The Sweetest Revenge

Starsky’s recovered from Gunther’s assault, but Hutch hasn’t.

Story Notes: From the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, “In Your Eyes” produced by Idiot Triplets Press in 2003.

Special thanks to Donna for help in digitizing this story.

“Hutch, I think you ought to get down here, right now.”

Doom, extending icy fingers down a telephone wire. Ping-pong ball and telephone receiver slip from nerveless fingers. Oh, God…

He can’t find his keys—not in his jeans, in his jacket pockets, in or on the desk… Finally, he has them in his hand and tears out of the squad room.

Escaping from the building is an interminable process, during which the elevator stops at every floor, loading and unloading hordes of passengers, until he abandons it for the stairs.

Got to get to him…

Down, down, feet pounding hollowly in the empty stairwell. Time ticking, ticking, ticking… slowing, crawling…

It’s only supposed to be five flights down… more like twenty-five…

In the parking lot he searches… endlessly… for his car.

Then he is behind the wheel, the ride to the hospital a never-ending nightmare, a bewildering labyrinth of unfamiliar roads and perennially red traffic signals. The other vehicles seem blind to the Mars light, deaf to his siren… Time slows, drags to a near stop—while precious seconds slither swiftly away in an unrelenting stream.

Abandoning his car in the Emergency parking lot, he shoves his way through the throngs of people determined to get in his way. Following an excruciating, fruitless wait for the elevator, he heads for the stairs…

Hurry…

His movement is sluggish, as though his feet are clutched ankle-deep by melted tar. He drags them from step to titanic step, all the time heart-clenchingly aware of the inexorable flitting of precious seconds and minutes.

Starsk…

As he bursts through the double doors on the surgical floor, Time’s flow snaps disconcertingly back to normal and he sees Dr. Banks emerging from the ICU.

As he skids to a stop beside the surgeon, the man looks up at him regretfully. “I’m sorry. We lost him.”

His ears record the words but for an endless moment he is frozen in disbelieving denial. Then anguish seizes his soul, swelling up in his throat to choke him.

I should’ve been here. Should never have left him. If I’d been here, he wouldn’t have…

Looking beyond the doctor, he sees the medical team methodically returning items to the crash cart. No rush, now. The form on the bed reposes in the ultimate stillness.

His mind refuses to assimilate the magnitude of this loss. Nooooo…

***

His own strangled sob flung him into wakefulness.

Moments later, he was enfolded in familiar, strong arms, held against a well-known, furry chest. Starsky’s face nuzzled against his, pressing gentle kisses onto his sweat-damp temple. “Hey. Hey, babe, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Starsky. Not gone from him forever, not lying dead with his body cooling in the hospital, but here. Warm and loving and alive in their shared bed.

Oh, God… he panted to himself. Thank God…

He dragged his lover closer, plastering their bodies together, drawing comfort from the familiar voice, touch and scent. Starsky continued to soothe him, wonderfully tender hands holding and stroking him. Hutch calmed as reality overcame nightmare.

Eventually his heart rate and breathing returned to normal but he stayed pressed against his lover, reluctant to abandon the security of his presence. He shifted his face so that their mouths were millimeters apart, Starsky’s wonderfully warm, living breath caressing his face. The lips drew him irresistibly—greeting him, parting for him, making him welcome.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, wanting nothing more than to reject the nightmare and the lingering terror that wouldn’t let go. Driven by the need to keep his lover close, to confirm his actuality, he returned to the sanctuary of the other man’s mouth. Starsky was there, sharing his love unstintingly. Finally, Hutch pulled away. His right arm bracing his companion’s back and shoulders, his left dropping to encompass the firm buttocks, he rolled them so that Starsky lay on top of him.

Starsky gave a little ‘oof’ of surprise but settled willingly into the hold, wriggling his hips against Hutch’s and taking some of his weight on his elbows. Hutch spread his thighs to cradle him.

It must be very early morning, Hutch decided. The sky was graying slightly with approaching dawn, but most of the room’s lighting was provided by the security light behind Chez Helene’s.

Starsky peered solemnly at him in the dimness, looking far more alert than he usually did at this early hour. Of course, when it came to Hutch in need, his lover paid no regard to morning, noon, or night. His face wore the same expression of patient tolerance with which he had met so many of Hutch’s quicksilver notions and foibles over the years.

“So what do you want to do?” he asked mildly.

“Wanna kiss you some more,” Hutch murmured desperately.

Immediately adapting to Hutch’s mood, Starsky wriggled against him again, making him gasp. Hutch was startled by the speed with which his body responded to the contact.

“Who’s quick on the trigger, then?” Without waiting for an answer, Starsky nuzzled his ear, breathing arousingly into the aural canal, causing Hutch’s heart to skip a beat. Teeth nipped gently at his ear lobe before the devilish tongue circled the opening and the warm breath teased him again, making him shiver.

“You like that?” Starsky’s mouth shifted lower, lips pressing against Hutch’s carotid artery and lingering there, as if the dark-haired satyr was absorbing the pulsing of his very blood. Hutch couldn’t stop the rumble of appreciation that rose in his throat at the sensation. It hadn’t taken Starsky long at all to discover that his neck was one of his most sensitive erogenous zones.

“Oh, that’s good,” Starsky encouraged breathlessly. “Purr for me, babe.” His mouth roamed over Hutch’s throat, maddeningly arousing, licking and biting gently at his flesh. “Could just eat you…”

Hutch groaned aloud at that, and grabbed Starsky’s rear in both hands, squeezing avidly. The smooth, muscled flesh flexed beneath his fingers, and Hutch felt the press of swelling manhood against his. He squeezed again, in rhythm with the subtle movement of his lover’s hips.

Starsky’s mouth was back at his carotid, fastening onto it and sucking. The powerful sensation exploded like fireworks throughout Hutch’s body, out through his fingertips, down through his groin and legs, curling his toes with heat. Oh, how he loved his mate’s manliness, his possessiveness… Starsky seemed to love to besiege him like this, to mark him as his own, just as Hutch needed to assert his own claims…

Unwelcome common sense intruded. “No marks,” he gasped reluctantly. “I’ve gotta be in court tomorrow.”

Starsky lifted his head, lips drawn back ferally from his teeth. He regarded Hutch for a long, silent moment before shifting position. His head sank lower, kissing across Hutch’s chest, tonguing and nibbling his highly sensitized nipples until Hutch was seething with need.

No woman had ever done this to him. He’d never realized how receptive he could be to this type of stimulation, until Starsky had shown him. The demon mouth fastened on his bare flesh, biting and sucking, claiming it. Hutch heard the inarticulate whimpers that burst from his throat as his body responded.

When Starsky drew back at last, he left a dark bite-bruise just above Hutch’s right nipple. Navy blue eyes glittered with challenge.

Eager to return the pleasure, Hutch captured that triumphant mouth with his own in a long, lush kiss. His hands shifted to Starsky’s chest briefly, thumbing the dusky nipples, catching them between his fingers and eliciting a sharp sound of excitement from his companion. By an act of will he avoided thinking about the still-angry bullet and surgery scars on his lover’s torso, focusing all his attention on making love to him.

They were both hard now, high on love and lust. Like magnet to lodestone, Hutch’s hands were drawn again to his partner’s perfect ass. His hands curved around the fleshy mounds that fit into them so well, fingertips sliding into the warm cleft. Starsky clenched and flexed against him. Hutch’s exploratory digits found the secret place and brushed against it, delighted to feel it open to him. He ringed it with his middle finger and Starsky drew in a quick, harsh breath. “Ohhh…”

In the beginning of their physical relationship, Starsky had been uncertain about this final yielding, still imprisoned by traditional stereotypes of masculinity and the perceived indignity of submission. Burdened by no such reservations, Hutch had exerted no pressure and had willingly assumed the passive role, since it meant sharing physical unity with the companion of his soul. They’d been lovers for several weeks before Starsky had insisted on the right to see what Hutch liked so much about being penetrated.

Memories of that seduction had the power to rouse Hutch in an instant. Starsky had been… irresistible. Determined but endearingly shy, he had drawn Hutch like a sailor lured to a siren’s song. Hutch had loved patiently wooing responses with hands and lips over every inch of that hard, masculine body, coaxing him to such a fever pitch of arousal that in the end Starsky had demanded that Hutch quit torturing him and get on with it. After Hutch carefully entered him and encouraged him through the first inevitable waves of pain, Starsky cried out like a fox in rut and threw himself passionately into the rhythm of their lovemaking. Passive role? Nothing about their loving had ever been passive.

Sex with Starsky was always an adventure. In the months since they’d discovered what they could have together the addiction had only grown, their need for physical closeness showing no signs of abating.

Right now he needed that intimacy, needed to reassure himself that Starsky lived and was his. Starsky undulated against him, open to him, seeming to invite that ultimate consummation. Hutch brought his hand to his mouth, quickly wetting his fingers, and returned it to circle the entrance to his companion’s body.

Starsky arched and groaned, murmuring words which incited Hutch further. “Come on, lover. Give me what we need. You know you want to.”

Hutch could feel himself flush with desire. “God, I love you…”

They caressed one another with their entire bodies, both wanting to take matters further but equally reluctant to abandon their current pleasure. At last, Hutch kissed his partner one last time before rolling them back onto their sides.

Panting and aroused, Starsky was a feast for famished eyes. Slim and fit, dark-fringed blue eyes sparkling with excitement, sable curls a tangled invitation to exploration, he was confident in his own allure, his eager cock arching towards Hutch in mute appeal.

Hutch dragged his eyes away at last and turned to the bedside table to get the KY gel. Immediately Starsky slid up behind him, nipping provokingly at his shoulder blades.

“Ouch.” Reaching back with one hand, Hutch smacked his thigh. “You’ve got an oral fixation.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining in the kitchen the other day.”

Once again, Hutch felt his face heat. That little escapade had been sudden, spontaneous, and sexy as hell. He’d never look at his kitchen table and the squeeze bottle of honey in quite the same way again.

Tube in hand, he turned to face his provocative bedmate. “Oh, you’re asking for it,” he growled mock-threateningly.

Starsky smirked. “Asking for it? Hell, no. I’m demanding it!” With that he rolled to his stomach, spreading his legs and shifting his hips insistently.

The vulnerability of the position made Hutch’s throat tighten, so deeply honored was he by the evidence of Starsky’s trust in him. Kneeling in position behind his partner, he prepared him for their joining. When the ring of muscle was glistening and flexing in anticipation, he sat back to lube himself, recapped the gel, and tossed the tube back into the open drawer.

Starsky had risen to his knees in readiness.

With a flush of tenderness, Hutch noticed the oddly endearing way his partner’s feet curled among the sheets in this position. He was tempted to kiss their exposed soles, but settled for patting the right one. “You have cute feet, you know.”

Craning his head around, Starsky cast him a disbelieving look. “Feet?! ‘Cute feet?’ You are a crazy man.”

Hutch laughed aloud, unable to resist his peppery partner. “All right, you; be patient.” In response to Starsky’s playful snarl, he pressed his hungry cock against the waiting orifice and sank all the way into the haven of his lover’s body in one long, slow stroke.

Starsky groaned in welcome, but Hutch could feel the muscles spasm around his shaft. He paused, rubbing the small of his lover’s back while Starsky adjusted to him.

It didn’t take long. “Damn, you’re big,” Starsky murmured, but the tone was appreciative rather than complaining.

Hutch pulled out slightly, then pushed in again, eliciting another groan and a reciprocal thrust back. So hot, so welcoming… After a few more strokes: “You enjoying this?”

“Oh, yeah…” Little pleasured noises escaped Starsky’s throat, inspiring Hutch to do more, to lean forward and wrap his arms around his partner’s torso, nibble at the enticing nape of the neck buried under dusky curls, push in deeper, searching for the elusive pleasure spot.

With my body I thee worship…

As the flames grew still higher between them, Starsky’s mood seemed to shift. “Talk dirty to me, babe,” he invited.

Hutch’s body tightened in surprised but pleased reaction. This was another unique aspect of the passion they shared. They could be men together.

“Sexy fucker,” he breathed. “You like that? Want to hear how hot you are? How tight? How much I love being in you…” He plunged forcefully inward. “…Doing you?”

An inarticulate moan rewarded him.

“Love you, Starsk. Love the way you want me…”

Mumbled, unintelligible love curses encouraged him further.

“You’re so good at this, my own. Make me want to stay in you forever…”

Starsky whimpered and shifted, breath coming faster, hand reaching for his own cock.

Hutch prevented him, pulling them both back and allowing Starsky to rise up so he could support them both on his thighs, embedding himself deeper inside the gloriously responsive body. “That’s for me, lover, I know what to do with it.”

Hutch’s left hand enveloped his partner’s shaft, pleasuring him in the way he knew Starsky loved best. His right hand lay, palm flat, on Starsky’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. He shifted his angle of penetration and experienced a thrill of success when his lover’s urgent, wordless cries announced that he had found his prostate gland.

“That’s right. Gonna make you scream for me.” He thrust several more times and Starsky wailed his appreciation.

Hutch was consumed with a wave of possessive ardor. Above all else, he wanted right now to make Starsky his, to claim his body as Starsky had claimed his soul. He was fast reaching the peak, and was determined to bring his beloved over the precipice with him. He drove harder into the body impaled on his erection, squeezing and pulling the captive cock.

“Ready?” he asked breathlessly. “Ready to go?” Starsky shuddered and whimpered beneath him. “Give it to me, babe,” he commanded throatily. “Give it to me.”

A strangled cry from his partner, and he was rewarded with pulses of warm, liquid silk in his palm.

His own orgasm followed as quickly as nearby thunder succeeds lightning. “Oh, yes!”

***

They lay facing one another, awash in blissful lassitude but still unable to resist touching. Starsky brought Hutch’s left hand to his mouth, bathing it with his moist tongue, lapping up his own semen. He kissed Hutch’s palm, then tickled the center of it with his mischievous tongue before taking each finger into his mouth for a diligent sucking.

Amazed, Hutch felt a twitch in his groin at the erotic action.

“If you hadn’t already killed me,” he murmured appreciatively, “that would almost bring me back to life.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Starsky returned, biting the fleshy ball of his thumb as his heavy-lidded gaze rose to meet Hutch’s.

Entranced all over again, Hutch withdrew his hand and took the beloved face between both palms, laying a kiss like a prayer on parted lips. Starsky mirrored the action, hands curving around Hutch’s head, the touch filling him with a sense of blessed security as they rested their foreheads together.

After an interlude of mutual devotion, they parted slightly. Starsky slid his arms around Hutch and they settled back against the pillows together, Hutch’s head resting against his partner’s shoulder. Every molecule of his being felt relaxed and relieved.

“Were you dreaming about Gunther?”

The question was ice water on Hutch’s contentment and his body jerked in physical response as if he actually had been doused by a frigid deluge.

Against his will, he remembered James Gunther as he’d seen him in the courtroom that day. Dignified and cool in his costly three-piece suit, accompanied by a cadre of expensive lawyers. Those pale-lashed eyes, cold and opaque as a dead man’s, had sought him out in the courtroom and scrutinized him with a kind of malevolent fascination—the same almost-scientific interest with which Gunther had greeted him that first time in his study. When Hutch had come to arrest him.

Hutch returned the stare—both angry and triumphant—until the reptilian eyes had slid over to Starsky, subjecting him to the same intense appraisal. Hutch had had to suppress the urge to step between them, as if his partner needed to be shielded from that gaze.

Finally, one of the old man’s high-priced attorney/whores had claimed his attention and the spell had been broken.

Hutch hadn’t dreamed about the shooting since he had learned that Starsky would recover. Doubtless the beginning of Gunther’s trial had triggered the nightmare. He wanted to forget it, to never be reminded how close he had come to losing his life’s mate before he had even properly found him.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it,” he growled, pulling away slightly.

Starsky’s arms refused to release him. “Yeah, but you need to.” Loving lips caressed his forehead. “Just give me the short version.”

“I dreamed…” During the pause before he could force himself to continue, Hutch could literally feel his pulse and blood pressure escalate. “Oh, God, I dreamed he’d killed you, Starsk, and I was trying to get to the hospital and it took so long and I got there and you were dead…” His voice rose with each phrase until he choked to a shuddering stop, strangled by remembered horror.

Indigo eyes conveyed deep empathy before his lover shifted to rub the sides of their faces together, stroking his slightly raspy cheek against Hutch’s in a gesture that never failed to soothe him. He returned the action, desperate for comfort and reassurance.

When Hutch’s heart rate had slowed a bit, Starsky drew back and once again took Hutch’s face between his hands. Magician’s eyes bored into his, as though Starsky could convey his certainty by force of will. “I’m alive, babe. I didn’t die, and Gunther didn’t win. We did.” He hugged Hutch closer and kissed him. “And we’ll win again. I’m alive and he’s gonna go down for a long, long time. He’s gonna die in prison, Hutch. That paper trail you followed leads right to his dirty doorstep. And if that wasn’t enough, his butler’s testimony will sink him.”

Hutch nodded numbly. Thomas Carter had agreed to turn State’s Evidence in return for a new identity, and the man knew a lot of nasty secrets. The scandal had filled the news media for weeks after the arrest, and the reporters had begun baying like wolves after fresh blood when the trial had begun. Even James Marshall Gunther wouldn’t be able to buy his way out of this one.

Starsky continued. “And… me getting shot… Well, it made us decide to stop messing around and get together, didn’t it? So in a way we owe him.” He rocked Hutch’s head gently from side to side and smiled a crooked smile, as though inviting him to share the irony.

Hutch stared disbelievingly at his bedmate. “I hope you’re not going to suggest a thank-you card.”

“Nah. They say living well is the best revenge. I’m looking forward to the rest of a long life, living well with you.”

Inexplicably lighter of mood, Hutch nevertheless felt obliged to point out, “We’ll never get rich.”

Starsky grinned whimsically and Hutch fell in love again. “Maybe not. So if we can’t live well, we’ll just have to love well. We know we can handle that.”

Hutch relaxed, accepting the concept. As so often proved true, his partner’s convoluted logic made sense. They were alive and they were together. They could both live with that.