw it as a way of giving love, sheltering, protecting, sharing strength in a very man to man way.
He had always wanted to protect and care for Starsky, make him feel good. He’d done it so many ways, with comfort, with sex. And there had been times when Starsky had been good for him in the same ways, times when all Hutch had wanted was two strong arms holding him.
Like now. What would it be like, him taking me?
The question was daunting, fascinating. He didn’t know which would be stronger, the emotional or the physical repercussions. How would it feel to be possessed by the one other person in all the world who knew what he knew, who worked as he worked, who had already been so much a part of his life?
How would it feel, you coming inside me?
Hutch knew the taste of Starsky, the texture. He’d held his partner’s cock in his hand, in his mouth, felt its pulsations of climax. Having that force erupting inside his body… Hutch wanted that, wanted to experience Starsky as closely as it was possible for two people to be.
Curious, his finger slipped below his balls, seeking out new sensations. Haven’t experimented like this since junior high. Drawing back his legs, Hutch tested the opening to his body. We’d need something…
A moment’s search of his nightstand drawer brought out a jar of Vaseline. Using the lubricant, he pressed first one finger, then two, inside. It was awkward, but the feelings, especially when he found the coin-sized swelling that seemed so sensitive, were fabulous. Deeper somehow than those felt when just his penis was being stimulated. He tried pumping his erection at the same time he pressed in with his fingers. The sensation was of a hot wave, rebounding deep in his vitals. He kept it up, thinking of Starsky.
He’s big; longer, thicker, harder than my fingers…
Pleasure building, he forgot to worry about possible pain. He wanted, he wanted… he had it. Starsky in his grasp. Starsky within his body. The orgasm jolted him, his eyes flew open, the dream image disappeared. Hutch lay back, panting, legs dropping to the mattress, hands stilling, falling to his sides. His heart was pounding, his thoughts matching tempo.
Never thought… about being penetrated before. Feels good. But with Starsky… would I feel as vulnerable as a woman must when she’s being taken?
Hutch knew it wouldn’t be that way, or wouldn’t matter if it was. He had always been, and would always be, vulnerable to Starsky. And Starsky’s vulnerable to me.
Then thought slipped away as his mind relinquished its hold on wakefulness at last.
***
It was evening when Hutch finally woke. He climbed off the bed and went to shower. Leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, he let the fine spray of hot water sluice over his body. What had seemed so certain earlier now appeared elusive again. He didn’t think there was anything that would magically seal Starsky and him away from all possible problems. Too much of his own self-esteem had been beaten out of him by the years on the street. Who was he to think love could last? He couldn’t touch anyone without hurting them.
Marianne. Inexorably, his thoughts came back to the case. He had loused it up so badly with her, but he still needed her. Fitch had to be brought down. Was there a way he could get her to testify, without hurting her more? Could he convince her that was the way to restore her own self-esteem? And do I have the guts to face her again?
He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, rubbing a towel roughly over his skin. Guts or not, I have to do it. Have to give it one more try. Maybe my own pride could handle a little restoration, too.
Dressed and ready to go, he searched for the keys to his car. They finally turned up next to the phone on the coffee table. He sat on the couch a moment, regarding the instrument, knowing he should call Starsky.
Some innate recalcitrance, combined with a fear of rejection and harsh words, made him hesitate. He was the one who had walked out last night. It was up to him to work things out; he couldn’t ask for Starsky’s help or approval now.
Standing, he picked up the soft suede jacket and slipped it on. He’d go see Marianne, think about contacting Starsky when he had something to report. Time enough then to be Hutch. For now, for her, he’d become just Ken again.
* * *
He could hear her voice as he started descending the stairs. He stopped on the landing, letting the sweet purity of tone call to him. She stood as always, beside the piano, the center of, but not central to, the crowd populating the club. She sang as if for herself, and that was what gave her performance its enchanting, haunting realism. Hutch couldn’t help the feeling that speared through him. Marianne was beautiful, vulnerable, and he did care. Maybe there was no way to make her believe that, but he still had a job to do.
He went behind the curtain that led to the backstage area of the club. He was waiting there when her song ended.
She was sarcastic, anger masking hurt, He tried saying he was sorry. She refused to acknowledge there was anything to be sorry for, to talk about. She came at him again, with blows wrapped in a soft voice that could inflict as much pain as naked claws.
“You’re not as interested in what I want as the man in the moon.” He drew back fractionally. “What do I want?” she repeated. “I want you out of my life.”
“No!” He grabbed her, refused to let her go. He had some things to say, first. Ignoring life never made it any easier. The words came out more easily than he would have thought. “Forget where we’ve come from, where we’re going… we’ve had something special.”
Please, he wanted to add, admit that you cared. That part was real. Or you wouldn’t be hurting now. And neither would I.
“You want to walk away from it, okay,” he told her fiercely. “But before you do that, you gotta know something. You’re worth it. You gotta know you’re worth it. For once in your life, you gotta own that. You gotta own your life.
“You’ve gotta say, this is me and I like it. This is what I want and I’ve gotta take it. You’ve gotta make that choice.”
And still she argued, denied. She wouldn’t hear him. Amazed, his thoughts ricocheted from her life to his own.
No one’s responsible for my happiness but me. I’ve gotta own my life, accept what I am. Say this is what I want and I’ve gotta take it. Yes!
Until he said it aloud for her, the concept had never been truly real for himself.
But what was she saying, now? “I’ll make another choice. I’ll choose you. I’ll marry you. We’ll run away together, live happily ever after. All you have to do is say yes.”
And he couldn’t. Easy refusal would sound mocking. It wasn’t frivolity that had prompted her proposal, anyway. A part of her really wanted to run away with him. And with a word, she’d made him see the folly of trying to make choices. It only worked if the choices others made could coincide, could dovetail, with your own.
I can’t choose you, Marianne. We were meant only to touch paths. No matter how special it was, you knew it couldn’t be more. I made my choice a long time ago.
Then she was gone, leaving him alone in the alley.
“Turn around, Ken.” A voice. A blinding flash of light.
He went for the guy with the camera, but in a second there were two of them. Lindo and O’Connell, both. When they left him, he was face down in the alley, aching from blows to his head, his stomach, his kidneys.
Gotta… call Starsky… He didn’t think he could get home, or even to a phone. With nowhere else to go, he dragged himself back inside the club and found Marianne’s dressing room.
She turned as he swayed through the door. He felt himself collapsing, caught himself on the dresser, managed to straighten against the wall.
“Who did this?” Her voice was all softness again, without rancor.
“The man in the moon.”
She pressed close, then helped him to the daybed. “They want to know who you are,” she told him. “Stay here tonight. You’ll be safe.”
He managed a brief smile, tight with irony. “Last place they’d look, huh?” At least she hadn’t given him to Fitch. That meant something.
Marianne’s touch was gentle, soothing, yet impersonal as her connection to her audience. The fire they’d shared one night was extinguished, it seemed. Hutch fell asleep under the cover she placed over him, tired to his bones, hurting from the realization—as she must be—that choices somehow didn’t matter. That life went its own way, despite what anyone wanted.
* * *
Bright light stabbing through his eyelids wakened him. When he opened them and was able to focus, he saw that she was still there, still dressed, sitting beside him as she must have all night. What had she been doing? Standing watch, thinking? Coming to what conclusions?
He thought at first that she might have decided to talk to him, then realized she was pulling on a coat, to leave.
“Where you going?”
“Doesn’t matter. Goodbye.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Had she always been this way, letting go so easily?
“What are you gonna do?”
“The best I can.”
“You sure that’s what you want?”
“I can’t do it.”
“We could do it.”
“You really believe that?”
“I’d like to.”
“So would I. So long.”
He watched her go. Leaving him, she went back to her own world of compromises and cold heartaches, where the only warmth came from cool jazz music sung for unfeeling strangers. It was what she thought she had to do, to protect her brother and to preserve whatever peace she could manage for herself.
And what am I gonna do now, Marianne? Can I help you, even if you won’t let me? What is the best I can do? Do I try to salvage a case first, or my life?
* * *
The door to his apartment was standing open. Starsky was inside, on the phone. Hutch headed straight for the bathroom, wetting a wash cloth in cold water. He wanted to sit down, look his partner in the eye and tell him how he felt, about their work, and their relationship.
There was no time. Starsky showed him the picture and realization struck. They knew for sure now that he was a cop. And Marianne’s life was in jeopardy. Fitch would never believe she hadn’t talked. Just the possibility had been enough to end the lives of Barren and Paycheck.
* * *
When the bullets stopped flying and Fitch was against the wall, Hutch became aware of her voice. She was calling her brother’s name, over and over, begging for the life she loved, watching it flow out before her eyes.
Hutch turned, feeling for the first time like a cop before her. The gun in his hand made him feel exposed, naked. She looked up at him, her expression desperate. Can’t you help? You promised… it seemed to say.
Harry was dead, Fitch in custody. Hutch walked Marianne to the Torino and stood before her anguished gaze. It was hard to meet her eyes. Then he realized that she was numb within the grief. Its violence hadn’t reached her. She seemed to be taking it in her own quiet way, in her stride, as she met every inevitability.
“It’s never good enough, is it?”
He didn’t understand. “What?”
“Our best. We do the best we can, but it’s never enough.”
“Maybe it’s enough to know we tried.”
She closed her eyes, fighting tears. “I know names. Dates. Places. Enough to put Fitch away forever. You can have it all.”
Hutch reached out, touching just her frail shoulder with the palm of his hand.
***
“I fucked up again, didn’t I, Starsk?” It was late at night. Venice Place was darkened. Two cops sat side by side on the couch, beer bottles littering the table, the only illumination provided by outside street lights and a small lamp glowing on Hutch’s desk. They’d been home for an hour, ever since wrapping up the paperwork at Metro. Hutch had showered and dressed in his orange robe and had joined Starsky on the couch.
“They don’t all work out like they’re supposed to.”
If the reply was meant as encouragement, it didn’t work. “Damn it, Starsky. Why can’t you say what you really think? You and she have a lot in common, you know? You take some things too damn matter-of-factly.”
“What?” There was a smile in the curious voice. “Who do I have stuff in common with—Marianne?”
Hutch sighed, setting his empty beer bottle as quietly as possible on the table.
“Okay, I’ll say what I’m thinking,” Starsky finally went on. “You really cared for her, didn’t you? And you’re blaming yourself for her brother’s death.”
“No. Yes. But that’s not the point. Things have gone down that way before.” He drew a deep, unsatisfying breath. “If the best I can do is only that much, I guess I’ll have to accept it.”
Starsky didn’t reply for a moment. He leaned back to drain the last of his beer, and Hutch watched him in the dim light. Starsky was a study in masculine perfection, strong, beautiful, clean. Sometimes he seemed invulnerable, but Hutch knew otherwise.
Maybe I seem tough to him, too. When I’m not, he’s gotta be tough for me.
“What are you thinking about?” Starsky looked directly at him.
Hutch didn’t know what to say. He had pretty much decided he’d keep silent about his newly discovered desires. No need to rock the boat. Our status quo is too easily upset. I can hang in, if he can.
He knew his ability to deepen his emotional involvements was pretty weak at the moment. Couldn’t handle it if we get closer sexually and he didn’t listen to me, the way he didn’t the other night at the station.
He could accept the fact that there would always be times when his choices wouldn’t dovetail with his partner’s. And he was scared of letting anyone but himself own a piece of him right now, even Starsky.
So I’ll just do the best I can, too, Marianne. Keep on keeping on, as long as I can.
“Hey.” Light fingers brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “You look kinda lost in there. Guess it’s always rougher, being on the inside alone.”
“Yeah.”
Starsky swallowed hard. “Remember Rosey? I got to thinkin’ after you left the other night. The shoe was on the other foot that time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Hutch. You wanted to talk to me about Marianne, then. Didn’t you? And I jumped right into the case.” He held up a hand to forestall a response from Hutch. “I was gettin’ tired of Dobey and Stanton asking me where you were and what you were doing and not having an answer for them. You gotta admit, you were ignoring procedure all through this case.” Starsky wasn’t angry, there was no need for it. Both of them knew he was right.
Hutch met his eyes. “I’m not sure I have an answer. Part of the reason was Marianne and the case itself. The rest—” He sighed, not knowing how to say what he should without making Starsky ask more questions. “I just haven’t been myself lately.”
“I’m sorry, Hutch. You were upset and I didn’t come after you.” Starsky slid close and Hutch couldn’t resist the pull of his arms, of his understanding. All at once, they were back together, fitting to each other as easily as ever. Hutch wrapped his arms around his partner’s body and held on tight.
“Just let me hold you, Hutch.” Starsky’s breath was warm against his throat. “Help me remember how it hurts when I forget and let go.”
“It’s all right, Starsk. All right.” Hutch soothed the man he held, with his words, with his hands. He knew what it was like. Too many times he had done something—or failed to do something—that might have resulted in Starsky getting hurt. Starsky’s apology was all the comfort he needed.
“You’re all I’ve got, Hutch.” The whisper was soft, the voice betraying a man’s emotions, a man’s needs.
Hutch pressed his lips to where a rapid pulse throbbed at Starsky’s temple. “You’re all I’ve got, too.” One man to another, they could give each other so much.
Starsky lifted his head, met Hutch’s lips. The kiss spoke of emotional joining, the tenderness of two spirits merging. They remained on the couch, kissing, holding, taking their fill of each other’s solace.
“Come on,” Starsky urged finally. “Let’s lie down.”
They moved to the bedroom. Starsky pulled off his shirt and jeans while Hutch slipped out of his robe and sat on the edge of the bed. Both of them down to their briefs, they regarded each other for a long moment. Hutch watched his partner’s eyes travel over the length of this body. Seeing the bruises around Hutch’s ribs, Starsky looked distressed. He knelt on the bed at Hutch’s side, critical eyes appraising the dark mottling across his back, then pressed a quick kiss on the smooth bare shoulder nearest him.
“I’ll be right back.” He got up and headed for the bathroom. Listening to him rummaging through the medicine cabinet, Hutch stretched out across the bed.
Starsky’s search produced a tube of Aspercreme. Lying on his back, Hutch watched the artistic fingers as they smoothed the lotion over the dark bruises at his ribs. He sighed, relaxing, and rolled over when Starsky urged him to. With a kind of restrained gentleness, the hands continued their slow massage, easing the worst of Hutch’s accumulated tension and pain.
At last, Starsky lay down beside him, resting one arm across Hutch’s shoulders. He was quiet for a long while. Hutch was so comfortable he thought he would fall asleep.
His partner’s soft voice penetrated his foggy consciousness. “Did you… think you loved her, Hutch?”
“Hmmm?”
“Did you love her? I mean… is that why you were so crazy that morning when we found Charlie Barren? Is that why you weren’t calling in… letting me know where you were and what you were doing?”
There was a cautious, earnest quality to the voice. Hutch opened his eyes, searched the face that looked more vulnerable now than it had earlier. He reached out, placing his palm alongside Starsky’s stubbled cheek.
“No. That’s what made it so hard. She needed someone’s love…” He swallowed the bitter taste of his failure and went on. “But I couldn’t love her. I spent the night with her after she’d gone out with Barron. She was upset, scared, feeling guilty, but she couldn’t let me in on her emotions. I slept with her… but there was no real communication.” He didn’t know what else to say. His friend’s haggard, unshaven face told of the sleepless nights Starsky had spent worrying about him. “Sorry I didn’t call you.”
Starsky gave him a slight smile, then returned to the subject with the intensity only he could summon. “Then, what? What’s been going on up here, hmm?” He rubbed Hutch’s temple gently.
Hutch thought he might blush if Starsky persisted. But he owed him an explanation, he knew. Honesty, communication… that’s what all this is about. If I can somehow find the words…
“Not much,” he whispered finally. “Just you.”
“Me? What—?”
Hutch took Starsky in his arms, pulled him close enough to kiss. His mind was racing. What he wanted seemed too important to lay out in simple or crude words. Starsky’s lips opened under his and Hutch probed the warmth of the man’s mouth with his tongue. Suddenly whatever they might do together seemed like the right thing. Hutch stopped worrying about what words to say. Starsky was clinging to him, his mouth hungry, his arms tightening.
The deep soul kiss broke at last. With his nose, Hutch nudged curls aside until he found Starsky’s ear, then whispered to him. “You know what I’d like? Let’s take our time together… long enough to get everything right.” His mouth closed over the earlobe a moment, then his tongue traced wetly around the rim of the ear and delved inside.
Under him, Starsky shivered. Both his hands sought Hutch’s head, pulling him back so he could look into his eyes. “What are you saying?”
Hutch’s lashes swept down for a moment and he swallowed hard. Slowly, he began. “Didn’t you ever think about us… trying something we’ve never done before?” His eyes raised to Starsky s curious ones.
“‘Hutch, what do you mean?”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he admitted, “in the last few days. I want you inside me. I want to do it to you, too, but if you’re not ready yet, it’s okay. But, I’m sure.”
Starsky didn’t usually stammer, but he was stammering now. “You sound like… and what you’re talking’ about us doin’… sounds like we’d be making some kind of commitment.”
His partner’s confusion was endearing. “I know,” Hutch said.
“But… what we do together… I mean, it’s always just been for fun.”
Hutch leaned down for a meaningful kiss. “Is it? If it was really only just fun, I don’t think we’d still be doing it.” His lips tasted Starsky’s again, then he pulled back, needing to say the words in his heart. “I want something more, now. The way I’ve felt lately, so burned out, sick of the job, of the things I have to do on the job… nothing ever changes. Even you and I… But we’ve got to change. Sometimes, Starsky, a thing’s got to change if it’s going to stay alive. I need us to change.”
He drew a deep breath to steady his nerves, but it didn’t slow his pounding heart. “That’s the choice I decided to make. About myself. About us. This is me. This is what I want—what I want with you.” He paused, looking at Starsky with an intensity he had rarely allowed himself to admit. “I’m in love with you, David.”
The deep blue eyes widened, surprise making them look innocent, desire and pleasure illuminating them from within. There was something else in them that Hutch could not define. Starsky sucked in a shaky breath and spoke.
“You love me… Ah, Hutch. You said it at last.”
His hands pulled convulsively, bringing Hutch’s head down for a kiss. Hutch was overwhelmed by his partner’s reaction, by his own response. Has he felt the same all along? Has he been waiting for me to speak?
Before he could ask any of his questions, Starsky was saying something more, breathlessly. “Tell me how you want me to do it.”
A heat wave started in the pit of Hutch’s stomach at the words, and it travelled up through his heart, making him burn with desire. “Touch me,” he answered, his voice shaking. “Come inside me.”
Starsky took command, rolling them over until he lay on top of Hutch, kissing his mouth, his chin, his throat. He rose up, knees on either side of Hutch’s hips, possessive hands stroking. Hutch felt the warm palms brushing over his stiffened nipples and arched his back, craving more.
Starsky’s mouth came down, wetly sucking each nipple in turn. His hands swept over the trembling body, lips following at a leisurely pace, nibbling, sampling, feasting, until Hutch felt every nerve exploding in response.
His briefs were pulled down and discarded. Firm hands took hold of his hips and he was rolled to his stomach. Realizing he enjoyed being handled, managed so adroitly, Hutch relaxed totally, willing to surrender to whatever Starsky wanted him to do and feel, wanting to give all of himself to Starsky.
His ass was being fondled, stroked, and smoothed. Light kisses dusted over his curves, turning into soft nips. His buttocks were parted, and a wet finger stroked slowly over his center, sliding just inside. He gasped and the finger circled, pressing in and in, then slowly drew out.
“Don’t stop!”
Two fingers now. He had known ahead of time he would like this touch, but having Starsky do it to him made it better. The sensations felt so good; he grew eager for more. He held his breath, all his concentration directed to sustaining the feelings.
An anxious, breathy whisper came to his ears. “Like that? Is this good?”
He nodded, groaning, as the fingers moved in and out. His knees were drawing up, his hips pushing down, his body begging for greater stimulation.
“You want more?” The question came out of the dark to touch his soul. “Want all of me, now?”
Starsky… touching me more intimately than anyone else, ever… Hutch’s heart was hammering so hard it was difficult to speak. He glanced back, raising up on an elbow. “Wait. Let me turn over. I want to watch you.”
Starsky eased back on his haunches. Their eyes met, then Hutch looked down. Starsky’s erection was straining against the blue fabric of his underwear. He lifted his hand to it, fingers outlining the shape, watching Starsky’s eyes close at the light touch.
“I love it when you touch me like that, so softly.” His eyes opened and found Hutch’s. “Did I ever tell you that before?”
Hutch smiled. “No. I don’t think so. We’ve never spent a lot of time talking about what we do.”
“I’ll tell you now, then. When you’re so gentle like that, makes me feel good. Really safe, you know?”
Hutch sat up, reaching with all the gentleness he possessed for his partner. He folded Starsky to him like a treasure, kissing his lips, his eyebrows, his chin. His mouth moved down to the vulnerable throat, finding a pulse, licking the spot, then pressing his lips to it and beginning to suck.
Starsky writhed against him and Hutch held him firmly, his hand descending unerringly to the narrow band of the blue briefs. His fingers delicately outlined the shape of the penis, Starsky uttering a soft cry of need. Hutch pulled away the confining elastic, reaching in to find the hardened organ. It was warm, soft skin over the tempered-steel hardness of living muscle. Hutch stroked it lovingly up and down, wanting to feel it thrusting within his body more in that instant than he had dreamed before. He sighed hungrily, overlapping Starsky’s sigh of pleasure.
“You ready?” he whispered, kissing Starsky’s neck and shoulder. “Do you want me?”
“Yeah… but I want to make it good for you, Hutch. I want to make sure I don’t hurt you or anything…”
Hutch loved him for his hesitancy, for his desire to please. His fingers moved lower to seek out and tease the velvety balls, while he bent his head, mouthing one coppery nipple. After a moment he looked up, meeting Starsky’s eyes., “You’ll be good, I know. And we’ll learn about this together. Okay?”
The blue eyes were eager, the sweet torment Hutch was providing with his fondling increasing Starsky’s desire. “Mmmm… learning together… sounds nice.”
Hutch drew him close, caressing his lips with all the tenderness he possessed. The quality of the kiss was somehow different than all the others they had given and received. It spoke of sharing, deep emotional commitment and a joining that would be on the spiritual as well as the physical level.
When they parted, both men were breathing heavily. Starsky’s hands began stroking Hutch possessively, all over.
“Lay back,” he urged, pressing Hutch down against the pillow. “We need to use something, don’t we?”
Hutch nodded toward the nightstand. “Vaseline.”
Starsky leaned over, opening the drawer and getting out the jar. He placed it where he could find it on the mattress beside Hutch. Then he skinned off his briefs and dropped them to the floor.
Starsky bent over Hutch, drawing his tongue up the length of his partner’s cock. A breath caught in Hutch’s throat as the mouth enclosed the tip of his penis and then began to descend, sucking him into its warmth and wetness. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensations.
Starsky drew off a moment and Hutch heard the sound of a jar being opened. He kept still, his eyes closed, anticipating. The mouth returned to him, strong suction enclosing him as two slickened fingers pressed to enter his body. They worked in and out, twisting in a circular motion, spreading lubrication and delight.
The mouth let go, but the fingers remained. A breathy voice spoke to him. “Bend your knees. Open up for me.” A hand pressed his parted legs wider, reached under to clasp his buttocks. “Raise up. That’s it.”
Hutch was fascinated by the notion of being passive during love-making. He felt safe, not exposed, vulnerable but not weak. And the slow procedure of arousal, the long foreplay, was delicious. Usually when he and Starsky had sex, there was a sense of urgency. They got off on moving at fever pitch, stroking and touching with abandon, sharing the need to reciprocate every gesture, every response.
That was good; in its own way just as powerful as what Hutch was feeling now. Yet this time he was set free to experience Starsky’s love in a way he had never felt it before. There had been times when Hutch had believed he would never be good enough for Starsky, never be everything he needed, nor be able to hold onto him tightly enough. Accomplishing this act was important to Hutch, knowing it could bring them so much closer to each other. He was willing to go through anything to make it work.
He opened his eyes, needing to see the man who was giving him so much. Starsky was beautiful, dark against the deeper night hues of the room, total masculinity in every contour and movement. He was on his knees between Hutch’s spread thighs, stroking his own solid erection with his right hand, while with his left he continued to prepare Hutch for his loving.
Never told you how beautiful your cock is, Hutch thought deliriously. I noticed though, touching it, tasting it. I’ve felt its size, its shape. He trembled. I want it… so bad…
It was a perfectly sculpted column of amber, gleaming from sensitive tip to solid base, seeming to surge with power. Starsky was sometimes volatile, dangerous with his energy; at other times he was soft and vulnerable, loving to be touched, needing to be held. All of Starsky, all that need, all that strength, centered in the throbbing flesh he was now placing against Hutch’s ass.
If I can give you myself this way, maybe it will finally be enough. You’ll know how I feel about you, how much I want to give you.
Starsky guided the head of his penis to the entrance to Hutch’s body. Hutch held his breath, feeling it rub against the sensitized opening, drawing back his knees as Starsky gently introduced it into his flesh. Slowly, with utter concentration, Starsky pressed in. Hutch could feel every centimeter as it filled him, felt his muscles accommodating its length, its bulk. He craned his neck, watching the process.
Starsky was watching, too, but as he sank fully into Hutch he glanced up, meeting Hutch’s eyes. The look held, anxious excitement building, joy and pride overflowing.
“How’s that? Okay?” Starsky had to ask, to be sure.
Hutch nodded, breathless. His voice sounded far away, breaking with need. “Move.”
Starsky grinned his assurance. “I’ll move. Can hardly hold still, lover.”
He rocked back slightly and the sensation of being stroked from within by that hard column was so powerful Hutch groaned. Starsky looked up at him again, as if worried he’d been hurt. Hutch could not define the feeling precisely as pain. There was pressure, an awareness of sensitive membranes being stretched, an ache of fullness, an unusual tightness spreading from his ass up through his balls and cock, but not pain in the usual sense. He wanted to feel it all, and the aching was as good as the pleasure.
More confident, Starsky pulled Hutch to him, settling his hips against his own corded thighs. Hutch felt the new depth of the changed angle, groaning again at the thought of taking more of Starsky into his body. His head fell back against the pillow as he let himself yield completely. Being penetrated was so much more than just the exquisite physical sensation of the cock sliding in and out of his ass; he was opening himself emotionally, letting go, and letting Starsky into his heart. He was finally, totally, letting his partner into his life, letting him touch all his fears and desires. With Starsky literally becoming part of him, Hutch was made whole, complete, acceptable in Starsky’s eyes, worthy of his love. The well of need was at last being filled.
Starsky was moving faster now, and Hutch gasped as a hand wrapped itself around his own straining cock. He gazed at Starsky, seeing the passion they shared redefine his features into a more primal beauty. The look of Starsky, the feel of what he was doing to him, the combined physical and emotional overload, transported Hutch into the realm of total ecstasy, absolute euphoria. He felt the building orgasm start deep within his body, the anticipation becoming almost too much to bear.
Almost, almost, almost coming…
He wanted it to happen, but being held suspended in need held its own allure. He could feel it, savor it, experience its unique quality. The deep feeling seemed pulled from his center, from a secret, heretofore unknown region of his inner person. It surged from where Starsky touched with his cock, through his tightening testicles, and upward through his own cock, drawn out by the pulling strokes of Starsky’s fingers. Diffused, it seemed to be emanating from everywhere in his body at once. Every beat of his heart was sweet agony, as if it were his last, as if his life and death were being tolled in each separate, throbbing pulse. He was dying, he thought, of a love so intense the sensations and emotions were all one.
A harsh groan was torn from Starsky’s throat, and his thrusting became more rapid, the rhythm breaking down into uncontrolled bursts of movement. Hutch felt the contractions of his own climax tighten his inner muscles, pulling Starsky further into his body, until he was doing the taking, possessing Starsky with every bit of himself. In turn, the pulsing release of Starsky’s semen redoubled Hutch’s sensations from within. The sharing seemed the most perfect intimacy they could ever know. It went on and on, bursting for uncountable seconds, and even after it was spent, Hutch felt its echo deep inside and knew he would retain the feeling of fullness and completion in his soul for always.
Starsky fell across him and the ensuing peace was like being reborn, reaffirming and redefining their partnership. Then Starsky, totally relaxed, sank down to cover Hutch with his body, embracing him even as his cock slipped from where Hutch’s body had held it.
They found each other’s mouths on blind instinct, sharing a warm kiss that was a reflection of the deep joining they had known. Starsky’s hand stroked Hutch’s head, his shoulder, his side, lovingly showing him how he felt. Hutch wrapped both arms around the precious weight that settled over him, tightening his grip, needing to hang on, never wanting to let go. There were no words to speak, no need to break the perfection of their oneness. Safe in the clasp of body against body, they sank effortlessly into sleep.
* * *
The two men dozed late into the next morning. Hutch, having slept soundly for the first time since going undercover, found himself waking gradually, feeling rested and at peace. He became aware of bright light peeking under the low-drawn window blinds, and seemed to remember Starsky cursing and stumbling over to yank them down a few hours ago.
He had crawled back into Hutch’s bed, though. And you’re still in my arms. The thought was as warmly pleasurable as the somnolent presence of Starsky curled tight against him. The dark head was pillowed in the curve of Hutch’s shoulder, his cheek pressed against his chest, tickling him where disarranged curls and light exhalations touched bare skin. One knee was drawn up and lay between Hutch’s legs and a clinging arm had been thrown around his waist. In his sleep, Hutch had pulled the man close, holding him in a clasp that was at once protective and full of longing.
They were waking together and their first communication was through a kiss. It started out light, grew lingering. Passion remained below the surface; it was love they shared at this moment, shaded in the intense colors of satisfaction, pleasure, and the sense of being one together.
The kiss ended when Starsky started squirming and Hutch had to let him go.
“First things first,” he explained with a shrug as he slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
Hutch watched his retreating form, admiring its symmetry. He rolled over on his back, sprawled comfortably, his legs extending all the way across the bed. There was nothing on earth he could conceive of needing, not more sleep, or relief for his bladder, or warmth or food. He’d been given his fill of everything last night. He just wanted to lie here and savor the peace. He hadn’t felt it very often and he needed to be certain it was real.
“Hutch!” The bed depressed as a full-grown man landed hard beside him. He opened one eye, found his partner grinning maniacally. “I’m starvin’. What’ve you got around here for breakfast?”
He couldn’t resist a chuckle. It was real, all right, even though peace around Starsky might resemble a three-ring circus. “What would you say if I told you goat’s milk and desiccated liver?”
Starsky pantomimed gagging. “More likely all you’ve got is a TV dinner with freezer burn.”
Hutch winced. He was probably right. “How about good old bacon and eggs?”
His partner approved, he could tell, when he grabbed him by the wrist and hauled him out of bed.
They were in the middle of eating breakfast when Dobey’s call came in. Marianne Owens was at the station to make a preliminary statement, and she was asking to speak to Hutch.
After hurriedly finishing their meal, the detectives left Venice Place in separate cars. Starsky headed home for a change of clothes while Hutch went directly to the station.
He hadn’t really wanted to be away from Starsky’s side so soon. It had been nice, sharing the morning together after sharing the night. Hutch didn’t really mind, though. He was used to the practicalities of their jobs interrupting times they’d rather be doing something else. And, after last night, he felt so complete he didn’t really feel he was alone, driving into town. He was by himself, but he wasn’t alone.
* * *
He spoke with Marianne in the privacy of an interrogation room. She looked pale, tired, older somehow than she had before. Her expression was one of resignation.
“Marianne, I’m sorry about your brother,” Hutch began, the intrusion of guilt beginning to eat away at his well-being.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she answered without looking at him directly. There was a long pause, which he spent waiting for her condemnation. “If I had listened to you, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”
Hutch had no answer for that. He knew what it was like to feel you had to take the blame when something went wrong. And she was right, in a way. He allowed himself to see that he had tried his best to convince her. Things had been taken out of his hands, and hers, too. It had been Joe Fitch’s game all along.
“You’re safe now, you know,” he told her. “Every one of Fitch’s men is in custody.”
The woman shrugged; her face doubtful. She had lived with fear too long to give it up. She could not now even rejoice in being her own person; she had belonged to her brother and Fitch too long to let herself go free.
“Are you going to be all right?” Hutch asked after another moment of silence. “Is there anything you need?”
Marianne shook her head, dark curls swaying. “No.” She met his eyes at last. “How ’bout you?”
He smiled at her gently. “No. I’ve got everything I need, too, right now.”
The singer sighed, plaiting the fingers of both hands together and resting them in front of her on the table. “Did you ever wish you could go back and make another choice?”
His answer was quiet, sincere. “More than you know.” But there are some I don’t regret at all.
“How about…” She glanced up, then back down at her hands. “…times when you sat back and just couldn’t choose?”
“Marianne.” He reached out to take her clenched fingers in both his hands. “I learned something, too. What I said to you about choices… I decided to take my own advice.”
She responded with a little smile. “I’ll try to remember that. Maybe someday I’ll have the chance to do the same.”
* * *
Hutch spent a few hours at his desk, attempting to type up a report on the case. It was difficult, because his thoughts kept marveling over the fact that he no longer felt as fed up and ineffective as he had the day before. One part of his mind accused him of being callous, but there was another, rational voice insisting he had done as much as he could, as much as Marianne would have allowed. Seeing her again, learning she didn’t blame him, had helped Hutch to put the case into perspective, he decided finally.
Even enduring Lieutenant Stanton’s tirade later that afternoon did not undermine his reinstated positive attitude. Hutch just calmly pointed out that the grand jury would almost certainly indict Fitch when Marianne gave her testimony.
He was still considering all that had been going on when he arrived home. He knew this might not be the last time he would be expected to compromise his principles for the sake of doing the job, but he was determined not to let worrying ahead of time bring him down today. For now, it was enough to bask in the certainty that he knew what he wanted and who he was.
I chose right, Marianne, he told her silently as he pulled up in front of Venice Place, parking behind the Torino. The best I can do isn’t something I have to accept as the lesser of two evils. The best I can do is right upstairs waiting for me.
He walked in the door and found Starsky lying sprawled on the couch, one denim-clad leg up over the back, the other dangling toward the floor. Grinning at Hutch with that twinkle in his eyes, he presented a very inviting picture.
His gaze holding Starsky’s, Hutch shrugged out of his jacket and holster and approached, stretching out full length over him. He shifted a little, getting comfortable, liking the feel of his body fitting against the contours of Starsky’s.
Two arms wrapped around him, squeezing hard. Hutch flinched at the pressure on his sore ribs, but he didn’t mind the slight discomfort. It reminded him of the love they had made last night, the ache being all part of the beautiful experience. The strength shared from man to man was special, blurring lines between vulnerability and aggression, making them total equals.
“Still hurt?” Starsky asked at Hutch’s small groan.
“It’s okay.” He bent to kiss the smiling lips. “I’m glad you’re here. Didn’t get to see much of you today.”
“I missed you, too, when I was driving all over town, helping Stanton run down the rest of Fitch’s associates. Did you get your reports finished?”
“Yeah.”
“You talked to Marianne. What did she say?”
Hutch shrugged. “Strangely enough, she doesn’t think it’s my fault Fitch killed Harry.”
“Hey.” A gentle hand rubbed his shoulder. “You’re not going to get depressed again, are you?”
Hutch let his head rest beside Starsky’s for a moment, murmuring against his partner’s throat. “Maybe not. Right now, I feel pretty good.”
Starsky’s hips lifted and flexed, rubbing his crotch up and down along Hutch’s. “I have anything to do with that, by any chance?”
“You know you do, you smug—”
“Yeah.” He cut off Hutch’s mock-indignant reply with a kiss. “Mmmm,” he sighed as their lips parted. He let his fingers comb through the long strands of blond hair. “What’s next, Hutch? Do we talk, or have dinner, or what?”
Hutch met the blue eyes. His first inclination, to answer with a suggestive ‘or what,’ was quelled by the other’s look of earnest need. “Want to talk, then have some dinner?”
Starsky nodded. “Last night… it was good.” He seemed to be asking a question.
Hutch was glad to answer. “I liked it, too. Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
There was a brief smile. “But things are kinda different today, aren’t they?”
“I said I wanted them to be,” Hutch said seriously. “I don’t want to go back to just what we had before. Since last night, I feel… closer to you. Like we did at the beginning.”
Starsky cocked his head to one side. “You mean, like running down alleys, knocking down doors?”
“Like automatically knowing everything about each other, sharing… It’s hard to put into exact words.”
“Guess maybe we’re close enough not to need them.” A lift of the expressive eyebrows. “I said last night that it sounded like you were talking about commitment.”
“Yeah…?”
“I like the idea, I… just don’t know what it’s gonna mean.”
“It can mean whatever we want. To me…. It’s enough to know the feelings are there.” He bent his lips to Starsky’s, sharing a kiss that carried a thousand nuances, incredible sweetness, warmth, passion flickering below the surface of calm tenderness. They lay still for a long time, holding the kiss, basking in their unity.
* * *
Dinner was over. Hutch wandered out to the greenhouse to spend a few minutes with the plants he had neglected all week and Starsky went out to pick up a newspaper and more beer.
He checked the spider plants and ferns, tending and watering while his mind reviewed rich memories of his years as Starsky’s partner. We’ve shared so much, and it’s still the same. What’s mine is yours, what’s yours is mine. He remembered physical wounds that had hurt him though they had been Starsky’s, and times the grief he suffered had cut his partner just as deep. It always went both ways.
There was Starsky’s face, fresh bereavement paling the fine features as he argued with Hutch about taking the motorcycle through the glass doors sheltering George Prudholm. “It’s mine,” Starsky had said flatly. “No. This is ours. Partner.” Hutch had meant it, and they’d ridden through the storm of glass together.
So many times they had been there for each other… but Hutch also recalled painful instances when the partnership hadn’t worked so perfectly. Starsky had pulled away from him, rejecting his help, when he had accidentally caused Emily Harrison’s blindness. And he had never really understood why Starsky had seemed to shut him out after Hutch had been shot during that teenage burglary case and instead had relied on his temporary partner, Meredith.
I know I’ve done the same thing to him, though. I should have called him when I spotted Ray Pardee. But even though I was beginning to feel lousy, I thought I could handle arresting him by myself. And on this case, my head was so messed up, I didn’t bother to think about how he felt about my not reporting in. The partnership should always come first, no matters what’s going on between us. God, Starsky, let us try to remember that the next time.
He heard familiar footsteps approaching as he stood looking out toward the sunset. He turned and smiled. Starsky’s deep blue eyes were squinted against the glare of the descending sun, his curls looking soft and glossy under the burnishing rays. In his hands were two open bottles of beer and the evening paper was tucked under his arm.
“Plants okay?” he asked laconically, as he leaned one jutting hip against the door jamb.
“Yeah. None too worse for wear.” Hutch sat down on the bench to mist one of his favorite spider plants.
Starsky walked over to join him, sitting down on the bench, sliding close to share his space.
Hutch’s fingers brushed Starsky’s as he reached to take one of the cold bottles. His thigh felt warm where his partner’s touched it. We’re so close now… I want this feeling to last.
From his own experience, he had learned euphoria didn’t last. All the love and good intentions in the world didn’t guarantee continuing perfection. Outside influences, other people, cases they might try to solve, could affect their relationship. And the way each of them responded to the idea of commitment would carry a lot of weight, too.
Am I going to be capable of being everything he needs? What if he seems to be backing away from me, sometime next week or next month? That’s what I was afraid of last night before we started, but it happened between us anyway. With what we’ve done together, will we be able to handle what’s waiting for us in the future?
Starsky shifted position, his thigh and hip and shoulder pressing tight against Hutch. His warmth and close accessibility felt so good; it was everything Hutch needed at the moment. The best I can do… He resolved to put possible worries aside. Try saying everything’s gonna work out right, and maybe it will.
He smiled into Starsky’s eyes and the look held, warm as the late sun filling the greenhouse. Turning to reach for another plant, Hutch started chatting amiably to the neglected foliage.
“Gonna put a little Donna Summer on later… get you off.”
Starsky was ignoring his suggestive comment, reading some disgusting story about monkeys eating a woman and child.
Hutch chided him. “Why is it that you always have to look on the dark side?” It had never seemed more appropriate for him to purposely pick on his partner for having exactly the attitude Hutch was usually guilty of espousing. He got into it, improvising easily. I’m… I’m expanding this greenhouse.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sure, it’s gonna cost me an arm and a leg. But it’s worth it because of my positive attitude.” He went on, claiming he’d applied for a loan, teasing Starsky who looked properly chastised. “Course the fact that we’re getting that pay hike next week, now that doesn’t hurt. But the point is, that there is a lot of good news in the world. You know?” The raise; I almost forgot.
“Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”
“‘Course I’m right.” He patted his lover’s arm. “‘Course I’m right.” Satisfied, Hutch turned to pick up his beer.
Starsky was mentioning another article in the paper. Hutch didn’t pay attention until he read aloud: “City police lose bitter battle for pay hike.”
“What?”
He grabbed for the paper to see, and Starsky grabbed for him. They were wrestling, struggling, the paper rustling and getting squashed between them. Hutch used his weight to force Starsky off the bench and they tumbled to the greenhouse floor, almost upsetting the table containing the beer and the plant mister.
Hutch pinned his partner’s shoulders and hunched his hips over the growing bulge in the tight jeans. I won…
“Gotcha.” Starsky’s smirk showed that streak of laid-back, irritating, teasing superiority calculated to drive him crazy.
We both won. Hutch bent to claim the smiling lips.
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1 comment
Dear Martha:
Amazing story! And it’s enough for me to know, too, that the feelings are there! 😉
Kath Moonshine