The Feel of His Voice

Starsky falls into a dreamlike trance from Hutch’s touch.

Starsky’s POV. Companion story from Hutch’s POV is “The Scent of His Skin.”

Author’s Notes: Inspired by the artwork “Ghosting” by Nicoltyler.

It’s fascinating how the mind can work. As people say, it can play tricks on you. Or as others say, the brain sees what it wants to see, and there is often more than one version of the truth.

Starsky encountered this phenomenon often as a police officer. How frequently did he see two witnesses to the same set of events narrate the truth, based on their personal experiences, and present two different stories? Starsky never bothered to investigate whether the differences were due to faulty recollection or a person’s unique perception of reality. It didn’t matter, as long as the truth came out.

Perception didn’t matter to Starsky, only truth. That is, until today.

Today was the day that Starsky’s perspective on reality changed forever. It was the day when the sequence of events that occurred was ambiguous and subject to personal interpretation. His mind knew that the situation could have been interpreted in a hundred various ways. His emotions, on the other hand, always landed in the same place.

It had been an ordinary day on the streets. He and Hutch were in a foot race after a pair of jewelry thieves who thought smashing the glass display of a local jewelry store and snatching two diamond necklaces would go unnoticed in broad daylight.

Starsky was running down the alley after the pair while Hutch had taken the back route, intercepting them at the other end. The two thieves were cut off in both directions and stopped in their tracks, one of them wise enough to raise his hands, but the other turned towards Starsky with a gun raised.

Hutch was the first to fire a warning shot in the air, then Starsky did the same, but the guy kept coming, his gun pointed in Starsky’s direction. He fired, the bullet missing as Starsky jumped behind a dumpster, pushing it in front of the criminal who crashed into it and fell onto the pavement.

Hutch had handcuffed the other offender and came barreling down the alley, just in time to see the criminal fall and lose his gun while Starsky came out from behind the dumpster and pulled him up, reading his rights.

That was it. Neither of them had been hurt, and the criminals were taken away by a black-and-white. But through the whirlwind of activity, Starsky caught the look on Hutch’s face. The worried blue eyes scanned Starsky’s body, searching for non-existent injuries. Starsky’s insistence that he was alright was ignored as if he might have missed a bullet hole in his own body.

Starsky let him fuss, knowing that since Gunther’s assassination attempt had resulted in genuine bullets in his body, it was Hutch’s right to worry and inspect. Hutch’s concerned gaze said it all. “Are you okay? Good, let me check for myself.”

So Hutch came over that night, pretending to want to talk about the jewelry arrest, but Starsky knew it was really to make sure he was not in pain or hiding imaginary bullet holes.

Starsky sat in his oversized brown, rattan peacock chair, his left leg bent and his foot resting on the seat, his other foot on the floor. He had set two beers on the coffee table, waiting for Hutch to return from the bathroom.

When Starsky heard the bathroom door open, he turned to see Hutch approaching him slowly. Hutch stepped behind the chair, leaned over, and placed his right hand on Starsky’s shoulder while softly cupping his left palm under Starsky’s chin. He tilted Starsky’s head back to face him and looked him in the eyes. Hutch didn’t say anything, staring intensely, dragging Starsky into a dreamlike bubble where reality disappeared.

As quickly as it began, Hutch withdrew, made his way over to the couch, and sat down. He reached for the brown bottle and took a long, deliberate gulp of cold beer. There was a short moment of strange silence until the conversation quickly shifted to the jewelry thieves, how they were being held without bail and how much paperwork there was going to be.

Starsky listened while Hutch spoke. He was grateful the subject was simple enough for him to follow with minimal effort, his brain still foggy from Hutch’s touch. In that instant, Hutch’s voice —rather than the words—became Starsky’s focal point. The ethereal sound of his silky voice engulfed Starsky’s senses and rendered him more intoxicated than any amount of alcohol ever could.

When the beer was finished and the events of the day thoroughly discussed, Hutch stood, preparing to leave. Starsky followed him to the door when Hutch stopped, turning around to ask, “You sure you’re feeling alright? You’ve seemed a little distant all evening.”

Starsky shrugged and said he felt tired and just needed a good night’s sleep, which seemed to satisfy his partner, who grabbed his jacket and headed to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Starsk,” Hutch said as he departed. “Get some sleep, partner.”

Starsky shut the door behind Hutch and leaned against the wooden frame. He sighed and switched off the lights, the only illumination in the room coming from the streetlamp across the street.

He glanced at the outline of the rattan chair, the same chair he passed every day and gave little notice to, literally just part of the furniture. He approached it cautiously, stroking its spine while tracing his fingers against the spot where Hutch had stood. The chair appeared darker in the dim light, and even its design appeared to have altered from rounded corners to square, sharp lines. Starsk sat down, almost falling into the seat, the high of Hutch’s touch still fresh in his thoughts.

“It’s just a chair, Starsky,” he said to himself, “and Hutch touches you like that all the time. He was simply concerned, wanting to make sure you were okay, having almost gotten shot and all. You know Hutch, he can be a mother hen. There is no other way to see this, so stop acting like it was more than that.”

Starsky closed his eyes, the feel of Hutch’s fingers on his shoulder and neck as real as if he was standing right there again. Starsky angled his face up, opened his misty eyes, and saw Hutch’s face, as it had been only a few hours ago, looking down on him with love.

Starsky shook his head awake. Was that really how Hutch looked? Was it a look of love? “There can only be one truth,” Starsky said out loud. “What did you want me to feel, Hutch?”

He ran a hand down his face, trying to calm his already shaking nerves. His heart was racing, a sweat forming on his brow.

Starsky stood up, feeling dizzy, balancing himself on the arm of the chair. The room felt like a furnace, as though a heat wave had infiltrated his apartment and he was wearing too many layers of clothes.

Starsky stood in the living room, pulling his T-shirt over his head and tossing it onto the sofa. He kicked off his shoes and hopped on one foot, yanking off a sock, then switching and tugging the other sock off quickly. He stood, shirtless and barefoot, and took a long breath, waiting for the heat to dissipate and the air to return to his lungs. He groaned, ran his hand through his hair, and began to unbuckle his belt. He yanked the belt through the loops and threw it down, as though it was the sole source of his misery. Before he knew it, he had unzipped his jeans and pulled them off, underwear with them, until he stood completely naked, hands on his hips.

Starsky eyed the chair and sat back down, feeling only slightly cooler. His chest heaved, up and down, in unison with the ticking of the clock on the wall, lulling him into a trance.

He could feel Hutch’s hand pressing on his shoulder, the other hand cupping his chin and tilting his head upward. He could see Hutch’s face appear above him in the shadows, as clear as day, his blue eyes burning through him.

The vision spoke softly and said, “Do you know how beautiful you are?” Starsky quivered at the words, feeling more than hearing the voice that permeated through to his soul.

He blinked at the apparition, then felt a tug at his cock, and looked down in amazement. It was his own hand, massaging his erection, fueling his fantasy, escalating his already smoldering state.

Starsky looked back up to find those blue eyes still shining down on him, the blond hair was wildly strewn over his face. The touch, the look, the feeling was so real, so true, as it was earlier that evening when Hutch touched him, shaking him to the core.

There was no holding back now. Starsky pumped his cock, his eyes locked on the phantom hovering over him, the heat of passion surging through his body, and he came all over his stomach, the slow-burning fire culminating in the most exquisite high of his life.

Starsky slowed his breathing and rubbed his eyes, unwilling to look up and face the truth of being alone. Hutch’s passionate hands were gone, and his face had faded away.

Starsky sat in the chair for a long time, certain he could still smell Hutch’s hair and feel his breath on his back and his fingers on his neck, a truth made real in his mind.

He finally rose from the chair and headed to the bathroom, grabbing a wet cloth to wash his stomach, then falling into bed. He lay there, unable to sleep, too many unanswered questions running through his mind.

Starsky rolled over and looked at the clock, eleven thirty glowing back at him. He thought about calling Hutch, wanting to hear his voice for real, when the sound of a knock at the door startled him.

He grabbed his bathrobe and headed to the door, turning on a lamp and opening the small window to see who was there before pulling it wide open.

“I couldn’t sleep,” said Hutch as Starsky cleared a space for him to enter. “Did I wake you?”

Starsky shook his head and headed toward the couch. “Nope. I couldn’t sleep either.”

Hutch followed Starsky and stopped him before he sat, facing him in the middle of the living room. Hutch placed his hands on Starsky’s shoulders and said, “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

Starsky stopped, his breathing cut off by Hutch’s words. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. It’s what I was thinking earlier when I touched you. I was too afraid to say it out loud.”

Starsky reached out and clasped Hutch’s hand. “But I heard you anyway, or maybe I simply felt your words. I was so afraid I got it wrong.”

Hutch’s face was glowing in the soft shadow of the moonlit room, and he smiled. “I was afraid you would think it was too much.”

Starsky shook his head. “No, it wasn’t too much. It wasn’t enough.”

Hutch lifted his hands and cupped Starsky’s cheeks, trailed his fingers down the back of his neck, and drew his face forward, reverently kissing his forehead and nose. He stopped and held his gaze, asking permission with his eyes to keep going. Starsky nodded as the anticipation of feeling Hutch’s mouth on his sent a shiver through his body.

“Wait,” Starsky said.

Hutch withdrew, his eyes questioning, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“Just want to be sure we’re both seeing this the same way,” Starsky whispered. “It’s going to change things between us, Hutch.”

“No, it won’t change a thing,” Hutch replied. “The way I see it, things shifted between us a long time ago. I don’t think I can even pinpoint when. All we’re doing now is making it a reality, not a dream.”

“I like the sound of that,” Starsky said.

Hutch stepped forward and smiled, leaning in for a kiss. Starsky tilted his head and received his lips against his own, stretching his arms around Hutch’s neck, the kiss fueling the air with heat, their tongues battling with infinite desire.

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s waist and pushed him back toward the peacock chair, their mouths still connected as Starsky sat down. Hutch leaned over and untied his robe, Starsky feeling his naked body exposed, as Hutch’s eyes freely roamed the muscular form before him.

Starsky placed his hands on Hutch’s shoulders and pressed him down until Hutch was kneeling on the floor in front of him, his blue eyes fixed on the growing erection in his sight.

Hutch didn’t hesitate, taking Starsky’s hardness in his hand and leaning over, his mouth opening wide to encircle it. Slowly at first, his lips moved up and down Starsky’s shaft, eventually intensifying to short, deep movements, his fingers splayed at the base, his head maintaining time with the rhythm. Starsky opened his eyes to see the stunning blondness in front of him, blended with red, yellow, and golden stars as he came for the second time that night, this time without fear that his love would disappear from his grasp.

Hutch lay his head on Starsky’s lap, stroking his thigh, until Starsky pulled him up to stand in front of him, unzipping his pants and reaching to grip Hutch’s large erection. It didn’t take long for Hutch to reach a climax, the sound of his groans echoing in Starsky’s ears, permanently defining Hutch’s distinct cries of passion.

They both stood, allowing Hutch to remove all of his clothes, Starsky’s robe already fallen onto the floor. They held each other’s gaze, heavy breathing filling the air.

“Is the room spinning?” Starsky asked, “Or is it just me?”

“It’s spinning,” Hutch confirmed. “I think my whole world just shifted into place.”

Starsky took Hutch’s hand, and they went to the bedroom, curling up under the covers as they held each other in the darkness.

“Hey Hutch, remind me to never get rid of that chair,” Starsky said, hearing Hutch snicker, followed by his steady breathing, another sound that Starsky would come to know well, and categorize as contentedness.

He closed his eyes and joined Hutch in sleep, the sweetness of fantasy spilling into a new reality as their truths converged, their minds and hearts forever joined in perfect harmony.