The Week

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Hutch keeps a journal of a crucial week in his life, May 7- May 13, 1979, when he and Starsky vacation at a San Diego County mansion owned by friends of Hutch’s parents. Supposedly a time of healing from the rift left by the partners’ feud over Kira, the week turns into much more.

The following story places the events in “Starsky vs. Hutch” a little over three weeks prior to May 8th. It does accept May 15th as the day the events of “Sweet Revenge” began. This story also accepts canon’s order: “Targets Without a Badge,” “Starsky vs. Hutch,” and “Sweet Revenge.”

 

First published in the zine Venice Place Chronicles, Volume II. The sequel to this is The Week, 1980.

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“Let’s try this, Starsk, is that better?”

A choked-off groan answered the question, and Starsky attempted to shift more fully into Hutch’s embrace.

“You think we overdid it, Hutch?” Huggy asked, and yet again, his face was drawn and serious, the light that flashed humor and joie de vivre in his eyes a mere flicker now. Hutch knew that only time would counteract the last couple of months’ effect on their formerly vibrant friend.

“I don’t know, Hug–”

“Him gettin’ drenched didn’t help matters. I’d kick my own ass if I was smart enough to find it.”

“Shh, Huggy, don’t blame yourself. He got a good laugh out of it, and that goes a long way. Where’s Dobey?”

Huggy jerked a thumb backward toward the door. “At the nurses’ station trying to play Kissinger, Jimmy Carter, Gandhi, and the Pope all rolled into one.”

Hutch couldn’t stifle a chuckle, and the body in his hold twitched against the movement of Hutch’s chest. Hutch looked down, frowning in self-reproach. “Sorry, buddy.” He nodded at Huggy. “Yeah, it’ll probably take a combination like that one to balance the account books after our little throw-down tonight.”

“Last I heard, he was tryin’ to convince ’em that your presence is an absolute necessity for the patient’s survival. I think his economic jive was workin’, too.”

“Economic?” Hutch didn’t look up from his study of the trembling man in his arms, but his inflection was a verbal raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, he was explainin’ the expense of the large band of armed-to-the-teeth mercenaries it would take to wrestle you from this room.”

That coaxed a tiny half-laugh, half-whimper from the curly-haired patient. Hutch rocked him softly and murmured a few phrases that, though unintelligible to Huggy, eased the creases in Starsky’s brow.

Huggy winced. “Aw, don’t, Curly. I won’t be offended if you don’t laugh at my jokes right now.” He transferred his pained stare to Hutch. “He’s hurtin’ big time, Blondie; they can’t do nothing about him bein’ in that much pain?”

“Not for two more hours,” Hutch said bitterly. “One-and-a-half maybe, if I throw a tantrum.”

“That’d go over real well tonight, Hutch m’man. Anything else we can do?”

“Bo-ok…” Starsky managed.

“What was that, partner?”

“Book…said you’d read…if I….”

Hutch’s face filled with intense emotion and he blinked rapidly. “Starsk, you’re done in. I want you to try sleeping…do you really want–?”

“The book. Haven’t I been…?”

“Buddy, don’t. Oh, man.” Hutch closed his eyes tightly and turned his face to the side. He opened his eyes slowly and, remarkably, one before the other, shifting again to look across the bed at Huggy. He moved with steady, precise movements calculated to jar the man in his grasp as little as possible, and extracted his keys from his pants pocket, tossing the ring of keys in Huggy’s direction. Huggy nabbed them deftly and tilted his head, questioning.

“Bottom drawer in the small mahogany chest by my bed. It’s the soft, navy leather-bound book.”

“Why the keys? Don’t you still have your–?”

“Not anymore,” Hutch said firmly.

“‘Course,” Huggy tapped his temple with two fingers. “I’m a real spotlight tonight.”

“Also, the chest is locked. It’s the funny-shaped, tiny brass key. Tell Dobey on your way out that you have to be let back in with that book.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Huggy clutched the keys in his fist and lifted them in an odd salute. Just as he turned, Hutch’s voice pulled him back around.

“And, Huggy? No peeking.”

“Hutch, remind me to pick a bone with you later about even suggestin’–”

“Pull that wool over someone else’s eyes, amigo. Your curiosity is only a little less famous than your get-rich-quick schemes.”

Huggy grinned, huffed, harrumphed, and finally waved a hand at Hutch. “No peeking–Bear’s word of honor. I’ll have that book back here before you can say ‘speeding ticket’.”

The door closed and Starsky relaxed in the silence, allowing a longer groan to pass through pursed lips. Hutch moved cautiously to rub his hand against the back of Starsky’s head just above his neck. His fingers found the hollow at the base of the skull and stroked gently. A rattling sigh precipitated the whisper, “Like…your voice….”

“Hm, Starsk? I’m sorry–don’t talk louder if you can’t. I’ll lean closer.”

“Like…your reading voice…diff’rent….”

Hutch’s chest ached at Starsky’s struggle to communicate, when less than two hours ago, he’d been toasting his closest friends with wine. Four painkillers…feelin’ no pain… How quickly the tide turned. “If you want to hear me read, tough guy, wouldn’t a magazine or newspaper do? I’d–”

“Want…to hear that…want to know…how you felt…never said….”

Hutch had to remind himself not to tighten his arm across Starsky’s still painful incisions. How could one put the simultaneous discovery of Atlantis, the fountain of youth, and Noah’s Ark into words? But he had done so, carefully and methodically, and perversely had kept Starsky at arm’s length throughout the process. Why won’t you let me see? And his casual, taunting reply: Maybe one day, if you’ve been a real good boy, I’ll let you have a peek. Fifteen minutes later, he’d put the finishing touches on his project and locked it away in the mahogany chest, noting the time on the nightstand clock as he did so. That time and date would be forever imprinted on his brain: 10:45 p.m. Monday, May 14th.

“Ah, Starsk, you know how I feel, don’t you? I have told you.”

“Want to know how…you felt ’bout that…week…’portant t’me….”

Hutch clamped down on his emotions. He would not cry in front of Starsky right now. “Shh…I don’t mind sharing it.”

Huggy appeared with the book a scant half-hour later. Hutch jumped at his sudden materialization and, tilting his head to draw Huggy’s attention to his partner’s closed eyes and steady breathing, whisper-asked just how many traffic violations had the Bear committed to complete the errand in such record time. Huggy grinned, shaking his head, walked around the end of the bed and extended the book and keys.

In deference to the sleeping patient, Huggy’s words were barely audible. “Got pulled over two miles from Memorial. Told the cop I was on an errand of mercy for Detective Starsky. Lucky for me and my hide, your book has your name engraved on the bottom corner. You wouldn’t believe it, Hutch. He tore the ticket to bits and gave me an escort the rest of the way in. Ain’t a cop in this city wouldn’t give a vital organ to have Starsky a hundred percent again.”

Hutch’s smile outshone the artificial hospital lighting, but faded into concern when the man in his embrace twitched out of his snooze and mumbled, “He here…?”

“Just leavin’, brother, something tells me this is a private party.” Huggy winked at Hutch and saluted the semi-alert detective.

“Thanks, Huggy. For everything,” Hutch said as their friend reached the door. Huggy didn’t turn around, but waved a hand that clearly said, “De nada” and left the room.

“Starsk, you were asleep. Why don’t you try–?”

A mixture of grunt and moan answered his question. Hutch sighed, resigned to his best friend’s determination to stay awake despite the pain. “All right. I hear you. Can’t we make you more comfortable, though? This bed’s way too small–”

“Stay!”

Hutch smiled and moved his hand from its resting place on Starsky’s hip to tweak the pajama-clad cop’s nose. “You make your point as eloquently as always, buddy. I’ll stay on one condition–if you start to ache from being cramped, you tell me, okay? I won’t be a happy camper if you can’t manage your walk around the room tomorrow because you’re too sore.”

“‘Kay.”

“Nope, not good enough, mule. I want a promise.”

“Promise…read!”

“Fine, I’ll let you keep the illusion that you’re my lord and master–”

A broken but happy chuckle warmed Hutch’s heart. “Better…believe it…Blondie.”

Hutch wrested his other arm free and expanded the circle in which Starsky lay resting against his chest. He opened the book, but Starsky didn’t strain to see the writing. Instead, he shifted one inch at a time until his dark curly head was nestled in the curve of Hutch’s shoulder, and he closed his eyes, contentment smoothing his face. “Read it all.”

“Starsky–”

“Don’t leave anything out…I don’t want…the abridged version.”

Hutch laughed. “You know me entirely too well. I was just thinking the first part might be a bit much for you right now–”

“No!”

“Easy, tough guy. Developing domination tendencies, aren’t you? Should’ve known. Hey, are you blushing, Starsk? I’m just joking. Okay, here goes. I promise I won’t even leave out a comma.”

“Good.”

Hutch cleared his throat, adjusted his arms to bring the book closer, and began to read….

 

MAY 7, 1979

My grandmother believed firmly in the preservation of memories. She said everyone has one defining week in his/her lifetime that should be captured in meticulous detail. She also believed a person would know when the week had arrived–at the beginning of the week, not afterward. I’ve read the account of her special week, and I have to say it made a believer out of me. She chronicled a week in the spring of 1918 as it unfolded. In the space of those seven days, my grandfather and great-uncle returned from the Great War, my father, an infant of five months, miraculously pulled through a severe bout of croup, and my great-aunt gave birth to twin girls, who, though born over a month premature in 1918, are alive and healthy as stock horses to this day.

I’d had twinges of my special week, but nothing that enticed me to sit down and start writing–until today. Grandmother said one’s defining week isn’t necessarily pleasant, and right now, I’m not sure that mine won’t be the most painful in my life. Today could only be termed volatile. Starsky and I are on vacation, but it’s not a pleasure cruise. We’re supposed to decide if we can be friends, if we can work together, or if we hate each other and should cut all ties. Clean break. Wave goodbye and get the hell out of each other’s lives.

I can’t believe it’s been three weeks since we beat the shit out of each other. That’s the only way to describe what happened. I don’t think Huggy will ever be the same. He blames himself, of course. He’d known that charade we pulled with Kira was a bunch of macho posturing for her benefit and not indicative of healed relations between us, so he invited us to The Pits the next night after hours for a refereed discussion. Three years ago, we’d have told Huggy to mind his own business. Over the last few years, however, he’s become such a part of our lives that we accepted his invitation without a second thought. We can’t blame our caveman behavior on intoxication–Huggy refused to serve us anything stronger than soda while we talked. I must have put a mental block on the whole thing because I can’t remember how it started or even who threw the first punch, but we ended up on the floor trying to rip each other’s throats out. Huggy earned a black eye, trying to break us up. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Two men who’ve been as demonstrative as we have for years are going to do serious damage if they ever come to real blows. The fight ended when we were both sobbing like infants against each other. We went from barbaric ruffians to crybabies in ten minutes’ time. I think it broke both our hearts that we’d come to the point of bloodying noses and nearly cracking jaws. I still have flashes of guilt that I slugged him the night Gillian died, and I know he has a hard time with the gut punch he delivered undercover when we were trying to nail a bunch of vigilantes. Huggy cried with us. That was some sight–the three of us sitting on the barroom floor trying to drown ourselves.

By some unspoken agreement, Starsky picked me up for work the next morning. Not a word was said as we entered the squadroom, looking like we’d been worked over by mob muscle. Dobey gave us a stern headshake but remained silent on the subject. That told us both he knew if he pushed us he’d risk losing two of his Homicide detectives–again–in one fell swoop. We were thrown right into the middle of a nasty investigation involving the deaths of two vice cops. The case dragged on for three weeks and Starsky and I worked doggedly together, clinging to our instincts from years of flawless partnership. We pulled a sleazy drug-dealing pimp off the streets, successfully stuck two counts of first-degree murder on him, and were praised by both the new DA and Chief Ryan, but we hadn’t scrounged a spare second to deal with us. The fistfight hadn’t solved anything; it was merely a safety valve for releasing the tension and averting an explosion.

Dobey seemed to sense that we were hanging together by nothing stronger than dental floss. He claimed he was rewarding us for police work above and beyond the call of duty and gave us a week’s vacation time. Starsky and I had dinner at our favorite Chinese place and decided we needed to spend that time together–away from Bay City and painful associations. But we didn’t want to go to some resort or even Dobey’s cabin. Neutral ground with privacy–that was the ticket.

I took the drastic step of calling my parents for suggestions. I didn’t give them the reasons for our excursion. I told them we were exhausted and needed somewhere to vegetate. I’ll never underestimate Hutchinson connections again. They just happened to have friends who own a summerhouse out in the countryside within commuting distance of San Diego. Ten acres of seclusion, manicured lawns, first class amenities, and no Satanists or bears in sight. Utopia. Despite the fact that the owners of our Utopia were currently on vacation in South America, my parents managed to reach them and obtain permission for our weeklong stay in their summer home. Starsky was shocked, but I wasn’t. My mother could sell ice to someone living in Greenland, and my father has pushed through mergers that should make the anti-trust advocates apologize to Standard Oil. Between the two of them, convincing the Delaneys to allow two single, thirty-something Bay City street cops free rein in their summer paradise was a fifteen-minute diversion from their regular activities.

So, this morning we bundled our luggage into the Torino and headed out. We’d discussed taking separate cars but agreed that was silly. The whole point of the trip was to let the chips fall how they would and not waste an opportunity to talk about anything that came to mind. It was one of the coldest, quietest car rides I’ve ever experienced. I shiver now just remembering it. While in Bay City getting things together for the vacation, we were still operating under that “practical cease fire.” Now, on the road and away from familiar ground, we were tongue-tied idiots. Starsky drove rigidly with both hands and barely glanced in my direction. I found myself alternately watching his profile and napping. I’ve always been able to feel his eyes on me, and I never felt the weight of his stare even when my eyes were closed and I was drifting. He couldn’t even look at me when not obligated.

That hurt me in places I didn’t know existed.

We stopped in the small town a few miles removed from our destination to pick up the house keys from the caretaker and gather some supplies we didn’t feel like lugging all the way from Bay City. The caretaker was a pleasant old gentleman who tried to force us to stay for lunch. He was as British as John Steed and Emma Peel and didn’t bat an eyelash at two brash young men invading his pride and joy. I could tell that Starsky was starting to fidget under the polite scrutiny, so I fast-talked our way out of there. Normally, that would have earned me a bright Starsky grin, but all I got for my trouble was a curt nod. When we walked into the grocery store and he snagged two separate shopping carts, shoving one in my direction before pushing his quickly down the first aisle, I almost left to locate a bus station.

I shouldn’t be expecting anything else. I pulled a trashy, asshole, cheap-shot stunt and the only apology I’d been able to rehearse so far was: I’m a prick, Starsky. That’s me, Hutch the Prick. Take it or leave it. Yeah, that was going to fly about as far as a one-winged airplane.

Lunch was even quieter–if possible–than the car ride. We ate at a mom-and-pop country-cooking restaurant in the town. We might as well have been in two different booths. I wasn’t just getting the silent treatment; I was getting the “no eye” treatment, too. Starsky stared at a wrinkled dessert menu propped on the table rather than make eye contact with me. He didn’t even order dessert.

Our first glance at the house broke the silence, though we still didn’t direct our commentary at each other. It reminded me instantly of Amboy’s mansion. “Summerhouse, hell” Those were my exact words. Starsky’s were, “Jeez, is what this guy does even legal?”

He’s a retired Mayo Clinic neurosurgeon with an excellent stockbroker, but I didn’t tell Starsky that. Something in me still rankled at his treatment of me in town–yeah, hypocrite as well as prick, tell me something I don’t know–and I wanted to keep him guessing.

The place could masquerade as a hotel. Forget bed-and-breakfast. Massive, sprawling, fawn-colored stucco exterior with diamond-paned windows and porticos, the house boasted at least six bedrooms plus the master suite, which we didn’t even bother to explore. Somehow, we felt indebted to these people and were loath to disturb every foot of their private domain. I felt a chill descend over me once more, when Starsky chose one of the guest rooms on the second floor after I’d already picked one downstairs. Despite the caretaker’s profuse welcome and reassurances that we could make ourselves at home, Starsky and I decided immediately against using their linens. We stripped our respective beds of the fancy, five-hundred-dollar (at least) comforters, pillows, and sheets, and replaced them with the bargain-basement sheets we’d bought in Bay City specifically for the trip: Mom had told me that each of the guest beds was queen-sized. We’d also brought along our own towels from home.

Starsky sacked out on his bed and indulged in a nap. I wanted a look at the estate. As I strolled past the pond-sized swimming pool, I started to doubt the wisdom of this plan. In a house this huge, not to mention the extensive grounds, Starsky had too many places to hide. There was nothing to force us to talk, argue, or just plain communicate.

The saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” should be engraved on my forehead. Two hours later, I was in the Ivy League library, snorting over the pretentious and hollow reading selection, when I heard a bloodcurdling yell. I went for my gun out of habit. No gun, no holster. Out of our jurisdiction, we kept them locked in the Torino’s trunk. I spared no time feeling silly; I almost knocked over what looked like an authentic Ming vase on a pedestal in the foyer in my haste to reach the stairs. The actual stairs I took three at a time, and I dodged various irreplaceable and very breakable items in the hallway that led to his room. Bursting through his doorway, I arrived just in time for Starsky to jerk awake, turn over, and shoot me a drop-dead glare.

“You all right, buddy?” I asked, slipping back into our old speech patterns out of fear, and crossed the room, arms outstretched, ready to offer comfort. “Bad dream?”

“Yeah, one I can’t wake up from,” he muttered, half-growling, wiping at his eyes with balled fists like a little boy.

The gesture disarmed me more than the words. I sat down on the edge of the bed and placed my hand on his bare arm just beneath his t-shirt sleeve. “Wanna talk about it?” The offer emerged before I realized what I’d said. I’d meant the dream, but Starsky’s darkening face told me he’d read much more into the request. He yanked his arm out of my grasp viciously and scrambled off the bed. Standing in front of the bay window in just his boxers and t-shirt, his whole body radiated tension and coiled energy. The way he clenched and released his fists at his side, I was sincerely afraid we were going to do battle again, this time without the helpful presence of a referee. I didn’t want that. God, I didn’t want that. Instead, he turned and looked at me like I’d morphed into John Colby.

“I don’t know you anymore!” he yelled.

I felt my eyes sting, but I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “I know,” I said.

“I’m not sure I even want to know you anymore!”

“I know.”

“You know? What the hell good is that, Hutchinson? Just sayin’ you know?” His voice sounded exactly like it had the entire time Nick was in Bay City, and I remembered that I’d prided myself back then in my inability to ever cut Starsky that deeply. I’d be the brother who never disappointed, never abandoned, never failed to appreciate David Michael. Yeah, right. I’d sunk so far below Nick Starsky it wasn’t even funny. Ironic as hell, but not laughable.

“What do you want me to say, Starsky? I screwed up. If I can’t use my equipment more responsibly, I should have it cut off. Lately it’s hurt me to think with my brain, so I’m thinking with my dick instead.”

“You think that makes me feel better? You still don’t get it. This ain’t about Kira. Hell, I’m over Kira. This is about you and me. I wanna know how you could betray me after all we went through together off the force. I thought we were back, Hutch. Back the way we were–you and me against the world. I felt so damn close to you. Then, boom! You stab me in the back like I mean nothin’ to you. I feel like I’ve been broadsided by a friggin’ Mack truck.”

I’d never wanted to hold him more than at that moment. Even the alley outside Janos’ studio didn’t compare. But I knew that I might suffer a broken rib if I put my wants into action, so I sat limply on the bed and tried to think of something–anything–remotely profound and comforting. The truth. Now that’s a novel concept. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Starsky. I wish I did. More than anything.”

Even I heard the desperation in my voice, so I wasn’t surprised when he registered it. He approached within a few feet of the bed and stopped in the center of the Persian rug, folding his arms across his chest. His face had softened, but barely. “You don’t care about anything lately. Haven’t for months. Am I right?”

Damn his instincts! “I care about not making mistakes at every turn. My track record the last six months has been lousy. I care about that.”

“Even Lionel. You were on auto-pilot with him, too.”

I sprang to my feet and narrowly missed banging my head on the bed’s canopy. “That’s a shitty thing to say!”

“Truth hurts.”

“Oh, I suppose it’s my fault that I almost got blown to bits, too? If you want to hang that guilt trip on me to relieve your own feelings, forget it. I didn’t ask you to come flying out there to me, but you did, and he’s dead, and I got my own guilt to carry. Can’t handle yours on top of it. You want absolution? How about, I’d have done the same thing. I’d probably abandon ten innocent people if you were in danger. Maybe that’s the real reason I threw my badge in the damn ocean. Tired of fighting the system, the scumbags, and my own lack of objectivity. Worse than a multi-headed monster–get one under control, and one of the others bites me in the ass.”

His dark blue eyes blinked rapidly, but his expression remained hurt and defiant, and his arms tightened over his chest. “You’d abandon ten people for me, but you screw the woman I care about right after I’ve told you I love her.”

“Come on, Starsky, you can do better than that. You just said this isn’t about Kira.”

His jaw tightened and I half expected him to cuss me out, but he just shrugged heavily and strode past me toward the door. I snagged his elbow. “We’re not through with this.”

“I’m not doing this right now,” he snapped, glaring at my fingers as though he’d prefer they fall off rather than touch him.

“Then when, Starsky? The whole point in coming out here was to talk through our issues.”

“Maybe that was a mistake.”

“You’re giving up without a fight? That’s not the David Starsky I know.”

He pulled his arm away and left the room.

I stood immobile for a good five minutes. Were we triple-idiots for believing this could work? Coming out here in the middle of nowhere in hopes of leaving best buds again after a week of torturing each other? Oh, yes, brilliant plan. I forgot that I was a guest in a complete stranger’s home; halfway out the door, I paused to slam my fist into the bedroom wall. The wall won. Fortunately, it was my left hand, or I wouldn’t be writing this tonight–my knuckles are bruised and I’m lucky I didn’t crack a finger or two.

I don’t know where Starsky disappeared to, but it was most likely in the house because he was in his boxers. Inexplicably, I headed for my bathroom without any intention of using the john. Holding my throbbing hand, I stood in front of the mirror and gave the man reflected a good, long look. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the most fed up of them all?

I didn’t like what I saw–not one little bit. I looked like a man who hates his own skin so much it’s starting to droop in sixty-year-old wrinkles out of protest. If I hadn’t already lost a painful battle with the bedroom wall, I’d have probably thrown a punch at my reflection for good measure. No wonder Starsky doesn’t want to be around me, I probably make him think about what he’ll be like in thirty years.

Starsky stayed scarce until dinnertime. I decided I’d tackle KP duty and was in the process of browning the sirloin steak patties when I felt hands grasp my waist lightly on both sides and a forehead press against my back just below my neck. He hadn’t touched me in his quiet, assured way since Kira, and I wasn’t prepared for the sensation that the Great Wall of China had been blasted to bits and rebuilt within seconds.

“Sorry.”

I couldn’t speak. I almost flipped the patty out of the frying pan.

“About Lionel. That was a low blow.”

I reached over and grabbed the bottle of lemon pepper, sprinkling some on the sizzling meat. “You were dreaming about him.”

“How’d ya know?” The hands didn’t leave my waist.

“You were pissed at me, so you lashed out with the first thing that came to mind. I didn’t think about it at the time, but it makes sense. I know you don’t blame me for what happened to him. You spent too much time blaming yourself, for one thing.”

The hands tightened and drew away. I felt a chill as he took a few steps back. “Anyone ever tell you you’re too smart for your own damn good?”

I heard myself chuckle, and the sound was foreign. “It’s not rocket science, Starsky. I just know you. You’re not–you’re not intentionally cruel.”

He heard what I didn’t say, because he mumbled low in his throat, “Like you, you mean.”

I turned the heat down and put the lid over the pan, so I could devote my full attention to the conversation. Wiping my hands on the oven towel, I moved and pressed back against the counter as I faced him. “Yes, even you’ve said I have a cruel streak.”

“I was jerking your chain, Hutch.”

“You were telling the truth, just putting your usual joking spin on it. My sense of the hilarious usually comes at someone else’s expense.”

He frowned and shoved both hands in his jeans pockets, pushing the toe of his sneaker at an uneven section of the sandstone kitchen tile. “If you’re talking about the amnesia–”

“Goes back further than that, buddy. You think I didn’t get a real thrill out of sending you into that barrio bar with your broken Spanish? You could’ve come out of that a lot worse than you did, but at the time, I just sat in the car and laughed my ass off…all because–”

I had to bite down on my tongue to make sure I hadn’t swallowed it. I couldn’t believe what had almost slipped out of my mouth…what had popped into my mind in the first place!

“Because what?”

I attacked the frying pan as if in immediate danger of burning the house down. “Grab some plates and a couple beers. Chow’s almost ready.”

Even the kitchen table was enormous and put my mother’s twelve-place-setting to shame, but it was dwarfed by the dining room–er, banquet hall–monstrosity, so we settled at one end, utilizing all of one corner. Starsky had appropriated a small radio from somewhere and turned it on as I served the food.

Starsky poked his fork at a mound of beige grain speckled with green bits. “What’s this?”

“Butter-herb orzo,” I answered, sitting down and adjusting the radio’s volume.

“What?”

“Just eat it, Starsky. You’ll like it. You eat rice.”

“And the green stuff?”

“Sugar-snap peas.”

“Ugh.”

“Tomorrow night’s your turn in the kitchen, and I’ll eat whatever indigestion-cocktail you wanna serve me. So fair’s fair; eat my healthy stuff, too.”

“Compromise, huh?” he asked, but his eyes flashed warily, and I knew we weren’t just talking about food.

“Right.”

“Okay.” He tucked into his food with gusto, and I felt a throb at my temple. Tension headache, I rationalized, but I knew better. It was fear and uncertainty. Starsky makes bargains so easily with people he trusts, and I was terrified of breaking yet another unwritten treaty–somehow.

Starsky is a happy eater. I’ve always liked to watch him eat, even if I tease him mercilessly about his taste in food and table manners. Predictably, he made quick work of the sirloin steak, but he also inhaled the orzo, gifting me with tiny, shy smiles that told me he’d found a new food to add to his “acceptable” list.

The radio was merely background noise, but the strains of a new song I’d developed an odd fascination for caught my attention and I cranked the volume:

“I was tired of my lady — we’d been together too long
Like a worn-out recording of a favorite song
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed
And in the personal columns there was this letter I read

“If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain
If you’re not into yoga, if you have half a brain
If you’d like making love at midnight in the dunes on the Cape
Then I’m the love that you’ve looked for — write to me and escape

“I didn’t think about my lady — I know that sounds kind of mean
But me and my old lady have fallen into the same old dull routine
So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad
And though I’m nobody’s poet, I thought it wasn’t half bad”

I was so engrossed in both my meal and the mood of the song that I didn’t notice my dining companion’s departure until I heard a loud clatter in the sink followed by the slam of the kitchen’s back door. I fled the table and only paused at the sink to confirm my suspicion that Starsky was upset. He’d left the food-coated plate in the sink without rinsing. I’m the slob in this partnership, not him. I was out the backdoor in a flash and searching frantically in the gathering darkness. He stood perhaps twenty feet away from the house, under an imposing oak tree. I made it within a couple feet before he whirled around. The pain in his face, obvious even in the poor lighting, froze me in place.

“That your way of getting a point across, Hutchinson?”

“Wha-at?”

He gestured with a balled fist at the house. “That damn song you turned up loud enough to hear in Bay City.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t gimme that. If anyone knows about your famous subtlety, it’s me, pally. So you’re tired of me, that it? Same dull old routine. Is that why? Screw the guy’s woman and he’ll leave you in peace without you having to tell him he’s old hat.”

I was furious. I could have choked him. I think I did lift my hands and curl my fingers threateningly. “You–you think I’m that low down? I may have a cruel sense of humor, David Starsky, but I’m generally capable of telling someone to leave me the hell alone without cracking open his chest cavity. Why don’t you just accuse of me putting the bullet in Terry’s head next”

I didn’t believe I’d actually said those words out loud until I tried to get up from the ground. I tasted blood and considered the real possibility that my jaw was detached. Nothing hurt worse than my chest, which he hadn’t even touched. I couldn’t breathe without pain, realizing that I’d probably sounded the death knell of our partnership. The unmistakable sound of the Torino’s engine sped up my recovery time. I raced around the side of the house and stood with my hand on my offended jaw, watching the exhaust and listening to the Torino’s departure along the elegantly cobbled driveway.

My first reaction was worry. He’d had no time to do anything but hop in the car. I didn’t relish the thought of his driving in his current frame of mind–especially in unfamiliar territory. Worry faded into resignation. I trudged back to the house for first aid and something to drink.

It wasn’t irreparable damage. I’d have a small lump and bruise, but both would recede quickly. I poured a glass of Merlot and stretched out in one of the library’s rich, garnet leather wing chairs, resting my legs on the Ottoman. The alcohol stung, but I welcomed the pain. I sipped the wine and made plans. Part of me yearned to find transportation and chase after him, but I squelched the urge. Besides the impracticality, Starsky probably wanted nothing less than to see me again tonight. After a good night’s sleep I’d pack up, clean all the evidence of our presence from the house, and figure out the quickest way home. I sat in the chair and drifted half in and out of sleep. A car pulling up outside jarred me awake. I’d recognize every sound the Torino makes in a driving rainstorm. I wanted desperately to greet him at the door with apologies and open arms, but I couldn’t force my legs to move. I listened to the noises he made coming in the house and going up the stairs to his room, and then I left to find the engraved journal my grandmother had given me when I was a teenager. Since I’d packed it, I thought I might as well go through with my plan to chronicle the week’s events day by day.

 

May 8, 1979

I woke this morning with a bedmate. Well, not exactly. I lay under a mound of covers; Starsky sat fully clothed, sans shoes, on the other side of the bed that remained virtually undisturbed. I peered at him, rubbed my eyes, blinked a few times, and decided he wasn’t a figment of my imagination. “How long you been there?”

“While.”

I scratched my nose, and the turn of my head showed off his handiwork. His tan features suddenly matched my complexion, and he leaned over, hand outstretched and aiming for my cheek. I moved, quickly. “Don’t.”

“Hutch, I–”

“If you say it, I’ll give you one to match, I promise. I’m in no mood for another Starsky apology this morning.”

“How’d you know I–?”

“You’ve got that ‘Ma would yell my ear off if she only knew’ look on your face. I think we can divvy the honors for last night. I had it coming for such a nasty remark, and you provoked me.”

“Hutch, it’s gotta stop. We went years without pummeling each other; we shouldn’t be hurting each other now.”

“You’ll hear no arguments from my jaw.” He flinched and I bit my lip, looking away. Great, Hutchinson, tell him you don’t want apologies and then rub it in his face.

“Are you tired of me, Hutch?”

I closed my eyes and burrowed in the covers. “Don’t I get to have a shower before we do this?”

“Simple question.” His fingers toyed absently with his jeans belt loops. I don’t know why, but I let my gaze follow his outstretched legs down to his toes and had to bite back a smile. His toes curled and flexed in perfect tandem with his fingers’ motion. Why that should have flooded me with tenderness, I haven’t the foggiest notion. Under the sway of emotion, I glanced back up at his steel, I-can-take-it expression.

How could I look into those eyes and not be honest? Even when he’s serious and stern, his face is the look of safety, trust, goodness…home–the only home I’ve ever known. I could wear a blindfold and draw a pencil portrait of his features in a thousand different moods. “I’m tired of something. I’m not sure what it is, but I’m fairly certain it isn’t you. That’s the best you’ll get before I’ve had a shower and a strong cup of coffee.”

My answer seemed to reassure him because he leapt from the bed in a catlike movement. “Okay. Shower. I’ll go put on the coffee.”

I was glad to see him leave. Nothing he’d said or done caused that reaction. I’d been bombarded since waking with the fragments of a dream that I needed time to analyze in peace and quiet. The steam, warmth, and whooshing noises combined to unlock my memory and the dream rushed to the front of my mind. The events of the dream made no sense, but the pattern that emerged was disturbing. My thoughts drifted to real life memories and fit them into the equation. Watching Starsky make an idiot of himself over that shallow model, shortly before sending him into that barrio bar…listening to Starsky explain the sport of boxing to an equally vapid girl, and laughing right there in front of him when she threw him over for her ex-fiance…consulting with him about a murder case, while he tried as hard as he could to smash my face in the door because of the sex-kitten waiting for him in the background…Kira. I turned off the water and stood dripping. God, even the way I thought of those women shamed me. Why hadn’t I seen the pattern before now? They weren’t worthy of him. I’d delivered the verdict on them immediately, and I’d made Starsky pay for settling for them instead of….

As realization struck, I backpedaled in the shower and promptly slid down the opposite tub wall onto my ass. It’s a little more generous than it used to be, but my tailbone still felt the impact. My brain short-circuited. I couldn’t deal with that current train of thought. I toweled off, threw on a ’round-the-house pair of jeans and my most comfortable velour shirt–comfort counts when your world’s falling apart–and headed to the kitchen for coffee.

I found a plate of steaming eggs and toast waiting for me. Starsky bustled around the kitchen, caterwauling that ridiculous pop song about Sharona and wearing an even more ludicrous green-and-white apron that demanded, “Kiss Me–I’m Irish.” I just stood and stared at him, feeling my head spin. Starsky presents this tough guy, eat-you-for-breakfast-and-spit-out-the-bones image that intimidates bigger men than me, but if you’re allowed in his inner circle, you’re treated like an absolute monarch–especially if he feels he’s fallen down on the friendship job. God, who would ever want to be let out of that inner circle? I caressed my wounded jaw and impulse seized me. I rushed up behind him, twirled him around, and planted a sloppy kiss on his forehead.

“What the HELL?” Starsky shouted, jumping back.

“Just following your apron’s orders.” I pointed at the large shamrock that covered, of all things, his groin. I got a full-fledged Starsky blush.

“Oh. Yeah, found it in one of the drawers. But, Hutch, I hate to break it to you–I’m not Irish.”

I snorted. “You’re kidding.”

He grinned. “Anyway, the whole point of the apron, I think, is to get a kiss on that particular spot.”

“It’s a wonder the Delaneys ever ate, then.” I winked and made a show of preparing to go down on my knees. Starsky’s eyes turned to liquid blue shock, and his entire body assumed a flight-or-fight response.

“That’s o-o-kay,” he said, backing up against the counter. “The apron won’t self-destruct if you break one of its rules.”

I straightened and snapped my fingers teasingly. “Shucks. Oh, well.” But I suddenly wondered if someone had left the massive freezer open for fifteen minutes. I walked to the table with a heavier heart and began consuming eggs out of habit more than anything else.

Starsky brought his plate over and sat where he had last night. I sipped my coffee and made a face. “Dammit, Starsky! You could clean out a car engine with this stuff.”

He laughed. “Like you’d know about cleaning a car engine.”

“No,” I conceded. “But I do know coffee, and this doesn’t qualify.”

“Aw, quit your bitching. It’s strong, it’s coffee, and it’s all you’re getting unless you make it yourself.”

I was tempted but not enough to put out the effort. “If I didn’t bitch about your coffee, you wouldn’t know me.” His words from yesterday afternoon sprang to mind: I don’t know you anymore.

Starsky must have zeroed in on my thoughts, because he frowned and put down his fork. “I’ve been sayin’ lots of dumb things lately?”

I answered his question with a question. “Where’d you go last night?”

He looked at me like I was living up to the stereotype associated with my hair color. “Headed for home. Made it a third of the way when I turned around. I had to…I–”

“If you say you came back because you hit me, I’ll leave this table.”

He smiled, all teeth and happiness. “I came back because I was mad at myself for being mad enough at you for what you said to hit you. Make sense?”

To ninety-nine percent of the people in the world, it wouldn’t. I’m used to Starsky-logic. I nodded. “Crystal clear.”

He snatched his fork and attacked the eggs. Pausing in mid-chew, he glanced back up at me. “I think…” He swallowed “…we oughtta declare a truce.”

My turn to frown. “Like the one we had at home the last three weeks?”

“Nope. We work through our problems, but we agree not to–” he pointed at my jaw. “No more leaving marks on each other, ‘kay?”

The flash of an image ambushed me and seared my mind’s eye–Starsky, breathing heavily, pressing me into a mattress, latching onto my neck just on the comfortable side of drawing blood.

“Hutch, you all right?”

Hell, damn no, I wasn’t all right. I was slipping dangerously into tachycardia and I had the sneaking suspicion our mansion had turned into a houseboat. I tried to vacate my chair and almost fell backward. Starsky was on his feet and reaching out to me. I knew if he touched me with the lightest, most platonic pressure, I’d do something humiliating–like scream in ecstasy. I waved my hand at him and, despite the room’s spinning, managed to make it out of the kitchen and into the small sitting room next to the foyer. I sat down on the floral loveseat and put my head in my hands.

The subject had just never come up. I’ve noticed male attractiveness before, but it’s not a driving need for me, certainly not so strong that I’ve ever been tempted away from women. I’d long thought Starsky an incredibly good-looking person. I enjoyed our closeness, our physical comfort with each other, but that had always been satisfactory. What a sorry lie. My musings in the shower this morning were proof positive that I’d needed–at least on a subconscious level–more from Starsky before now.

“Hutch, I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.”

I sat back against the sofa cushions and looked across the small room at Starsky, who leaned against the doorframe, right hand on his hip. I shook my head. “Just got dizzy. Inner ear problems run in my family.”

“Need to see the doc? I’m sure there’s one in town–”

I laughed. Only Starsky. The man has endured more pain with flawless stoicism than a twenty-year captain of a rugby team, but he worries about me if a mosquito bite on my arm looks funny. “I’ll live, Starsky. Finish your breakfast.”

“Aw, who cares about breakfast?”

I blinked at him. His face was shadowed and showed age for the first time since I’ve known him. I held out an arm. “Come here.”

He came without questioning and sat down next to me. The hesitancy as he tried to decide how close to sit rattled me. I put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “We’ll get through this, Starsk.”

He made a small noise that sounded like a sigh of relief. “Jeez, I didn’t know how important one letter could be.”

“What?”

“You haven’t shortened my name since…” He looked away and I saw him bite down hard.

“God, I’ve been rough on you, haven’t I?”

“Not as rough as you’ve been on yourself.”

That’s my partner–worldly wise and profound at just the right moments. I smiled. “Let’s make a deal, then. I’ll go easier on me if you lighten up on you.”

He turned the loveseat into a pool of sunshine with his grin. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“So what’s on the agenda today?”

He fidgeted. I thought perhaps my arm had lingered too long. The rift between us wasn’t completely healed, and I was afraid of overstepping new boundaries. The moment my arm dropped, his hand reached out, snagged my elbow, and pulled my arm back across his shoulders. “I…I wanna go shopping.”

I studied his profile for signs of an impending laugh. None came. “Um…you want to shop?”

“Yeah, Hutch. In town, there’s this neat shop that advertises antique toys and baseball cards. You never know what you’ll find in out-of-the-way places like this.”

“I think I can go for that,” I agreed.

“Great.”

We cleaned our mess in the kitchen and stepped out into the blinding sunshine. I couldn’t take my eyes off Starsky. Something in me wanted to measure his bounce, analyze every smile, and tally up the signs of recovery from the emotional nightmare we’d been in. He cranked the car and belted out, “My…my…m-m-my Sharona!”

I groaned. “Starsk, have you really listened to the lyrics of that song?”

“Wha’?” He cast a side-glance my way as we traveled down the driveway.

“The guy sounds like a horny stalker of jail-bait.”

“Whatever, Hutch. I just dig the beat and ignore the words.”

“Ostrich, hm?”

“You betcha,” he said and winked.

If someone had told me I’d just won lifetime no-cover-charge privileges at Doug’s House of Jazz, I couldn’t have been happier. I turned my attention to the scenery and appreciated for the first time the beauty of the area around the Delaneys’. On the drive in, I’d been too preoccupied with less pleasant thoughts. For a brief moment, I wished the Torino was a convertible and I could watch Starsky’s hair catch both the sunlight and breeze. We drove past palatial homes, the Red Stallion Horse Farm, and what looked like an English garden from Sussex that had been transplanted in Southern California.

The town itself was prettier than I’d first thought. Neat storefronts with hand-painted signs and matching awnings called to mind a Norman Rockwell rendering of Small Town America. Yesterday, I’d seen plain buildings, narrow parking spots, and little in the way of modern amenities. Realization that my mood yesterday had so thoroughly affected my opinion of the world around me left me chilled. No, not my mood. My reaction to Starsky’s distance and coldness. The beginnings of a theory nagged at my brain, but Starsky’s nudging my side distracted me.

“There it is.” He pulled the Torino miraculously into a spot between a badly parked pickup and VW van and gestured wildly at the store window’s hand-painted sign.

“Old Things at Old Prices: toys, baseball cards, books, jewelry, miscellaneous,” I read out loud. “Sounds like a treasure trove to me, buddy.”

Starsky nearly forgot to open the door on his way out of the car.

The place smelled old. I made it five steps into the store when a violent sneeze took me by surprise. Starsky was already so engrossed in a box of baseball cards that he didn’t even take note. We spent at least two hours in the store. I browsed the books and sheet music and laughed my ass off at a botany guide circa 1920 that made William Byrd’s monographs on the subject seem modern. Starsky salivated over antique toy trains, rummaged through the baseball cards, and then turned into a puddle on the floor in front of a bottled-ship display. I don’t think we meant to, but we never strayed more than a few feet from each other the entire time. Toward the end of our browsing, I noticed that the shopkeeper watched both of us intently.

We didn’t leave empty-handed. Starsky acquired a Duke Snyder baseball card he lacked, a scholarly book on the impact of the clipper ship’s heyday on a small English seaside village, and a wind-up toy chimp that stuck a banana in his ear and made funny noises. I purchased the hilarious botany book.

“Staying at the Delaney place?” the storekeeper asked us. He was tall, thin, and pale. That’s the literal truth. He seemed pale beige all over.

Starsky stared at him. “How do you–?”

“News travels fast ’round a burg like this one. Old Mr. Smythe has been bragging about the big-city policemen spending their vacation in his pride and joy. You’d think he owned the place.”

I smiled. “He’s a nice gentleman. Yes, we’re down here from Bay City.”

That ended the conversation. He rang up our purchases and offered us a bland, “Enjoy your stay” on our way out. We dropped our treasures off in the Torino and looked around for something else to occupy our time. A music store caught my attention, and Starsky followed happily.

We spent an enjoyable hour in an impromptu jam session with the storeowner, who hailed from the Bahamas and could play a mean steel drum. I let Starsky handle the guitar and made myself at home in front of the gorgeous baby grand. The music must have drifted out into the street because, for the better part of our “concert,” we had a crowd of people inside the store and on the sidewalk outside listening. I could feel Starsky’s eyes on me as I played, and I basked in the warmth of those deep blues I’d missed so much yesterday. I knew he looked at me to curtail his nervousness at having an audience. He’s really quite a guitarist, but he doesn’t think of himself as musically gifted, and he’s certainly not accustomed to improv.

When we arrived back at the mansion, shortly following a quick junk-food lunch, we were both pooped. The three-week homicide investigation had been brutal, and my excuse to my parents that we needed somewhere to vegetate wasn’t without truth. I expected us to separate and crash in our respective bedrooms, but we didn’t make it beyond the sitting room downstairs. We collapsed on the same floral loveseat and dropped off to sleep sprawled over the opposite arms, the results of our shopping spree scattered on the floor beneath us.

I woke with someone pushing at my head. “Get offa me!”

The voice was more laughing than stern. I shifted, yawned, and fell off the sofa. I have a reputation for being clumsy at times, but that wasn’t the cause of my spill. Opening my eyes, I’d discovered that I’d somehow moved in my sleep and ended up with my head in Starsky’s lap, facing in a decidedly awkward direction.

Starsky grinned down at me. “You are an idiot.”

“What do you know?” I growled, embarrassed, and alarmed at how much I’d wanted to stay right where I was.

“I’m hungry,” Starsky replied, rubbing his stomach. “I know that much.”

“We just had lunch, what–?” I fished around for my pocket watch. “Oh…three hours ago. Some nap.”

“I was beat–” Starsky’s yawn emphasized his point. “So were you, Sleeping Beauty.”

“You’re asking for it, Starsky.”

Art: Starsky 1 in VPC II by Julie Henderson

He shed his leather jacket and swatted me with it. I dropped my watch on the floor, grabbed at one end of the jacket and tugged. He pulled back, rumbling in his throat at me like a junkyard dog issuing a warning to a trespasser. I smiled and tugged harder. He didn’t want to land on the floor, so he released the jacket, but he singed me with a look. I knew that look. It was the same one I’d given him when he wouldn’t quit acting like a fool while I was trying to sing in that country-western joint. There’s only one way to respond to a look like that. Just as Starsky had done, I scrambled to my feet and ran blindly for the nearest exit. In this case, that meant the front door. I tore across the front lawn and headed around the house to the back, Starsky in hot pursuit. I dropped the jacket at some point, but he didn’t seem to notice. I’m built for running; Starsky just has incredible stride-length. The man can outrun a Ford Mustang, and he’s proud of it. I knew he’d catch up with me, but I didn’t expect that to happen within pushing distance of the pool.

In mid-air, I still couldn’t fathom that Starsky was shoving both of us into the pool with our clothes on. The enormous splash convinced me. I emerged spluttering and grabbed hold of Starsky’s soaking shirt collar. “What are you trying to do? Drown me?”

Starsky laughed long and hard. For a second, I thought the pool was heated. Starsky made an adorable picture, with his dripping tendrils, wet smile, and clothes clinging to every curve and line of muscle. I couldn’t rationalize my reaction any longer. I wanted to grasp that laughing face in my hands and kiss him breathless, gasping, undone. His eyes changed, and I panicked that our returning telepathy had given me away. I couldn’t afford such a risk. I was still uncertain of our very partnership, walking on eggshells with our friendship, and approaching him as a lover was out of the question. I wasn’t afraid that he’d be disgusted. Starsky is disgusted by breaches of integrity, not someone’s sexual orientation. What Starsky isn’t, though, is adept at handling rapid change in his comfort zones. He adapts to most anything on the job and undercover, but in his private life, he needs fair warning before the wind shifts–understandable for a man who was uprooted as a child shortly after losing a parent. I was petrified that throwing him this kind of curve ball would endanger the fragile detente we’d established.

“Hutch? You gonna let my shirt go anytime in the next hour or so? I could use some grub.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you pushed me in the damn pool!” I grumped and released him, relief flooding me.

“Don’t ever mess with a man’s favorite jacket!” Starsky returned, swimming over to the pool edge.

Fortunately, the Delaneys left their pool house open. Crime must be nonexistent in this area–the tiny pool house was stocked with an entire resort’s worth of water equipment, towels, and various pool accessories. We toweled off the excess moisture so we wouldn’t drip all over the mansion’s parquet flooring and then headed back across the lawn arm in arm.

Supper consisted of tacos. Starsky makes delicious homemade tacos. If I told him that, he’d probably faint. We ate quietly, hurriedly, no radio in the background. He opened his mouth several times between bites with the obvious intention of making a comment, but never did. I knew we had another “talk” ahead of us, and I was still gun-shy from last night. That dread was the culprit for my consuming two beers before we retired to the game room. Yes, the Delaneys spared no expense here either. The room boasted a table and chair set specifically made for bridge, top-of-the-line billiard table, a glass display of several fancy chess sets, and table tennis.

“He’s a retired neurosurgeon,” I said as Starsky broke. Starsky glanced up from the play of the billiard balls.

“What?”

“Delaney.”

“Oh, what made ya think of that?”

I coughed against a fist. I’d felt the urge to make up for my spiteful silence yesterday, but I couldn’t say that. “Just did.”

I took my turn at the table and lined up a respectable but easy shot, then another one that I missed. Starsky didn’t try to distract me, and I knew we were about to start ‘the talk.’ Otherwise, my partner’s competitive instincts would have had him telling dirty jokes, bumping into the table, anything to screw up my shot.

“I keep wonderin’ when you’re gonna change back.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know…back to the Hutch you’ve been lately.” He pulled off an astonishing bank shot and contemplated the table. “Today you’ve been more like the old Hutch.”

“That’s just great. How would you like it if I started delineating types of Starsky? What happened to unconditional love and acceptance?”

Starsky shook his head. “I can accept you all kinds of ways, Hutch, but the way you were today is a helluva lot nicer to be around. I just don’t know if I should get used to it. I got used to it again while we were off the force and then–”

“And then Kira!” I snapped, feeling both fury and jealousy heat my skin. He nodded, eyes wide and open, no anger present. I walked up to him, yanked the cue stick out of his loose grasp, and threw it down with mine on the table. “Are you over her, or aren’t you?”

“What–?”

“Don’t give me that. You said yesterday you’re over her. Yet, whenever we start to talk, we wind right back up on her front doorstep. Do you still love her?”

“No!”

My knees almost buckled under the strength of my gratitude. His reply was both adamant and sincere. I took a deep breath. “Then can we please leave her out of the discussion? Frankly, I’m sick to my stomach of her name, and I actually feel sorry for her having to be the soccer ball we’re kicking between us. I’d rather focus on you and me.”

“Fine,” he agreed, but I could tell he was still simmering. “Then tell me why you changed.”

“Maybe I didn’t change first,” I said, starting to regret my alcohol consumption. I needed all my wits functioning to keep this conversation on the safe side of disaster.

Starsky’s arms crossed over his chest, a sure sign he didn’t like where the discussion was headed. “Right. I’m the one who started acting like nothing matters, like the world generally sucks–”

“No, you’re the one who forgot that we’re a team of homicide detectives.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think, Starsky. The first six years of our partnership, we were inseparable on the streets. We even tried to keep our undercover assignments a team effort as much as possible. Rafferty and O’Brien ring a bell? Then, over the last year, you started having little love trysts in the middle of homicide investigations, or finding some other excuse to stay scarce, and leaving me to pick up the pieces.”

“That’s not true!” A controlled shout.

I stuck my finger in his face. “Don’t make me name examples. I can, and I will! You did your share of police work, I’m not saying you didn’t, but you did it without me except for rare occasions.”

“Oh, this is terrific. You’ve found a way to blame me for your–”

“I missed you!” I screamed.

His mouth snapped shut, but his eyes challenged me.

“Yeah, I’ll admit it, Starsky. Closeness with you does more to keep me on an even keel than I realized…until you started acting like any fifteen-minute fling was more important than our partnership. You wondered if I’m getting tired of you; I have much more reason to be asking you the same question.”

He flushed and waved both hands as if he could sweep away what I’d said. “That’s flimsy, Hutch. We worked together, we took a vacation together–granted, it was a nightmare, but the Satanists weren’t my fault–we hung out together, hell, we even went on the run together. I was willing to go to prison with you, buddy boy! What more did you want from me, huh? Come on, Hutch, tell me. What was I doin’ wrong? What more could I’ve done?”

I turned my back on him and clenched my fists. Change the subject. Run. Too late–he’d grabbed my arm and pulled me back around. “Talk to me, Hutch! If it’s my fault, I gotta know. What more did you want?”

My mouth opened, and I heard a voice oddly similar to my own shout, “Maybe I wanted you to forget that meaningless sheet-dancing and fall in love with me!”

His hand fell from my arm and we both jumped back a step. He looked like he’d seen a legion of ghosts and I couldn’t catch my breath. I turned and stumbled toward the door.

“Whoa! Where ya going?!”

“I’m going somewhere I can be alone and pretend I didn’t just say that to you.”

“Oh, no you’re not; you can’t–”

“Watch me. You sure as hell better not follow me.” I left the room. When I reached the hallway, I sped into a dead run.

I didn’t slow down until I reached the glassed-in gazebo that stood a good fifty feet beyond the pool and overlooked the rose garden. I sank down on the bench that lined the inside and let my whole body droop. I kicked myself. I should have begged out of a serious discussion tonight and asked to let the day end on the afternoon’s good note. Starsky is determined, but he’s no brow-beater. He’d have left me to my own devices if I’d pleaded for my space. The moonlight cast the gazebo in a mystical silver light, and I tried to focus on the beauty to ease the pounding in my chest.

I haven’t a clue how much time had passed, but he found me. I knew he would. Telling him not to follow me is akin to telling a bloodhound not to sniff a trail. When I noticed his approach, I laughed harshly. This was too Sound of Music for my taste, but it was also too late for me to run and hide again.

He paused in the entrance. “Hey.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to play the captain to my Maria.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Julie Andrews you ain’t, Blondie, even if I squint my eyes.”

“And therein lies the problem,” I said, shocked at the hollowness in my voice.

“I never–”

“Spare me the ‘I never knew you liked men’ speech, Starsky. This is hard enough as it is.”

He sat down cross-legged on the floor at my feet. “I was going to say, I never meant to not be enough for you. All that time–”

I shook my head. “No, no that wasn’t fair of me. I…I didn’t consciously understand that I’m…I’m–”

“In love with me,” Starsky said softly.

I nodded weakly. “Not until today. I’m pretty sure I…I had…romantic feelings for you way back then, but I wasn’t paying attention. Too much going on all the time.” I rubbed my forehead. “Guarantee you my grandmother wasn’t planning on this. Her husband came home from the war during her week; I changed my whole sexual orientation in mine. Welcome to the late twentieth century.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Not important.”

“Hutch, I–”

“Starsk, I’m really not up to hashing through this tonight. I know that’s not fair to you after I drop a bomb like this one, but I–I can’t be pushed any farther. I’m…I’m right on the edge…of something. I don’t know what, and I don’t want to find out.”

Starsky sighed deeply and rose up on his knees. He placed his hands gently against my cheeks and tilted my head down. I closed my eyes just as I felt his lips touch the top of my head. “I’m gonna be the best friend I can for you, Hutch. I promise.”

There it was–the soft, gentle letdown I’d been hoping to avoid tonight. Trust Starsky to achieve the world’s record for classiness, while breaking my heart in two pieces that would never fit right again.

He left the gazebo. I lingered until I knew he’d reached the house, and then I started the walk back. I decided on the way that I’d find my journal and use writing to tire me out so I could sleep. God knows what tomorrow would bring.

 

May 9, 1979

I woke this morning with a high-tech thermal coffee carafe and cup sitting on my nightstand, accompanied by a note in Starsky’s handwriting: Hutch. Gone to town. Back before lunch. Love, Starsk.

I could barely pour the coffee, my hands shook so violently. The simple affection and goodness in the gesture shattered me. I found myself wishing idiotically that he’d stood and watched me sleep…even for a few minutes. He hadn’t touched me. I’m irrationally in tune with him right now, and the softest contact would have jerked me awake. But even the thought of him watching me turned my blood to lava. I sipped the coffee and almost choked in surprise. He’d taken great care with this brewing. I hadn’t had better at a hundred-dollar-a-plate banquet with my parents. The note warmed me more than the coffee. He’d known my cynical nature would assume his absence meant he’d hit the ground running for Bay City en route to God knows where, and he wanted to reassure me.

Two cups of the divine brown nectar and I felt my humanity returning. I lingered in the shower and tried not to think what the day would be like, once Starsky and I were in the same house again. I didn’t blame him for keeping his distance this morning. I’d shaken up his whole reality last night. Despite my worries about our upcoming interaction, I ached for his return. Perhaps we could go for a run, play some tennis? I’m not a fool. I knew I wanted a way to expend energy and cut down on sexual frustration. But Starsky didn’t have to know that, if I hid it behind our usual competitive sports workout.

The phone was ringing when I emerged from the bathroom, dressed but hair still damp and dripping against my shirt collar. With Starsky on the road, I didn’t hesitate to answer it. “Delaney residence. Ken Hutchinson speaking.”

My mother’s brisk and rushed voice sounded in my ear. “Ken! Glad I caught you. Just had a call from the Delaneys. Would you…would you like to talk about it, Ken?”

“Talk about what?”

“Really, you can tell me, Ken. I know we don’t get a chance to talk very often and you live so far away, but there are certain things I’d like to be kept abreast of. Are you and David enjoying your little get-away?”

If my hand hadn’t melted onto the phone, I’d have dropped the receiver. “What, Mom? What are you–?”

“Is it a special anniversary for you two?”

“Mom, take the time to make sense, please.”

She took a deep breath and no longer sounded like she was fighting a fire. “Mr. Mackiney in the town–owns one of the shops there–had the Delaneys’ contact information. He called them worried that they didn’t know two men were–um–using their summerhouse as a romantic escape. He thought the Delaneys would be mortified, I’m sure.” Mom laughed. “But the Delaneys’ eldest son is gay. He’s a surgeon in San Francisco and his partner is involved in the political scene. Anyway, Mrs. Delaney said you could feel free to open up one of their bottles of 1964 Dom Perignon if you’re celebrating–”

“Mom, I’m not–David and I aren’t–”

“Oh, Ken, sorry, but I have to run. The lady from the Minnesota Female Republicans is at the door. I’m helping her organize this year’s benefit ball. Have fun and tell David hello for me.”

The line went dead before I got another word out of my mouth. I hung up the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. My prim, conservative, wealthy, oblivious-to-the-existence-of-denim, status-conscious mother had just told me to have fun with my supposed male lover. Had done so in passing on her way to meet the Minnesota Female Republicans representative. I knew I’d never think of the cliche, “life is stranger than fiction,” the same way again. I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and burst out laughing. I laughed until I choked. I laughed until I cried. Then the explanation hit me. If Dr. and Mrs. Adrian Delaney’s surgeon son could be gay, Mother didn’t see it as altogether a bad fate for her fair-haired boy.

On that “cheery” note, I left the room, coffee in tow, and headed for the library. I was having a good laugh at Ayn Rand’s expense, when Starsky appeared in the open doorway. I hadn’t heard the car pull up for once.

“Hey, buddy,” he said.

Whenever I’m “under the weather,” as Mom would say, Starsky looks at me with a strange mixture of kindness and caution, as if he’s never quite sure if the animal caught in the trap will acquiesce to rescue or bite off his hand. He wore that expression now. I tried to reassure him by offering my brightest smile. He seemed taken aback instead of reassured, and he lingered in the doorway.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I held up my cup and saluted him with it. “Delicious! Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Starsky’s face suddenly made his red t-shirt seem pink by comparison. Finally, he shrugged. “It’s nothing to do with me. I found some real fancy brand already open when I plundered the kitchen this morning. Hope they don’t mind.”

I grinned. Somehow I didn’t think the people offering a bottle of ’64 Perignon would mind the missing coffee grounds, but I wasn’t bringing that phone call into conversation until I had no choice. “No, Starsk. They’re not the type to check behind us for how much coffee we used.”

He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, what do you want to do?”

I closed the book. “Tennis, anyone?”

He laughed, but it was still the nervous version from last night. I think he expected me to answer the question with, “I want to get you naked and swallow you whole.”

“Ready to get creamed?” A split-second after the words left his mouth, he slapped a hand over his lips and the brilliant blush returned.

I decided I had to crack some of this tension or we’d never survive the rest of the week, much less resume a real partnership when we returned to Bay City. On the way past him to go change clothes, I said, laughing, “In your dreams, Starsky. You’ll be chasing my balls all over the court.”

I left him slack-jawed and sputtering.

The mid-morning sun was ambivalent and gave us the perfect climate for tennis–not too cool that we felt chilled in our shorts and light t-shirts, and not too hot that we’d keel over before the end of the match. We located the Delaneys’ athletic equipment easily and teased and play-fought all the way to the tennis court. I started to relax. We could do this. We could preserve our friendship in the face of differing affections.

It’s true that Starsky can kick my tail at tennis, but usually we’re fairly well matched. This morning, he played like a man on a mission from the start. His backhand would have made Jimmy Connors proud. I know I haven’t been keeping myself in tip-top form the last few months, but I’m no slouch in the physical fitness department, and I was still winded after the first set. He was all arms, legs, exertion, and sweat. Forty-year-olds have dropped dead on tennis courts playing as hard as he was, and we’re not that far behind the mark. My healthy appreciation and competitive fervor turned into concern. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t Starsky–not the one I’m used to playing, anyway. Suspicion dawned and took my breath. I dropped the tennis racket without thinking of damaging someone else’s property and waved my hands frantically before he could lob a killer serve and take my eye out–or worse.

“Stop!”

He lowered the hand holding the ball aloft and stared at me, chest heaving, sweat dripping from him. I could tell from across the court that he was drenched. “Hunh?”

I approached the net and vaulted over it. I didn’t care how he might take my next move. I just reached out and pulled him against me, encircling him with my arms. He struggled briefly then stilled. “Breathe deep, buddy. Starsky, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to prove to me what a masculine, tough, athletic, virile guy you are. My wanting you doesn’t make you less than a man. Hell, it doesn’t make me less than a man.”

He pulled away and glared at me. “Hu-Hutch! You oughtta know me better’n that. I don’t think like that…’specially not about you. Can’t believe you’d–” he stopped, still out of breath.

“Well, then why are you trying to kill yourself out here? We’re supposed to be having fun. You’re playing like someone would shoot you if you–no, you’re playing like someone would shoot me if you don’t win.”

He smiled and put his hand against my cheek, showing me how much my comment pleased him. I closed my eyes involuntarily, but they flew open again when I felt lips touch my nose ever so lightly. They disappeared quickly, and Starsky stepped out of my arms’ reach, signaling that he’d reached his comfort level. “I dunno. Something just…just came over me. I felt this incredible need to use my body…all my muscles…every ounce of my strength. It’s like…you know when you were a kid and you really threw yourself into your Halloween candy ’cause you knew you wouldn’t get any for a while afterwards?”

I didn’t tell him that I rationed my Halloween candy over two weeks following the holiday. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” he said clearly and emphatically. “But I don’t…I don’t like it.” He squinted in the sun. “Getting warmer out here.”

I smiled. “You’d be warm in Antarctica right now, dummy. You just crammed a match at Wimbledon into one-and-a-half sets.” I glanced at the sky. The sun had eradicated the clouds and was pelting. “Gonna be a scorcher for early May.”

“Last one to the pool cooks and cleans tonight,” he hollered, tossing both the racket and ball at me in mid-run. I watched him run. The weird feeling hadn’t left him; he ran the lawn like pursuit in an alley back home.

I gathered the equipment and followed at a relaxed pace. When I arrived at the pool, I was treated to the sight of Starsky cutting through the water in a surprisingly elegant backstroke. Nowhere near as at home in the water as I am, Starsky manages on a couple swim strokes and generally does the Starsky-version of them, but this morning I’d have given him high marks at a swim meet. I stood and allowed myself the luxury of following his strokes, noticing with my guard down his grace and physical beauty. Yes, I wanted him. Desire overwhelmed me. I wanted to give him more pleasure than he’d ever experienced. That train of thought derailed as Starsky seized up in the pool. I wasted no time diving into the deep water, cursing the pool’s ridiculous size. The most rapid lifeguard stroke in my arsenal didn’t put me within reach before his head slipped under water. My training took over. I had him halfway to the nearest pool’s edge in a traditional lifeguard’s hold, when he started to thrash and pull against my efforts.

“Relax, Starsk, I’ve got you! Give in; don’t fight me.”

“I’m fine,” he choked and sputtered.

“No, you’re not fine,” I grunted.

“Lemme go!”

“Starsky, cool it!”

“This your idea of makin’ it in the pool, Hutchinson?”

He got his wish. Astonished and feeling backhanded, I let him slip out of my hold and pulled up short, treading water. The nasty retort on the tip of my tongue never saw the light of day. One good look at his face as he treaded water told me what had prompted his barb. He hadn’t meant to wound me; it was sheer reflex borne of…panic. David Starsky–my Starsky–was afraid.

“What the hell happened? You were semi-conscious at best when I got to you?”

“It was weird, Hutch. Outta nowhere, got these pains in my chest.” He pushed his upper body out of the water and pointed to several spots along his chest. “Couldn’t breathe…couldn’t move…don’t know…real weird. I’m fine now; thanks for uh–”

“Don’t mention it. Wasn’t going to stand there and let you drown,” I said shortly, twisting in the water and assuming a sidestroke. I was alarmed. No, I was freaked. The thought of what might have happened if I’d lingered at the tennis court turned my blood colder than my wet exterior. I was also puzzled. What Starsky described didn’t sound like a garden-variety cramp, but I knew he’d passed his last department physical with flying colors and blatant praise. I’m the one the doc scolded for getting slack.

I started to lift myself out of the pool, but a hand on my arm stopped me. Starsky clung one-handed to the edge of the pool and faced me with moist eyes. “Hutch, I–”

“It’s okay, Starsk. I know you didn’t mean–”

He grabbed me close and nearly squeezed my lungs out through my throat. A harsh voice whispered in my ear, “I love you. Don’t ever doubt that.”

I swallowed two lumps in my throat and patted his back. “It’s okay. You’re all right; that’s what matters.”

Once on dry land, I lost no time getting out of the soaked tennis shoes and socks. The wet t-shirt came off next. Starsky emerged from the pool house with a beach towel the size of a small town. He spread it on the carpet-smooth lawn and sprawled on it starfish-fashion. I dropped down a few feet from him and lay on my back, too, relishing the delicious sensation of the warm sun on my wet body.

The change in lighting interrupted my sun-snooze. I opened my eyes and looked up into a sappy, grinning face. Starsky knelt between my open legs, partially blocking the sun. He leaned over me and laughed.

“Starsky, what the hell are you–?”

“You were making funny little noises in your sleep. Thought I’d get closer and see if I could make ’em out.”

“Does that require you to–?” I didn’t finish my sentence. Starsky’s left hand traced a section of my chest a few inches below my right nipple.

“You’re like a living scrapbook, Hutch. Remember when I bit you here? You’d brought me to your place after…after Marcus and held me while I slept, but I had a dream and almost took a chunk outta you. You were so funny. You thought I was still asleep, so you tried not to yell. Reminded me of that little cartoon dog. You know, the little white one with the funny voice–no, you wouldn’t know, but–”

“Droopy,” I said, smiling.

He brightened. “Yeah! That’s it! How–?”

“I thought I’d see what had you so infatuated with Saturday morning cartoons. Laughed myself hoarse over Droopy.”

“Bet you saw the one when he’s trying to make these bad guys wake up the sheriff so he’d catch ’em.”

“Yes. That’s the one,” I chuckled.

“You reminded me of that bad guy who keeps getting hurt, but he has to run all the way up the hill to scream so he won’t wake the sheriff. You almost swallowed your tongue, and you eased out of bed, shut yourself in the bathroom, and bellowed like Dobey on a rampage.”

“I didn’t want to wake you when you’d finally been able to sleep. Even the dream didn’t wake you–or so I thought.” I flushed at the memory and wondered how I’d sounded.

I stopped wondering as his lips made contact with the site of the old wound. He then moved forward and pointed to a spot under my right shoulder. “Remember when I elbowed you here? I got that black eye from that Sumo-wrestler-sized bozo resisting arrest, and when you got me back to my place, you made me lie on the couch. Said you had the perfect home remedy. I was kinda half-asleep when I smelled the meat and felt cold over my eye. You knelt down to arrange it over my eye and I jabbed you good with my elbow…didn’t mean to…just ain’t every day someone puts a raw beef steak on my eye.”

I laughed. Couldn’t stop laughing. His lips descended on that spot and I shivered. “Starsk–”

He ignored my warning tone and moved forward again. His lips landed this time against my “damaged” jaw. I wanted to throw my arms around him and pull him down against me, but I didn’t want to spook him. I didn’t understand what was happening, and I didn’t know how to respond…or if I should. “You’re churning that brain like butter, Blondie. Whatcha thinking?”

“No….”

“Tell me!” Starsky barked while smiling.

I sighed. “I’m…I’m wishing you’d had occasion in the past to accidentally knee me in the groin.”

His face paled but his eyes held mine. Then his unwavering stare changed, and I sensed a shift in the Earth’s magnetic field. Starsky never backs down from a challenge, even a challenge he thinks has been issued…even one like this, tentative and unintentional. He knee-walked backwards and hovered with his lips just inches from the front of my still damp shorts.

“Starsky, you don’t–”

I watched with dilated eyes the mouth lower by millimeters until it brushed against my partial erection. The cloth didn’t impede the shocking thrill. I firmed to diamond-cutting hardness under those soft lips. Starsky drew back and blinked at me. “I turn you on….”

“They give you a degree with all that knowledge?” I teased, valiantly fighting the urge to beg him for an encore.

I didn’t have to beg him. He rested his whole face where his lips had been and pressed softly. I couldn’t stifle a joyous shout. I was rewarded with another look of electric blue amazement. “You really do want me.”

“More than anything and anyone,” I said, nodding.

He clawed at my shorts’ waistband and I took action. Resting my hand over his, I shook my head. “Starsky–”

“Don’t stop me, Hutch.”

“Out here in the open, Starsk? Mr. Smythe could stop by.”

“What, in his horse and buggy? We’d hear him a mile away. Anyway, you’re not worried about Mr. Smythe, you’re trying to change my mind before we go too far.”

I bit my lip. He knows me better than I do. I relaxed on the towel and closed my eyes, unwilling to watch the confusion slip into his face. So far, I hadn’t seen the want in his eyes that I knew had to be shining in mine, and that scared me.

As if he’d lose his nerve if he took his time, he hurriedly pulled my shorts halfway down my thighs and rested his hands against my bare hips. I hid behind my closed eyelids and hoped I’d survive the first moment of awkwardness. “Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

I obeyed without question. If there’s anyone I trust with the deepest part of me, it’s Starsky. He smiled at me and touched my face with two fingertips, smoothing my forehead, tracing my cheekbones. I didn’t think there’d be much difference between the touch of Starsky the friend and Starsky the lover–except in the obvious places–but he proved me wrong. The feather-soft caressing of my face registered in both my heart and cock that twitched and asked for attention.

Without another word, he scooted back and I knew the time had arrived. Foreplay didn’t occur to him. Not because he isn’t a patient lover. I know too much about Starsky to believe he’s inconsiderate in bed…or wherever. No, he still had the air of someone accomplishing a heroic task. I wanted to reach for him, take him in my arms, and kiss away that attitude, but my Starsky-instincts told me he wouldn’t welcome the interference. I slipped into the unaccustomed and slightly uncomfortable role of passive lover for his sake.

He treated my cock the way a person with cold-sensitive teeth eats an ice cream cone–lots of tentative licks and nibbles, but no open-mouthed enthusiasm. It didn’t matter. Within a couple minutes, my entire body overloaded and I arched, coming and shrieking his name loud enough to be heard in town. We were both stunned. What he’d done to me shouldn’t have resulted in launch. No suction, no enclosed warmth, very little movement. That loving proved to me that the mind is truly the source of eroticism. Just the thought of Starsky using his mouth on me propelled me into euphoria.

My next conscious observation was Starsky cleaning my stomach with his t-shirt. The subtle symbolism choked me. I held out my arms. “Let me hold you, lover.”

He wadded the t-shirt into a ball and threw it to the side, lowering himself simultaneously into my embrace. I sighed at our bodies’ contact and kissed his hair, his forehead, and the sides of his face, my hand slipping down his chest to check his excitement level. If he were nicely simmering, I’d teach him a few foreplay tricks that should be easily adapted from making love to a woman. At first, I thought my aim was off. My hand encountered warm softness. I looked into his eyes, and my heart broke.

“Don’t. I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I should have held him, comforted him, listened to him. Pain and embarrassment won the day. That I should be responsible for this man faltering sexually ripped me somewhere deep inside. I released him and yanked my shorts up before scrambling to my feet and taking off toward the house.

I had my clothes out of the dresser drawers and waiting on the bed for packing when Starsky’s voice stopped my frenzied activity. “What…what are you doing? You’re not–?”

“Yes, I am. This is wrong, Starsky.”

“There’s nothing wrong about what we did,” he said with certainty.

I rounded on him. “We didn’t do anything. You got me off like it was something you had to do or die trying. That’s wrong. That’s not what it’s about. That’s not what I want with you. We came out here to heal our friendship–to…to figure out if we could quit hurting each other and be partners. All we’ve done is find another way to hurt each other.”

“I don’t wanna lose you, Hutch.” His voice sounded close to tears. That finished me. I sank down on the end of the bed and put my head in my hands, pulling on my hair.

“Do you honestly think you have to have sex with me to keep me?” I demanded, not even looking at him. “Do you think of me like that? That I’ll ditch you if I can’t convert you into a satisfied homosexual?”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now? Clearing out?”

“I’m not ditching you as a friend. I’m not leaving because you wouldn’t perform. I’m clearing out of here before I screw with your head anymore. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He took a step into the room, and the next thing I knew I was being aggressively, savagely kissed. I’d like to relate the sequence of events more clearly, but I lost my mind. I think he crossed the room and pulled me up by my shoulders. All I remember precisely is the feel of his lips forcing mine open. He seized my tongue without permission and then pampered it. I cupped the back of his head with both hands and tried to return the favor.

Just as I got warmed up, he broke the contact.

Eyes wild and sparkling, mouth rimmed with a Kool-Aid red “mustache,” he looked too young to be legal. Seeing the infusion of youth in his features made me rock hard all over again. I reached for him, but while he grabbed both my hands in his own, he didn’t let me closer.

“I’m not scared of being your lover, Hutch. I want to be your lover. I’m scared of this feeling I got. Something naggin’ me that I shouldn’t be starting this right now, getting you used to this. Been fighting it ever since last night. That’s what was workin’ on me out by the pool, why I couldn’t–”

I shook my head before he could say “get it up,” or something that would equally embarrass him. “Where’s this coming from? I don’t understand. All I want to do is love you. You can’t decide when it’s right or convenient for someone to love you. Why’d you start anything if you–?”

“I couldn’t help it. You were wanting me.”

“Is that why?” I stopped and sat back down on the bed.

“Why what?”

“You didn’t kiss me. I…uh…normally start there and work into the rest.”

He flushed and sat down next to me, covering my knee with his warm hand. “Made a mess of it, huh?”

I turned quickly to the side and took his face in my hands. “No, no, Starsk. You made me sing inside. I just…I could tell you weren’t getting anything out of it.” I opened my mouth wider and leaned toward him. He recognized my intent and jumped to his feet.

“Give me some space, Hutch? Let me get through this stuff in my head.”

I frowned and looked away. “Why can’t we get through it together?”

He pressed his legs against my knees and cradled my head in his hands, holding me against his stomach. I felt my body respond instantly to the scratch of his hair–lighter there than on his chest–against my cheek. I tried not to think about what his tight blue shorts hid just below my chin.

“How about a dinner date?”

“Do I come dressed as the partner, the friend, or the lover?”

“Hutch–”

“Fine. I’ll show up as Hutch, and you can tell me then.”

He laughed and I breathed deeply at the sound, enjoying the movement of his body.

We spent the rest of the afternoon apart and foraged separately for lunch. While Starsky curled up in front of a televised baseball game, I took a long walk along the grounds. I should have been elated. God knows I never expected to hear Starsky say he wants to be my lover. But I was worried instead. The man impulsively kissing my chest on the beach towel, that’s Starsky. This pensive, deliberating…frightened man, I don’t recognize. Starsky’s willingness to jump when I’m still weighing options is one of our strengths as a team. He balances me. On the other hand, I had doubts about our forming a romantic attachment, too, but for different reasons. I was scared that we weren’t sufficiently connected on a basic level after the last six months to add something as volatile as sex to the mix. More than anything, I yearned for that basic connection again.

We both dressed for dinner. Nothing fancy, but nice jeans and button-up shirts while on vacation qualify as dressing up. We took one look at each other when we met in the kitchen and laughed for five solid minutes. Starsky made his famous cheese-smothered Texas toast, and I threw together chicken-vegetable lasagna. It’s a compromise between health food and rich Italian cuisine that Starsky usually devours with enthusiasm. Tonight was no exception. We stuffed ourselves to the point of bursting and said screw the cleanup.

Something kept us from broaching the subject of this afternoon. We reminisced about the earliest days of our partnership, joked about the Academy, and Starsky told funny stories of when he knew Huggy before I met him. The talking and laughing did wonders. Only at the end of the meal did we realize our free hands had ended up intertwined. It’s been a long time since I’ve held hands while eating.

A couple hours later, I accused Starsky of lacing our toast with locoweed. We got downright silly. The movie on television didn’t hold our attention, so we started a cushion fight. The cushion fight evolved into us chasing each other through the whole house. We landed in a giggling heap in the second floor’s main hallway. Giggling and shoving turned into kissing and cuddling. Again, Starsky called it quits just shy of third base. I thought it ironic that he waited to develop iron-will control when fooling around with me. Meanwhile, my control was shot to hell. When Starsky stood up, wobbling, and walked down the hall, my dick tried to jump out of my pants and follow him.

That’s why I’m sitting here writing the day’s events instead of engaging in more stimulating activities. Starsky settled down with his clipper ship book, and I knew close proximity after the day’s temptations would just spike my frustration level. I’ll give him space. I’ll let him think himself blue in the face. I might need a straightjacket by the time he decides which side of the on-again-off-again coin we’re keeping.

 

May 10, 1979

I woke this morning at five a.m. with a naked man crawling into my bed. Catch me believing I’d be writing that line ever in my life. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and said, “Starsky?”

“Love me, Hutch. Make me forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Never mind,” he said, shivering. I reacted immediately and took him in my arms, squeezing for all I was worth. He latched onto me with leech-like tenacity, rolled me onto my back and pressed me into the mattress, his mouth seeking my neck, teeth bared. I screeched, but the sound just egged him on. He was determined to mark me, and I was only too happy to comply. He didn’t hurt me, though. He instinctively knew the line and never verged on crossing it. He moved his lips to my Adam’s apple and mouthed against it, “I don’t know…what to do to you.”

I laughed and he chuckled, no doubt amused by the vibration between his lips. “Let me have a turn at you, Starsk, that’s what you can do for me.”

“Deal,” he breathed, and lifted his head, eyes shining in the darkness. On impulse, I kissed him quickly and moved out of his arms, leaving the bed.

“Hey! Taking your turn at me’s gonna be hard to do from across the room!”

I turned around and gave him my most love-struck smile. “Patience is a–”

“I don’t give a damn about virtues. Get the hell back in bed.”

“In a minute,” I said, and flung back the drapes from the first floor-to-ceiling window, tying them back at their hooks. I moved to the second window.

“What’re you doing?”

“Want to love you by the light of the moon,” I answered, fully intending to see the play of ethereal light on his well-shaped body as I worshiped every inch of him.

“Gonna turn into a werewolf, too?”

I finished hooking and tying the second set of drapes and returned to the bed. “Yep; just might. Devour you whole, that’s what I’m gonna do…right now!” I grabbed him and sealed off any possibility of expiration. Without breaking the kiss, he wrapped his legs around me and rolled us over until his arms were pinned beneath my back against the mattress. I have never been kissed like that. He put all his strength into touching and loving the deepest recesses of my mouth. Then he moved, and I felt the joy of enthusiastic hardness just before he began thrusting against me. He was taking control again. I was tempted to wrestle him for the steering wheel, but I didn’t want to interrupt his pleasure.

“I turn you on,” I whispered into his parted lips, thrilled at the proof of my assertion.

He growled in answer and thrust harder against my cock. At first, I couldn’t think about anything but the glorious friction, the heat, the sounds he made deep in his throat that reverberated in my soul. But I didn’t want a quick rub-off. I wanted to figure out ways to slowly invade his sanity. Take an hour to reach the finish line instead of five minutes. I didn’t have the chance. Starsky was suddenly the same man on the tennis court, the man running the lawn like an armed gauntlet. His frantic thrusts drilled me into the mattress, as though he were penetrating me. The overwhelming sensation triggered explosions seconds apart. I kissed the sweat from his forehead. His eyes were already closed, his breathing steady, and he collapsed against me. I cradled him and fell asleep.

“NO! TAKE ME–NOT HUTCH!”

Despite my pinned position beneath him, I nearly pitched both of us off the bed, as the desperate scream echoed in the large room. The muscular body in my arms trembled violently. I caught my breath and said loudly, “Starsky! Wake up!”

He snorted, coughed, and jerked back. “Ow!”

I winced as he rubbed the offended body hair on his stomach. “Yeah, worse than super-glue, isn’t it?”

He grinned. “I’ll live.”

I reached up to touch his face, caress his jaw. “You okay? Some dream, hm?”

He looked guarded, wary, though his hand covered mine and pressed it tighter against his face. “Dream?”

“You were dreaming. Sounded fairly nasty.”

“Sounded?”

“You said–”

“Never mind. Hold me, Hutch.”

I urged him downward and back into my embrace. I wasn’t satisfied with that. I took my turn at rolling him over and leaned over him, running my hand through his tousled hair. His eyes were wilder than after yesterday’s first kiss, but the wildness wasn’t youthful or exhilarated. I pushed his eyelids down gently with the tip of a finger and then replaced the finger with my lips. He sighed heavily, “What do you see in me?”

I was taken aback. I moved my lips to the side of his nose and whispered, “That doesn’t sound like a David Starsky question.”

“Tell me. I need to know.”

I slid an unbroken kiss down his chin, throat, and lingered over his sternum. He cupped the back of my head and the pressure of his hand kept me in place. “You know you’re gorgeous, buddy. You’re also brave, forgiving, loving, funny, smart–”

“Don’t flatter me, Hutch! Tell me the truth.”

“I’m not flattering you. I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay, then tell me the truth.”

I pushed my head back against his hand and looked up at him. I quaked at the desperately serious expression. I had the sense that my answer would determine his staying in my bed or leaving it forever. I closed my eyes and put my hand against his cheek. “You’re home. I know your face…your smell…your voice. I don’t feel safe from all the…the craziness in me unless you’re nearby. You excite me. I don’t mean just sexually. Always. You’re bright-eyed innocent one minute, and the next you’re a bigger con artist than Huggy, but you always manage to stay genuine. You can make me happier than anyone ever has–”

“And madder’n a wet hornet, too,” Starsky interrupted.

My eyes opened. “Wet hen.”

“What?”

“Madder than a wet hen.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The expression is ‘madder than a wet hen’.”

“Don’t you think a wet hornet would be pretty mad, too?”

“Starsky!”

“See?” He laughed.

I was so glad to hear his laughter, I didn’t argue the point or give in to his baiting. I covered the laughing mouth with my own and moved my body against his. His arms circled my back. We lay there for several uninterrupted minutes, kissing and softly petting. We both felt the passion escalate, but we didn’t let it carry us away. That moment wasn’t for sex. The last I remember, my lips were resting against his jaw, and his hands held my waist with loving firmness.

When I woke again, the sunlight had turned the entire room to gold, and Starsky sat on the side of the bed eating a bowl of technicolor puffed cereal. I yawned and swallowed my disappointment that he’d obviously already showered. He looked so good in his clinging baby blue faded jeans and halfway open white shirt that I wanted to give him reason to pull them off again. I’ve always noticed Starsky’s clothes. If asked, I could probably give an inventory of his wardrobe. I quit thinking about clothes at that point, because two deep blue eyes were making love to me over the bowl of Sugar Poofies.

“Out of bed, sleepyhead!” He lifted the bowl with flawless precision to avoid the pillow I hurled at him.

“Starsky, what is with you? You’ve been awake before me the last few days. Is the earth suddenly spinning in the opposite direction or something?”

He shrugged. “Got to make the most of every single day.”

“Since when, Nemesis of all Morning People?”

He smiled and flung the pillow back at me. “I don’t know. Since we’ve been here, I guess. Maybe it’s this place. Who wouldn’t wanna get up and enjoy living here?”

I felt both eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t tell me there’s landed gentry under that middle class Brooklyn exterior?”

He laughed. “Ya caught me.”

“Have I?” I asked seriously.

He jumped up, bowl of cereal in hand, and went to stare out the window. My windows afford a view of the back lawn with the gazebo and rose garden in the distance. I wonder if those memories prompted him to say, “Why don’t we go into the city today? You know, just prowl around and hang out?”

“As in San Diego?”

He turned and grinned. “No, New York City, goofball. ‘Course, San Diego.”

I stretched and yawned again. “Do I get a good-morning kiss if I agree?”

He sprinted to the bed, slapped the cereal bowl down on the nightstand, and reached for me. I threw myself wholeheartedly into his arms and thought after the kiss concluded that brushing my teeth might be redundant. He released me immediately, though, and clapped his hands. “Up, snap to it; the SS Torino embarks in half-an-hour!”

That confirmed my suspicion that the trip to San Diego was meant to keep us away from an empty house with six different queen-sized beds. I put on a smile that I didn’t feel and rushed into the bathroom for a shower.

I don’t usually dress for anyone. Some people have said I have peculiar taste, but I don’t care; it’s my taste and I stick to it. This morning, I purposefully wore a pair of soft khaki pants three different women had complimented and the light blue pullover that Starsky gave me for one birthday or Christmas. I debated shaving my mustache, but decided against it. If Starsky can’t come to terms with being in love with a man, the absence of a strip of hair isn’t going to do the trick.

I found him kneeling on the cobbled driveway, examining the driver’s side of the Torino. “There a problem with the SS Torino?”

He went vertical and whirled around, clutching his chest. “Jeez, Hutch. Give a guy some warning.”

“Something wrong with our ride?” I repeated. He shook his head. “You just like running your hands over the door and window for no reason?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Hutch. You lock up?”

“Yes, of course.” I paused halfway in the car and grinned. “Sure she isn’t gonna turn into the SS Minnow?”

“Get in the car,” he growled, wagging his keys ominously at me.

Those hours in San Diego changed my life. Starsky would roll his eyes and mutter complaints about soapiness, but the truth is, I lost my heart forever and irrevocably to David Michael Starsky during the six hours we spent in the city today. It’s not that something monumental occurred. I simply got an injection of classic Starsky straight into my jugular vein and it sealed my fate.

The drive in consisted of Starsky belting out every other song that played on the radio and taunting me with jokes in between. We made our first stop the San Diego Zoo.

For the first hour, we had enormous fun arguing about the animals. Starsky had a strange trivia fact about every damn species in his memory banks, and when I tired of hearing which bird is known as the biggest adulterer or the average mating speed of the Tapir, I started drowning him out with the zoo’s expert commentary. When we got that out of our systems, Starsky spent twenty minutes entertaining a seven-year-old terminal cancer patient with monkey imitations. Obviously, the oddly named monkeys in question–bonobos, I think–hadn’t heard the saying “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” They weren’t pleased with his antics. Screeching, spitting, and baring their teeth, they all retreated to the depths of their enclosure. Fairly soon, he’d drawn an audience of children. I don’t know where they all came from. For that matter, I don’t know where he found the string he used to perform various magic tricks for them. One mother tried valiantly to drag her ten-year-old triplets away out of concern that they were bothering “that nice man,” but Starsky convinced her the honor and pleasure were his, and the mother relented. I think he impressed her more than the kids.

Lunchtime found us at a funky diner that encouraged its patrons to sing aloud, for everyone’s enjoyment, whichever selection they chose on the jukebox. Not long after our food arrived, we were distracted by a young woman’s predicament. She was in her mid-twenties perhaps and bore the dual curse of braces on both legs and a deformed arm. She couldn’t sing over the teasing and mocking catcalls she fielded from a table of university jocks. Starsky bounded from his seat before I could say two words. Somehow, without looking the least bit obvious, he re-selected her song and gave the impression that she’d make his entire world if she sang a duet with him. I watched them do justice to “I Will Survive” in perfect harmony and marveled that no one in the diner would have even suggested he was on a mercy mission. The jeering big men on campus certainly didn’t think so. You’d have thought someone cut their tongues out, they got so quiet.

After we’d tired of prowling the sights, we walked the beach and landed in a pick-up basketball game on a surfside court. We weren’t dressed for it, but that didn’t matter. Starsky and I played together as well as we did when we beat two young upstarts for some valuable snitch information. I sat out the second game, since there were enough players without me for decent competition. Starsky thought my back was the culprit. I assured him I just wanted to enjoy the ocean breeze. Really, I wanted to watch him. His athleticism and the quick reflexes borne of street work make him a deadly basketball player. I couldn’t have been happier in a court-level seat at an NBA game.

On the way back to the Delaneys’, I fell asleep with my hand on his thigh. He woke me, leaning in the passenger side and blowing into my ear. Fully awake and overflowing inside, I leapt out of the car and pushed him against the Torino. He didn’t have a chance to escape. Oh, God, his lips were so soft under mine. He opened his mouth to me and let me inside. Really let me inside this time…finally letting me give as much in return as I’d been given by him. I’d felt his hands on various portions of my body through the years in times of sickness, crisis, or teasing, but nothing compared to the jolt of electricity from his kneading the back of my head with all ten fingertips as we kissed. I wanted the moment to last forever, but even well-conditioned lungs have limitations.

“What…was that for?” he gasped, face outshining the sun.

My face probably could have won an award for lovesick idiocy. “You rocked my whole world today.”

He put a hand on my forehead. “Blintz, you feeling okay?”

I captured the hand and brought it to my mouth, nibbling at it shamelessly. “Okay? I’m sky-walking! I want to touch every inch of you–twice. I want to buy you a house in Palm Springs. I want–” I struggled for words to demonstrate my feelings.

Starsky’s stomach growled.

I released his hand and threw mine in the air. “God, it’s impossible to be romantic with you.”

He laughed. The gurgling chuckle started somewhere deep inside that I don’t believe I’ve ever touched before. It was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. He cupped my chin and squeezed gently, and the laughter faded into an expression that broke my heart once more. Wistful, adrift, sad–like he’d been told there was a new law against being happy. “Jeez, does me so damn good to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

He squeezed my chin again. “Satisfied with something.”

“Someone,” I corrected significantly.

His stomach made itself heard again. He grinned sheepishly. “You know, this book I read said the stomach does that ’cause of digestion, not hunger.”

I confiscated his hand and turned toward the house. “Oh, come on. Book or no book, you wiped the court with those twenty-somethings, so you deserve to be hungry.”

“My turn in the kitchen,” he announced.

“Starsk, why don’t you relax and let me–?”

“Nope. Fair’s fair.”

He threatened me with bodily harm if I showed my face in the kitchen. I changed into my swim trunks and took advantage of the late afternoon sun to enjoy the pool. Wet and satisfied with my lap-time, I put on the socks and tennis shoes I’d brought out with me and turned the enormous lawns into my personal track. I was in the shower, singing a saccharine tune and feeling the endorphin rush from my exercise, when Starsky peeked his head around the shower curtain and whistled at me.

“Dinner’s ready, bee-yoo-ti-ful. Meet me on the back patio.”

Before I could reach for the firm jaw and tug him closer, the curly head disappeared with a rustle of the shower curtain. I stomped my foot. “Dammit, Starsky!” But my frustration couldn’t erase my smile. He’d called me beautiful. The comments on my appearance I’d fielded from girlfriends over the years faded into oblivion.

I regretted my sweat pants and jersey. Starsky had transformed the back patio into the courtyard of a fine French restaurant. Candles flickered in the twilight. The table was formally set. I stared. I didn’t even know Starsky knew how. The plates caught my attention. Up until now, we’d been eating off the everyday dishes in the cabinets.

“You raided their china closet?”

“Sort of. The one in the kitchen, not the one in the dining room. Figured that was the real expensive stuff so I left it alone.”

I nodded at the logic. “Yeah. Starsky, this looks…this is–”

“Aw, siddown,” he mock-scolded, chuckling, and poured me a glass of wine. I glanced at the bottle. He swatted the top of my head with his free hand. “I bought it myself. Didn’t raid their wine rack.”

After pouring his own glass, Starsky vanished. Tantalizing aromas ushered in his return. I turned in my seat to watch his approach. His grin could have cooked the food without the aid of an oven.

“What in the world?” I said, as he dropped a scoop of buttered rice on my plate and topped it with an olive green concoction.

“Never seen a stuffed pepper before, Blondie?” He served himself and sat down. I poked at the pepper with my fork. “‘Cept these are different stuffed peppers. Filled with roast chicken, bread crumbs, and spices instead of beef.”

My mouth watered and my tongue threatened to meet the fork halfway to my lips. I savored the first bite. Starsky watched me intently, anxious, I could tell, for my reaction. In the not-so-distant past, I would have gagged and feigned disgust just to get his goat. The import of the moment squelched my joke reflex. “Absolutely incredible,” I assured him. “Where did you find the ingredients? We didn’t buy this stuff at the grocery–”

“Picked up the fixings with the wine while I was in town yesterday morning,” he answered, downplaying his actions with a shrug.

I devoured another forkful and relished the flavors. “When’d you learn to…how come I’ve never–?” I waved my fork at him, knowing he’d understand my questions.

Surprisingly, he flushed and turned his attention to his plate. “If I told you all my secrets, you’d get bored.”

The truth hit my heart full-force and almost burst the organ inside my chest. Every guy has a fancy, impress-a-special-date recipe, even guys who don’t normally spend time in the kitchen. I have my own. This was Starsky’s. More important, though, was when he’d purchased the ingredients–when the idea to cook this for me had occurred to him. I put down my fork and touched his wrist lightly, demanding his eye contact. “Buddy, thank you.”

“It’s just a meal.”

I clutched his wrist. “You know better than that.”

“Hutch–” He pulled his eyes away and stared out across the lawn.

“Starsk, look at me. Look at me! I love you.”

His serious blue eyes were hauntingly beautiful in the mixture of dusk and candlelight. He sighed, cleared his throat, and dropped his fork, careless of chipping the plate. He leaned over and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I know! God, I know!” Then his lips were on mine, and the stuffed peppers grew cold as we feasted on each other.

We lingered over dinner, communing with very few words, and afterward I refused his offer of help with the cleanup. I craved his nearness, but I still sensed the fragility of our union and I wanted him to have some downtime. Besides, he’d worked so hard on the meal.

I made quick work of the dishes, but when I went in search of Starsky, I found neither hide nor hair of my partner. I don’t know what drew me toward the rose garden. I had no reason to assume that he’d be there of all places, but as soon as I reached the edge of the garden, I spotted him. In the shimmering moonlight, he stretched out face down in the grass, his arms wrapped around a decorative boulder. The tense set of his shoulders, the slight tremor I detected in his body took my breath away. Out of nowhere, I heard my grandmother’s voice reading to me about another son of Israel from millennia past in the Garden of Gethsemane: He went a little farther, and fell on the ground, and prayed that if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, “Abba Father, all things are possible for you. Take this cup away from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what you will.”

My blood froze. I wondered if that was how Starsky felt about committing to me as a lover. That it’s a cross he’d rather not submit to, but feels forced to out of some duty to me? I raced through the maze of rose bushes and fell down on my knees beside him. Starsky turned hollow, tear-stained eyes in my direction. I pulled him against me. “Oh, dammit, Starsk. Don’t torture yourself like this. I don’t want it…I don’t want you if it’s making you this miserable.”

He drew back and stared at me. “Hutch, what the hell are you talking about?”

My eyes burned and blinked rapidly. “Us. L-loving each other this way.”

He frowned and traced a fingertip under both of my eyes. “Hutch, that’s the most beautiful thing in my life right now. Us, being this way.”

“Then why…why…?” I couldn’t form the question. He’d drawn me into a gentle kiss, and his hands crept beneath my jersey, stroking my back and melting the ice within me.

We made love there in the rose garden. Nothing elaborate, but it was the most glorious yet, in my opinion, because he gave me free rein with his body. I followed the moon-cast shadows with my lips and lingered where I inspired soft moans and sighs. By the time I accepted him into my mouth, he was already knocking on the door to Paradise. Tasting him, caressing him with lips and tongue, rejoicing in his hardness and obvious excitement, I fell under the spell of his thrusting hips and delightful guttural noises of pleasure. I didn’t pull away until his last spasm faded with a whimper. The moment his lips sought mine, and his hand wrapped around my desperate erection, I swallowed a shout and surrendered to bliss.

By some miracle, we managed to clothe ourselves and trek back to the house. After a quick, practical shower, we fell into my bed, both ready for sleep. He accepted my embrace without question, curled up against me, and brushed his lips across my chest.

“Hutch?”

“Um?” Barely awake, I still didn’t want to deprive him of conversation.

“Always believe you’re tough. You’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever known. Don’t ya ever forget that, okay?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, alarmed. His grave, important voice was back. I got no answer. The man in my arms was already fast asleep.

I lay awake for perhaps half-an-hour before I tired of the faceless enemy I fought, the worry I didn’t understand. Easing myself out of bed without waking him, I went in search of my journal for a distraction. Tomorrow I’m going to pin him down about what’s bothering him.

 

May 11, 1979

I woke this morning alone in bed. I battled a sinking feeling. I’d wanted to softly kiss Starsky awake and then blow his mind. I decided in that first moment of wakefulness that I’m in love with a changeling. The one person I want to hold onto and “tie down” with my love seems to want no part of that. I crawled out of bed and didn’t bother with clothes. A quick survey of the house produced no sign of him. The Torino was conspicuously absent from the driveway. I fought down a sense of climbing panic and returned to my room.

He’d taped the note to the toothbrush holder. I had to laugh–Starsky knows my morning routine, all right. This one read: Babe, gone to town, but not for long. Love, Starsk. I was pleased and relieved that he was still in the vicinity, but part of me struggled with annoyance and confusion. What fascination did this town hold for him? And what were his plans that couldn’t include me?

I fixed a bowl of oatmeal and fruit and carted it out to the back patio. I knew I was returning to the scene of happy memories for comfort. My psych courses come back to bite my tail often. The morning sun tried to wrap me in soothing warmth, but it couldn’t dispel my chill. I knew if he were here eating his Sugar Poofies at my side, I’d be commenting on the abundance of bird life around the mansion. I could hear him laughingly calling me “bird brain” in response. He’d fling a Sugar Poofie at me and I’d retaliate with a blueberry. We’d end up in a food fight and eat the results off each other. I shook my head. Not with my on-again-off-again changeling.

I read for a while after breakfast and spent the next hour exercising. I had a renewed interest in my own health and well-being. That was a nice feeling–wanting to see myself in the mirror for a change. In a replay of the day before yesterday, the phone caught me fresh out of the shower. I clutched frantically at my towel, gave up on it, and rushed nude to the phone.

“Delaney residence. Ken Hutchinson speaking.”

“Detective Hutchinson, how are you? This is Geoffrey Smythe.”

“Mr. Smythe, hello. I’m fine. What can I do for you?”

“Is Detective Starsky there?”

“Not at the moment. May I take a message?”

“He had morning tea with me. The dear boy seemed to just know I was having a lonely morning. Anyway, he left half-an-hour ago and neglected to take along his book.”

“Book?”

“Yes, he must have bought it before coming to see me. Would you please tell him that it’s here?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, and, Detective? Do please offer him my condolences.”

“Pardon me?”

“Yes, well, I didn’t mean to pry, of course, but you see, when I lifted the bag, the book fell out and…well, one assumes based on the title–”

“Yes, Mr. Smythe?”

“Ahem. Yes, well… The title is Surviving Grief: Coping with the Death of a Loved One. Naturally, I assume–”

“Yes, Mr. Smythe. I’ll…I’ll definitely pass along your message.”

“Thank you, dear boy. I shan’t keep you. Have a lovely morning. Goodbye.”

I hung up the phone and sat down heavily on the carpet beside the bed. What was going on? What was my Starsky suffering through that he wouldn’t share with me? I felt overwhelmed by silent rage. My arms were made to comfort him…didn’t he know that after all these years? I was no longer mourning the ambivalence of a lover; I was aching to bridge the gap with my best friend.

I camped out at the door long before his arrival. When he opened the door and found me inches away from him, he jumped three feet in the air. “Missed you, too, buddy,” he joked, smiling.

I slammed the door shut behind him and folded my arms across my chest, not confident that I wouldn’t grab him and shake him or crush him against me if I left them hanging at my side. “Mr. Smythe called.”

“Yeah?”

“You left your book.”

He shrugged. “Oh, okay. We can grab it when we take the key back on Sunday.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“What’re you talking about, Hutch?”

The blade sliced deeper into my heart. “Is it…is it something to do with your mother? Is she ill? Your aunt or uncle?” I paused, considering. “Nick?”

“What do you mean? Ma’s just fine. Everyone’s fine. Now onto more important stuff.” One hand on my shoulder, one hand against my cheek, he met my lips sweetly, softly. I felt my eyes fill and I pushed him away.

“Is that it, Starsky? You’ll take me as a lover, but I’m still on probation as a friend?”

Anger replaced the sweetness. “Oh, that’s terrific! What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know, Starsk. Call me crazy, but I don’t think most people buy a book about coping with a loved one’s death just because the cover’s pretty! All I’m asking is for you to let me be there for you, help you with whatever’s going down.”

He smiled, but the expression held no joy. “Nothing’s going down.”

I clenched my fists at my side and felt despair consume me at this chasm I couldn’t cross. “So you’re just going around acting like a grieving person for the fun of it? Maybe I should remind you that I know your mother’s phone number by heart.”

“You have no right!” he shouted, eyes blazing, stepping backward to the door.

“Loving gives me rights!” I yelled back.

I don’t know why that should have silenced his anger, but it did. He clamped his mouth shut and stared at me. Then he sighed. “Hutch, I bought the book for my Aunt Miriam. She lost her husband a few weeks ago, and she’s not dealing well with it. Ma’s real worried about her. I’m gonna write her a nice little note and pop it in the mail to her when we get home.”

Starsky is a man of many talents. Sometimes I think he’s three people rolled into one. What he can’t do at all well is lie to me. My unerring Starsky-polygraph scratched like crazy at his explanation. I also recognized his subtle back-off signal. I abandoned the book inquiry for another important point. “So what’s been bothering you the last couple days?”

“What?” The blue eyes turned furtive again and his mouth hardened.

“Come on, Starsky! I find you practically prostrate in the damn rose garden. Could’ve sworn you’d been crying. Every now and then you look like the world’s gonna end. I’m just supposed to stand by and let you suffer?”

He walked up to me and took me in his arms, cradling the back of my head with his warm hand. “Had a lot on my mind, Blintz,” he whispered in my ear. “Life’s been tough the last year. You know that. Lots of things don’t fade easy.” He pressed his lips against my ear, and I hated myself for the shiver of desire that unsettled my body when we were still on such shaky ground.

“That’s why you felt the need to leave me behind this morning?”

Starsky pulled back and traced my jaw with a fingertip. “Needed some space, Hutch.”

“We’re partners!” I said, and I didn’t like the sharpness in my tone. He didn’t either; I could tell by the glint in his eye, but he just grinned.

“I don’t need back-up to have tea with a nice old guy.”

“That’s not the point.” I pushed past him and opened the door. Turning back around, I said, “Fine. That’s the way you want to play it? I’m going for a walk–see you when I see you.” I left him standing in the foyer and felt the slam of the door throughout my whole body.

Halfway down the drive, I knew I was being childish. I shouldn’t expect Starsky to stop being his own person just because we touch each other differently now. I wanted to rush back to him and tell him so, but I couldn’t shake my own grief. The feeling that I’m losing him–somehow, irrevocably–assaulted me and I tripped over the uneven cobblestone.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders and I was helped back to my feet. I hadn’t even heard him behind me. I barely noticed that I’d scraped the heels of both palms. I didn’t say a word as he led me back to the house. He dragged me into the unexplored master suite and rifled shamelessly through the bathroom medicine cabinet until he found antiseptic. I stared at my feet while he bathed the scrapes and applied the ointment. The next thing I knew, little gauze bandages dotted my palms, and he brought each covered wound to his lips. I looked up then.

The master suite could have housed an entire family, but the amenity I’ll always remember is an oversized, sideways-bowl-shaped leather chair. I’d never seen one like it. Starsky guided me over to it and pulled me down with him. He curled us deftly together and held me in his arms. I wanted to pull free and reverse the situation. This wasn’t right. I should be comforting him–somehow, I was sure of that as I enjoyed the delicious embrace.

“Starsky–”

Lips against my temple preceded a warm voice in my ear, “Shh. Don’t talk. Just be here.”

I closed my eyes and gave in to the stillness. We stayed like that for over an hour–just breathing, wrapped around one another, basking in each other’s presence. It was the most spiritual experience I’d ever had. In that silent communion borne of strife, our gaps began closing. I could feel the cliffs on either side of the chasm pulling together. The continents realigned. There wasn’t a damn thing sexual about it. My heart told him in that quiet moment better than I could ever have phrased it how sorry I am that I took advantage of his unconditional love, betrayed his trust, and lost my grip on us during the turmoil involving Kira. I could hear his heart’s response, his understanding, and his fear at the time that he was losing everything that mattered to him–his fear that he was losing me.

He seemed to know just when to break the silence. He tightened his arms around me and said softly, “I love you. I…I’d…I’ll die for you.”

“Won’t ever let that happen,” I said firmly. “Love you too much.”

The arms tightened again and then I felt lips brushing through my hair. I was drowsy, comfortable in his arms, and lulled by our closeness. My eyes turned leaden and I drifted. On the cusp of sleep, I could have sworn I heard him moan softly and whisper, “Oh, God, I don’t think I can give this up.”

Starsky slept, too. I woke first and rejoiced in his steady breathing. I squirmed around in his embrace until I could watch his face as he slept. I’ll never forget the inner light I sensed shining clearly around him at that moment. Though his eyelids fluttered restlessly, his face was peaceful, his lips slightly open. Their moist softness drew me. I didn’t want to wake him, but I couldn’t resist. I fingered the little birthmark beside his eye and pressed my lips against his, just content to breathe with him.

“Ummm…” He sighed and then his lips were open wider under mine. I took advantage of the invitation with everything I had. “Yes,” he mouthed against me, his fingertips squeezing between our faces to caress my mustache. He changed the angle of the kiss and took control, and I saw stars behind my closed eyelids. “Yes, I want this,” he breathed heavily.

I don’t know when I became such a nut for symbolism, but the import of falling asleep together as reunited friends and waking up willing lovers rocked my heart. I also don’t know when I learned the tantric control–or when Starsky did, for that matter. We devoured each other’s mouths, ripped the buttons off our shirts in our haste to get to bare chests, and touched, rubbed, and stroked relentlessly, but we never moved the action below the waist. There didn’t seem to be a need for it right then.

We skipped lunch. After we’d kissed to the point of needing oxygen through a cannula, we pulled ourselves together, gathered up our damaged shirts, and left the master suite in its former pristine condition. I followed him into the kitchen, but he wasn’t in search of food. Starsky quietly filled a small brown paper bag with breadcrumbs and took me by the hand. At that point, I’d have let him pull me through the flames of Hell by the hand. I certainly had no problem with him leading me across the back lawn, to the back of the rose garden, and into a clump of woods.

The dense covering of trees opened onto a small pond. Starsky smiled at me and stood still in the radiant sunlight. I opened my mouth to say something–I’m not sure now what it was–but he shook his head and grinned. I watched in astonishment as a string of ducks, ducklings included, swam lazily but purposefully in a perfect line to the edge of the pond and made a beeline for my partner.

I tried to dig up an even halfway logical explanation for the ducks’ behavior and failed miserably. Starsky wasn’t bothered by the incredulity of the situation. He released my hand and plopped down on the grass. Opening his bag, he distributed the crumbs with soft, childlike laughter as several of the ducklings waddled between his open legs all the way to his lap. I stared. I’ve been around my fair share of ducks in Minnesota. I’ve never even seen pet ducks display such openness around a human who hadn’t raised them. When the ducks had eaten their fill, we sat at the pond’s edge and had a stone-skipping contest.

The rest of the afternoon we spent laughing over games. We migrated to the game room and carefully prepared one of the fancy chess sets for play. Starsky used every trick in the book other than fair play to beat me. Watching his twinkling eyes, fielding numerous winks, I put up a minimum of fuss and bluster so I wouldn’t lose my reputation for being a disgruntled loser, but really I was in seventh heaven. I suggested a game of ping-pong, but Starsky’s face darkened, almost twisted in pain, and he shook his head vehemently. I thought the reaction odd, to say the least, but I didn’t question him. I teased him about worrying that I’d spank him with one of the paddles and tossed a cue stick at him. He whacked me across the ass with it and laughed evilly at my jump and yelping. We chased each other around the pool table and had a mock sword-fight with the pool cues. God, it felt so good just to play with him. I’d missed our fun and games during the last stretch of difficult cases.

Dinner was simple. We fixed homemade pizzas side by side and got into the food fight I’d missed having at breakfast. Starsky looks incredibly cute with shredded mozzarella cheese hanging from his hair. I felt considerably less attractive with a smear of tomato sauce across my nose. That is, until he licked it clean. Having the bridge of your nose sucked gently by someone you’re nuts about is a definite jolt of pleasure.

“You’re right,” he said slowly, before biting into his second slice of pizza.

I put my own piece down and wiped my mouth. “About what?”

“I did lose my grip on priorities for a while. It’s no excuse, but it was easy for me to do when the person I always looked to for lessons on how to care…suddenly stopped caring. I’m not blaming you, I’m just–”

“No way. I don’t care if you’re blaming me or not. I’m not agreeing with that. You didn’t need me to show you how to care about anyone or anything.”

“Not true, Hutch. Watching you stand by Kiko when he was bound and determined to ditch you helped me stick with Sharman through the worst. I was a jerk about Mitchell, but after everything went down, I was damn proud of you, buddy. Couldn’t help but wonder why that same person would crowd me for lookin’ after Emily.”

I choked on my swallow of beer, and Starsky immediately patted my back. I waved him away. Clearing my throat, I sat back in my chair and stared into the kitchen, as if the oven could provide me answers. “The truth isn’t pretty, Starsk. I was concerned about you, but I handled the situation with the compassion of a grave robber. I felt you were once again telling me that our partnership could take the back seat. It was just one more damn case we were solving apart and–”

“You were solving,” Starsky said, turning my chin with his hand so I had to look at him.

“There’s no need for this, Starsky. Let’s move forward instead of–”

“I’m sorry. I need you to know that. Sorry for all the times this last year we should’ve been together instead of–”

“We had some good times,” I rushed to reassure him. “And some ridiculous times.” I smiled and Starsky burst out laughing. We stared at each other and said in unison, “The Baron!”

“That French accent of yours should’ve been illegal. Jeez, I heard Tyrone’s voice in some of my nightmares after that assignment. Mix Tyrone and Ramon and you have the perfect psychological warfare. Could evict Castro from Cuba blasting that combination from Guantanamo.”

Starsky grinned and winked at me. “I dunno, I was kinda fond of Mr. Marlene, though. You oughtta drag him out of the closet more often.”

My whole face burned. “Hah hah. You’re a real comedian. Move to have that stricken from the record, Your Honor. Counsel is inebriated.”

“Am not!” Starsky protested. “Something sexy about that airy Hutchinson drawl.”

“Do you want me to pour the rest of this beer down your shirt?”

Starsky touched the back of his hand to my cheek. “Might as well. It’s coming off later anyway….”

I shifted in my seat. “Finish your pizza, flirt,” I growled. Starsky laughed again.

After kitchen chores were dispatched, we lounged on the roomy sofa in the den and watched a movie and an odd variety show that Starsky likes. His upper body rested comfortably in my lap, and I had the pleasure of petting his hair non-stop. “This is a hell of a lot nicer now that you’re not smashed on moonshine,” I said. Starsky turned his face and kissed my thigh in response. “You’re not bored?”

Starsky rolled his head around and looked up at me. “Why would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know…this isn’t exactly your usual party-hearty type vacation.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be, Hutch.”

“I know. It’s just that, I know what you were like when we first got to Dobey’s cabin. You weren’t just scared of the woods, partner, you were scared out of your wits of being bored senseless. Admit it.”

“I’ll take bored over red-robed freak shows any day, thank you.” He lifted the hem of my shirt and reached a hand up to rub my stomach. “Look, it’s good to slow down, ya know? We’ve been on a crazy pace lately. ‘Sides…” He grinned and moved the circular rubbing motion higher. “I like you payin’ me all this attention.”

I tweaked his nose. “You keep talking like that and I’ll pay you even more attention.”

Starsky moved so his lips found my hand. His eyes boring into mine, he said deeply, “Want you to take me all the way tonight, Hutch.”

Every nerve center in my body jumped to attention simultaneously. “Do you mean–?”

“I’m talking home run, partner. Grand slam, upper deck,” he said, eyes pleading.

I didn’t know what to say. Intercourse is a natural instinct for men, and I was astonished that I hadn’t given any thought to “taking” Starsky. I’m sure as hell not submissive–the sudden thought of him penetrating me set off more than a few alarm bells, too. Had I thought the relationship would continue on this path of prolonged foreplay? But I couldn’t see David Starsky submitting either. To anyone. Even me.

“Starsk, don’t get me wrong. I think…that would be great between us–”

“You’ve got the ‘but’ written all over your face, Hutch. What’s the problem?”

I shifted uneasily and he sat up. I fled the couch and stood in the doorway, my back to him. My hands burned, and I stretched out my arms, gripping the doorframe just for something to hold onto. “I don’t think we ought to jump so quickly. This is a big step for both of us–a big change.”

Starsky’s can-the-bullshit laughter rang out in the room’s stillness. “You sound like a girl on prom night, Hutchinson.”

I almost forgot to move my arms when I jerked back around to face him. “Oh, thanks a lot, pal. Maybe we should reverse the roles for tonight’s festivities. Want me to wear lingerie to bed? You’ve always liked teasing me that I’d look good in basic black and pearls.”

“Hey!” Starsky said sharply, jumping to his feet. “Hey. What happened to the man who jumped that net like a hurdle and told me your love didn’t make me less of a man–or you neither? Huh, where’s he?”

Starsky knows how to push my buttons. He’s well aware of my violent distaste for hypocrisy. His face told me he knew he’d scored a point. “It’s not that simple. I have no experience. You just don’t…you just don’t fall into bed and do this.”

“Most of the time you don’t fall into bed with a woman and just do it either–not if you’re a good lover, anyway. Anythin’ worth doing is worth taking the time to do right.”

I wasn’t ready to yield by a long stretch. “Starsky, what’s wrong with taking it slow…enjoying what we have?”

He crossed the room to me and took my face in his hands. God, I love the feel of his callused palms on my cheeks. He stared into my eyes, and I knew if I let him look long enough, he’d get to the heart of the matter. I pulled back and leaned in the doorway, grateful for the doorframe’s support against my back because my knees felt like twin jellyfish.

“Hutch, babe, what gives? I love you. You love me. We’ve been through hell, we’ve put each other through hell, and we still have this…this big love between us. What the hell’s wrong with letting it take us wherever it can?”

It never fails. Anything that seems convoluted and lined with disaster to me makes perfect sense to Starsky. One final plea. “We have plenty of time, Starsk–”

“No!” he shouted suddenly, grabbing me by the shoulders. I felt cold wrap around my heart.

“What are you saying? Is…is this gonna go away when we get back home? Is that it?”

He shook his head, and his eyes had that regret and pain again. “That’s not what I meant. We…we live dangerously, Hutch. Every day. Can’t put stuff off, you know? I don’t wanna put this off.”

“Why do you have to be the one to…to–” I broke off and Starsky grinned at me.

“Take it up the–”

“Starsky!”

He laughed and pressed his thumb against my chin. “What are you afraid of? Talk to me. You’re s’posed to be in love with me, and I’m here putting on a prize-winning debate to get you into the driver’s seat. Don’t make sense.”

“That’s the point!” I shouted, batting his hand away. “If we do this, I know…I know I’m not going to be treating you like an equal in that bed. Once I let go, I’ll…I’ll–”

“What? Overpower me? Control me?” Starsky’s eyes sought mine again and pinned me–a cat mesmerizing a bird out of a tree. “Dominate me? Is that–? I’m right! That’s what has you all tied in knots. What if I told you I want that from you?”

“What?! You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not talking kinky, Hutch. Hell, I don’t know enough about that side of the street to come up with kinky. I just wanna feel your strength. I want the man who can wrestle me down, who can carry me even when I’m dead weight. I want to know I’m in bed with my partner, my best friend, ’cause he’s the only man I’d ever be in bed with in the first place.”

That last statement sounded circular at best, but my brain simply took it at face value and translated the Starskyese. Put that way, the concept made sense. Understanding brought my lower body to life. Starsky’s instincts are nearly flawless. He covered my groin with his hand, applying gentle pressure. I seized clumps of his hair and pulled him into the craziest, most driven kiss I’ve ever delivered. I think I came close to knocking one of his teeth out, and he scraped my tongue almost painfully in the process. I’m surprised I didn’t leave mustache-burn on his soft upper lip.

Someone should have filmed our bumbling, lust-crazed scavenger hunt for something to use in what Starsky had already dubbed “the pre-game warm-up.” I didn’t question his sudden penchant for baseball analogies. If he’d started comparing lovemaking to mink hunting in Siberia, I’d have nodded and made agreeing noises. I wanted him. I wanted him so damn bad I couldn’t find my way to the room I’d been sleeping in since we arrived.

Starsky was in full possession of his faculties, damn him. He located the “grease” and laughingly dragged me to the room. I say he dragged me. Hard to drag someone trying to crawl into your pants any way they have to, even if it’s up the pants’ leg, but he tried. When we neared the destination, I took a chance on accepting his explanation for his wants and swung him awkwardly up into my arms. He wrapped his arms around my neck and laughed louder. Then my overprotective partner rushed to the fore and told me to put him down before I needed two different kinds of back brace. I ignored him.

We had the foreplay part down pat, although we added some variety by taking a bath together. We were both dead gone with excitement or we’d have never tried cramming both of us into that small bathtub, especially the way we twisted around each other to find every erogenous zone possible. Starsky managed to voice concern about my scraped hands but I kissed him quiet. What the hell did I care about my hands except where they could touch him next?

Once we reached the bed, the awkwardness we’d held at bay broke free. I don’t think I’d have made it through all the “preparations” if Starsky hadn’t used every joke in the book to put me at ease. I never knew a sense of humor could be so erotic. The harder I laughed, the more I wanted him. He couldn’t have been comfortable. What I had to do to him to make the final consummation endurable was no fun, no matter how many jokes he cracked.

I didn’t know such a gut-deep sensation of love and protective, adoring power could result from a man putting his legs over my shoulders. The trust shining through his smile choked me up, and I was sincerely afraid I’d start bawling and ruin the moment for us both. For all his talk of wanting my “domination,” we joined together through sheer teamwork. Every time I froze, fearing the pain I was inflicting, he’d coax and wheedle me into continuing, or shock me into action with obscene and ridiculous come-on lines. I’m damned streetwise after nearly ten years on the force, but he knows words for the male anatomy I’m not sure I could even spell. I’m tempted by the notion that he invented some of them just for me.

Physically, I was in a combination of Tahiti and Paris. We found an incredible rhythm that more than made up for the initial awkwardness. I did let go–pushed and pulled him back and forth with energetic thrusts, held him down on that bed with my love, and forced him to struggle for participation. And he loved it. Loved every minute of it. Tested my strength, crushed my arms with just his fingertips, and made fierce rumbling noises that sounded like an angels’ choir in my ears.

When he started panting commands at me, I lost all control. If he’d yelled for me to lick his big toe without leaving his body, I’d have found some way to accomplish the task. For all my efforts, I couldn’t bring him to orgasm while we were joined. Eventually, I gave in to my body’s needs and smothered my delirious shouts against his chest. The adorable nut laughed throughout my delirium. I’d just forced his body to defy nature, but he giggled like the recipient of a feather massage. He stopped giggling when I launched my counterattack. Half-asleep from satiation, I still managed to make good on my fantasy of touching every inch of him twice. Kissed, petted, and sucked all the way up and down his body, until he made my previous orgasmic shouts quiet by comparison.

After I cleaned us up and pulled back the rumpled bed covers, Starsky curled himself around me. “Man…always had a suspicion you were an incredible lover, but damn!”

I laughed and stroked his back. “You had something to do with that, my friend. I touch you, and I turn into a different person.”

“Yeah, for one thing, you’re no longer clumsy.”

I smacked him on the rump. He punched me playfully in the side, but his slight flinch told a different tale. I winced and cursed myself for not thinking. “Hurt you, didn’t I?”

“Hutch, don’t get all clinical about it now.”

“Tell me.”

He sighed. “You’re bigger’n any man has a right to be, Blondie; ‘course it hurt some. I distracted myself by thinking of how I’m gonna escape all the crazed women coming after me with pitchforks and torches for takin’ you off the market.”

“You’re not exactly a midget, Starsk. My ass is already trying to figure an escape route.”

That cracked him up. We rocked with our laughter and kissed softly. “So glad we had this,” he said, lips barely touching mine.

“So glad I have you,” I whispered back.

He took my hand in his and put it over my heart. “I…I’ll always be here, Hutch. Promise. Long as this is beating strong, that’s where I’ll be.”

I wanted to probe the meaning in his unusually sentimental words, but I couldn’t fight sleep any longer. I mumbled a few endearments and closed my eyes.

 

May 12, 1979

I woke this morning at four a.m. and wanted to shout with joy at the feel of Starsky in my arms. His warm nakedness soothed parts of me I hadn’t even known were hurting. I moved my legs against his and grinned until my mouth ached. I contemplated the real possibility of breaking out in song just from the feel of the coarser hair on his legs and the strong muscles that matched mine. I was drunk–wasted on love. But even with the incredible feelings rushing through me, I was happiest that he was still Starsky. I saw his imperfections, listened to his familiar breathing/snoring, and sniffed the hint of leftover pizza on his breath. Wonderful. He was everything familiar and all things new. He was still the man given to honest rage and prone to silly dreams. Making love to him hadn’t changed the man I’d fallen in love with–years ago, if I’m honest with myself. At four a.m., that revelation made perfect sense to me and made me laugh. I stroked his face, kissed softly across his lips and back again, and debated waking him for another round of bed wrestling. I decided against it. He slept so happily. I satisfied myself with the beautiful thought that we’d have plenty of nights to wake up and wreck the bed together.

That thought woke parts of me that required more distraction than pleasant fantasies about the future. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him, so I left the bed as quietly as possible and fumbled in the dark for my robe. I’d left my book on the little antique secretary desk in the far corner of the room, and I took advantage of the desk lamp to write in comfort without shedding enough light to wake him. I grinned again as I remembered what had distracted me earlier from my nightly ritual of writing the days’ events.

Time slipped away as I wrote about yesterday and let all the different emotions wash over me. When I glanced up again and rested my pen against my forehead, I noticed the sun’s arrival. It was a gorgeous dawn, the golden light streaming through the still open windows and flooding the bed with its rich color. The light seemed to gather around Starsky. A nimbus of light crowned his head. I stared at the phenomenon, fascinated. Without warning, his body moved. His chest jerked violently and he fell back to the bed, curled over on his side. I knocked over my chair in my haste to reach him.

I grabbed him by the arms and hauled him into a rough embrace. “Starsky! Lover, wake up. Come on, buddy. Open those eyes.”

He woke gradually in my arms. His eyes glistened and he reached up to caress my face. “I…I’ve been allowed to come back to you?”

I stared at him. “Starsky, what’s–?”

His face’s sudden change interrupted me. He shot wild looks around the room and looked painfully embarrassed. I eased my grip on him, but he sought closeness, wrapping his arms around me and pressing his face against my neck. “Remind me not to make pizzas with you again. Think they gave me indigestion.”

“Sell that somewhere else, partner. You had one mother of a dream. What’s going on?”

“Just what I said,” he said quietly, rubbing his nose against my neck. “Indigestion means whacked out dreams. What, was I screamin’ to wake the dead?”

I flinched at the last words. “Nah. Just…your body moved funny, and when I woke you, you said something about being allowed to come back to me.”

Starsky wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “Yeah, I remember now. You wouldn’t believe it, Hutch. I was Earth’s diplomatic gift to this race of alien women who all looked like Jaclyn Smith or Lynda Carter and…and all I could think about was your cock. They weren’t happy, lemme tell you. I thought about explaining to them how it’s only a little smaller’n the Eiffel Tower, but I was afraid they’d kidnap you or something.”

I wanted to smack him. I wanted to remodel his tongue. I wanted to hold him forever. I laughed instead. “You’re right. I’m not sure I believe that.”

“It could happen,” he said in his half-defensive, half-defiant tone.

“You getting handed over to a race of beautiful alien women? Sure, maybe. You thinking only of my cock under those circumstances? Not a chance, Starsk.”

“Thanks a lot. What does that say ’bout your belief in my loyalty and…and my affection. Fidelity, ever heard of that one?”

I smiled and kissed his frowning lips. “Don’t have a doubt of your loyalty, but you’re also David Starsky–for which I’m eternally grateful–and–”

“Hey!” He shoved at my chest with both hands and backed away until he sat against the headboard, knees pulled up. “You think I’m gonna step out on you every chance I get? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s sure as hell what you’re implying.”

“I didn’t say you’d act on any reflexive heterosexual thoughts you might have, lover.”

Starsky waved his hands at me in sheer frustration. “Oh, that’s great. That’s just great! I suppose you wouldn’t have any of those ‘reflexive heterosexual thoughts’.”

I shook my head, equally frustrated. “I didn’t say that. Of course, I would. I wouldn’t act on them, either, and I’m sure–”

“Sure nothing. You’ve got it in that blond head of yours that I’d cheat on you–”

I crawled over the bed covers and seized him by the shoulders. His arms came up to break my hold, but instead his hands turned and grasped my upper arms. “Starsky, why the hell are we arguing about alien women this time of morning?”

He scowled. “Not alien women. As you’re so fond of saying, there’s a principle here, Hutch. You don’t trust me.”

“That’s not true!” I said loudly. His eyes ducked to the sheets and I sat back on my heels, releasing him.

I’d been suckered. His look told me he knew he’d pushed the game too far. Starsky was practicing the three D’s. The three talents that make him arguably the best undercover cop Bay City has ever seen and ever will see: distraction, disinformation, and deflection. He could teach a CIA course on all three.

“Want to tell me what the dream was really about now that we’ve had fun in your little hall of mirrors?”

He glared at me. “Come on, Hutch, you think I could make something like that up on the spur of the moment?”

I smiled and nodded. “Any day of the week, partner–twice if you’re properly motivated. You’re not sharing a bed with some nameless blonde. This bedmate knows you through and through. In fact, if I knew myself half as well as I know you, I’d never have been miserable this past year.”

He stared at his knees. “Wish I could remember the dream since it’s bothering you so much.”

I wanted to believe him. I’d have given my right arm to believe him, but I knew better. He’d never have practiced diversionary tactics with me if a straightforward answer like “I don’t remember” were truthful. Starsky would walk across the backs of crocodiles barefoot to avoid being dishonest with me.

I leaned forward and patted his knee as prelude to leaving the bed. A strong hand seized mine and tugged until I met his eyes. “Com’ere, sweet, beautiful man.”

If any other man called me that, I’d put him in traction with just one look. Coming from Starsky, it was a lightning-hot turn-on that I didn’t want to give in to right then. That quirky, tilted-head smile of his finished me. I succumbed to the pull of his muscular arm and fell under his spell.

When I woke again, Starsky was still wrapped around me. I kissed his hair and cursed myself for not being satisfied. I knew just how many people would love to be in my shoes–the keeper of Starsky’s friendship as well as his passion. Our lovemaking this morning was sweet, not as complicated as last night’s consummation, but no less explosive. When Starsky’s mouth found me this time, it was not at all tentative like his first attempt by the pool. That I was the only man he’d ever consider touching with this oral intimacy should have thrilled me. It did, but I still felt cold somewhere inside. I kissed his cheek and extricated myself from his hold, pausing kid-with-the-cookie-jar fashion when he snorted and blinked his eyes. He resumed steady breathing and rolled over, clutching at a pillow. I slipped into my robe and left the room.

The early morning sun shone gorgeous over the South-Pacific-style pool, and I stretched out on one of the generous lounge chairs, parting my robe and enjoying the warmth on my chest. Taking in the peaceful surroundings, I suddenly understood my inner chill. The pre-dawn euphoria about loving the same man I’d been partnered with years ago had faded with the aftermath of Starsky’s dream. Am I really the keeper of Starsky’s friendship as well as his passion? I have my doubts. On the surface, our connection seems healed. After yesterday’s communion in the chair, I feel a lot better about the platonic side of our relationship. We can hang out and have fun together without ending up in bed, but where’s the man who calls me up at 3:00 a.m. if he tires of wrestling with a problem? Where’s the man who emptied his soul to me after Terry died?

For some reason, I leaned over the side of the chair and stared back across the lawn at the massive oak tree that had witnessed our first night’s altercation. The branches flaunted their mid-spring re-growth in the breeze. My detective’s instincts kicked in, and I coughed sharply against the bitter truth–Hutch-the-bosom-buddy had severely wounded Starsky; Hutch-the-lover had a clean slate. Some people fear placing all their eggs in one basket. I’m one of them. Even with my beautiful Gillian, I reserved the deepest part of me for Starsky. And, though I loved her deeply, Gillian was a change-of-pace I needed from the intensity of my partnership with Starsky. I know that now. I’m ready to blend the intense best friend and lover roles with Starsky, but is he? I have no doubt that two years ago, I’d have known immediately–from his lips–the truth behind his odd behavior the last few days. Now direct interrogation isn’t even working.

“Philosophical thoughts aren’t allowed before your morning coffee,” a deep, resonant voice said behind the lounge chair. A voice I’d recognize in a whirlwind. “You thinkin’ of cutting down that tree? Stare at it a little longer like that and you might not hafta.”

I accepted the steaming mug and couldn’t help laughing at the incongruity of Starsky’s cut-off jeans and bare chest matched with the piping hot cup of coffee he grasped. He looked longingly at the space on the chair between my legs, and I parted them willingly. He grinned and sat down in front of me, lounging back against my chest.

“God, this feels nice,” he said softly.

“Um-hmm,” I agreed, rubbing his legs with mine as I sipped my coffee.

“Gotta love the weather down here,” Starsky commented. “Wonder if it’s still chilly at home?”

“Don’t know. It has been a really mild spring.”

“Mr. Smythe called. He invited us for dinner tonight. I know it’s our last full day here, but I think we should go. He really is a nice old guy and–”

“Sure. Sounds good.”

Starsky swiveled his shoulders and stared at me. Then a sly smile crept onto his lips. “You always this agreeable after a mind-altering blowjob?”

I squeezed him with my knees. “Quite the cocky stud, aren’t you?”

“I speak only the truth.” He laughed. “Had you singing opera, boy.”

“You didn’t exactly lie still and quiet when I reciprocated.”

Starsky twisted again and transferred the cup to his right hand. He lifted his left hand and toyed with my lower lip. “I think I’ve always been a little fascinated by your mouth. Something about the way you talk. Your lips are real expressive. And when you sing…man, oh, man.”

That admission took my breath. When I recovered, I tried to joke away the impact it had on me. “So tell me,” I said awkwardly around his fingers. “Sticking that clove of garlic in my mouth was just a way for you to fondle my lips?”

He laughed. “Guilty as charged.” He left his fingers on my lips until his mouth neared mine, his eyes keeping my gaze prisoner the entire time. His kiss was coffee-flavored and warm. I couldn’t open my eyes even when the lips left. Those fingers stroked my cheek. “Jesus, Hutch, you rip my heart up inside.”

My eyes popped open, and I realized I was dangerously close to spilling my coffee on the sandstone poolside. I righted my cup and swallowed hard. “That doesn’t sound like such a good thing.”

“Wouldn’t trade a thing for the feeling.”

“Really? If you had a choice between what we have now and what we had…say, four or five years ago…what would you want? Honestly.”

He turned around again and lay back against me. He took a few gulps of coffee. “I hate when you ask questions like that, Hutch, ’cause I know you’re not asking what you really want. And I wish you’d just hit me with it straight.”

“Fair enough. Are you going to still see me as your first line of defense–on the street and off–now that we’re sleeping together? I want us to count on each other for everything we always did when we were right on target as partners, friends. Can you handle that?”

“I want everything with you, but you know what? I’ll never be able to convince you with words, so why don’t I show you?”

I had barely processed the answer, when he confiscated my coffee cup, set it down on the sandstone with his, and seized my hand, pulling me off the chair. It occurred to me that being dragged around by the hand is a facet of our new relationship I’d better just accept.

He had me sit on the sitting room’s floral sofa and told me he’d force-feed me jalapeno-chili enchiladas for lunch if I moved a muscle. I fully believed him. The sudden image of Starsky straddling me and shoving ten-alarm Mexican food down my throat, though slightly erotic, was not a vision I wanted to make reality. Consequently, I didn’t even scratch at a bug bite on my ankle. He returned a few minutes later and told me to close my eyes. I did so and could feel him sitting down beside me. Something flat and cool was placed on my bare legs where the robe had opened farther in the mad dash to the house.

“I wanted to spring this on you tomorrow night when we got home…you know, prove that this isn’t a vacation-fling, but I’d rather show you now. Open those baby blues and turn to page twelve.”

It was a catalogue from the music store in town. I flipped cautiously to the requested page, as though the catalogue might explode in my face. Starsky’s beatific, grinning expression lit tiny floating fires throughout my bloodstream. I stared at the page bereft of speech. Finally, I managed a croak. “Wha–what’s th-that?”

Starsky laughed–the joy of a child, the satisfaction of an adult. “If you don’t know, maybe I bought you the wrong thing.”

“Starsky, that’s–that’s a baby grand piano!”

“Whew! For a minute, I thought we needed to get your eyes checked.”

“Starsky, you can’t just buy a baby grand piano!”

“Tell that to Bahama Bobby in town. His brother runs their sister-store in Bay City. Amazing the coincidence, don’t you think?”

I turned and gripped his shoulder. “What bank did you rob, and when did you do it without me?”

The beautiful smile disappeared, and I called myself every dirty name in the book. Some manners I had, but the price had been effectively blacked out with marker and I needed–I had to know what financial damage my impulsive partner had done on my account. “Haven’t you ever heard of a nest egg? This piano’s smaller than the one in Bahama Bobby’s store, and it’s not top of the line, ’cause a cop’s nest egg is smaller’n lot of people’s, but it’s still a quality instrument and–”

“Nest egg? You blew your savings on this? Starsk, I have a vague idea what a model like this would cost. I have a piano. I-I have no room for this instrument, even if I could get it into Venice Place. I don’t even have the time for music that would make an investment like this worthwhile.”

His face had darkened by degrees throughout my tirade. When I trailed off, he sighed and said, “Are you through listing reasons I’m a dumb-nut for trying to show you how I feel?”

That cut me deeply and I deserved it. I dropped my hand from his shoulder to his knee and squeezed gently. “I’m sorry. So sorry, lover. I-I just don’t understand. When did you–?”

“I made some arrangements with Bahama Bobby yesterday when I was in town.” He left the sofa and walked over to the window, where he propped one hand on the frame and shoved the other in his pocket. “You have a top-notch guitar, but you’re always having problems with that old piano. Never stays in tune, you said. Some keys barely function. I want…I want you to take more time for your music. Really do something with it. Maybe…maybe make a second career out of it.”

“Starsky, that’s an incredibly beautiful thought, but I can’t handle a second career. I barely have enough time for the first one; you know that.”

He didn’t face me. Still staring out the window, he shrugged. “We’re getting to the age that makes a fall-back plan smart. ‘Sides, you have a talent that shouldn’t be wasted on just me. Bahama Bobby even said he’d refund a couple hundred of the purchase price, if you’d come back to the store one day and put on a little concert. His business has really picked up since Tuesday. On account of that, he already knocked off the storage and delivery charges.”

“Storage?” I couldn’t assimilate all the information, so I seized on the one word that made the least sense.

Starsky pivoted and smiled bashfully. “His brother in Bay City’s gonna properly store the piano until you–until we have a bigger place to move it.”

I let the catalogue fall from my lap and I rose slowly to my feet. “Starsky, are you asking me to live with you?”

I remembered asking that question once before. This time I got a different answer. Starsky’s eyes shone a little too bright and his jaw trembled. I couldn’t understand, couldn’t fathom why such a pleasant concept would have that effect on him. He looked away and nodded quietly, Adam’s apple throbbing under the force of emotion.

The lecture about preserving our jobs–and our safety–in the light of our new relationship died on my lips. I couldn’t bring harsh realities into focus when the man in possession of both my heart and soul looked two seconds away from choking on his feelings. I crossed the small room and flung my arms around him. He clung to me and turned his face against my neck. I massaged his back. “Shh, lover. I’m happy. I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve something like this.”

He moved his lips to my ear and whispered, “It’s not what you do, but who you are. Everything to me. Promise me, one day you’ll write me a song and you won’t stop ’til it hits top ten on the charts.”

I smiled and rubbed his back harder. “Promise.”

“Mean it, Hutch. We don’t break promises, you and me.”

“I mean it. I promise.”

~*~*~*~

Bahama Bobby got his concert sooner than he expected. I was nervous as hell, but after what Starsky did for me, I’d have agreed to play the piano naked with a rose tucked behind my ear. I joked about that to Starsky while I dressed for the trip into town, and he said he’d beat senseless anyone who suggested seeing me naked. I asked if he included women in that threat. He blushed and got defiant, and I laughed at him. I knew he was joking, but I basked in the thrilling sensation of being claimed so possessively by someone I love so much.

I’d thought Starsky’s suggestion of music as a second career ludicrous because I do not like audiences. Never have. My music is an intensely personal expression of my feelings, and it took Starsky’s constant wheedling early in our friendship to convince me to play for him. Starsky has helped me open up on a few occasions through the years, but the thought of performing professionally made me want to purchase a one-way plane ticket to American Samoa. This afternoon, though, something happened. Bahama Bobby must have hired the town crier. He didn’t even know when we’d arrive, but five minutes after I settled down with the guitar, a small crowd gathered in the store. I alternated between guitar and piano and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I didn’t even notice the people. Perhaps I was too caught up in Starsky watching me like I’d turned into a rare hybrid of Jimmy Page and Fats Domino. Perhaps I wanted to do my best as a way of showing my gratitude for Starsky’s amazing gesture of love.

I sang a few personal favorites, took some requests, and eventually warmed up to performing a couple original songs. After the crowd dispersed, Starsky and I hung around for a while and chatted with Bahama Bobby. He’s a talented, funny, and giving person.

He’s also well connected. When we turned to leave, he pulled me aside and told me if I ever wanted to take the plunge, he’d get me an audition. Without realizing it, I probably gave him a condescending smile at best, because he yanked a framed photo from the wall and shoved it into my hands. I stared at the picture and handed it back, shaken. Oh, yes, Bahama Bobby could definitely get me an audition. I left the store feeling both taller and terrified at the same time.

I didn’t have long to feel terrified. Starsky had seized my hands in the middle of the sidewalk outside the store. “Beautiful, I didn’t even think…your hands–?”

“Starsk, my hands are fine. I barely scraped them.”

He released one of my hands to feel along my jaw. “And that singing…your jaw–?”

“Starsky!” I jerked my other hand free and lowered my voice. “Just ask a certain part of your anatomy how well my jaw’s doing. And we’ve been kissing each other incessantly. Do you really think I’m hurting that badly?”

He grinned and play-punched my other cheek. “Just making sure.”

“You are a nut.”

“For you? Definitely.” He glanced down at the sidewalk and then brought a shimmering, wonder-struck gaze up to meet mine. “You let me call you beautiful.”

I couldn’t restrain a grin. It was probably one Starsky would call goofy. I patted his stomach. “Starsk, I’ll let you in on a little secret, and I’m trusting your common decency not to take advantage of it. If you do, I’ll have to take it out of your hide. But the truth is, the way I feel about you, I’d let you call me ‘purple antelope’ if it made you happy.”

“Grrrowl…to have that kind of power over you, Blondie,” Starsky teased, eyes flashing.

“Use it wisely. No one else has had it. Not like this.”

Starsky’s face changed. For a second, I thought I saw a wave of pain and worry flow over those features so familiar to me. He glanced skyward and clenched his jaw, and then he was grinning again and winking at me. “Come on, this conversation’s gonna get indecent for a small-town public sidewalk. Let’s head over to Mr. Smythe’s.”

Just as the town had seemed drastically different to me on our first day here, Mr. Smythe’s house struck me anew during my second visit. His cottage belonged five thousand miles across the Atlantic, where murders occur in Vicarage libraries, and sweet old ladies help the local inspector solve the crime. On Monday, I’d had to bite down a snide thought about the thatched roof; this evening I felt awash in quaint beauty. Starsky took me firmly by the arm and dragged me inside before I could wax poetical.

Mr. Smythe outdid himself. He served us roasted quail Marsala, fine new potatoes in skins, and brandied green beans. Conversation over dinner featured a healthy serving of harmless town gossip and glowing stories about the Delaneys. Through it all, he never referred to us without our job title. He could invite guests of the manor to dinner in the late twentieth century, but calling us by our first names was still taboo.

After dinner and the obligatory glass of port, he settled us in the comfortable “drawing room” and plied us with coffee and sweet “biscuits.” Starsky recognized them immediately as cookies in disguise and dived into them with unabashed enthusiasm. I watched him with fondness warming me far more than the port had.

Starsky and Mr. Smythe engaged in an interesting debate on the arguments in the clipper ship book Starsky had read over the week. That conversation transformed easily into a progress versus tradition debate. I left them to it, fully confident in Starsky’s ability to hold his own, and scanned the books on Mr. Smythe’s shelves. From there, I migrated to a decorative shelf of photos. One aged, yellowed picture in particular caught my attention. A young man in flight uniform stood on a large overturned bucket and rested his arms on the wing of what looked to me a British Spitfire. His grin was infectious. I didn’t realize I’d been staring at the photo, hypnotized, until silence reigned in the background, and then a soft voice just behind me caused me to jump.

“My son, Gregory. Squadron Leader in the RAF. He died in the Battle of Britain. Thirty-nine years ago now. We share the same birthday. Dear boy would have been sixty-four next week.”

“Then you must be–” Starsky began. I took advantage of Mr. Smythe’s distraction to nudge Starsky, who eyed me with confusion.

But Mr. Smythe heard the unfinished question. “I’ll turn ninety, Detective Starsky.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, hating the inadequacy of my words, when I could tell how moved Mr. Smythe was after all these years by the huge price of warfare. He surprised me with a bright smile.

“Don’t be. My Gregory was a hero. He was glad to give his life in the cause of crushing Nazi Germany. He understood that some forms of Evil can only be defeated by great sacrifice on the part of Good and Innocence. Nothing is quite as powerful as voluntary, noble sacrifice.”

The room was suddenly freezer-cold. I noticed that Mr. Smythe’s kindly face focused on Starsky, who looked as though someone had been rummaging through his diary.

I lost my grip on politeness. “That seems to be a directed statement, Mr. Smythe. Care to explain?”

“Hutch.”

“No, I want to know what he means by–”

“Pardon us, Mr. Smythe, but Purple Antelope and I need to be on our way. The food was great. We had a great time.”

“Purple Antelope?” Mr. Smythe asked, smiling.

I packed every dagger I could into the glare I shot Starsky, who quaked, much to my satisfaction, but managed to grin at our host. “Old undercover nickname I call him every once in a while. Sometimes it just slips out, you know? Um…thanks again for everything.”

Mr. Smythe wordlessly collected a small bookshop bag from the coffee table and handed it to Starsky. Starsky avoided eye contact with me as I shook hands with Mr. Smythe on our way out.

Once in the Torino, Starsky tossed the bag into the back seat and used the cover of darkness to turn my face to his and press his lips against mine. I broke the kiss first and stared out the windshield, arms rigid at my sides.

“Aw, Hutch, don’t be mad. I just didn’t want you to interrogate a harmless old guy who–”

“Who was staring at you like he’d seen a damn vision, right after he carried on about–”

“Hutch! What’s wrong with you, hm? You readin’ sci-fi novels when I’m not looking?”

I turned in my seat and fixed him with my best probing stare. True to form, Starsky squirmed after a minute. The ride to the Delaneys’ was quiet and electrically charged. On arrival, I didn’t wait for him to get out of the car before I stomped up to the front door, opened it, and made a beeline for my room. I took up post in front of the window closest to the bed and stared into darkness, wishing the cold would leave me.

A few minutes later, I felt warm arms wrap around me from behind. “You’re mad at me, right?”

I slouched and leaned my head back on the strong shoulder. His hands crept upward and covered my chest possessively, fingers stroking my nipples through my shirt’s thin material. The sensation blinded me. “I’m not mad,” I whispered. “Every detective’s instinct I have is screaming, but I think I’m too damn close to the situation–whatever it is–to hear what they’re saying.”

His lips brushed my neck. One hand abandoned my chest in favor of my tightening groin. I breathed deeply at the contact. A soft voice whispered in my ear, “Hutch, you’ve been on one helluva roller coaster lately. The last couple’a months’ve been rough. That’s what has you seeing shadows and jumping at nothing. Let me take you away from it all tonight.”

I heard what Starsky wasn’t saying and laughed harshly. “I’m far too jaded to be seduced, Starsky.”

“Let’s see if you say that after tonight,” he said with sensual confidence ringing in his voice.

“Starsky, I appreciate the thought, but–”

“Meet me at the gazebo in ten minutes,” he softly ordered, and with a quick peck on my cheek, he released me and left the room.

I was halfway to the front door when I stopped short. I went in search of two glasses and a bottle of the ’64 Dom Perignon. I hurried out the door with my precious cargo and tried to get a grip on my enthusiasm. Starsky wouldn’t want me to give in to him too easily. Soft lights filtered onto the lawn from the gazebo, and I heard the strains of music.

Starsky greeted me with a breathtaking smile, and I knew immediately it was one I’d never seen. I almost tripped over the gazebo’s threshold. He steadied me with a sultry laugh and removed my bounty. “We have permission,” I said, as his eyes widened at the champagne bottle. I was grateful that he didn’t ask questions. I still didn’t want to go into the conversation with my mother. I didn’t want the outside world to intrude on our paradise even for a moment.

I noticed the radio on the bench. Starsky had located a syrupy romantic station, currently playing an achingly beautiful rendition of “Clair de Lune.” I decided to jerk his chain a bit. “What’s up with the auditory sex?”

Starsky guffawed and yanked me into his arms. “You are hard to seduce, Ken Hutchinson. Did I ever tell you I’m crazy about your name? Ever since I first heard it.” He cradled the back of my head and rested his lips on my cheek, kissing softly over to my ear. “Ken….”

My entire body trembled. It wasn’t that he’d never said my first name. It was the way he said it at that moment…like he’d waited years to do so, saving it for the most special occasion…like he’d always known we’d eventually share a moment this intimate. That one word was an inviolate vow. He reclaimed my name from all those who’d used and abused it in the past. I had to steel myself not to go limp in his arms.

“Dance with me,” that miraculous voice commanded.

“Starsky–”

“I’m asking you, Hutch. Please.”

I stepped back from the embrace and locked eyes with him. “Only if you lead.”

The brilliant smile returned, and I knew he understood that I meant more than the dancing. He stroked a fingertip down my nose. “Tonight, buddy, I’m in control.”

We slow-danced in the glow of the lanterns Starsky had hung around the gazebo. He held me with infinite gentleness and made it clear with his sighs and targeted caresses that he’d never danced this way with one of his nightclub conquests. Once again, I sensed he was giving me a part of himself he’d reserved for years. I buried my face in his hair and a moan slipped free; I could feel locked doors around my soul splitting in two. He laughed softly.

“Sounds like it’s working,” he commented.

“You know what you’re doing to me,” I said into his hair.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me? For me?” he asked, increasing the amount of contact between our lower bodies as we swayed to the music. “You’ve made it all worthwhile. You’ve made me live. Made me feel good, down deep, where it counts.”

I don’t even remember some of the things he said to me in that gazebo. His words were an elixir I drank greedily, hurriedly, and they beat the champagne by a long shot, both in taste and the impact on my mood. I did get the impression that he wanted to take me up on my implied offer to return last night’s favor. As soon as we’d taken care of the necessities so the gazebo wouldn’t burn down in the middle of the night, we headed up the stairs to Starsky’s room.

I made a complete mess of it. It was the most humiliating sexual experience of my life. I can’t believe it. I’m almost thirty-six years old; I’ve seen and done a lot in my time. Yes, I’m as much a novice at this game as Starsky, but that’s no excuse. I’m the one who first developed these non-platonic feelings. I’m the one who’s always been comfortable with my ability to find other men sexually attractive. I found that doesn’t translate into successful sexual consummation with another man–even Starsky.

He took control, just as he’d promised in the gazebo. He tried to give me the best loving I’ve ever had. He was considerate, attentive, passionate, and gentle. I have firsthand understanding now how Starsky can take one look at a woman and have her jumping through hoops of fire for him. I used to think it was his boyish charm and desirable physique. I now believe they must have an instinct that he’ll be the one unforgettable lover of their lifetime.

He exercised care and patience, knocking down my defenses with romance instead of humor, but at a crucial moment, after he’d already demonstrated miraculous control, I froze, hit some sort of mental wall, and begged him to stop. I don’t know what the hell happened. I simply refused to accept penetration and lost every hint of arousal. Starsky didn’t take a page out of my book and get up and run away. He let me bring him over the edge with my hands, and then he held me in the most loving arms, whispering compliments and reassurances.

He fell asleep with ease, unaffected by my failure. Every time I closed my eyes, I suffered through the same ridiculous dream: Mr. Smythe’s soft, wrinkled face would appear and tell me I’d blown the one chance I had to give Starsky all of myself. The fifth time I woke, sweat sticking my face to the pillow, I left the bed, put on my boxers, and went downstairs for my book.

 

May 13, 1979

I woke this morning with Starsky shaking me. I’d fallen asleep with my head in my arms on the secretary desk. Starsky initiated a tug-of-war for the book under my arms, and I sighed with relief when I won. He scratched at his eyebrow and said, “What’s so important that you fell asleep down here instead of in bed with me?”

I closed the book and shook my head. “Nothing. Just writing down what’s happened over the week.”

His eyes lit up and he held out a hand, wiggling his fingers. “Oh? Lemme see.”

I knew not to hold the book away from him, if I wanted to dampen his curiosity. I shook my head again and yawned for good measure. “Starsky, it’s just my very dry account of where we’ve gone, what we’ve seen, and so on. That’s all. You don’t want to spend the last morning of our week off reading this stuff.”

Starsky looked unconvinced, but he shrugged and yawned, too. He scratched at his belly with both hands and stretched, arching his back. That little move inflamed me. I sprang from the chair and seized him in a full-body hug. His body, still warm from the bed, comforted my half-naked chill. He laughed and nibbled at my earlobe. “It’s still early, and there’s a bed upstairs that’s missing both of us right now.”

I smiled. “Got one just a few feet away, too.”

“Nah, mine’s nice and slept-in.

For the innumerable time, I let him take my hand and pull me along with his tidal wave of energy. I have to admit it’s a surprising turn-on to have a lover strong enough to pull me anywhere. After he pushed me down on the bed and climbed in with me, there wasn’t a word said about last night’s fiasco. He teased and tormented me and made me laugh until I was hoarse. We spent the remainder of the morning cuddling and playing. Except for our nudity and the few times our hands strayed below waistlines, we could have been replaying a moment out of our early partnership. The semi-platonic mood ended when he pinned me down on the bed and rendered me breathless with his talented mouth. Of all the changes in our relationship over the past week, his kiss is the one physical pleasure I’d shed lifeblood to preserve. When his mouth is locked on mine, I feel closer to him than I did when fully sheathed in his body.

He relinquished my lower lip slowly and pressed his face against my chest. “Hutch, I’m…I’m….”

“Yes?” I stroked my hands through his hair and massaged his scalp. God, I love doing that. He shook his head against my hands. “What? What aren’t you telling me, Starsky?”

“Can’t,” he muttered over my skin, his hands sliding up my sides.

“Can’t, or won’t?” He shook his head again and gripped my sides harder. I could feel his fingernails marking my skin and I didn’t care. “What do you need? Are you trying to tell me you want to give it another go?”

“What?” He glanced up, eyes confused.

“Last night. You want to try again?”

“No!”

“We can,” I soothed. “It’s okay. You deserve–”

“No!” he shouted and clamped a hand over my mouth. “Don’t you say that! What’s between us ain’t about deserving. You’re the most important person in the world to me, and I want what you want and only what you really want! You got that?”

“I want you to talk to me, dammit!” I yelled as best I could against his hand. The words sounded even angrier due to the muffled effect. Starsky released my mouth and stared at me. “I want you to quit shutting me out of whatever isn’t right with you. If you think I buy that bullshit about your Aunt Miriam, you’re forgetting who I am!”

A hint of anger darkened his eyes. “Didn’t yesterday prove–?”

“You say our relationship isn’t about deserving. It isn’t about proof, either, but even if it were, buying me a piano–while a selfless, loving, and wonderful gesture–doesn’t prove to me that we’re still partners on a deep level!”

He shot out of the bed, propelled by some invisible force, and hobbled and tripped over his jeans in an attempt to dress quickly.

“Starsky.” I calmed my voice and sat up in the bed.

He paused with his hands over the zipper and curled his fingers, grasping at thin air. When he looked at me, I wanted to crawl under the covers to escape the pain in his eyes. “What do you want from me, Hutch? What’ve I gotta do? You say you want me, so I give you parts of me I’d never let another man touch unless he held me at gunpoint. You say you want friendship, too, so I try to show you I want everything. You’re still not happy. I’m out of answers here, babe, and I’m tired of feeling pushed.”

I could feel the chasm re-opening, but I couldn’t leave the bed to breach it. “Making love to you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but the price is too high if you’re going to shut me out of other parts of your life. Can’t you see that?”

He held himself rigid straight and zipped the jeans, but I noticed the small tremor that danced along the muscles in his arms. He hunted around for his shirt and slipped it on without saying a word or even looking at me. Finally, he shot me a quick look that split my soul wide open. “Don’t talk to me about price! You…you have no idea about price! All I wanted…I needed…was to know I’d made you happy…really happy…before–” He shut his mouth, and I could tell he ground his teeth, frustrated with himself. He turned and marched toward the door.

“Before what?!” I shouted after him, jumping off the bed and closing the distance between us. He whirled at the door and held out both hands, warning me to back off.

“Stay away from me right now, Hutch. Do that much for me, ‘kay?” He left the room and I fled to the door, holding onto the doorframe and leaning out to watch him walk down the hall.

I spent the next two hours in his bed. I didn’t have the energy to do anything else. The confrontation had drained me, left me feeling hollow and weaker than I’d felt in the whole last year. He had it backward, I decided, wrapping my body around his pillow. He was the one who showed no signs of real happiness except in scattered moments. He talked of loving me as something he did for me, not for his own joy. He’d made the gift of the piano sound like a point he had to make. A chilling thought hit me and constricted my throat. Had he really found some form of happiness with Kira that I couldn’t imitate…couldn’t replace? If anyone could have tamed her infidelity and game playing, it was Starsky. Not through force or ultimatums, but through consistent, overwhelming love. That’s his style. If I’d just ignored her and let things run their course….

“No!” I shouted in the bedroom’s silence. No, she’d have broken him. Slowly. Over time, she would have turned him into me. I buried my face in the pillow and prayed for sleep.

I woke in Starsky’s arms. He lay fully clothed on the bed and held me so that my head rested on his chest. He caressed my back with one warm hand and rubbed my shoulder with the other. I was afraid to move and break the spell, fearful that he couldn’t handle this closeness except under cover of my sleep.

“Those eyes open, or you hiding from me?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

“You said to…stay away. I thought–”

“No, Hutch. That was me being an ass. You got a right to say what you need. God knows, I haven’t handled this situation worth a flip. I’ve never been real good at resisting you.”

I turned my face against his chest and let his scent comfort me. “Are you saying all this has been your way of giving in to me? Nothing else?”

His hands rubbed soothing circles. “No. No, that’s not what I’m saying. Guess it sounds like it, but that’s not what I mean. I just know the timing’s all wrong.”

“If not now, when?”

I heard a pained animal sound and lifted my head. His eyes were tightly shut, and he shook his head back and forth as if trying to shake a torturous thought.

“Starsky, if not now, when? You’re really close to making me think you wish this had never happened. I don’t want to believe that. You made love to me last night. It sure as hell wasn’t a captivating performance on my part, but you made it magic, anyway. No way can you do that if your heart’s not in it…right?”

“Com’ere, beautiful man.”

I’d obey that particular command if I had to walk naked and blindfolded up Mt. Everest to get to him. Our lips met clumsily, but I put everything I had into the kiss, and when I released him, I was proud to see a dazzled, stunned expression on his face. Finally, I’d out-kissed him. I watched him, grinning, while he recovered.

“That, partner, oughtta be illegal.”

I laughed, more with happiness at what he called me than the humor in his joke. “It is in some states, I’d imagine.”

He batted lightly at my nose. “Let’s go out and do something.”

“What you got in mind?”

He looked around the room. “I dunno. Just want to wear myself out…somehow.”

I frowned. “Starsky, this is the last day of our vacation. We hit the grind again tomorrow. God knows when we’ll have another day off. Relaxing doesn’t appeal to you?” I slid my hand in his shirt’s opening and fingered his chest lovingly, drawing a tightening circle around his right nipple. He hissed softly and clasped my lower arm, drawing my hand out and bringing it to his lips.

“I’m not thinking about tomorrow,” he said firmly. “Or the…the next day.”

He didn’t give me time to think, either. He ran us both ragged. After we threw together a hodge-podge brunch, we cleaned the kitchen. Let me rephrase that. I cleaned the kitchen while Starsky danced and bopped to a deafening rock station on the radio. Watching his body move more than compensated for having to do all the work. As soon as the kitchen shone spotless, he dragged me outside for a long walk. We probably covered three-quarters of the estate, but that didn’t satisfy his sudden desire for energy-expenditure. He examined my hands, decided the scrapes had healed satisfactorily, and marched us to the small duck pond, where he stripped down and splashed into the water. I stared, dumbfounded. Skinny-dipping in a duck pond is not an activity I’d naturally associate with Starsky. Who was I to quibble over small details like that? Water, Starsky, and nudity were the ingredients for a damn good time, in my opinion. I shed my clothes and followed suit.

We lounged in the grass afterward and let the sun dry us. Though we lay a good three feet apart, we held hands. The silence and warmth were pleasant, but a memory bombarded me almost immediately–the two of us holding hands across a desk, wishing we could cram more minutes into twenty-four hours, praying for a miracle. I released his hand and jerked upright, rubbing my face against a sudden pounding in my head.

“You okay, Hutch?” He propped on elbow and blinked at me, concern in his voice.

“Yeah, I sense I’m close to figuring out something important, but I can’t quite grasp it.”

“Hey, if you’re capable of figuring anything out after that swim, we must not’ve done enough to shock the ducks. Let’s try again.”

“Starsky, I got the distinct impression we should have been charging them for the show as it was.”

He smirked. “They were enjoyin’ the concert. I think I increase your vocal range.”

Warmth spread through my face that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun, and I flung a handful of plucked grass at him. “By an octave in both directions.”

I was surprised when his smirk turned into a reverent smile, and he bowled me over onto the ground, following me down and kissing across my collarbone. He moved his lips slowly up my throat. “Love you so much,” he said, his breath tickling my chin.

“Don’t get me started, lover boy. We need to head back inside and get ready to hit the road around sundown.”

He sighed and leaned over me to reach for his clothes. “Spoilsport.”

“The sooner we get home, the sooner we can shock my plants.”

He laughed. “Okay, you talked me into it.”

He raced me to the house and stopped just short of the back door. I halted and stood, stretching, breathing deeply, and berating myself for giving up my daily run. When I caught my breath, I noticed that he stared at the house with pure affection. “Can’t pack it up and take it with you, Starsk.”

He grinned at me and held his hands in a makeshift square frame, a director sizing up a movie scene. He looked through the “square” at the house and said, “I never thought I’d be so grateful to a giant hunk of wood and stucco.” I arched my eyebrow at him and he laughed. “For changing my life.”

My heart pounded. I took his hands and placed them against my cheeks, and I returned the gesture. The mechanics were awkward, but the resulting kiss was so sweet. Feeling his face under my hands, his hands against my skin, the movement of our lips…I was drowning in love and not sure I would survive it. When I broke the kiss, I had words building up inside, threatening to burst the dam, but I couldn’t vocalize them.

We returned the house to its pre-Starsky-and-Hutch condition as best we could. We knew Mr. Smythe had helpers who earned their keep maintaining the mansion, but we still felt it our duty to repay the kindness of the Delaneys. By the time we’d loaded the car, performed a final check of the premises, and locked up, the sun had slipped beneath the horizon.

Mr. Smythe was sorry to see us leave. He accepted the key with sad eyes and couldn’t seem to let Starsky out of his sight. I lingered after Starsky returned to the car, and I shook Mr. Smythe’s hand, wanting to ask questions I didn’t even understand. He smiled at me. “You really should come for another visit, Detective Hutchinson. The Delaneys are rarely here. In fact, I’ve often thought they should turn the mansion into a convalescent home.” He bored his gaze into mine and said solemnly, “Miracles do happen, you know. Every day.”

I offered him a smile and another handshake, and walked to the car with a lighter step. I sat thigh-to-thigh with Starsky, and he curved his right arm around my shoulders, hugging me closer.

The drive home was the exact opposite of Monday’s frozen trip. We listened to the radio, chatted about various topics, and flirted. I was lost in a trance, when the song responsible for Monday night’s fireworks filled the car with its quirky beat. Starsky shifted his arm and reached to turn the radio station, but I stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “Don’t. You should hear the ending.”

“Hutch, I don’t wanna think about–”

“No, really. It’s appropriate for us, trust me.”

So he listened with a martyr’s expression through the first stanzas about the man tiring of his mate, wanting variety, and answering another woman’s personal ad. As soon as I recognized the ending lyrics, I cranked the volume. Starsky glared at me, but he listened.

“Yes I like Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain
I’m not much into health food — I am into champagne
I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon and cut through all this red tape
At a bar called O’Malley’s, where we’ll plan our escape.”

So I waited with high hopes and she walked in the place
I knew her smile in an instant; I knew the curve of her face
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, “Oh, it’s you.”
Then we laughed for a moment, and I said, “I never knew.”

That you like Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne
If you’d like making love at midnight in the dunes of the Cape
You’re the lady I’ve looked for — come with me and escape.

He turned his face briefly from the road and loved me with his smile. “Oh, man.”

I returned the smile. “Right. Long-term love and familiarity just mean more layers to explore. I wasn’t tired of you, Starsky; I needed to rediscover you. So glad I did.”

I settled back against the seat and relished the feel of his arm around my shoulders. Seven days in 1918 had brought my grandmother’s spouse home from a violent war and other miracles besides. My seven days have been equally miraculous, in my opinion. I’ve rediscovered my best friend and found him to be the love of my life. It’s not an easy road combining romance with the intense partnership Starsky and I share, but we’re traveling the road together…and that’s all that matters. And wherever she is, if there is indeed a world beyond this one, I have to believe my grandmother is joyful that my life-defining week brought me as much happiness as those seven days in 1918 gave her.

~*~*~*~

Starsky rested peacefully in his partner’s arms, still awake despite the nurse’s interruption halfway through Hutch’s reading to administer pain meds. Hutch closed the book and found he couldn’t breathe. Starsky tilted his head back. “Hussch?”

Hutch carefully and gently eased himself from the bed without causing his lover pain. “I…I need a cup of c-coffee…need…b-be right back.”

“Hussch, you all right?”

“I’m fine. Try to get some sleep, buddy.” Hutch made it to the door as quickly as his legs could carry him. The hospital night sounds in the hallway eased his throbbing head. He sank down in the nearest chair and bent over, gulping down breaths and trying not to hyperventilate.

Following the events of May 15th, he’d been leading the lives of three people–far too busy to catch a decent meal on time much less sit down and reread his account of their special vacation. Now he was stunned at how blind he’d been. He’d been right. His detective’s instincts were screaming the right information, but he was too close to the situation to hear clearly. The events of the “special” week flowed across the movie screen in his memory, and he recoiled at the pain of viewing Starsky’s actions and moods in the context of what had happened that fateful Tuesday afternoon. He needed answers; he wanted to understand.

He closed the hospital door behind him and sighed heavily but with relief, as he watched the slumbering patient. Starsky’s even breathing spoke to the pain medicine’s success. Hutch crossed over to the visitor’s chair, pulled it close to the bed, and sat down for a lonely vigil.

He woke later to the whispers of love words and the feel of fingers scratching gently through his hair. He lifted his head and realized he’d fallen asleep with his upper body half-sprawled on the space at the edge of Starsky’s bed. He sat up, arched his back, and yawned. Starsky watched him warily.

Hutch met the gaze squarely. “You knew.”

Starsky didn’t require explanations. He nodded mutely.

“How did you…? I don’t understand…there’s no logical–”

“Nothing logical about it, Hutch. First day we were there…the dream? About Lionel? It wasn’t what you thought.”

Hutch rubbed his eyes and sat back in the chair. “Are you able to talk about this?”

“I have to. It’s been between us too long.”

“That’s why you had me read my account of the week to you.”

“Yeah. I know you, partner. You don’t do anything halfway. I knew you wrote more than what we ate and where we went. Don’t think I didn’t notice how much it hurt you that I was holdin’ back. I had to keep it from you. I hated that worse…worse than… I hated not giving you what you really needed. Havin’ to evade your questions and…and lie to you.”

“I don’t feel that way, Starsk.”

“You did then. What you wrote in there confirms it. That means we should talk about it.”

“All right. The dream, you said?”

Starsky shifted uncomfortably in the bed and looked wistfully at Hutch. “Uh, could ya…?”

Hutch heard the slight embarrassment in the tone and kicked himself for making his tough, independent lover ask for the physical comfort he needed during this discussion. He leapt from the chair and resumed his place in the bed beside Starsky, stretching out his long legs and opening his arms. Starsky rolled over slowly into the embrace.

“Lionel was just a messenger. He didn’t give me specifics like names, but he showed me an organization so cold and deadly that the whole world suffers from its existence. He showed me what the world would be like if it didn’t fall. If it was allowed to grow stronger. It was awful, Hutch. Awful.”

“So awful that you woke screaming,” Hutch murmured.

“Yeah. At first I didn’t think much of it. Thought I was just beating myself up ’bout his death, you know? Then things started happening.”

“Like the chest pains in the pool?”

“Right. And the feeling of…I don’t know…impending doom or something that worked on me that afternoon. Then that night, I had another dream. I was told one of us had to go down in order for the organization to crumble. That was the…the price that had to be paid to–to keep the universal balance. God, that dream was worse than the first one.”

“So you came to bed with me…you asked me to love you and make you forget.”

“I needed you. I didn’t wanna talk about it until I could figure out if I was losin’ my marbles.”

Hutch turned his head and rested his lips in the dark, bed-rest matted curls. “And then?”

“That same night I…I was given a choice. I could decide which one of us would–” Starsky choked off the last word and turned his face against Hutch’s shoulder.

“I know,” Hutch whispered. He could still hear Starsky’s scream: Take me, not Hutch!

“That night in the rose garden, you weren’t upset about what was happening between us. You were…you were told you’d die. That’s what you’d agreed to. And you…you knew how it would happen.”

“Y-yes. I…I was shown flashes of the events…as if I was living through ’em. I knew where it would happen and I…I had a sense it would be soon.”

Hutch closed his eyes. He heard his grandmother’s voice talking to his eleven-year-old self. And despite his prayer in the Garden, he walked the Via Dolorosa to the Cross. Faced a horrible death. Not out of duty, but out of love. Overwhelming selfless love. A love we’ll never understand. We can only try to imitate and share it.

“So that morning, when I suggested ping-pong at the station, you knew–?”

“I knew.”

“Starsky, how? I don’t understand. You were happy, laughing, talking all the way to the car about the bet and when and where we’d eat.”

Starsky placed his hand over Hutch’s heart and breathed shakily. “I’d given my word to go through with it, Hutch, and your safety depended on me following through…I wanted those last moments between us to be good memories for you. I wanted you to…to remember me laughing.”

Hutch’s eyes burned and his airway had the diameter of a needle. He swallowed hard against the onrush of emotion. “You could’ve gotten down, then. It’s not that I didn’t warn you in time. If you had to go down, you were gonna go down covering me.”

Starsky trembled in his arms and nodded.

Hutch ran a hand over his mouth and pulled at his lips. “Are you saying…if you hadn’t agreed to be the sacrifice, Gunther’s mechanics would have succeeded in killing me?”

Starsky nodded again.

“Oh, God, Starsky…why? Why did you have to carry all this on your own?”

The door opened and Hutch had no time to vacate the bed before the well-dressed, middle-aged doctor entered the room, an obviously stressed nurse trailing in the wake. Hutch suppressed a groan. Dr. Mayfield, Starsky’s pulmonologist, was the toughest member of the detective’s medical team, and the least understanding about Hutch’s constant presence.

“Good morning, Detective Starsky. I heard you had quite a bit of excitement last night.”

Starsky answered with his most charming, you-can’t-be-stern-with-me smile.

Hutch rolled his eyes and braced for the lecture he’d receive after the brief consultation. He didn’t have to wait long. The doctor turned a frown on the blond partner. “Detective Hutchinson, I’d like a word with you outside, while Martha updates your partner’s chart.”

Hutch patted Starsky’s shoulder, fielded an encouraging smile from the patient, and left the bed. He crossed the room under the weight of the doctor’s stare and offered Starsky a wink and nod before he stepped into the hall, the doctor right on his heels.

Dr. Alexis Mayfield closed the door and brandished her stethoscope at Hutch. “Detective, I’m going to insist that you make yourself scarce until this evening at the earliest.”

Hutch remained silent, stunned, for a full minute. Then he exploded. “Now, wait just a minute!”

“No, Detective, you listen closely. You and your friends may have lifted my patient’s morale last night, but you could have compromised his recovery time. He’s made miraculous progress, but his body is still fighting to function normally on a daily basis. For that, he needs proper rest, nutrition–”

“Yes, yes,” Hutch interrupted, wishing fervently that the frowning, steel-eyed woman in front of him would transform into Judith Kaufmann. “I’ve heard all the lectures.”

“Well, you’re not digesting the facts, apparently. This morning we’re beginning a new set of breathing exercises–”

“Then I should be here!”

“What medical degree do you have that I’m unaware of, Detective?”

Hutch replied with an arctic stare and prepared to hold forth on the facts of Starsky’s life according to Hutchinson. Dr. Mayfield cut him off at the pass.

“You just put that finger down, Detective. That may work with your partner, but it has absolutely no jurisdiction over me! After this morning’s exercises, he’ll need uninterrupted rest and quiet. I don’t care if you hang out in the hospital parking lot or dance naked on the beach–I just better not hear of your returning to his room until evening meal delivery. Are we clear on that point?”

Hutch straightened to his full, intimidating height. “You win this round, Doc, but I’m going to have a chat with Starsky’s primary physician and–”

“You do that, Detective. In fact, you can spend the next few hours doing that if you like. It’ll keep you out of our hair, and maybe the nurses can actually work with your partner without the fear of you pulling that weapon of mass destruction if they make one false step. Contrary to the popular mythology floating around this hospital, your presence isn’t the only thing keeping Detective Starsky breathing. Now, about face and march, Detective! I’ll explain your absence to your partner.”

Hutch smiled–the deadly smile he reserved for mortal enemies. Dr. Mayfield stood her ground, but her frown wavered.

Although tempted to hang out in the parking lot, Hutch decided that was foolish. If forced to leave, he might as well make use of the time. His need for constant nearness to Starsky determined his destination. He turned onto Starsky’s street just in time to intercept the patrol car that prowled the area, alert for unusual activity. Hutch slowed and rolled his window down as the uniformed officer did the same.

“How’s he doing, Hutch?”

Hutch smiled. “He’s holding his own, Baker. Tough, tough guy.”

“Don’t we all know it!” Baker grinned back. “His partner’s pretty tough, too.”

Hutch laughed, flushing at the compliment. “Not tough enough to face down the doc who tossed me out of there for the afternoon.”

“What?! Oughtta be a law against it. Or maybe Starsky’s behind it, Hutch. He might be tired’a you competin’ with him for the nurses.”

Hutch restrained a laugh. It was good for them that their fellow officers automatically assumed such a scenario. Would they still be heroes, if people knew they loved each other as romantic soul mates? Probably not. And people would never know the true extent of Starsky’s heroism. Hutch’s faux frown was suddenly genuine. “Yeah, Baker, you got a point. Starsky’s day nurse looks like my Aunt Bertha with extra teeth, and he’s been making puppy eyes at her for days.”

Baker guffawed. “Aw, get outta here, Hutchinson. Shouldn’t be spreading lies about Bay City’s finest. Shame on you.”

Hutch waved, laughing for the benefit of the officer, and drove on. As he climbed the steps to Starsky’s apartment, he acknowledged to himself the real reason for his visit. He could claim watering the plants and picking up some of Starsky’s favorite books as excuses, but he was really in search of something specific. Starsky had spent some time here alone the Sunday evening they returned from vacation, and Hutch had a fairly good idea that picking up some clean clothes wasn’t his only motivation.

He watered the plants and selected the books first, perhaps to atone for going through Starsky’s belongings in his search. He didn’t have to toss the apartment to find what he wanted. He knew Starsky. Starsky would have left the book where Hutch would be guaranteed to find it, when he went through his lover’s belongings following his… Hutch blocked his mind against the possibility of what might have been…what Starsky had believed would come to pass.

His logic was rewarded. Holding the book in his hands, Hutch sat down on the edge of Starsky’s bed and traced the title with awe. Surviving Grief: Coping with the Death of a Loved One. Hands shaking, he opened the book and found his hunch proven reality. The blank cover page boasted a paragraph of Starsky’s inimitable handwriting. Hutch’s eyes blurred, but he focused on the words.

May 13, 1979

My beautiful Hutch,

I know when you find this, I will be gone, and you will be hurting. I never wanted to leave you behind with all the pain. This note isn’t for explanations. When you read this, you won’t be ready yet for explanations. I know you, partner. This note is for your future. I’m glad so much of my life was spent with you, and that my death means you’ll be able to live. Live, Hutch! I’ve always looked to you for real strength and beauty. Inner beauty, I mean, as well as a face anyone could love. The world can’t stand to lose that strength and beauty. You said making love to me was the best thing that ever happened to you. I feel the same. It was the greatest gift I ever got. You’re the greatest gift. I know I may not have always acted like it, but you are everything to me. The only partner I’d ever have, best friend a guy could want, and the only lover who ever touched the deepest part of my life. I want you to find safety, peace, and happiness, lover. I know you may not want to be a cop after all this, and you may not even want to live in Bay City. Go with your instincts. Listen to your heart, because that’s where I’ll be, and I always did know best. Use that talent of yours to make the world a better place. You can spread lots of love with your voice and your songs. Remember that promise you made to me? We don’t break promises to each other. That piano is my last gift to you, babe. I will always hear you when you sing. I’ll be watching over you every step of the way and I love you. I love you.

Yours only forever,

Starsky

Hutch sat in silence and fought the tidal wave that threatened to break free. His partner knew him so well. Starsky had known he would need a reason to push forward. A vow that couldn’t be broken was Starsky’s way of binding him to life in the face of overwhelming grief. The piano wasn’t an impulsive love gesture on Starsky’s part, but a means of providing future opportunities for his stubborn partner, who wouldn’t have been able to face inheriting Starsky’s worldly wealth and possessions. A love gift presented to him while Starsky was alive fell into a different category: Hutch would treasure it forever–and Starsky had understood that. He lowered his head, as he remembered his comments regarding the piano: You say our relationship isn’t about deserving. It isn’t about proof, either, but even if it were, buying me a piano–while a selfless, loving, and wonderful gesture–doesn’t prove to me that we’re still partners on a deep level!

Hutch commanded himself to get a grip. This was a time of rejoicing. Starsky would kick his ass if he knew he was sitting here wallowing in guilt and grief over a tragedy that had been averted thanks to some miracle. Yes, a miracle. What had Mr. Smythe said? Miracles do happen, you know. Every day. Hutch brought the book to his lips with reverence and then returned it to its hiding place. It was Starsky’s right to do with the book whatever he wished. Hutch gathered the books he’d chosen for his partner and quietly left the apartment.

He ached to be at his lover’s side, but he feared compromising his future visitation privileges. With a deep, cleansing sigh, he turned the car toward Venice. His own apartment, plants, and mail had been neglected. A warm shower and fresh clothing appealed to him, too. He managed to make it into Venice Place without encountering the patrolling officer assigned to his apartment.

Showered and clothed for comfort in jeans and a light yellow pullover, Hutch sat down at the kitchen table to sort through his mail. Most of the envelopes, he could tell without opening contained get well wishes intended for Starsky. He put those off to the side. Two envelopes snagged his attention. One had a San Diego address: the Law Offices of Swanson, Louis, and Galbrecht. Although tempted to open it first, Hutch thought the second envelope’s multiple post office redirection notices worthier of investigation. The second letter was from Mr. Smythe, who’d mistaken the zip code, resulting in a lengthy mail delay. The envelope was post-marked May 15th. Hutch tore into it.

May 15, 1979

Dear Detective Hutchinson,

Please pardon my writing to you regarding a subject so deeply personal. The day your partner visited me, I knew he was a man facing his own death. I finally convinced him to confide in me. I urged him to confide in you as well, but the dear boy was absolutely beside himself with fear for your safety if you knew the particulars. His leaving the book behind was an opportunity for me to call you and drop a few well-phrased hints. I hoped that if you confronted him, he might open up to you and share his burden. I knew when you had dinner with me that he still carried the weight of his decision alone. He did give me permission to contact you one month following his death and explain all that he shared with me in confidence. I am writing to you now to inform you that this will not be necessary. Your partner will not die, Detective Hutchinson. Just as God provided a ram for Abraham that Isaac might live, I am being given a chance to make the final journey in Detective Starsky’s place. I cannot spare him the pain he will endure, but I am happy to ensure that the final sacrifice won’t be required of him. I am an old man; I have lived a long and often lonely life. I am ready to see my son and his mother. Do not mourn me.

I have no family, no one who would benefit by the meager possessions I have, so I will leave the contents of my home to various charities. My cottage, rightfully mine after my many years of service with the Delaneys, I leave to you and your partner. You will hear from my lawyers in San Diego. I spent some time with them yesterday making arrangements. You are free to do what you will with my beloved home. If you need a haven from the world and you choose to make the cottage your home, that is wonderful. If you find that money helps you most during the hard times you’ll encounter, feel free to profit from its sale. I only ask that you keep the photograph of my son and remember another hero in the fight against hatred and corrupt power. My final request is that you take care of each other, Detective. You and your partner carry the Torch of Goodness between you and only your love can fan the flames.

Wishing you both long life and happiness,

Geoffrey Smythe

 

Hutch dropped the letter as if burned by the stationery and ignored the envelope from the law office. He pushed back violently in his chair, fell out of it, and scrambled for the phone on his coffee table. Phone in hand, he had to tap his forehead before the number sprang to memory.

A rushed, brisk feminine voice answered after several rings. “Hutchinson residence.”

“Mom.”

“Ken? Ken! How’s David? Something hasn’t–?”

“No, Mom. Nothing’s…nothing’s wrong. David’s doing well. Um, Mom, have you talked to the Delaneys lately?”

“Yes, why?”

“Have they said anything about Mr. Smythe?”

“Oh, Ken. Mr. Smythe passed away.”

“W-when?”

“Ken–”

Hutch noticed the note of discomfort in his mother’s voice. “Do you know the specifics, Mom?”

“Ken, that’s why I didn’t– He died late in the evening on the day David was…was hurt. Had a heart attack, apparently. Ken, Ken, are you there? Ken?!”

“Got to run, Mom. Thanks.” Hutch re-cradled the phone and fell down on his knees in front of the coffee table. He leaned over the table and rested his head on his arms, finally giving way to the high tide of emotion that coursed through him.

That evening, Hutch walked heavily laden into Memorial and hurried through the halls on the way to his partner’s room. He found Starsky poking disinterestedly at a tray of food. “Hey, buddy.”

Starsky looked up and beamed at him. “Missed you.”

Hutch deposited his armful on the small table across the room, where several floral arrangements resided. “Brought you some books and cards in case they kick me out again. You won’t go crazy with boredom.”

Starsky brightened. “Books and cards are cool, but they’re not you. Com’ere.”

Hutch obeyed with alacrity. He leaned down much the same as he had when extending the platter of veal, and Starsky planted a hospital-mashed-potatoes-flavored kiss on his mouth. Hutch smacked his lips. “Yum,” he said sincerely.

Starsky grinned. “Now I know you’re in love wi’me.”

“You figure that out all by yourself?”

“Smart ass. There’s room in’is bed for two, y’know.”

“Sounds like someone has had evening meds already.”

Starsky blinked at him. “You readin’ my charts again?”

Hutch laughed, removed his shoes, and stretched out on the bed beside his lover. “How did the breathing exercises go?”

Starsky harrumphed and pushed the over-the-bed table away. “I hate lung doctors, but I’ll deal.”

Hutch chuckled and nuzzled Starsky’s cheek. “That’s my fighter.”

“What you been up to?”

Hutch started to answer with evasive generalities, but stopped short. Their connection had been restored to one hundred percent–Starsky had opened up to him about his ordeal. Censoring information and deciding when his partner could best handle certain news was no way to reward that courageous honesty. Hutch put an arm around Starsky’s shoulders and told him softly about Mr. Smythe.

Starsky listened, wide-eyed, and responded to the story with a low whistle. Then, he brushed a hand through his hair. “Yeah, he knew, wi’out me havin’ t’say it that I’m in love with you. Didn’t seem to bother’im. Incredible old guy. God, place won’t b’the same wi’out him. Wha’? Hutch? What’s wrong?”

Hutch blinked and realized he’d been staring, openmouthed. “You…you never said that…not once during the whole week. Not once until now.”

“What?”

“That you’re in love with me.”

“Ah, Hutch. Told you I loved you. You wrote ’bout it in that journal o’yours.”

“Yeah, you said you loved me. There’s a difference, you know. Not in the meaning of the love, but how it makes me feel when you say it. Starsky, let me ask you something. I…I found the book at your place. I realize now the real meaning behind the piano. When…when you said you wanted us to live together, were you just…just trying to cover up that you’d bought me a…a goodbye gift?”

Starsky reached awkwardly to take Hutch’s face in his hands, winced slightly, and pulled that face close to his own. He touched his lips to Hutch’s forehead. “I meant it, Hutch. I had to have a little hope. I knew the odds sucked, but I…I had to b’lieve. Y’know the old sayin’–prepare for the worst; hope for th’best. Miracles happen. Every day.”

Hutch laughed through a tightening in his throat and moved his lips to meet the ones that hovered over his forehead. He drew back reluctantly. “Risky, us kissing in here like this.”

Starsky frowned. “Hutch, th’only people comin’ in and out of this room are docs and nurses. They don’t care if I kiss ten men, long’s I get well and outta their hair. Dobey always knocks. Re-e-lax.” When Hutch’s face softened, Starsky smiled. “You had a question for me; I got an even bigger one for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Starsky trailed his lips over to Hutch’s ear and whispered. Hutch’s eyes misted and brightened simultaneously.

“You serious…or are the pain meds talking?”

“Whaddya think?” Starsky demanded, face an odd mixture of grave, nervous, and expectant.

“I think you’re serious.”

“Bingo.”

Hutch cleared his throat and cupped Starsky’s chin. “Then the answer’s yes. Emphatically so, I might add.”

Starsky’s eyes flashed deep blue joy at him. “You’ll take my name, too?”

Hutch laughed out loud. “Now, I know that has to be the pain meds talking. Lover, I don’t think the world’s ready for a Ken Starsky. I would if I could, though. Who wouldn’t be proud to carry the Starsky name?”

“You really mean that.”

“I really love you.”

The door opened and Hutch had no time to duck under the covers as a nurse peeked her head in the room. Starsky grinned at the nurse and announced happily, “I’m gettin’ married.” Hutch turned crimson.

The nurse took in the sight of two men sharing the bed and acknowledged the announcement with a slight nod. She’d seen a man battle back from certain death, been kissed all over her face by a deliriously happy blond tornado, and wrestled with a zealous detective wrapped in white computer printouts. Starsky’s joyful news seemed tame by comparison. She pointed her finger at him. “You can publish the banns later, Detective. Right now you need your rest.”

Art: Starsky & Hutch: I’m Getting Married by Julie Henderson