The Truth Comes Out

Starsky might not know everything about his partner.

First published in 2008 in Venice Place Chronicles volume VIII.

Starsky actually appreciated the sweat he was working up, chasing the two-bit dope peddler who might be the open door to a distributor. The first May of the new decade had turned out as unusually mild as the May he and Hutch never talked about, and Starsky’s heightened sensitivity to cold left him shivering without a jacket. He’d bought a snazzy suede number, cut in the newest style, and more something Hutch would wear, but the look in Hutch’s eyes heated each time he saw Starsky in the new jacket. And that look was even better than protection against the cold. They didn’t talk about that look in Hutch’s eyes, either, but Starsky figured it was just a matter of time. Or maybe they wouldn’t talk, and just jump. Sometimes he and Hutch did better without talking. Yeah, Starsky decided, this might be one of those times they jumped first and talked later.

Right now he needed to pin Antoine to the wall, so Hutch could use some of his machete-sharp alleyway interrogation technique on the guy. If luck held, they might be able to get the info they needed without a trip to Metro and a long, drawn-out interrogation room song and dance. He picked up the pace and “steered” Antoine into the alley between the EZ Pay Pawnshop and Murtle’s Consignments, knowing he had Antoine cold with the dead end at the back of The Green Dragon Express.

Behind him, somehow louder to Starsky’s specially tuned ears than the noise of traffic or the slam of a nearby garbage dumpster lid, Hutch’s pained grunt and sharper cry were an answer to a dope peddler’s prayer. The small noises reined Starsky in the way a trained horse submitted to the bit, and he watched, dismayed, as down the alley the Green Dragon’s rear door opened, a worker emerging with a load of garbage while Antoine pushed by the startled restaurant employee and into a public haven.

Damn.

Starsky shrugged off the frustration of the little punk’s escape. He had more important matters to tend to: namely, his partner, who half-knelt in an odd position at the entrance to the alley. Starsky doubled back to find out what could bring Hutch down mid-chase.

Grimacing, Hutch looked up from rubbing his ankle. “Antoine?”

“Is now busting his way through The Green Dragon Express,” Starsky said, bending over to stretch and suck in a few deep breaths.

“Ah, shit,” Hutch moaned, and Starsky had a sense the complaint was more directed at their failure to nab Antoine than whatever was wrong with his ankle.

“That’s about my take on the situation.” Starsky reached out to brush his hand quickly back through Hutch’s hair, squeezing his shoulder before drawing away. “What happened, partner?”

“Damned shoelaces!” Hutch gestured at the dragging laces on his left shoe. “My old mocs never gave me this problem.”

Starsky snickered. “You wore ’em down to no soles, Hutch. You had to get new ones.”

“Yeah? Well, tell me what’s better: no soles or killer shoelaces? They tripped me right up and I rolled my ankle on the way down. And I’m supposed to be the graceful one!”

There was no laughter sufficiently incredulous to counter that remark, so Starsky only stared at his fallen comrade in eloquent silence until another strained mew of pain convinced him this was more than a pratfall. He knelt in front of him and nudged Hutch’s hands away from his ankle. “Starsky, if you take off now, you might be able to head off Antoine at–”

“Listen,” Starsky said firmly, “he’s a five-and-dimer, and he can be all the way to Acapulco right now with my blessings. All I care about is what’s going on with you. You did more than twist the ankle, huh?”

Hutch nodded, and when Starsky pressed his fingers to the ankle joint, Hutch’s tight-jawed response was part expletive and part indecipherable alien language. “Swelling already,” Hutch bit out after a few harsh breaths.

“Yeah; I can see that. Think you can stand?”

“Of course, I can,” Hutch answered quickly and waved off Starsky’s helping hand. He didn’t make it further than unbending and rising to an unsteady squat. “Damn it! Can’t bear weight.” He didn’t decline Starsky’s supporting arm around his back this time. “Ah, man, I think I might’ve fucked up this go round, Starsk.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Starsky tried to keep worry out of his voice, but he knew the effort was futile. With the first syllable out of Starsky’s mouth, Hutch would know the minute difference between frustration, fear, and deep concern. “I already know what you’d say if I suggested calling an ambulance, so I need to run get the car and bring it around.” He didn’t like leaving Hutch like this, true sitting duck fashion in the undesirable alley in an even less desirable neighborhood, but Hutch’s heated glare warned him not to voice that worry out loud.

“Way I’m feeling right now, Starsky, if any no-account troublemaker wants to stir up any shit with me, he’ll end up with the flat of my gun upside the ass and a painful new outlook on life.”

There it was: a gentle reminder that Hutch was tough enough to scare hardened criminals just by breathing. Losing the mustache and returning to a fresh-faced “innocence” in his appearance hadn’t changed that air of toughness Hutch carried as comfortably as his Magnum. Starsky didn’t mind the reminder, or the truth behind it. In fact, both turned him on, and had done so for the entire two months he and Hutch had been back on the streets after their extended leave of absence. He rose carefully while he still could without embarrassment and did his best to ignore the knowing look Hutch shot him.

“Be right back,” he told his hurting partner. “If you see Antoine, trip him up, wouldya?”

“Asshole,” Hutch said fondly. Then he frowned at his ankle, and Starsky needed no more prodding than that to get his ass in gear at triple the usual speed. He’d have the Torino parked outside the alley in less than five minutes, he vowed to himself, and God help anyone who got in his way.

~*~*~

The ER doctor was a woman in her mid-forties whose soft-spoken practicality had so far reduced Hutch to an urgent whisper. “Malleolar fracture?”

Just the nasty sound of that edged Starsky closer to the exam table where Hutch lay on his back with his swollen ankle wrapped and elevated on several thin hospital pillows. Starsky placed a soothing hand on Hutch’s shoulder, but that soothing hand had ideas of its own, determined to slide down Hutch’s arm, clasp his wrist, stray over to pat his chest.

The doctor nodded. “X-rays will tell the tale, Detective, but I don’t like the feel of your ankle or the symptomatology you present. You have considerably more swelling, pain, and resistance to weight bearing than I would expect of someone with a sprain. Now, I do recall in your patient history that you have severely injured your left leg in the past?”

“Yeah. Car accident. I was pinned under the car. Multiple fractures, surgical repair. Doc, if this is that kind of fracture, you’re talking surgery, rehab, the whole shooting match?”

“Possibly, depending on the stage of the fracture and placement. As I said, we’ll know more after x-rays. But I am concerned that this injury is in your weaker leg.”

Starsky winced. The left side of Hutch’s body had never done him any favors. Hutch collected left-sided injuries–fractures, stab wounds, bullets–the way some people collected comic books. Hutch’s pained scowl just echoed Starsky’s thoughts.

With a brief sympathetic smile for her patient, the doctor moved over to the cubicle’s in-house phone. “Radiology? This is Dr. Thompson in the ER. I need AP, lateral, and internal oblique mortise views, left ankle. Send a tech with a wheelchair for the patient, please. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and smiled at Hutch again. “They’re promising ten minutes. You won’t reconsider the Tylenol?”

Starsky tightened his squeeze on Hutch’s shoulder, wordlessly encouraging him to see reason, but at Hutch’s adamant headshake, Dr. Thompson backed out of the curtained examination cubicle. Pain blossomed fresh and fierce in Hutch’s eyes, and Starsky struggled with the urge to snatch a bottle of Tylenol from somewhere and force a few pills down his stubborn partner’s throat. “You know, Hutch, there’s a reason they give Tylenol to kids. It’s one of the safest pain meds out there.”

Hutch let out a small growl, then shook his head again. “I just want out of here. If I’m going to indulge in Tylenol, I’d rather it be at home and not here at the cost of seventy bucks or so per pill.”

“Don’t try to pass that bullshit by me. You’re not picking up the tab. The city is.”

“Starsk.” Hutch shifted his foot on its mound of pillows and had to stifle a groan.

Starsky drew his hand down Hutch’s arm again and lightly clasped that strong right wrist, thumbing the pulse point. “Something’s bothering you worse than the pain, Hutch. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me about it before that x-ray tech gets here with your transportation, hm?”

“Two months, Starsky. We’ve been out there two months. We’d just found our rhythm again. Now this. If that doctor’s right, this could put me out of commission about as long as those rollover fractures. And then there’s what this does to any other plans–” Hutch bit down on his lip.

“Other plans? What other plans, Hutch?” But in Hutch’s determined silence, Starsky thought he knew what plans Hutch meant. Hard to do any “jumping” with a bum ankle; that’s the way Hutch would see it. Well, there’d be plenty of time to shake Hutch out of that little notion, just as soon as Starsky saw him through the immediate aftermath of this minor ankle disaster. “Hey, look at it this way: for the time being, you get to put your feet up and kick back. Dobey’s had us on a meat-grindin’ schedule the last few weeks. Dragged us in to pick up the slack on the Overtman case, had us pulling extra shifts on the electronics ring stakeout, shoving paperwork at us with both hands. You and me both stumbled into the station this morning lookin’ like something the cat threw up. ‘Bout time we had a rest; I just hate it had to come like this.”

Hutch’s appreciative glance said that Starsky didn’t come close to looking like cat puke. That went double for Hutch, Starsky thought, having noticed that Hutch’s long legs and muscular arms could make a flimsy “paper” hospital gown look good. Hutch’s expression darkened. “Dobey’s testing us, Starsky. He might not even realize he’s doing it, but that’s what it amounts to. Testing us to see if we can handle the grind again.”

And on the strength of that one little word, an “us” rather than a “you,” Starsky felt warmth settle in the vicinity of his heart. He didn’t even feel weird that this familiar warmth, a sensation only his partner could generate in him, now came with a new appreciation for Hutch’s legs in tight-fitting cords, or the observation that certain shades of green could make his hair shine even more golden. To Starsky’s mind, any feeling that made him think good thoughts about Hutch gained immediate acceptance as a Very Positive Thing, and acting on the thoughts was really only a matter of timing, not decision making. All he needed was one unmistakable clue that Hutch was buckled into that particular land rocket with him, and they’d break the world speed record together.

The x-ray tech arrived, and after a brief argument over Starsky’s right to escort Hutch down to the basement radiology suite–an argument the tech lost in minutes–Starsky trailed Hutch’s wheelchair to the elevators, his hand on Hutch’s shoulder all the way. Thus began the agonizing wait to see just how much damage a pair of loose shoelaces had done to their second coming as inner city street cops.

~*~*~

Dr. Thompson was clearly dumbstruck after delivering the verdict on the x-rays. Several minutes had passed, Starsky and Hutch grinning at each other like hyped up Cheshire cats, and she was still watching Hutch in awe. Starsky couldn’t make up his mind whether she thought his partner to be proof of God’s existence, evidence of secret governmental bionic research, or a good argument for the strength of good Scandinavian genetic stock.

Ligament strain.

Starsky thought the words so beautiful they belonged in a song.

“So, no fracture?” Hutch asked again, nudging Starsky’s arm with his elbow and offering him another bright smile that belied the pain still showing in his eyes.

Dr. Thompson finally smiled and swept her metallic clipboard in an arc that included the entirety of Hutch’s lower body in her gesture. “I’m afraid I must come across as either an alarmist or a poor diagnostician. I would have staked my license on a stage 2 lateral malleolar fracture. Instead, you’ve simply strained your deltoid ligament, which accounts for the soft tissue swelling visible on x-ray. There’s no evidence of ligament tear, though. You’re very fortunate, Detective.”

“That means no surgery, right?” Starsky was so thrilled he could almost forget the bad news Dobey had delivered on the phone when Starsky had checked in to while away the antsy time between Hutch’s visit to Radiology and Dr. Thompson’s return.

“No surgery. Think R.I.C.E. That’s rest, ice, compression, and elevation, Detective. The nurse will write that in your discharge orders. You’re definitely off full duty at work at least until your follow-up appointment with Orthopedics in two weeks. Depending on your progression, the orthopedist will probably start you on strengthening exercises at that time.”

“What about desk duty?” Hutch winced and adjusted his elevated ankle on the pillows.

“Provided you keep the leg elevated? I would suggest half-days the first week and if that works out, you can consider full-time afterward. Any other questions?”

Starsky hated to play the role of wet blanket, but that beat walking blind into unknown nastiness. “What’s the catch?”

Hutch gave him a look of amusement and affection, but the doctor looked stumped, tapping her fingers on the clipboard. “Catch?”

“Yeah. With the track record my partner and I have, it’s best to know if there’s anything in all this that could bite us in the tail later.”

“I see. Astute question, Detective Starsky. There’s the possibility of occult fracture. Occasionally, with injuries like these, the soft tissue swelling on film can disguise a tiny fracture. But I’m fairly confident we’re not looking at that in this case, and I had Dr. Merrin in Orthopedics view your partner’s films. He concurs. If there’s an increase in swelling or pain, don’t hesitate to come back in for more x-rays. Other than that, there really isn’t a ‘catch,’ as you say.”

“Well, that makes me feel a little better about leaving you to your own devices for a few hours this afternoon,” Starsky told Hutch. “Not much, but a little.”

Hutch’s air of invincibility dissipated. “What’s going on, Starsk?”

“When I checked in with Dobey, he all but threatened to turn me into a glorified crossing guard if I didn’t come back to the station after we knew where you stood with this thing.”

“What?! That’s pushing the whole ‘testing’ thing, even for Dobey.”

“I know. Apparently, he’s getting the squeeze from upstairs about the Harper case, and he wants me in there polishing the case files until they shine.”

“Then I’m going back in with you.”

“Hutch–”

“Detective Hutchinson–”

“What?” Hutch demanded with a stern look at both Starsky and the doctor. “You just approved me for at least half-days on desk duty,” he said to Dr. Thompson. “If I can go home and put my ankle up on a bunch of sofa cushions, I can prop it on a chair while I shuffle files and hunt-and-peck on a typewriter.”

Dr. Thompson’s shrug was more expressive than some physicians’ lectures. “I can’t say it’s medically contraindicated, but you have to be able to follow your discharge instructions regardless of where you prop your ankle. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. You don’t want to risk ligament tear, Detective. In some cases, that can be a harder recovery than a fracture.”

“And I’ll tell you somethin’ else.” Starsky gave Hutch his best “no arguments, you stubborn ass” look. “Only way I’m turnin’ my car toward Metro after we leave here, is if you swallow a coupla Tylenol before we hit the road.”

~*~*~

“You should be at home with that leg up on more than one pillow, some good music playin’, and nursing a cold beer. The good stuff, not one of the brown-bottle no-name brands you fill your fridge with.” Starsky shot a “back off” glare at Detective Rex Dale, who’d groaned at the complaint. It was the fifth such complaint Starsky had aired in as many minutes, but that didn’t give Dale the right to add unwelcome sound effects to a private conversation between partners.

Hutch shrugged and flipped through the file. “You have the arresting officer report from the tenth? There should be a carbon in here, but I don’t even see the original.”

Starsky hunted through his file, muttering, “Dobey’s fault anyway, this whole thing. State of affairs in this department’s pretty damned bad when he’s workin’ us down to the bone, too tired to even check our shoelaces. I think he’s trying to convince us we’d be happier making origami animals for tourists on Santa Monica Boulevard.”

Grunting, Hutch leaned to the side and pressed lightly on the ankle wrap. In one motion, Starsky shoved his chair back with his butt, and leaned over the desk for a better view, wildly scattering files and upsetting their piggybank. “What? Swelling’s worse or something?”

Dale left his chair and walked behind Starsky to knock on Dobey’s door. Starsky had no concern for Dale. He was too busy trying to figure out where they could scare up another pillow. He didn’t even know where their angel of mercy had found the one Hutch was using now. One glance at Hutch’s awkward limp and rusty technique with crutches had been enough for the kindly officer at the fifth floor in-take desk. When she heard that he planned to sit at his desk and do paper work with his leg up on a chair and nothing but his wadded up letterman jacket for a cushion, she’d ordered him to wait right there in the comfort of Starsky’s supporting arm, and she hurried away from her post and down the hall. She returned with an ancient, lumpy pillow, and Starsky could have kissed her. And probably would have, if he hadn’t promised himself months ago to save his lips for a certain limping homicide detective. As it was, he’d shown his gratitude in a quick grin that made the young officer blush rosily from her forehead to chin.

“Swelling’s not worse, Starsky, relax. The wrap just itches.”

“Probably itches ’cause it’s pulling tight over swollen skin. You need ice on it, Hutch; you read those discharge orders. Ice for fifteen minutes every two hours. Let me get you some from the cafeteria.”

Dobey’s office door opened behind him, and Starsky glanced over his shoulder as Dale emerged, followed by Dobey, whose deep frown suggested Dale might have been tattling about Starsky’s current grudge with his superior officer. Dobey folded his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you and Hutch go on and knock off early?”

Hutch had endured Starsky’s grumbling without a single snappish word, but he had a glare for Dobey as he consulted his watch. “Oh, thanks, Captain, that’s very generous of you. We can really use the last four minutes of our shift. You sure you don’t want us here for a few more hours finishing up the Harper files?”

The captain’s expression threatened rough times ahead, and Hutch’s heated glare had turned icy. Dale did what any halfway intelligent person would when confronted with that combination, and scurried back to his chair to hide behind his own set of files.

“Hutchinson, save that sarcasm for a better cause,” Dobey snapped. “I don’t recall ordering you back in here. If I remember correctly, and please, correct me if I’m wrong, I told Starsky to see you comfortably admitted, or take you home if you were discharged, and then come back himself to finish up the paperwork.”

“Well, you call my partner back in after the hours we’ve been pulling, you get me, too, ankle or no ankle.”

“Yes, that’s a phenomenon I’m well familiar with. Problem is, with you here in this condition your partner’s doing little more than keeping every other officer in the squadroom from doing their work. So why don’t you let him take you home and fuss over you where it won’t disturb the rest of my men?”

Apparently, Dobey had discovered a taste for living dangerously in his late middle age. Starsky wanted to pick his partner up–chair, pillow, propped leg and all–and cart him out of the squadroom before Hutch could say something career ending. They took care of each other, everyone at Metro knew they took care of each other and, yes, maybe they babied each other from time to time, but that wasn’t something Hutch liked to hear, and few would dare to say it. It was Metro’s best known and yet most well kept secret, and Dobey had just stepped way over the line. Hutch was keeping his cool, but Starsky could tell the effort it cost him, flinching in sympathy when Hutch’s frantic stacking of files and tidying of his work space caused him to move and shift his injured leg.

Dobey’s frown had softened around the edges. “I didn’t say you aren’t capable of hanging around here a few more hours, Hutch, but you don’t honestly expect me to believe you’d rather be here than at home resting that leg?”

Before Hutch could make good on relieving his tight-lipped anger with potentially disastrous consequences for any future time off they could look forward to, Starsky rushed in where angels had every right to fear treading. “Aw, Cap’n, you know Hutch. He hates being babied.”

There was a flicker of a smile on Dobey’s face, but the man knew well enough to hide it in the face of Hutch’s independent streak. He needn’t have worried this time: Hutch was too busy staring a hole in Starsky, and for once, Starsky couldn’t decipher what Hutch wasn’t saying. But the new look made Starsky want to practice jumping.

Dobey cleared his throat and broke the spell. “Listen, you two; get out of here and rest up. I don’t want to see your faces again until Monday morning.” He glanced at Hutch’s wrapped ankle. “I assume you’re not here AMA, Hutch, and that your doctor actually cleared you for desk work?”

“Yeah, Captain. Half-days the first week.” Hutch scratched his brow and nodded at the stack of files. “What about the Harper stuff?”

“Whatever you and Starsky haven’t finished, I’ll take care of. Now, go on. You men have been there for me over the last couple of weeks. Roster’s been a mess, and Narco’s doing some restructuring. I needed a team to pick up the slack, and you did it. You’ve shown me you’re back, better than ever, and I appreciate it.” Before Dobey could lapse into outright sentimentality, he frowned again. “Which means I’ll work your tails off here in the squadroom next week, and there’ll be paperwork piled to the ceiling!”

“Uh, yeah, Cap’n, sounds–well, not good, but–right. We’ll see you Monday.” Starsky motioned for his partner to hurry. “Will you come on?”

Hutch gestured at his crutches and slow ascent from the chair. “You mind not rushing the injured party here, partner?”

With Hutch’s independence established for everyone in the squadroom, Starsky finally allowed himself to round the table and lend Hutch a supporting hand under his left arm, enabling him to stand and situate the crutches. With another backward half-smile at Dobey, Starsky rushed to hold open the door for his hobbling partner.

“Oh, Hutch?” Dobey called when they reached the squadroom door. “I expect you to find safer footwear before you return to street duty.”

Out in the hall, Hutch making somewhat faster headway, Starsky snickered at him. “Hutch, you’re limping. Not on your bad leg. Your good leg. The way you move with those crutches, you look like a–”

“A what?” Glaring at him as they made their way to the elevator, Hutch paused long enough to lift his right crutch and swing its tip at Starsky’s leg. “Why don’t I trip you up, strain your deltoid, and then let’s see your technique on these things?”

Starsky winked at him, risking a brief slide of his hand along the nape of Hutch’s neck in the unusually quiet hallway. “You’d never do that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Starsky grinned. “You adore me, and you know it.”

There. That was outlandish enough to get a rise out of his cool and in-control buddy. Hutch nearly toppled over trying to see if anyone had overheard. Afterward, Starsky got a narrow-eyed, dangerous little smile that told him he was in big trouble with a capital T.

He was grateful for the elevator’s quick arrival and ecstatic to find it empty. Holding the door with his palm so Hutch would have ample time to hobble over the bump in the flooring, Starsky dashed in after him with a whistle, and casually punched the button for the garage. When the door slid closed with a slight squeak, Hutch said, “You were wrong back there in the squadroom, you know.”

“Wrong about what?”

“I hate being babied…by everyone but you.” Hutch’s smile made all kinds of naughty promises, and the love in his voice gift-wrapped them all in velvet.

Whoa. So the truth comes out. Down, boy! Starsky told his cock. The man’s injured.

As if Hutch could read his mind–and, hell, he generally could–he laughed. “You know, Starsky, there are kinds of pampering that don’t involve line-of-duty injuries.”

In the rush of excitement that had swollen his dick and was now working on his vocal chords, Starsky prayed his voice didn’t sound like a Vienna choir boy’s. “Yeah, I–” He cleared his throat. “I might’ve read about that somewhere.”

The blazing wink Hutch gave him made all the others Starsky had ever seen seem ice cold in comparison. “Have you been reading The Advocate, Starsk?”

Well, hot damn, there it was. The unmistakable clue Starsky had wanted. He tried to smile, all smooth and suave, casual, as though his whole world wasn’t less than an hour from changing forever. “I might be persuaded into a subscription, yeah.”

Hutch’s smile could have lit the entire city in a black out. “Hell, partner, you can just share mine.”

Starsky eased over to Hutch, a slow seductive prowl unhindered by the lack of space in the elevator, but Hutch reached out and halted him with a warm hand on Starsky’s chest. “No, Starsky. First time we do that, I want it to be somewhere it can be long, wet, and messy. Not here.”

Oh, God. “And now you expect me to drive us through the city without killing us?”

“I have all the faith in the world in your vehicular talents.”

“You know compliments on my driving will win you any favor in the book.” Starsky licked his lips. “My place is closer, but you probably want to head home–?”

“Are you planning to stay with me either way?” Hutch asked, thumbing Starsky’s chest through his button-up.

“What kinda dumb question is that? ‘Course, I am!”

“Then either place qualifies as home.”

Oh, man. “Hutch? You gotta shut your beautiful mouth ’til I can get us somewhere safe for you to run it all you want, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” Hutch smirked. “I’ll try. It’s your fault for making me pop those Tylenol at Memorial. I’m dangerous on Tylenol, Starsky.”

“Christ! I’m buying you a whole damn case then!”

The elevator shuddered to a halt and the door eased open right after Starsky put safe distance between himself and his still smirking partner.

~*~*~

“Starsky.”

“Yeah?”

“Get over here, damn it.”

Starsky stopped on his way to the kitchen for the cold beer he was sure Hutch needed. Turning slowly, he gave a short laugh and hoped like hell he didn’t sound nervous. The second after he’d seen Hutch safely over the threshold, he had steered him over to the blue sofa and piled cushions at the end for Hutch to prop the ankle on. Before Hutch could say a word, Starsky turned into a masculine Florence Nightingale at warp speed. First he’d hit the freezer for one of his old ice wraps from his physical therapy days. This he’d applied to Hutch’s ankle, carefully securing the ends under Hutch’s leg. Then he’d removed both of Hutch’s shoes, tossing the dangerous new mocs aside. He’d massaged both of Hutch’s calves and then checked to see if it was time for more Tylenol, which Hutch declined anyway.

“Thought you didn’t mind me babying you,” Starsky said.

Hutch smiled. “I don’t, but you’ve done that already. I know where you’re headed, and you can save your time. Believe me, it’s not beer I want in my mouth right now.”

Time to jump.

Starsky was tempted to breathe into his palm and sniff it, but this was his partner, his best friend, the closest person to him in the whole damned world. Hutch wanted him, stale breath and all, and Starsky wanted Hutch the same way. Unconditionally. Fine, then. He knelt down by the sofa to lean over Hutch. Again, Hutch stopped him with a hand on Starsky’s chest. “What’s it now?” Starsky demanded, certain he would bust if he didn’t kiss Hutch in the next few seconds.

“This is a little too much Briar Rose and Prince Charming for my taste, buddy. Help me sit up some, will you?”

“Oh. Okay.” Starsky slid his arm behind Hutch’s back and helped him prop up in a sitting position against the sofa arm. “That better?”

“Perfect.” Hutch reached for him.

Stars seemed to burst into existence and shimmer down in the darkness behind his closed eyelids as Starsky brought his lips down over Hutch’s. When their mouths parted at the same time, their tongues reaching for each other and meeting in the middle, Starsky knew the world could end right that minute and find him a happy man. The kiss meant so much more than the hardening below his waist, the fizzy feeling in his veins, or the dizziness making his head swim. He could taste Hutch, taste the feelings Hutch brought to their kiss. Starsky had been an avid kisser since he hit puberty, and he knew how to read a kiss; he could read one all the better with his eyes closed, his mouth wide open, and his heart beating like a room full of drums. This kiss told him the one truth he’d hoped for since waking to a whirling, happy Hutch in an ICU cubicle.

Hutch was in love with him.

His Hutch was in love with him.

When they broke away, breathless, Starsky had his hands on Hutch’s chest and shoulder, Hutch’s hands were tangled in Starsky’s hair, and they were both grinning like idiots.

Starsky took a deep breath and dropped a kiss right between Hutch’s eyes. “Did you mean that about having a subscription to The Advocate?”

Hutch’s smile didn’t dim, but his usually clear blue eyes clouded. “I’d have one if my job didn’t make it a death sentence.”

“Goes for me, too.” Starsky nodded. “Hutch–”

“Don’t worry, Starsky. I’m new at this, you’re new at this, but we’re gonna make it. You know how I know?”

“How?”

“That kiss just now. It’s like I’d waited almost thirty-five years to find out what kissing is really all about.”

“Ah, Hutch.” Starsky kissed him again, determined to send as many “I’m crazy in love with you” signals in the massage of lips and tongue dancing that Hutch had sent him.

“Besides,” Hutch said after they drew apart again. “There’s no one better at jumping first and figuring out things later than the two of us, right?”

Right.

It didn’t surprise Starsky that Hutch could read his mind…as usual.

He wondered if Hutch would think him a lunatic for wanting those shoelaces bronzed.

Chapter End Notes:

Author’s Note: Especially for Keri, who has the tolerance of a saint, and who knows the truth about Hutch’s aversion to “babying.”