The Dreamer Sometimes Plays a Fool

A pair of extremely close encounters leave Hutch feeling a bit out of sorts as he and Starsky work to solve a murder.

Notes: Written for Miss Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (TuppenceBee) for MultiFandomTropeFest 2021. Originally posted on AO3.

Title is paraphrased from David Soul’s only US #1 hit, Don’t Give Up on Us. I couldn’t help myself.

Hutch hovered awkwardly behind Dr. Hughes as the coroner inspected the body, holding a handkerchief over his nose to help mask the smell of death. “Male, white, approximately 35, likely COD multiple small entry wounds to the chest. Based on the size of the spread, my guess is it’s a sawed-off shotgun, but I’ll know more once I get him on the table,” Hughes said, apparently unconcerned by the odor as he turned the stiff body on its side to look at the back. “Rigor has set in, so he’s been dead a good few hours, sometime last night if I had to guess. Lack of blood at the scene indicates he was killed elsewhere and dumped here. Probably didn’t die right away; he might have lived if he’d gotten to a hospital quickly.”

“You got a name for us, Doc?”

Hughes looked over his glasses at Starsky, who was leaning lazily against the Torino, arms crossed, looking far too attractive for Hutch’s peace of mind. Though he still wore his favorite worn leather jacket, in deference to the unseasonably warm spring weather Starsky’s shirt was unbuttoned almost all the way to his navel, exposing acres of tanned, sweat-damp skin and dark chest hair. Hutch dragged his gaze away from his partner with difficulty as Starsky grinned winningly at the coroner.

Hughes narrowed his eyes before grumpily reaching into the dead man’s pocket and pulling out a wallet, peering inside. “Driver’s license says he’s Paul Donahue, 37, lives on 34th and Vine.” He tossed the wallet to an unsuspecting Hutch, who fumbled it and nearly dropped it. “I’ll leave that to you, Detectives,” he said as he climbed to his feet, shooting Starsky a sour look. “Post-mortem won’t be done until tomorrow, but I don’t expect any surprises. I’ll send it to the station when it’s done.”

With the initial examination over, Hutch climbed into the passenger side of the Torino and started looking through the dead man’s wallet. Starsky joined him with a sigh. “Sawed off to the chest’s a helluva way to go,” he said.

Hutch nodded. “And no ballistics,” he added. “Let’s see… Three dollars in cash and a handful of betting slips from every dog track in the county—every one of them a loser, I’d guess. Couple of cards for local shops, a matchbook from the Blue Heron strip club, and this,” he said, pulling out a well-worn and creased photograph.

It was a candid shot of a man and a woman sitting together on a couch, his arm around her shoulders, the clothes and the hairstyle putting it at least ten years ago. The man was clearly Paul Donahue, younger and with significantly more hair than on his driver’s license. The dark-haired woman in the picture wasn’t terribly pretty—her eyes were too far apart and her nose was too sharp—but she was smiling happily at the camera while Paul was grinning at her like the sun rose and set on her. Even in a decade-old photo, the love between the two of them was obvious, and Hutch felt his chest tighten in sympathy. He passed the picture over to Starsky and looked out the window instead of watching his partner study it, knowing his own emotions were too close to the surface.

“Young love,” Starsky observed. “Think she’s still around?”

Hutch shrugged. “Hard to say. But if she’s not, he’s been pining for her ever since she left. A love like that’s hard to shake.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Starsky give him a strang look, then nod. “Come on, let’s go see what his neighbors have to say. See if they know who she is.”

Hutch took a deep breath. “Yeah, I think that’s a good place to start.”

***

Paul Donahue’s neighborhood was full of people who very deliberately saw nothing and heard nothing, but they lucked out and were able to get a name for the woman in the photo: Susan Cartwright. According to Mrs. Martinez on the first floor of their apartment building, Paul was a bum who couldn’t keep a job for more than a week, and poor, sweet Susan kept him in bourbon and cigarettes working at a series of dance halls and strip clubs. The latest was the Blue Heron.

It was close to dinner time when they pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the club. The one-story brick building was old and shabby, with a neon light advertising “Live Nude Girls” flickering inconsistently under a sign with the bar’s name and the image of a long-legged bird dancing around a pole in chipped paint. A bored bouncer barely looked at their badges before directing them to the dressing area, past a stage where a tired looking woman danced for three equally tired looking men, seemingly unconcerned about what a couple of cops might see.

There was only a single, familiar looking woman wearing a satin dressing gown in the room. Hutch nodded at Starsky, and they made their way to her.

“Susan Cartwright?”

The woman in question looked up from where she was applying bright red lipstick, meeting Hutch’s eyes in the massive, well-lit stage mirror. There wasn’t much left of the young, bright-eyed woman in the photo. Her face was darkly tanned and leathery, dried out from years of sun and smoking, and her hair was no longer straight and dark; it was now peroxide blonde and feathered out around her face like Farrah Fawcett. The biggest difference, though, was in her eyes: instead of sparkling with joy and youth, they looked worn and tired, and ringed with dark circles.

She narrowed her eyes at them. “Who’s asking?”

Hutch pulled out his badge, and next to him, Starsky did the same. “Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson, Bay City PD, ma’am,” he said, pointing first to his partner and then himself. “We were hoping for a minute of your time.”

She sighed and turned to face them. “What’d Paul do this time?”

Starsky moved to the side and leaned against the counter next to her. “Paul Donahue’s your boyfriend?”

Susan snorted and turned her attention to Starsky. “Yeah, I guess you could call him that,” she said, fumbling in the bag at her feet for a pack of Kools and a lighter. “Been together seventeen years, and he keeps promising to marry me, but somehow never seems to get around to it. So, yeah. Boyfriend.” She tapped a cigarette out, placed it delicately between her painted lips and lit it, taking a deep drag before letting it out with a defeated sigh. “He in the main jail or stuck in one of station holding cells? I can probably post bail for him tomorrow.” She shook her head. “Oughtta make him wait until the day after; it’d serve him right.”

Hutch looked over at Starsky, who inclined his head slightly before asking, “Was Paul with you last night, Ms. Cartwright?”

“No, no, last night I was here, working. Got a couple hundred men if you need an alibi witness,” she added with an arched brow, the cigarette dangling from her manicured fingers. “Paul was doin’ a job. Supposedly,” she added with a twist of her lips. “He’s unemployed, so he takes work where he can, at least when he’s sober. He’s been doing some work for Frank Calevari lately.” Starsky’s gaze jerked up to meet Hutch’s at the mention of Calevari’s name as Susan continued. “He met Mr. Calevari here a couple weeks ago; he just bought this place you know,” she added.

“No, we didn’t know that,” Starsky said. Frank Calevari was a new player in town, a transplant from Vegas who’d found the coast a bit more to his taste. He’d been buying up as many businesses in the low-rent Jefferson Park neighborhood as he could, and those owners who refused found themselves dealing with broken windows, robberies, assaults, even unexplained fires. It wasn’t a surprise that someone had died; what was a surprise was that it seemed like one of Calevari’s people rather than an unlucky employee. “Was Paul working for Mr. Calevari last night?”

“I dunno. Probably.” She shrugged. “All I know’s Paul’s been real busy the last couple’a weeks, said this job was gonna make all our problems go away.” She scoffed. “He always has plans like that, you know, him and his idiot friends, Gunner and Benny.”

“Gunner and Benny?” Hutch interrupted.

“Benny Vasquez and, uh, I dunno Gunner’s real name. They were both with Paul in ‘Nam, and Gunner was, well, a gunner in their unit.” She shrugged. “Paul only ever called him Gunner.” She sighed and tapped her cigarette on the edge of a black plastic ashtray. “The three of them are like brothers. Idiot brothers,” she added with a snort, “thinking they’re gonna get rich quick on their next scheme and we can settle down with a white picket fence and three perfect kids.” She took another long drag of her cigarette. “Only whenever he does get some money, he blows it almost as fast as it comes in, and here I am, shaking my tits for a bunch of grubby old men. God, I hate him.” She looked up at Hutch, and he could see the pain on her face. “But I love him too. You ever feel like that about someone, Officer? Like no one else can piss you off quite like them, but you know you’d just die without ‘em?”

Hutch swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he murmured.

“Ms. Cartwright,” Starsky said, drawing her attention back to him and giving Hutch a moment to get himself under control, “was Mr. Calevari in the club last night?”

She frowned, thinking, then shook her head. “No, he only comes around on weekends usually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him here on a Tuesday. He’s got other businesses to run, I guess.”

“I see.” Hutch paused and shared a look with Starsky, who nodded slightly. He sighed. He always hated this part of the job. “Ms. Cartwright, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we found a body this morning.” He waited for her look at him, then said, as gentle as he could, “We believe it’s Paul.”

She looked away from him and her hand, the one holding the cigarette, began to shake. She took a long, unsteady drag. “You sure it’s him?” she whispered.

“We need someone to come down to make an official identification,” Hutch said gently, “but he matches Paul’s description and he had Paul’s driver’s license on him.”

Susan nodded, her eyes still focused on the carpet behind them. “Right,” she said, her voice shaky. “I always knew the fool’d get himself killed someday. What happened?”

“We’re not sure,” Starsky said, his voice as soft as Hutch’s. “The coroner still has to do an autopsy.” He paused, and they both watched her for any signs that she knew more than she was saying. “Do you have someone who could sit with you tonight? It’s probably not good for you to be alone,” Starsky said.

She barked out a humorless laugh. “Sit with me? No, I, uh, I can’t miss my shift tonight. Paul never contributes…” She stopped, drew in a shaky breath, and corrected herself. “Contributed much to the rent, but if it’s just me…” She cleared her throat and Hutch silently offered her a kleenex from the box on the vanity. She took it and started dabbing at the skin under her eyes, catching the tears before they could smear her make-up.

“Can you come down to the station tomorrow? Two o’clock?” Hutch asked.

She finally looked up, her brown eyes thick with unshed tears. “Yeah, I can come tomorrow. You got a card or something, Officer?”

Hutch produced one, and before he said anything, Starsky handed him a pencil. Hutch wrote “2:00 pm” on the back of the card and handed it to Susan, who tucked it into her purse. “If you think of anything else, give us a call.”

Starsky reached over and rested a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Cartwright. And we’re very sorry for your loss.”

They left her sitting at her vanity and went out into the back hallway. As soon as the dressing room door shut behind them, Starsky blew out a loud breath and slumped against the wall. “Frank Calevari,” he muttered. “Shit.”

Hutch arched his eyebrows and nodded. “You said it, partner.”

“Well now what do we do? Calevari’s too smart to talk to us without his lawyer, especially if he’s involved in a murder.”

“And he’s almost certainly involved,” Hutch agreed. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and he put a finger to his lips to silence Starsky.

“Now if anyone asks,” the voice said, “I was here all night, working on the books.”

“That’s Calevari,” Starsky hissed. “We gotta hide!”

Before Hutch had a chance to react, Starsky grabbed his wrist and dragged him through the closest door into what happened to be a small janitor’s closet. Hutch stumbled over something on the floor, crashing into Starsky and pinning him to the back wall with a grunt. They both froze, Starsky with his arms around Hutch’s ribs, Hutch with his forearms braced against the wall on either side of Starsky’s head. Their bodies were flush against one another, and Hutch could feel Starsky’s heart, rabbit-fast, beating against his chest. Their faces were close enough that they were breathing the same air, and if Hutch inched forward just the tiniest bit, he would be kissing Starsky.

Hutch closed his eyes against the dark and let himself enjoy the contact for just a moment. The odor of bleach and cleaner couldn’t quite mask the scent of Starsky’s curls, not this close, and his own shirt exposed just enough skin that their chests slipped against one another with each breath.

Outside their little cocoon of darkness, another voice said, “Did you hear that?”

Hutch tipped his head back, praying to a God he wasn’t sure he still believed in that they’d go undiscovered. Both of them slumped with relief when Calevari said, “I didn’t hear anything over the music. Now, remember, I was here all night Tuesday.” Another door creaked open, then closed with a slam out in the hallway.

Starsky’s silent chuckle vibrated through Hutch’s chest, and Hutch felt himself responding in kind. Between the closeness and the relief of not being found out, Hutch’s control slipped, and his cock started to fill. He bit his lip, hoping against hope that he’d get lucky a second time, that Starsky wouldn’t notice; the way his partner froze let him know that his good fortune had run out.

“That a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me,” Starsky whispered, the question feeling even more intimate for being spoken directly into Hutch’s ear.

Hutch pushed off the wall, putting enough space between them that his half-hard cock was no longer rubbing against Starsky. After a moment’s hesitation, Starsky dropped his arms, releasing Hutch from the tight clinch. Hutch took another step back and turned toward the door, listening for any movement outside the hallway as he tried to rein in his thundering heart.

“I think they’re gone,” he murmured, slowly edging the door open.

Starsky followed him out, and they quickly made their way to the Torino, where they sat in silence for a moment. Starsky turned toward him and said, “Hutch—”

Hutch cut him off with a firm shake of his head. “We should find Gunner and Benny Vasquez,” he said, staring straight through the windshield. “I have a feeling they’ll know what happened to Donahue.”

Starsky stared at him for a long moment, before he nodded slowly. “Yeah, okay, partner. Let’s track them down.

***

Benny Vasquez and Tyrell “Gunner” Brown were found by uniforms drinking themselves stupid in a bar three blocks from the crime scene. As soon as Starsky pulled out a photo of Donahue taken at the crime scene, the pair of them started sobbing and falling over each other to explain what had happened. By the time they got them back to the station for an official statement, Starsky & Hutch knew the broad strokes of what had happened the night before: at the behest of Frank Calevari, the three of them went down to convince a Mr. Wong to sell his thriving corner grocery. Mr. Wong, who kept a sawed-off shotgun under the counter for protection, had objected, and the end result was Paul Donahue, dead, in an empty lot three blocks away.

It was nearly three in the morning when they finished taking Vasquez’s and Brown’s statements and sent them to sleep it off in the drunk tank. Starsky collapsed into a chair in the squad room. “We gonna pick up Wong tonight?”

Hutch finished a cup of something that had probably once been coffee with a grimace. “No, tomorrow morning’s soon enough. You think they’re telling the truth?”

Starsky blew out a long, tired breath. “Yeah, they’re not smart enough to make that up. And I looked up Wong’s store; he’s been robbed a half-dozen times in the last three years. I’d probably keep a sawed-off under the counter too.” Starsky yawned big enough that his jaw cracked. “Man, I’m beat.” He climbed to his feet and stretched, and Hutch found himself staring at the way the muscles of his chest rippled under the vee of exposed skin. “Come on, Hutch, let’s get out of here. I’ll give you a ride to your place.”

Hutch flinched, hoping that Starsky would chalk up his staring to exhaustion. He crumpled up his paper cup and tossed it into the trash can, then grabbed his jacket off the coat rack. “Think we can nail Calevari for this?” he asked, as they walked side-by-side out to the parking lot.

Starsky shrugged. “I don’t know. Any lawyer worth his salt’ll rip Benny and Gunner to shreds on the stand. I mean, a couple of alcoholic vets who were admittedly beating people up for money and burning down stores? And you heard what Hughes said this morning; if they’d taken him to the ER he’d probably have lived. Hard sell to a jury.”

“We need something else, something to trip him up on,” Hutch mused, waiting for Starsky to lean across the seat to unlock the passenger door. “There’s a reason he’s buying up all these properties,” he continued, more to himself than to Starsky as he settled into the Torino.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think we’re going to figure it out tonight. Or at least I won’t,” he corrected, sliding the car smoothly onto the empty streets, “’cause my brain is mush. Absolute mush.” He flipped on the radio and they drove in companionable silence all the way to Venice Place.

This late at night, there were no open spots, so Starsky double parked next to a green sedan. The air in the car became tense, and Starsky drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out, and Hutch braced himself for the conversation they’d avoided after the strip club.

“Pick you up tomorrow?”

Hutch was sure that wasn’t what he’d intended to say, but he simply nodded into the darkness. “Yeah, LTD’s still in the shop. But make it later, yeah? Maybe eleven? We’ll let the uniforms pick up Wong and get his statement, then see if we can brainstorm some way to get Calevari while we wait for Susan to show up.” He opened the door but paused before climbing out. “Thanks, Starsk. Don’t fall asleep on the way home, all right?”

Starsky snorted. “I’m more worried you’ll crash out and trip up the stairs, you big lug.”

Hutch reached over and slapped him on the shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. “Good night, buddy.”

Starsky reached up and covered Hutch’s hand with his own, squeezing tightly, that perfectly innocent touch sending a thrill through Hutch’s exhausted body. “Night, Hutch.”

Hutch was all the way up the stairs and into the apartment before he heard the Torino’s engine rev up and Starsky drive away.

***

“I’m sorry, but I can’t charge Calevari with this evidence,” ADA Levinson said. Unlike most lawyers they’d dealt with, Hutch thought the man looked genuinely regretful. “All you have are the words of two coconspirators, and unreliable ones at that.”

Dobey sighed and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head.

Starsky jumped up and started pacing. “So, he just gets away with it? Not just the assaults and the arson, but murder! He sent Paul Donahue to his death!”

“Detective, I understand this is upsetting—”

“What about Wong?”

Levinson sighed and turned to look at Hutch, whose question had interrupted Starsky’s rant before it managed to get going. “If Mr. Wong pleads guilty to misdemeanor possession of an illegal firearm, Detective Hutchinson, we’re willing to drop the manslaughter charge. I don’t want to take a seventy year old man to court for defending his store against a group of criminals.”

Hutch rubbed the back of his neck. “And would his testimony be enough?”

Levinson shook his head. “He can’t connect it to Calevari. As far as he knows, Donahue, Vazquez, and Brown could have been acting on their own initiative.”

Captain Dobey leaned forward and stared Levinson down. “What would you need to charge Calevari?”

The ADA shrugged. “A confession would be nice, but I’d settle for a motive. If you can get me a reason why Calevari was willing to send those three around to beat up grocers and shopkeepers in order to convince them to sell him essentially worthless land in Jefferson Park of all places, I’ll get you in front of a grand jury.”

After Levinson left, Dobey gave them both a stern look. “I want you two to be on your best behavior on this one, you hear me? I’ve dealt with Calevari’s lawyer before, and he’s a smart one. If he can wriggle out of this on a technicality, you bet your asses he will. By. The. Book. Am I making myself clear?”

Starsky smirked and gave him a cheeky wink. “Crystal, Captain. 100% on the level, that’s us.”

Dobey narrowed his eyes. “Why does that not reassure me?” Starsky just grinned, and Dobey shooed them out of his office.

In the squad room, Hutch met Starsky’s eye and cocked a brow; his partner nodded and grabbed his jacket, following Hutch silently out to the parking lot. “You have a plan,” Starsky said, once they reached the Torino.

“I heard Calevari talking to his lawyer in the hallway after we let him go,” Hutch said, smiling over the car’s roof at his partner. “Said he was going to be seeing to some business downtown this afternoon—which means his office is empty.”

Starsky grinned. “Well, let’s see if we can find Levinson a motive.”

***

“This man’s filling system is worse than yours,” Hutch muttered as he flipped through the papers in Frank Calevari’s desk.

“Says the guy who uses his car as a mobile dump,” Starsky shot back as he skimmed through the upright file cabinet.

Hutch snorted. “You find anything in there?”

“Like what, a folder conveniently labeled ‘Illegally Obtained Property’ or ‘Reasons To Beat Up Little Old Shopkeepers’? Nah.” Starsky shut the top drawer and opened the one below it. “I think Calevari’s a bit smarter than that. And most of these files are just pages and pages of numbers anyway, with nothing— Oh hello!” Starsky pulled out a manila folder triumphantly and slapped it on the desk. “Now this might be something.”

Hutch leaned over to get a better look at it and frowned. “It looks like a survey for a highway. Why would Calevari have this?”

“And here I thought you were more than just a pretty face,” Starsky joked. He tapped his finger on the paper a little way down the page “That address look familiar?”

Hutch’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “That’s Jefferson Park. They’re going to build an interstate highway right through the whole neighborhood.”

Starsky looked up and winked at him, and Hutch’s breath caught in his throat. Starsky was gorgeous, flush with victory, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and Hutch had to look away, focusing on the paperwork to distract himself from the urgent desire to kiss his partner.

After Starsky had dropped him off the night before, Hutch had been unable to think of anything except the way Starsky had felt, holding him tight in that lightless closet. He’d tried every trick he knew to try convincing his mind to slow down and sleep—warm milk, counting sheep, meditation, deep breathing—but when the dim grey of pre-dawn started creeping in the window, he’d finally given in and made himself come to the memory of Starsky’s body so close to his own. He’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but his sleep had been restless, his dreams filled with erotic tableaus of himself and his partner in varying states of undress and positions. He’d woken this morning sticky and exhausted, and a day of dealing with Wong, Dobey, and Levinson while trying not to notice how gorgeous Starsky looked and how good he smelled had pushed Hutch’s patience to the breaking point.

He forced himself to really look at the plans, ignoring the quirked eyebrow Starsky shot his way. “Once this plan’s approved, all this land is going to be worth a fortune. Calevari’ll be able to sell it to the government for ten times what he paid for it,” Hutch said, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt. “But this is a draft, it’s not public yet. So how did Calevari know about it?”

Starsky shrugged. “I dunno, but I’d bet my next paycheck that he’s got a friend on the city council. And if we do a little asking around…”

He trailed off meaningfully and Hutch grinned. “We’ll have all the motive that Levinson could want.”

“And all nice and legal-like, as far as the ADA’s concerned.” Starsky said, as he closed the folder and slid it back into the drawer, catching it just before it slammed shut. “Put those other papers back where they were, and we can get outta here.”

Hutch put the folders back into the drawer then straightened the pile of papers still on the desktop with a quick shake, doing his best to make it look as it had when they’d come in. It wasn’t perfect, but the desk hadn’t been terribly neat to begin with, so he hoped Calevari would chalk up anything out of place to his own messiness. He turned toward the exit, only to find Starsky pressed up against the closed door rather than halfway down the stairs. “We’re about to have company,” he hissed.

Well, shit. Hutch spun around, hoping that a second exit door had magically appeared in the time they’d spent searching through Calevari’s office; unfortunately, none had. Besides the desk, the room held the large metal filing cabinet that Starsky had been looking through, a heavy wooden bookcase that looked impossible to move, and a spindly coatstand just to the side of the entry door. The back wall was mostly window, the slightly grimy glass looking out over the skyline of the city and decorated with a sad looking peace lily that had seen better days. Hutch’s eye caught on the floor-length, dark velvet curtains framing the floor-to-ceiling windows. He turned to Starsky and raised a brow.

With a wordless nod, Starsky crossed the room and they quickly hid behind the thick drapery, Hutch with his back against the wall and Starsky with his back against Hutch. Hutch gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore the feeling of Starsky’s perfectly round ass and muscular back pressing tightly against his body as he arranged the curtain to disguise them. They both held their breaths as they heard the door swing open and two people enter, talking loudly with one another.

“If the police come with a search warrant, Frank, they get to search your house and your office,” the first man said. Hutch thought he recognized the voice as Ernest Mason, Calevari’s lawyer, who was only slightly less of a scumbag than his client. “I can’t stop them.”

“Then what am I paying you for?” Calevari snarled. He threw himself into the chair, the leather squeaking. “I pay you to keep the cops off my back, and yet I get dragged down to the station in front of God and everyone, asking me questions about that Donahue idiot!” The chair springs groaned as he leaned forward and slammed his palm on the desktop. Starsky flinched back at the sudden sound, his muscles shifting and his curls tickling the sensitive skin of Hutch’s neck. Hutch bit his bottom lip as his unruly cock began to harden.

“And because of me you kept your fool mouth shut and didn’t incriminate yourself,” Mason snapped. “You’re just lucky they didn’t talk to any of the other girls at the Blue Heron, like Nancy. She’s dumb as a box of rocks and would tell them all about your little arrangement with Councilman Walton, and then where would we be?” In front of him, Starsky tensed, and Hutch reached down for his hand, squeezing it once before releasing it, to signal that yes, he heard that too. Now they had a name to investigate—assuming they got out of here without getting caught.

“Nancy won’t talk,” Calevari muttered, but even Hutch could tell he didn’t believe it. “She’s stupid but she’s loyal—and she know what would happen to her if she did.”

“I can’t listen to this, Frank,” Mason said, obviously exasperated. “I’m your lawyer and I can protect you from the cops for things you’ve already done, but if I know about crimes before they happen, attorney-client privilege won’t protect us. I’ll be a co-conspirator. And need I remind you, I know enough to send us both to prison, and I would not do well in San Quentin.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Calevari said, and sat back in his chair again. “I won’t do anything to those girls. Or those cops,” he added, grudgingly. “But I want you to get those two idiots in that flashy car off my back! I don’t care how you do it, harassment charge, police brutality, whatever, but I don’t want to see Starsky or Hutchinson sniffing around any of my properties again! Or that jive turkey snitch of theirs, what’s his name, Teddy Bear? Runs that place down on 23rd, The Hole?”

In front of him, Starsky started to shake, and Hutch could tell he was holding back laughter. The increased stimulation, in conjunction with the warm, salty scent of Starsky’s skin filling the close space behind the curtain and his already simmering low-level arousal, proved too hard to handle. He bit back a hysterical, humorless giggle at his own poor choice of phrasing as his cock stiffened past the point of plausible deniability.

Hutch closed his eyes and leaned his head gently against the wall as Starsky stilled, his body going rigid against Hutch’s front. There was no real room to put any space between them, but Starsky tried, arching his back until Hutch’s dick had the smallest amount of breathing room. Unfortunately, that meant his shoulders were pressed even more firmly against Hutch’s chest, and his soft curls, fragrant with a day’s worth of sweat and just a hint of musky aftershave, were directly under Hutch’s nose, teasing him.

Mason and Calevari’s conversation faded into the background as Hutch’s mind conjured up an image from last night’s dreams: Starsky’s weight pinning him to the bed, his gun-callused hands running over Hutch’s arms, the hair on his chest dark with a sweat worked up in passion. Hutch gritted his teeth and forced himself to picture instead what would happen if Calevari caught them hiding in his office, which was good enough to drag himself back to the present—not that it was much less arousing than his fantasy, with Starsky still practically writhing in his lap.

“Aw hell,” Frank said, startling Hutch out of his trance, “it’s almost 6, and I have a date with Ginger.” He pushed the chair out from the desk, its legs sliding across the wood floor with an ear-piercing screech, causing Hutch to flinch. “Remember, get rid of those cops, Ernie. I don’t care what you have to say, but keep them away from my business, you got that?”

Mason sighed and stood as well. “Yeah, okay. Judge Rayburn owes us a favor, I’ll call him in the morning. And if that doesn’t work, Walton’ll give us a hand. You won’t see hide nor hair of them again.”

Their voices got quieter as they moved toward the door, until with a final slam of the door, the room went silent. They waited for several heartbeats before Starsky relaxed back against Hutch, his ass tight to Hutch’s still-hard cock. “Now I know that’s not a gun,” he murmured.

Hutch froze for a second, before pushing Starsky roughly out of his way and flinging himself across the room to stare, sightless, out the window. “It’s not like you to be cruel,” he spat, his voice rough with emotion.

“Who’s being cruel?” Starsky asked, his tone full of honest confusion.

Hutch whirled around, ready to explain just how awful it was to mock a friend for something he couldn’t control, only for Starsky to stop his anger in its tracks with a gentle hand on Hutch’s face. “Blintz, breathe,” he said, settling his other hand on Hutch’s forearm, and Hutch helplessly did as he instructed, his heartbeat slowing as he let himself bask in Starsky’s touch. “Now I’m gonna be a good friend and not take offense that the first thing you thought was that I was messing with you,” he murmured as his thumb traced Hutch’s cheekbone, “and we’re going to get the hell out of this office and somewhere where we can talk. Got it?”

Hutch let out a shuddering breath and nodded. “Got it.” He pulled the tattered remains of his pride around him and stepped back from Starsky. “We should probably call in the info about the highway,” he said, more for something to say than because he thought Starsky had forgotten.

Starsky shot him one of those heart-stopping crooked grins. “There’s no way Levinson’s still in his office. Tomorrow morning is soon enough.”

The late afternoon sun painted the grimy streets of Bay City golden as Starsky led Hutch toward where they’d left the Torino. Hutch felt unmoored, as if his entire world had tilted on its axis and left him drifting in a world where nothing made sense. He’d practically molested Starsky behind a curtain in a criminal’s office, and instead of being angry, Starsky was driving them both to Hutch’s apartment, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel the way he only did when he couldn’t contain his excitement about something. Hutch, for his part, was unable to keep his eyes off his partner, drinking in the other man’s energy and imprinting this moment on his memory.

It felt like a sign that Starsky found a parking spot right in front of Hutch’s front door. He shut off the Torino and the pair of them sat in silence for several moments, while the engine’s clicking echoed through the interior. “Do you— do you want to come in? I’ve got beer,” Hutch added.

Starsky looked over and grinned. “Yeah, I’ll take a beer.”

Starsky shadowed him up the walk and hovered behind while Hutch unlocked the door. “You know where it is,” Hutch said, pausing by the entry way to hang up his coat while Starsky made a beeline for the kitchen. By the time Hutch had settled himself on the couch, Starsky was back with two open bottles, handing one to Hutch before seating himself close enough to Hutch that their arms brushed as they both took a sip of the beer.

After a long moment, Starsky took a deep breath and turned toward Hutch, tucking one leg up underneath him. “Wanna tell me what that was about back there?” he asked, voice gentle.

Hutch sighed and leaned his head against the couch back, staring up at the ceiling. “You know as well as anyone that sometimes, it just happens—.”

“Hutch.”

Struck by Starsky’s serious tone, Hutch swallowed. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Starsk.”

Starsky snorted. “The truth would be a good place to start.”

“The truth,” he repeated softly. He swallowed. “The truth is… Yesterday, in that closet, I…” He trailed off, and looked at Starsky, hoping for some sort of reprieve, but Starsky only arched an eyebrow at him, seemingly ready to wait him out for as long as it took. Hutch swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his hands, unable to meet Starsky’s gaze. “Feeling you, like that, so close… I’m attracted to you. No,” he said, interrupting whatever Starsky was about to say, “it’s not just attraction. It hasn’t just been attraction for a long time,” he said, turning at the last minute to catch his partner’s expression. Instead of the disgust or confusion he still half-expected to see, Starsky was smiling. “What?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful when you’re nervous?”

Hutch felt his brain skid to a halt, like a needle scratching across a record. He was sure his mouth was gaping open like a hooked fish. “What?”

Starsky set his beer bottle on the table, then plucked Hutch’s from nerveless fingers and set it down as well. He leaned forward, cupping Hutch’s face in his hands. “Some detective you are. If you’d’ve held on a little bit longer in the closet before jumping away like your hair was on fire, you might have noticed you weren’t the only one having a little issue. Or,” he added with a smirk down at Hutch’s lap, “maybe not so little.”

A beat later, Hutch did what he’d wanted to do in that dark, airless closet, and closed the small distance between his mouth and Starsky’s. Starsky groaned and opened for him, hot and hungry and tasting strongly of light beer and faintly, underneath it all, of Starsky. “Starsk,” he breathed, reveling in the feel of his partner’s afternoon beard rough against his own skin, “please tell me this isn’t a dream.”

Starsky laughed, the sound vibrating against Hutch’s lips. “A dream come true, maybe,” he said. He reached up and threaded his fingers through Hutch’s hair, pulling him back in for another hungry kiss. “For both of us, it looks like,” he whispered against Hutch’s lips.

Starsky’s lips were soft and wet as his tongue sought entrance that Hutch was all too happy to give. The angle wasn’t ideal, and Hutch’s back was already protesting, but he pressed forward, tilting Starsky back toward the couch cushions, too caught up in getting the one thing he’d wanted for so long to care that he’d pay for this in the morning. Beneath him, Starsky’s mouth was open and eager, tongue and teeth and lips working together to drive Hutch out of his mind with want.

Hutch’s dick was throbbing almost painfully against the zipper of his cords when Starsky finally pulled away several minutes later, flattening his hands on Hutch’s chest and giving him a firm push. Hutch groaned and pushed back, capturing Starsky’s mouth once more before finally letting Starsky maneuver him so he was sitting back against the couch. “You’re going to throw your back out if you keep that up,” he said, as he swung one leg over Hutch’s thighs and settled himself on Hutch’s lap with little roll of his hips.

Starsky looked like a wet dream come to life, his blue eyes dark with desire and his lips swollen from Hutch’s kisses. His dark curls were mussed from where Hutch had run his fingers through it, and the skin around his mouth was pink and a little raw. He smelled even better now than he had behind the curtain with the musky scent of arousal overlaying his natural scent. Hutch rested his hands on Starsky’s hips and slid his fingers under the waistband of his jeans to tease at the warm skin underneath. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

With a grin, Starsky shook his head. “Sweet talker.” He reached down and unbuttoned Hutch’s shirt, then yanked it up and out of his waistband and off his shoulders, exposing Hutch’s smooth chest to the air. Hutch shivered and bit back a groan as Starsky ran his fingertips down from Hutch’s shoulders to tease and pinch at his nipples. Starsky leaned in until his breath ghosted along Hutch’s ear. “No, I want to hear you, babe. Don’t hold back.”

Hutch let out a deep, shuddering breath and turned his head to capture Starsky’s lips as he wormed his own hands even further into his partner’s jeans. The denim was incredibly tight, and Hutch’s hands molded themselves to the curve of Starsky’ ass. He managed to work one finger in between the cheeks, causing Starsky to jerk forward. “Sorry, sorry,” Hutch said, pulling his hands free.

Starsky’s laugh was breathless and his cheeks were flushed. “I didn’t say stop, Hutch. Just surprised me is all.”

Hutch swallowed around the tightness in his throat, dropping his gaze to the hollow between Starsky’s collarbones. He put his hands back on Starsky’s ass, over the denim, and began stroking at the center seam deliberately. “You ever done anything like that with anyone?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

Starsky’s breath was heavy as he shook his head. “Not really. Had a finger up there once or twice, when one of my girlfriends got adventurous when sucking me. And I’ve done it to them a few times.” He rested his hands on Hutch’s bare shoulders. “You?”

“No. Never been comfortable enough with someone to ask. Thought about it a lot, though.” He licked his lips and looked up to meet Starsky’s hot gaze. “With you.”

He watched as Starsky’s blue eyes darkened even further. “Oh yeah?” he choked out. “Which way?”

Hutch squeezed Starsky’s ass almost involuntarily. “I want you every way, Starsk.”

Starsky nodded jerkily. “Okay, yeah, that—” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Soon, definitely.” He grinned. “But not right now, because I’m about thirty seconds from coming in my pants like a kid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Hutch said, finally releasing his grip on Starsky’s behind to fumble at the flies of his jeans. Starsky moaned with relief as his cock was freed, and Hutch’s mouth watered at the sight of the dark, leaking head poking out of the elastic waistband of his briefs. He didn’t even bother with his own pants, instead wrapping one hand firmly around Starsky’s shaft and stroking upward while sliding his other hand down the back of Starsky’s now-looser jeans. Starsky threw his head back in pleasure and breathed something that sounded like Hutch’s name, making Hutch drag his gaze from the erotic sight of Starsky’s dick in his hand to the similarly erotic sight of Starsky’s face. Hutch was struck again by how gorgeous he was, his face and chest covered with a sheen of sweat, his lashes dark against skin flushed with pleasure. “Starsky,” he breathed, then leaned in to suck on the place where Starsky’s shoulder met his neck.

That was apparently enough, and Starsky came with a loud groan. Hutch pulled back to watch his face contort in a pleasure so intense it looked like pain, then down to see his own hand covered with the evidence of Starsky’s climax, slowly pumping Starsky’s cock through the aftershocks until Starsky batted his hand away. “Too much,” he gasped and slumped forward until he could rest his forehead on Hutch’s shoulder. “Just give me a second, babe,” he mumbled, the words slightly muffled by Hutch’s skin, “and I’ll do you good.”

Hutch chuckled, then groaned as Starsky shifted in his lap, applying extra pressure to Hutch’s erection. Starsky perked up a little at that, and moved again, drawing another moan from Hutch. “How close are you?” he asked, pressing clumsy kisses to Hutch’s throat.

“Pretty close,” Hutch managed, gasping as the seam of his cords pressed right on the sensitive area just under the head. “Close enough that if you keep doing that, I’m going to be the one coming in my pants like a kid.”

Starsky laughed and sucked Hutch’s earlobe into his mouth, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin. “Hold on just a little bit longer, sweetheart, I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He pulled away and Hutch nearly lost it as Starsky dropped to the floor and spread Hutch’s thighs to make room for himself between them. The two of them fumbled together to get Hutch’s zipper open, until Starsky smacked his hands out of the way and slowly slid the zipper down, freeing Hutch’s cock to slap up against his bare stomach. Starsky’s eyes widened a little and he let out a low whistle, causing Hutch to shift uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up, Hutch,” Starsky said, just before leaning in to take the head into his mouth.

Starsky’s mouth was hot and wet, and Hutch had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from coming just from the sight of Starsky’s lips stretched around his cock. Starsky wrapped one hand around Hutch’s shaft where his mouth didn’t reach, his gun-callused skin rougher than any woman Hutch had ever been with, and used the other to cup his balls, massaging them lightly. His orgasm was already building in the pit of his stomach when Starsky looked up at him through his lashes, those blue eyes shining with something that looked very much like love, and that pushed him over the edge. Hutch cried out as lightning rocketed along his spine, spreading out all the way to the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers as Starsky continued stroking his cock, drawing out the pleasure until Hutch didn’t think he could take any more.

Finally, Starsky released him and sat back on his heels, looking thoroughly debauched with his soft cock still hanging out of his fly and Hutch’s come smeared along his swollen lips. He lifted his arms above his head and stretched, letting out a load groan that made Hutch’s spent cock twitch and his heart skip a beat. “Next time, Hutch,” Starsky said, as he climbed to his feet and offered Hutch his sticky, come-covered hand, “we do it on a bed.”

***

A few hours later, a sweaty, sated Hutch lay on his back in his bed, Starsky draped across him like a furry, sticky blanket. They had indeed done it on the bed the next time—and one more time after that, a slow, leisurely mutual exploration that had been as relaxed as their first time had been frantic. He let out a pleased sigh and squeezed Starsky in a one-armed hug as the man chuckled.

“What are you laughing about?” Hutch asked, trying for grumpy but knowing his heart was too light to be anything but giddy.

“Took you long enough, you big dummy,” Starsky said, reaching up with his free hand to thread his fingers through Hutch’s hair.

Hutch’s heart slammed against his ribcage at the tender expression on his partner’s face. “Took me long enough?”

“You got something in your ears? Yeah, that’s what I said.” He grinned smugly at Hutch, looking like a man who’d just won a year’s supply of free candy bars. “Been waiting for you to get your act together for a while now.”

“Me?” Hutch knew his voice had climbed several octaves. “Get my act together?” He flipped over and pinned Starsky to the bed, groaning as Starsky spread his legs to better cradle Hutch’s hips. “You’re a menace,” he said, leaning in to trail kisses down Starsky’s neck to his collarbone, then dipped his tongue in the hollow at the base of his neck.

“You love it,” Starsky said.

“Yeah, I do,” Hutch whispered. “I do.”

Chapter End Notes:

Yes, 34th and Vine is the intersection in the song “Love Potion Number 9,” and I’m not sorry.