There But for the Grace of God

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The days after his release are not what either of them expected.

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DARWIN CAN FUCK HIMSELF

(Late August 1979)

It took three days for Hutch to realize he was in over his head.

The doctors had told him that rest was the best thing for Starsky. Rest, plenty of fluids, balanced diet, regular medication, and supplemental oxygen as needed. Hutch had been assured that everything was OK. Considering the trauma his partner had endured, everything was progressing wonderfully. Few complications, aside from Starsky grumbling hatefully about the ‘supplemental oxygen’, the medications, and shiny new restrictions on his diet. But, Hutch reasoned, he couldn’t blame the man for grumbling. Starsky was a creature of habit, and it would take a while to break a lifetime’s worth of them concerning his body and health.

So, it wasn’t a surprise when Starsky cursed bitterly from the sofa that first evening home, said he wanted a burger and fries and a couple beers, not this cardboard colored bullshit ‘milkshake’ Hutch had foisted off on him.

“You’re on half a dozen medications that say specifically ‘do not consume with alcohol’.”

“One beer isn’t gonna hurt anything!” He dropped his head back against the sofa and rolled his eyes in Hutch’s direction, “We had significantly more than beer when you brought me that veal!”

“That was different,” Hutch motioned at him with a spatula and continued scraping the eggs out of a pan onto a plate.

“How?”

Hutch didn’t want to admit that it had been different because he’d been drunk himself and not thinking clearly about what heavy pain medications and alcohol would do to his partner’s system. “It’s different because you’re my responsibility now, not the nurses.”

Starsky sighed audibly and rolled his eyes in a dramatic fashion, as if he were about to lose consciousness. “Come on, Hutch. One beer.”

“No,” He sat the plate of eggs on the coffee table.

“I’m fine, I can handle it. One beer isn’t gonna kill me! It’s not even gonna give me a buzz.”

“Starsk, one beer might not kill you, but how many ‘just one beer’s is it going to be from now on?” He circled the sofa and leaned over it, hands braced on either side of Starsky’s head; “Your mind is dull as ever. You may feel normal, but your body isn’t the same anymore.”

“Who says I feel normal? Walkin’ up the stairs winded me—I feel like the fat kid in gym class.”

“And you look like a scarecrow.”

“I do not!”

“You kind of do… You lost what, fifteen—sixteen pounds?”

Starsky mumbled; ‘Twenty-four,’ barely loud enough to be called a whisper, and Hutch pretended not to have heard him. Swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“You lost muscle tone. It’ll take some time to get it back. And beer isn’t the way to do it! You need protein, minerals—”

“Ah, jeez.”

“—VITAMINS!” Hutch gave the sofa a hardy shake for emphasis. “Beer is not a vitamin!”

Starsky peered up at him sourly. “Benny.”

“Who?”

“Benny Goldberg… Skinny, bug eyed fink, used to hang out at the Pits every night drowning himself in tequila sunrise. You remember him.”

Hutch rocked back and forth on his feet and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Benny Goldberg only had one kidney and all the booze in the world didn’t hurt him.”

“Yeah, well where is Benny Goldberg now?”

Starsky glanced away innocently; “That ain’t fair, it wasn’t the kidney that killed him!”

“No, it was his liver—Which, I remind you, you only have half of now.”

“Three quarters!” He poked Hutch between the eyes with a rigid finger. “And the doc said it’d grow back!”

Hutch thumped his brow against his partner’s lightly, ignoring how Starsky spluttered when hair fell into his mouth. “Choose… One beer, or the burger. Can’t have both.”

Starsky was shoving at the blonde hair curtaining itself around his face. “That’s just mean! ‘s like askin’ a guy to pick his favorite child!”

“Hurry up or I’ll change my mind.”

“Burger… happy now?” Starsky pushed him away and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hutch retreated and collected the telephone.

“Anyway, what happened to the whole ‘Welcome Home Surprise Party’ you were planning?”

“Scrapped it when I realized there wouldn’t be anything surprising about it. Besides, the doctor said to keep you calm.”

Starsky was quiet for a five count, listening to the blonde speak tiredly to Huggy over the phone. “Tell him extra fries!”

“No fries? I thought you wanted them.”

“Yes, I want them.”

“Okay yes, he wants them.”

“Extra fries, Hutch.”

“Wait, now he says no fries. Yeah, I know. Weird.”

“Damn you, I said EXTRA FRIES.”

“Hold on a minute, Huggy,” He pressed the receiver halfheartedly to his shoulder and ignored the sound of chuckling from the other end, “Look, Starsk, you’ll have to make up your mind. Do you want fries or not?”

“Yes!”

“Then just calm down, and let me make the order,” Hutch could feel an itch on the side of his head. He wondered vaguely if Starsky hadn’t developed some supernatural ability since cheating death. Maybe he could shoot lasers out of his eyeballs now, or make people disappear like that kid from the Star Trek episode. Starsky sure looked angry enough to try it anyway.

Starsky slouched deeper into the cushions; “If I’d known you were gonna be like this I’d’ve stayed in the hospital.”

“If I’d have known you were going to be so difficult I would have let you,” Hutch muttered.

The first evening was pretty much normal, aside from the sidestepping and waltzing Hutch and Huggy did around Starsky’s injuries. Starsky ate, laughed, tried not to choke on his food. Told jokes and fell asleep watching some crummy flick on the TV. And the second day wasn’t much different. Starsky stayed in bed late. Bitched vehemently when Hutch woke him up at about eight AM for his medication and to make him put on the oxygen cannula because he was wheezing in his sleep something terrible. He went back to sleep and was pretty much motionless until afternoon when Hutch woke him again. More medication, two hits from an inhaler and shuffle to the sofa where he sat with his knees drawn up under his chin. He stared blankly at some game show on TV while he slurped noisily at soup.

That evening Starsky took a walk around his apartment, picked at the plants Hutch had lined his window sills with. Sorted through his mail. Blew some dust off a few of his ship models and muttered ‘fuck’ as he waved the now airborne debris away from his face.

Hutch watched him from over the top of his newspaper as he moved around, bouncing a little on his feet. It was good to see him up and moving. Pulled at a knot that still lingered in Hutch’s chest that reminded him with every twinge, that Starsky had almost died. He sat studying the man for a long time; taking in the differences, and signs of illness. The pallor of his skin, and the shadow under his eyes. It was most evident in the deceptive fragility of his wrists and arms, the prominence of his jaw and hip bones. The way his jeans didn’t fit so snugly in the thighs and waist.

He wasn’t wasted, no. The physical therapists at the hospital had made sure Starsky could move about under his own power before they’d cleared him to leave. He wasn’t by any means hollow or emaciated, but he seemed… thin. Diminished somehow. As if the weight of damaged and missing organs visibly took away part of his mass. It was ridiculous, Hutch knew, but his eyes still stole to his partner’s ribs and belly. Lingered on the impression of gauze patches he could just make out beneath a t-shirt.

The doctor had advised that they keep a few of the incision sites covered for a while longer. The flesh still tender and fragile beneath. Some still flecked with scabs. The bullet wounds themselves still looking like they could split open and bleed, despite having been packed, cleaned, and stitched closed weeks ago.

Starsky caught sight of himself in a small mirror hanging near the kitchen. He tilted his head a little and scratched his fingers through his hair. Rubbed the little dark prickles growing on his chin and jaws. Smiled wide like a loon and checked his teeth.

Hutch snorted into his coffee and tried to hide behind his paper.

Starsky entered the kitchen with a swing of his hips and arms. Tugged the fridge open and peered inside. “What’s all this green stuff?”

“Spinach.”

“That’s not spinach. Spinach comes in a can.”

“Thought I’d make pesto.”

“Pesto?” He lifted his brows, “With spinach?”

“There’s basil too.”

Starsky made a sound, impressed and reached for a beer.

“Not a chance, slick.”

“Aw, come on! It’s my fridge!”

“And it’s my beer.”

It wasn’t even that things declined quickly after that, because Hutch didn’t really know anything was wrong until it was suddenly right there in his face.

That second day, Starsky simply seemed restless, even when he was just sitting on the sofa or lying on his bed dozing. Restless like he usually did when he felt healthier than he was. Hutch had known him for more than ten years now, he knew how Starsky functioned when he was sick. Be it a papercut, or a gunshot wound. Hutch knew. There was Antsy Starsky, Whiny Starsky, Bitchy Starsky, Angry Stubborn Starsky, Sneaky Starsky, and Reluctantly Patient Starsky. That was how he worked. That was how it always worked. But, like he’d said that first day. He may feel normal, but his body had undergone a life altering trauma. That wasn’t how things worked anymore, and it took Hutch three days to realize this.

Eight AM on the third morning Hutch pushed open the bedroom door and flicked on the light, medication and a glass of water ready. “Come on, rise and shine, Gordo!”

Starsky pried open gummy eyes and blinked at him slowly. His body was curled a little bit to the right, oxygen hissing in a clogged nostril. He said nothing, just sat up and took his medication. Hutch didn’t even notice the tremor in his hand until the glass slipped and water upended over Starsky’s face.

“Fuck,” Starsky spluttered, dropped the glass all together and yanked the cannula out of his nose. He flung it toward his feet and scrubbed both palms over his face and chest. Swiped quickly at the water pooling at his hips and lap.

Hutch snorted; “Should’ve stayed awake when you got up at six… I told you not to go back to bed.”

Starsky just shifted himself stiffly out of bed and shuffled to his dresser for a dry pair of underpants. “Would you get a towel?”

“Nothin’ like ice water on your lap to start a morning off right,” Hutch went for the bathroom, came back to find Starsky still standing by his dresser, scratching numbly at his hair, clean underpants dangling from his left hand. Hutch ignored him, mopped the water up from the mattress as best as he could and changed the sheets. Cream colored with green and orange stripes. They were somewhat threadbare, but would do for now. He shook out the blankets and squeezed water out of them. Draped the driest over the closet doors to put back on, piled the wettest in the corner. He’d pin them up outside to dry later.

But when he turned to his partner, Starsky was still just standing there. Elbow propped on the dresser, head in his hand, staring vaguely at his navel. “Starsk, are you just gonna stand there and drip?”

Starsky didn’t move, but his breath hitched and came out metered and slow. Went back in carefully.

Hutch’s brows drew together; “You OK?”

“No.”

He moved forward quickly, put a hand on his partner’s hip; “What’s wrong?”

Starsky’s eyes closed slowly, “’s hard to breathe.”

Hutch’s chest ached, “I’ll call—”

“No… no—It’s ok. It’s n-normal.”

“No, it’s not normal—”

And Starsky looked at him evenly. “Yeah it is… Now.”

Hutch’s mouth was dry; “What d’you mean?”

Starsky shifted on his feet, pressed his head into the angle of the blonde’s neck; “I got a bad lung… Didn’t really—really realize it ‘til now.”

Hutch pressed a hand to the nape of his friend’s neck; “Oh, buddy—”

“Bad lung, one kidney… Half a liver—”

“Three quarters.”

He wheezed a little laugh that turned into a cough; “Hutch.”

“It’s ok,” He drew him in, both arms tight and supporting more than a little bit of his partner’s weight. “It’ll be OK, I’m here,” But he didn’t know it would be OK.

Hutch was struck suddenly by the realization that he was in way over his head. He didn’t know what to say to make it better. Didn’t know what to do to comfort, so he just held on, pressed a kiss to the temple near his lips and felt Starsky sag against him. A warm dampness spreading across his shoulder. His stomach juddered and his mind raced. This was new territory, something undiscovered and terrifying. He didn’t know if they could overcome this, or if they would have to admit defeat. He scratched at the walls in his mind and collected every bit of foolhardy hope and every little wish and prayer he’d hidden over the years and propped confidence into his voice like a crutch.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. The doctor said it’d take time… Your body’s still healing. It’ll—it’ll take time for your lungs to learn how to work again, for your body to adapt.”

“This ain’t like my liver. Lungs don’t grow back, Hutch—”

“No, but you’ve got enough left that the doctor thought you’d be OK without oxygen support.”

“Then what’s that can over there!”

“Temporary—O-only when you need it! W-when you’re stressed, or you’ve overdone yourself.”

“I had it on all night and still felt like I was suffocating!” The urgency and fear had drawn his voice tight and thin.

“Take it easy—take it easy, just listen to me. Listen.”

Starsky stilled, breath quick and wheezing through mouth and nose. Hot against Hutch’s shoulder. His hands had tangled in the back of Hutch’s shirt, stronger than they looked, stronger than what Starsky obviously felt.

“Y-you just went from round the clock nursing care, regular pain medication and twice daily check ins from the respiratory therapist to practically nothing… You need time to adjust. Gotta take it easy,” Hutch passed his palm up and down the back of his partner’s head, petting, trying with everything he had to soothe the smaller man. “It’s OK, we’ll get there. It’s just gonna take some time. Some—some things’ve gotta change, but it’ll be alright. I’m here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“W-what if it don’t get any better?” He snuffed wetly.

“It will.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that’s how the body works… You’re still healing. Not even half-way yet. Humans—we-we adapt. We grow. We heal. That’s how we work. Survival of the fittest remember?”

“Darwin can fuck himself. It’s been three months and I feel like shit!”

Three months, twelve days. “You gotta look at it differently… This—this was big, Stars. Really big. Your body has more to heal now than it ever has before. It’s gonna take a while. You’ve gotta give yourself time, and care enough to do it right… You half-ass this it’s your life we’re talking about.”

“That—that’s too much. It’s too much.”

“We’ll get through it. I’m not—I’m not going anywhere.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

Starsky was quiet for a long while, holding and being held. His face hidden in Hutch’s shoulder, breath shuddering and quick. He felt slightly dizzy, either from the fading adrenaline or lack of air he didn’t know, but he held on. Turned his face into the gentle presses of Hutch’s lips and squeezed his eyes shut against everything else.

Hutch kept whispering, soft careful words of encouragement, what exactly he said didn’t matter. Just primal sounds of comfort and offered stability. Breathed slow and deep until he felt the rise and fall of the other’s chest sync with his. The tension leaking away slowly. “You OK? Are you OK now?”

“No.”

“But you will be. You’ll be OK?”

“Yeah,” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, I’ll be OK.”

 

NEGOTIATION

(Early October 1979)

Once he stopped and thought about it, he couldn’t pinpoint when it started. Not really. Didn’t become uncomfortable with it until he realized how comfortable he was with it, and then the questions and worries and doubts popped up in his head like fireworks; What is this? Why doesn’t it feel weird? Isn’t it supposed to feel weird? What does it mean?

Starsky was tucked up under Hutch’s arm on the couch, spread out in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt with one foot on the far arm rest, the other propped across the back of the couch. There was some western on—He couldn’t remember the name, and he was gnawing halfheartedly on a slice of pizza.

He wasn’t hungry. His stomach had been upset all day, he ached through his chest and middle, and he’d had pins and needles up and down the entirety of his right arm since about four that evening. Hutch had said it was the weather. Storm fronts moving in, something about barometric pressure. Hutch himself hadn’t been feeling well either, stiff back and knee, the blonde was half asleep with his head propped on his fist, feet on the coffee table.

It had been a long few weeks. Settling back in at home, relearning how to sleep for long periods without nurses coming in to poke or prod or just the general noisiness of a hospital keeping him awake. He thought that coming home would mean a fall back into normality, but he’d been very wrong. All being at home did was make him acutely aware of the scheduled pain medication he’d got from the nurses. That two pills a day was very different from what he’d been receiving before. It felt, at first, as if he was becoming ill, an allover ache and weakness in his limbs. Chills and nightmares that ramped up like some freakish picture show straight from Hell. Things Starsky didn’t think it was possible for a healthy mind to think of, let alone dream about repeatedly. He’d asked the doctor about it, at a checkup a week or so after he’d been released, and been assured that it was normal. A type of withdrawal from the level of pain medication his body had become used to.

He hated it.

Felt some sense of new sympathy for every junkie he’d ever arrested—for Hutch who knew the suffering first hand.

The chills and sickness had tapered off toward the last week of September, thankfully. Now he was only plagued by the nightmares, though they had tamed down a little, and this ache that had settled in his muscles and core. He’d taken to keeping his right arm tucked to his chest. Supporting the line of scar tissue that formed a red sickle from below his right nipple to his shoulder blade, and the bold line across his middle. The odd shaped little pucker to the right of center from the second bullet making it clean through his body, unlike its siblings.

He’d peeled the gauze up and stared at it that morning before physical therapy. Thought maybe it looked like Saturn. Mused about the possibility of having the scar decorated with a tattoo of the planet, because he found the sight of it, red, soft, and raised; kind of ugly. Maybe he could turn the smaller marks on his back into flowers, though he’d never see them unless he twisted his neck around to stare in the mirror. Count them like freckles. The scars he could see bothered him a little, though he didn’t let himself think about it much because it made his head feel weird. Thinking about it all made his whole body feel weird. Hyper aware of the fact doctors had put their hands inside him and messed around in there. Picked out shattered pieces of his ribs and carved out pieces of his body he’d been born with.

Starsky tossed the pizza back into the box and slouched lower, arms crossed loosely on his belly. Leaned a little heavier into the solidity alongside him, tilting his head until his ear was pressed into Hutch’s ribs and he could have found the pillow of Hutch’s stomach so easily. Turned himself into the contact and let the press of their mass ease the hurt.

Hutch shifted, inhaled deeply and straightened his spine; rubbed his face and glanced down at his partner; “Alright?”

He got a grunt in return.

And it happened. Hutch’s arm slipped lower and caught him by the elbow, a hug—squeeze really, and Hutch bent forward, pressed his face into Starsky’s hair.

Starsky twitched, eyes not leaving the TV, “Did you just kiss me?”

Hutch yawned. “So?”

“On the hair?” He turned his head and stared up at the underside of Hutch’s unshaven chin as the blonde settled again with his head propped sleepily on his fist.

Hutch grunted but said nothing else, rubbed gently at his partner’s shoulder. Fading back into half consciousness.

Starsky settled down again, nose still crinkled in thought. Since when did Hutch kiss him?

There’d been once or twice over the years, Drunk Hutch had hauled him in with a rough arm around his neck and placed a dry brotherly peck on his cheek. Or they’d made obscene smoochy faces at one another to get a laugh, but this? He’d meant it this time, and he’d meant it a few other times too. Starsky could remember them happening, but couldn’t understand why it hadn’t bothered him.

Should it bother him?

It hadn’t been on the hair all the time either.

There’d been a few to his forehead, temples, cheek—hell even his eyelids a couple times when he’d been breathless, cramped up and hurting in his hospital bed, waiting for some nurse with a syringe. Gentle passes of Hutch’s big hand over his jaw and shoulder, pushing his hair back off his forehead after physical therapy, when he ate too much too fast, or something spicy enough to make his healing liver and stomach wig out. Rubbing his back when Starsky presented the fetal curve of his spine while his body relearned to function without so much pain medication. The warm, comforting pressure of lips to the back of his neck and shoulders.

“Hutch?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this it?”

“Huh?” He pried his eyes open and looked downward curiously.

“I said, ‘Is this it?’”

Hutch blinked tiredly at the pizza; “You want something else? Sandwich?”

“No—This!” He pushed at Hutch’s side with his head and elbow. “This—US!”

“You’re gonna be fine. Should be reinstated in a month or two,” Those blue eyes were drifting shut.

“That’s not what I meant!”

Hutch rubbed his face and blinked rapidly, hoping to make himself more awake to deal with whatever it was Starsky was upset about. “Okay, okay. What is it?”

“You kissed me!”

“What?”

“On the hair!”

“Is that what you’re all worked up about?”

“Well, why did you do it?”

“On your hair, or at all?”

“Both.”

“Because your hair is four inches taller than you, a-and…” And Hutch’s face made a funny dash through about six different emotions, among them panic and self-consciousness. “Are you angry?”

“I don’t know—When did that become something we do anyhow?”

“Does it bother you?”

“I don’t know—What’s it mean? Is this a thing? Are we doing things now?” He still hadn’t moved much, just twisted himself so his head was on Hutch’s stomach and he could hear the soft living noises of his body. Digestion, breath, visceral sounds. “Are we a thing? Is this it? Are we actually going there?”

Hutch took a deep breath, brow wrinkled pensively, and let his right arm curl under Starsky’s, palm warm and heavy on his chest. “Are you askin’ me to the prom, Starsk?”

Starsky’s face registered shock, then a little bit of humor under the brief anger; “Aw, screw you!” He pushed upward against Hutch’s chin and rocked the blonde’s head back.

Hutch’s chest rumbled with soft laughter, and he caught the hand, folding slim fingers in his own. Trapped them under his chin.

“Last time I try to have a meaningful conversation with you—”

“Starsky, just—just calm down a second, will ya?”

He went quiet, staring at the ceiling with his jaw clenched.

“You know I love ya.”

Starsky felt the fire go out of him.

“So, what’s the problem?”

He shifted uncomfortably, either from the conversation or the ache in his body; “I didn’t know it—it was the whole— Love with kissing and stuff.”

Hutch was quiet, took in the fact that Starsky hadn’t moved away, hadn’t pulled his hand back, or made any loud declarations of discontent. Noticed the contemplative, far-away look in his partner’s eyes. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t really know either.”

Dark blue eyes looked up at him, “That’s not actually making me feel any better.”

“Yeah,” Hutch rubbed his face, “How did this happen?”

“Beats me.”

“I mean, I’ve loved you for years, and that hasn’t changed.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

Hutch was still, he seemed to shrink in on himself slowly, lost in thought, or memories. To Starsky he looked impossibly young, freshly pulled from a nightmare.

“Hutch?”

The blonde didn’t say anything, his breathing was rough. “Hey, Hutch, look—I-I’m not mad… I-I don’t know exactly what I’m feelin’ right now, but I’m not angry.”

“We just realized I’ve been kissing you for months and you’re not angry?” He sounded almost disgusted with himself. Had he been taking advantage? Even unconsciously, it was unforgivable.

“No… I’ve felt like shit. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I’d have done,” He took a breath and reached up to tug at the blonde’s sleeve. “I need you. I—I don’t know when it changed, but something’s changed. Like you said, I love you same as I always have… it’s not different, but it’s—It’s grown a little. Like a new room on a house.”

“Houses don’t grow new rooms—”

“You know what I mean.”

Hutch looked at him, expression pinched; “I thought I’d lose you. For real this time. I—” He hesitated, as if unsure of his next words. “It’s not different, but it’s not the same anymore. It’s not the same and I can’t lose what we’ve got I-I couldn’t live without it—without you,” He cleared his throat; “I let it happen and I didn’t even recognize it…” His voice faded to nothing.

“Do you regret it?”

“Kissing your hair? Well, considering you haven’t showered in two days—”

“Jeez,” He sighed perturbed.

The blonde fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t know. This—I don’t know where this is going.”

“Me either,” Starsky seemed at peace at first, comforted by the fact he wasn’t alone in his confusion but then gave himself a little shake. His began shoving thoughts forward like remembering the steps to some arcane recipe, reminding himself of what it took to be a man, and what it didn’t. “But—but what does it mean? Is this it?”

“Are we gay? Is that what you’re asking?”

Starsky looked up at him with a half fearful gleam in his eyes.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“I dunno… Aren’t you?”

“Not really… There’s nothing wrong with it. Love is love—”

“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with it, but—”

“But?”

“This is usually the part of the evening when the clothes come off, and I’m not even sure how— I mean, who goes where? Do we flip for it? Or what? The guys in films make it seem easy—”

Hutch blinked, then released Starsky’s hand and massaged the bridge of his nose; “How did we get from you being upset that I kissed your hair, to negotiating sex?”

“Well, isn’t that where this is goin? I mean, you’ve been kissing me for months now—”

“Starsky, I didn’t even realize I was doing it until two minutes ago!”

The man in his lap went quiet. “So… you-you don’t want to?”

“Right now, I’m not even sure if I want to believe this conversation is actually happening.”

“Are you angry?”

“No. I’m just shocked, I suppose.”

“I’m the one being seduced and you’re shocked?”

“What? I’m not seducing you! You’re the one who was talking about porno!”

“I’m just tryin’ to figure out what’s going on!”

“Me too, pal. It’s not every day you realize you’ve been putting the moves on your best friend without knowing it. I’m kind of invested in this relationship as it is—”

“Oh, and I’m not?”

Hutch dropped his head back on the couch cushions and let out a groan of frustration. “Jesus, now my head hurts,” He slouched a little lower on the couch and passed his palm down the length of his face. “Can we take this one step at a time, instead of an Olympic sprint to the finish line?”

Starsky folded his hands together and looked up into Hutch’s eyes as if barely controlling a nervous fit.

“Okay,” Hutch stopped, then started again; “Okay.”

“Okay,” Starsky parroted, fingers flexing. If he’d had a pencil or pen or something he’d have been twirling it, or bouncing in his seat. But in deference to his aching body he started picking anxiously at the front of his shirt, pinching and twisting the fabric until it creased.

“Look,” Hutch inhaled slowly; “I care about you… I care for you… I don’t want that to change, and if you’re not sure about any of this other stuff, then forget about it. Nothing is happening unless we’re both absolutely sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. This—what we have—regardless of the kissing and stuff; means more to me than anything, and I won’t risk losing it.”

Starsky took a deeper breath and let it out slowly, seeming to solidify this promise within himself.

“You’re my best friend and I love you. You’re my—” But he didn’t have words to finish. They all fluttered away like startled birds, letting a silence stretch between them like cobwebs.

Starsky’s nervousness returned and his mouth opened and closed a few times before he started, rambling almost because the feelings were too raw, too powerful to be ignored a second longer. “I knew something was different. From the moment I woke up and knew I wasn’t gonna die. I knew something was different. But I was just—I was just so glad, and you were—I remember you jumpin’ around. I don’t know what you were sayin’ things were still fuzzy, but I remember your face. How—how happy you were. And I was just so relieved that you wouldn’t have to hurt like that. That I wasn’t going to hurt you like that. You’re more to me than anything… I needed you… I still do. I—I don’t know how to not need you,” His voice faded off to nothing and his hands flexed on his chest, open and closed as if barely restraining himself from reaching out. His eyes were bright, cautious but alight as if from within, hopeful.

Hutch stared at him, felt something tight in his chest melting, something inside him sliding into place. He pushed his hair back out of his face, “I love you.”

Starsky took a shaking breath and let it out. Let the words sink in. “I-uh—I love you too.”

“The whole kissing and stuff type of love?” Hutch smirked, hoping to lighten the mood a little, because Starsky looked half scared to death.

“I-I think so… I mean it-it isn’t bad…” He tightened his jaw, brows pulling down, a brief flare of anger again, like a match being struck.

Hutch worried that the anger would dredge up something else and everything would shift again, like a knife blade coming down. Now that he realized it he didn’t think he could look at the other man and not feel this deep longing to be near him. To touch, and reassure himself of his continued vitality. Now that he’d realized what this new feeling was he didn’t know if he could stand to exist without it. It had become as essential to his existence as breathing, as natural and involuntary as his heartbeat.

But, Starsky let his breath out in a soft whoosh, eyes flicking away and back again; “No. No ‘isn’t bads’. Nothin’ bad about it… ’s nice. Real nice.”

Hutch choked felt his sinuses burning and curled his fingers in Starsky’s hair. He gave a few hiccupping chuckles and felt the shoulders in his lap jump with their own amusement. After a few seconds they fell quiet, just gazing at one another openly.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Can I try somethin’—curious?”

“What do you have in mind?”

He fidgeted with his shirt a little more, considered making an absurd smoochy face because the mood around them felt heavy and a little to humid and he didn’t know how to maneuver because it was Hutch making him feel this way, not some lady in a bar, or on the street, or in his arms. HUTCH, with untidy blonde hair, day old scruff on his face and that furry line on his upper lip that looked kind of like a starving caterpillar, though he’d never say it aloud. He swallowed, tried to ignore the dry clicking sound in his throat; “J-just not on the hair this time, ‘kay?”

Hutch’s eyes softened and Starsky felt the strange urge to poke him hard in the ribs because he didn’t really know how to express what the naked emotion on Hutch’s face made him feel. Kind of like that time he’d pulled girls’ pigtails in school and made ugly faces at them. Impotent in his rage at their ability to make him feel mushy inside in a way that didn’t always leave him comfortable. He’d learned how to deal with that feeling when it came from women, but this was different. This was Hutch and it felt deeper than his very soul.

His hand lifted, brushed the backs of his fingers across jaw and ear, sank them into the wavy bits of gold hair at the nape of his partner’s neck and pulled a little, urging him to bend forward. At the same time levering himself upward a little with right elbow pressed into the couch cushions.

The angle was awful. Noses bumping cheeks, muscles cramped and aching. Hutch hooking an arm around Starsky’s shoulders and supporting some of his weight because his right arm was shaking as if it may give out.

Starsky kept his eyes shut. Focused more on what he felt than trying to finesse anything into the open. Because if anything about it felt weird, or wrong, he knew it would stop. Hutch would stop and nothing would be said of it ever again. But, it wasn’t weird. It reminded him of those dry smacks of Hutch’s mouth on his cheek when the blonde was drunk and giddy, the only difference being the scrape of rough unshaven skin. A burning tickle of moustache above the warm press of lips.

Hutch grunted and pulled back a little, muttered ‘hold on’, and shifted against the couch. Looked him in the eyes before gently leaning in again.

It started out the same as before. A hesitant brush of lips, but there was something different about it. A quickened flutter of his heart and Hutch’s other hand fitted against the nape of his neck, drawing him into it, tilting his head a little to the side. Warmth blossoming in his chest and a tightness in his throat that took his breath. A tingle rolling down his spine and deep into his belly.

Kissing Hutch was at once exactly like and totally different from kissing a woman. Lips themselves felt pretty much like any other pair of lips. Unless there was scar tissue, or lipstick, or in this case the tickle and burn of that underfed caterpillar—

But it set a flame to burning somewhere in his core. A curl of desire soaring up through him to curl his fingers and tighten his stomach in anticipation.

Starsky drew back quickly scratching at the edges of his lips with his teeth. Eyes wide, the tingle settling deeper.

Hutch was looking at him with a brow lifted, face gone red. His pupils were like drops of ink; “What?”

“I can’t relax,” His voice was shaking.

Hutch let out a huff of air; “You could sit up and spare my aching back. That’d make it better.”

“But I’m comfortable.”

“Of course, you are,” He pressed a heavy, warm hand to Starsky’s chest, rubbed a little. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, my back hurts,” Hutch sighed.

Starsky scowled. “That ain’t fair! You got me thinkin’ all sorts of things now. I don’t know what I’m doing! This is—Jeez. What’re we supposed to do? What happens next?”

Hutch was petting his hair again; “Well, I’m too tired—You’re too tired. Neither of us can relax enough to even kiss better than teenagers on their first date. I say we just sit here until this movie is over. Then sleep on it and try again tomorrow.”

Starsky swallowed; “Sleep, like together?”

“Probably not a good idea when you’re cramped up. You should take a pain pill and stretch out.”

“So, that’s it?”

“For now.”

“What? But—”

“Starsk, I’ve been in relationships before where we’ve moved too far too fast and by the time we realized it was a mistake we were in up to our eyeballs. I-I don’t want to take that chance with this. If we’re really going to do this I want to do it right.”

“Hutch.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve made it with anybody?”

Another giggle.

“Months, Hutch. Five months!”

“Impressive… And what about me, huh? Looking after you isn’t exactly a daydream.”

“I don’t know what you were doin’ when you weren’t languishing at my bedside. Or who for that matter! Meanwhile I was flat out in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of my date night essentials!”

Hutch felt himself laugh, couldn’t help it. Felt an aching sympathy, but still couldn’t contain it.

“If we’re gonna do this, I wanna do it! I’m ripe for the pickin’!”

“Do you think you could get it up right now—either of us?” He couldn’t stop giggling.

“That’s beside the point, you gotta give me something to look forward to! I mean—Okay, I mean, this is new to me. All of it. It’s kinda—kinda freakin’ me out a little bit.”

“What, the five months?”

“No, the wanting it with you.”

And all the humor was suddenly gone. In its place Hutch felt his ears, face neck, and chest go warmer. Saw a ruddy tinge collecting on Starsky’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Would you stop lookin’ at me like that?” Starsky grinned nervously, tried to swallow it.

“Hey… What freaks you out? The idea of—”

“The idea that I want that with you, and the fact it doesn’t freak me out is kind of freakin’ me out.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna make me say it?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything.”

Starsky nodded, as if reassuring himself; “It freaks me out a little that the next time I… it could be with you. You know me, know me better than anyone I think, and I know you. It-it feels,” He twisted his fingers tighter in the front of his shirt.

“Intimate?”

“Natural… And it’s—It’s new, and weird, but a good weird.”

Hutch felt himself grinning.

“It’s…” He cleared his throat, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Never thought I’d be an excited virgin twice in my life.”

Hutch bowed his head and met serious eyes in a blushing face, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch giggled, tried to stifle it but Starsky rolled his eyes.

“What about you, huh? Know anything about dudes who do dudes?”

“More than you apparently… But it’s-uh—pretty much all hypothetical. Unless you count watching films.”

“No.”

Hutch rubbed his cheek; “Didn’t think so. Though, I have kissed a guy before… In college, just experimenting.”

“Yeah?”

“We didn’t get much farther than that. I liked it, he didn’t so much. End of story.”

“That why you’re not freaking out like I am?”

“You’re not freaking out… Not as much as you could.”

Starsky had found something infinitely fascinating on the ceiling. “You know something?”

“I know a lot of somethings.”

“If you’d have asked me six months ago if we’d be having this conversation now—”

“You’d have punched me in the neck. That’s how I know you’re not freaking out.”

“I wouldn’t have punched you in the neck. Maybe yelled, but I wouldn’t have punched you.”

“If I’d asked you if you wanted to have sex six months ago, you wouldn’t have hit me?”

Starsky said nothing, just tried to focus on the fingers still petting his hair, twirling each curl around and around until the mass lay in scattered ringlets. Hutch looked down at him and saw the answer in the look on his face. He could imagine it clearly. The initial bright anger, but the slow realization—the acceptance and barely withheld excitement. How long? How long have we been in denial of this? A year, two? More?

“You were right,” Starsky tilted his head into the gentle petting, “It’s the same now as it was before. Houses don’t grow rooms,” He yawned, “Guess it was always there, we just never looked for it.”

“Maybe we weren’t ready to go in.”

Starsky hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe not.”

Hutch rubbed his face tiredly, stifled a yawn into his hand. “When we are ready… It’ll happen.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh-yeah.” After that it was quiet for a while, just the movie playing on incongruous sounds of soft women’s voices and gruff men, the pop of guns and the sound of horses. Hutch tucked his arm back around Starsky’s ribs, and laced their fingers together.

“How ‘bout now?”

“Go to sleep.”

“What about now?”

“God help me…”

 

GRAVITY

(Early October 1979)

“Hutch?”

“Hmm?”

“Is it too early to talk about it?”

Hutch craned his neck over the back of the sofa and stared toward the bathroom. “You want to talk about it now?”

The water splashed a little in the tub. “Can’t do much else at this moment, unless you wanna play I Spy.”

“You’re supposed to be soaking.”

“I can do both.”

“Yeah, but if we talk about it what else is going to happen? I don’t want a repeat of last time. And I’ll tell you exactly how I Spy would go,” He cleared his throat and tilted his head back, voice a little louder than usual, a little faster, mimicking Starsky’s accent; “’I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘E’.”

Starsky snorted, played along. “Epsom salt?”

“Nope.”

“Uh—Electrical outlet.”

“Nope.”

“’E’, e-e-e-e-e—” He hummed barely audible, the water splashed a some more as he looked around; “Underpants elastic?”

“No, but warmer.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“See, I told you! Right to your prick!”

“You were leadin’ me on! That’s all on you!”

Hutch grinned to himself impishly.

It was quiet beyond the bathroom door.

Hutch thought he could hear some tune or another, discordant humming. Starsky trying to amuse himself while the hot water and salts worked at his muscles.

“You know my ma’ soaks her bunions in this stuff.”

“Well, if it’ll work on the little ones, it’s sure to work on the big one,” Hutch turned the page in his book.

Starsky shifted in the tub, stretched his legs out and hitched his ankles on the spigot. Drew little curlicues in the steam on the walls near his head. Little stickmen cops and little stickmen robbers. “Did you just call me a bunion?”

“Yeah, sorry… You’re more of an ingrown nail than a bunion. A little trimming and you’ll come out fine.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”

“I’m not the one fondling himself in the bath.”

Water splashed loudly; “I am not!”

Hutch grinned to himself. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with that or you’ll go blind.”

“Shuddup.”

Hutch turned back to his book. It was quiet for about thirty seconds, and Hutch thought that was probably the full extent of his partner’s attention span.

“I’m startin’ to think you’ve got one of those fetishes, and that’s why you don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You think I’ve got a fetish?”

“Yeah… Like—Okay, I was with this girl a couple years back. She –uh—she liked it all over her chest.”

Hutch hesitated, then closed his book; “What?”

“She liked it when I’d finish on her chest… Like—Her chest and neck.”

“And you think I’ve got a fetish like that?”

“Well, that wasn’t really a fetish— Those are different. Like some people like feet, or getting’ pissed on and stuff.”

“I don’t have a foot fetish, or a piss fetish.”

“But you do have one, don’t you! That’s why you don’t wanna talk.”

“It’s not feet, or pee, it’s not pearl necklaces… And it’s definitely not having hinky conversations with my partner through a door while he’s in the bath.”

Starsky was quiet for a moment; “You could come in, you know. That way we won’t have to worry about the neighbors overhearing.”

“You’re really that eager, aren’t you?”

“What, s’not like you’ve never seen me naked.”

“Same for you.”

“So, what is it? Like… Ropes and whips or something? Women’s underwear?”

Hutch made a noise in his throat, halfway between a giggle and a groan; “You’re not gonna give up are you!”

“I’m like a terrier. Once I get my teeth in somethin’ I don’t let go.”

“You’re definitely like a terrier… Only you’re more the leg humping kind.”

Starsky snorted in amusement. “Five months!”

“Awww.”

Starsky sighed, “What time is it?”

“You’re the one with the waterproof watch.”

“I took it off in the bedroom.”

“Well, how pruned are your fingers?”

“Eh.”

“Then you keep soaking… Maybe it’ll kill that stink you’ve been cultivating.”

“I don’t stink.”

“I don’t know how Lydia stands it. Like a public toilet.”

“You’re full’a shit.”

Hutch pushed himself off the couch and padded over to the bathroom, stood there beside the door and stared at the ceiling. “Is it working?”

“I guess… Water’s gettin’ kinda cold though.”

“Alright, I’m coming in.”

The room smelled of salt, warm skin, and the undertone of Starsky’s cologne. The man in question was squashed down into his tub with the water lapping at his chin, legs propped up in the far corners, all long stretched muscles and wet skin. He looked like a petulant child, lips compressed, eyes on the spigot, fingers drumming on his chest.

Hutch glanced at him, amused. “You’re all pink.”

“Well, the water was hot,” He splashed some in Hutch’s direction, “I think you’re trying to pickle me.”

“Nah, I’m making a limp noodle out of you.”

“Past that, now I’m all mush,” Starsky tried to withhold a giggle.

“Sit up and rinse off will ya?” Hutch grabbed the chain tethering the plug to the tub itself and tugged it from the water. Caught a glimpse of Starsky from the corner of his eye as he sat up and pulled his knees up, readying himself to stand. “Alright?”

A nod, “Not really doing our civic duty with the water conservation though.”

“I think they’d understand given the circumstances,” Hutch loaned a hand and shoulder, pulled his partner up to his feet and got the shower running. “Towels are out here when you’re done.”

“Yes, Warden.”

Hutch gave the toilet a spiteful flush and jumped out of the way as Starsky took an open-handed swipe at him from behind the curtain.

“SHIT! You just wait, Hutchinson! Just wait!”

Hutch ignored the damp handprint on his arm and went back to his book. He got three pages farther before the water shut off and he heard Starsky shake his head like a dog, splattering water everywhere. Could smell shampoo, soap, and steam carrying the warmth of clean skin. He glanced over his shoulder, bewildered at first, to see that he’d accidentally left the door open, but Starsky could be an immodest creature when the mood struck him. Or, oblivious like now, when he was so used to the gaze of doctors and nurses and surgeons. People constantly hovering and taking away any kind of privacy and dignity a man had, all in the name of healing him. Sometimes he just forgot that he could have privacy again.

Hutch watched him warily over the top of his book. The way he scrubbed his hair, face, neck and arms. Then chest, back and abdomen, scratched rigid fingers through the hair on his head, shaking out the excess water while he rubbed the towel over his lower body.

Starsky may look small, when standing beside Hutch, but he wasn’t. He was broad and lean, and normally the thickness of his body was solid muscle carefully disguised under a forgivingly plush layer of hearty meals and one too many candy bars. All poured into denim, sneakers, and threadbare shirts. Softness concealing immeasurable strength, anger, love, and loyalty so sharp it was difficult to look at sometimes. Naked, he was still all these things, just strikingly human. Almost vulnerable. Scars and marks, little freckles here and there. Body hair and stretch marks from growing too much too fast as a teen. A bruise here and there from little things, bumping into this or that, the physical therapist’s firm fingers kneading a spasm. The vermilion lines across his side and stomach. Healed bullet holes on his back, old and new, red, pink, and silver. The hair on his head wet and clinging in inky tendrils nearly to his shoulders, longer than it looked with water pulling the curls down. His eyes however tired, were amused and trained directly on Hutch.

“Like the show? Usually I get dinner first, but, for you I’ll make an exception,” A wink and he wrapped the towel around his waist.

Hutch felt heat flare in his face, neck and ears. Looked away quickly and stuttered out half an apology before he heard Starsky giggling. “Laugh it up. See who helps you out of the bath next time.”

“I ain’t complaining… Look all you want.”

“I’ve seen plenty of jackasses before. Seen one, seen ‘em all.”

“Yeah, but any of ‘em this cute?”

“I’m cute, remember?”

“Well, Cute, would you give me a hand covering these things up?”

Hutch looked up again, found Starsky holding a package of gauze patches and medical tape. “Just leave it. Nobody but us. That tape’s tearing your skin. Hurts just to look at it sometimes.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What, the scars?”

Starsky turned his gaze inward, still picking at the roll of tape.

“Do they bother you?”

“No… not really.”

“But?”

He shrugged. “It’s stupid,” He put the packages away and escaped to his room. Came out a few moments later in a pair of cutoffs, knuckles white where he was mangling the towel he’d used.

“Come here,” Hutch put his book aside and turned on the couch, tucking his right leg beneath him and patting the cushion in front of him.

Starsky sat, still holding the towel tightly in his fist.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Nuthin’ much to say.”

Hutch pressed both palms to the other man’s knees, absorbed the heat and softness of newly washed skin. The soft, springy dark hairs on his legs and thighs. “Say it anyway.”

Starsky sighed, strangled the towel in his hands a little more; “It’s stupid.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Come on, out with it, partner.”

“Okay… just—look,” He shifted in his seat, motioned to a faint scar on his upper left chest, barely four inches long, years old. “Know what that one was?”

Hutch studied it, “Knife, right? Kid came at your throat but you managed to lean back?”

“Twenty stitches…” He pulled his leg up and displayed the marks on his right shin and calf. Pink, newer. Then pushed his hair away from his temple and traced a shallow divot in his hair. “All of ‘em… more or less,” Then he hesitated and scratched gently at the fresh lines on his chest and stomach. “I think this is the first time I’ve had someone’s actual hands inside me. Not just surgical instruments, but their whole HANDS.”

Hutch swallowed and felt a lump growing in his throat.

“Those surgeons had me open for hours… It—” His voice broke, “—It smelled like a slaughterhouse in there.”

Hutch’s brows pulled down and he gripped his friend a little tighter. “Just breathe for a minute—”

“I’m alright—” But he took a few seconds to draw deliberate breath before he continued. “I remember the smell of it—taste of it, just salt and metal and dirt—” Hutch’s hands were on his face, he had no idea how that happened, felt gentle little kisses on his brow and cheeks, gripped the blonde’s wrists like a lifeline.

“Did you tell the psychotherapist about this?”

He nodded, “It didn’t scare me until just a few weeks ago… Maybe this is a delayed reaction kind of thing. It’s all just startin’ to hit me. I-I saw myself in the mirror and all I could think was ‘that doctor had his hands in your chest.’ Now that’s all I can think about. Just ugly reminders that people had their hands all over my vital organs.”

Hutch was staring at him, calm, and familiar. “That’s not stupid. Not stupid at all!”

“Feels stupid.”

“Those doctors saved you… They made miracles with those hands. You—you’re a walking miracle, ya’ know that?”

He laughed and coughed and bowed his head against Hutch’s shoulder.

“What brought this on?”

Starsky looked up at him, somewhat guiltily; “I started wondering why you didn’t—didn’t want to talk about it. Thought maybe it was because of… I know they’re gross—”

“What?” Hutch gripped his head a little tighter, gave him a little shake for emphasis, “They’re not gross.”

“Then why do you look like you wanna throw up every time I take my shirt off?”

Hutch breathed in and held it for a three count, finding his words; “Because you won’t look at them. You cover them up even though you don’t need to anymore. I-I knew they upset you, and they upset you enough that you wouldn’t tell me about it,” He combed his fingers through Starsky’s hair, pushing the wet curls this way and that. “I love you. The scars aren’t gross. You aren’t gross.”

Starsky nodded, leaned into the pressure of Hutch’s hands and arms. “So, if it’s not this, then what is it? Did you change your mind or something?”

“No.”

“Then is it a fetish or something?”

“It’s not a fetish. It’s more of a… a concern.”

“What, worried I’ll flake?”

“I’m worried we’ll get too into it and I’ll hurt you.”

“Unless you’re planning to get freaky I think we’ll be fine.”

Hutch bowed his head.

“Uh—That’s not what you’re into is it? The acrobatics? Because it’s one thing with a woman, but I—getting manhandled isn’t exactly my thing.”

“Yeah, only one you let manhandle you is Lydia.”

“That’s what she gets paid the big company green for.”

Hutch snorted in amusement and lifted his head, brushed his thumbs across Starsky’s lashes and eyebrows to clear them of moisture and pushed his hair off his brow. Pressed his lips there instead. Rubbed his palms on the brunet’s rough cheeks; “You going to go finish cleaning up?”

“In a minute.”

“Brush your teeth maybe, so we can see if we’re any better at kissing when we’re not exhausted?”

Starsky pushed up and away and disappeared into the bathroom again without a word. Gagged himself a few times on the toothbrush and Hutch tried to ignore the colorful expletives each one pulled forth.

“Starsky?”

“Hnn?”

“Exactly how do you expect to make love to a man, if your gag reflex is so sensitive you can’t brush your teeth.”

His eyes were round. He spat into the sink, “Who implied I was doin’ the giving of such pleasures?” He started scrubbing again.

“Oh-ho, no-no-no. That isn’t how this works.”

“Then how does it work? I thought you were just as blind in all this as I am?”

Hutch scowled, “If I do it, you have to do it.”

“What if I don’t like it?” He had foam on his chin.

“Have you ever even touched another man’s—”

“Yeah.”

Hutch propped his cheek on his hand, “Oh? Whose?”

“Frisked a guy once who had a Thirty-eight special hidden in his pants. Thought I wouldn’t look there. He was very wrong.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Had to get the weapon away from him somehow—”

“No dice, try again.”

“Well, what about you?” He scrubbed furiously at his teeth.

Hutch felt his cheeks heating; “Yours for one.”

Starsky choked and bent over the sink coughing. Decided his mouth was clean enough and turned on Hutch with a glare; “That don’t count!”

The blonde started ticking off on his fingers; “I wasn’t frisking anyone in the line of duty. I wasn’t drunk and didn’t fall on anyone’s lap or make a mistake on a dark dance floor. And I certainly didn’t cop a feel while I was being helped out of the bath.”

“I was sick! I was sick, I couldn’t walk or stand up on my own— I almost passed out!”

“You know, you’re kinda cute when you’re blushing.”

“Who’s blushing!”

He chuckled, “Okay, okay, it doesn’t count.”

“Thank you,” He turned back to the sink and began cleaning up the sprayed toothpaste foam. “You can’t call it sexy if a guy’s not healthy enough to take himself to the john.”

Hutch hummed loudly, thoughtfully; “The guy from college.”

“Thought you said that was only kissing.”

“Mostly kissing… and groping through our clothes. Hand jobs.”

“Did you two do it?”

“No. It never got that heated.”

“Then what’s the hold up?”

Hutch hesitated, tried to gage the expression on Starsky’s face. Glanced away as he spoke. “I experimented on my own once or twice. Got real friendly with a girl named Sally, works at a sex shop—no I’m not telling you where— and it-uh—It hurts.”

Starsky blinked a few times but said nothing.

“So, that’s why I haven’t said anything.”

Starsky sat on the closed toilet lid and scratched compulsively at his cheek; “It hurts?”

“Yeah.”

“The films don’t make it look like it hurts.”

“Porno is bogus, you know that,” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously; “I’m just trying to be straight with you about it. We tried, it wasn’t any good for me.”

Starsky didn’t say anything for a long while, just sat there with his hands folded between his knees, thinking.

“What?”

“Was it OK on your own?”

“It was alright.”

“How’d you do it? Fingers?”

Hutch rubbed his jaw, gave Starsky a long look. “Is that what you were doing in the tub?”

“Thought about it, but no. I was just soaking.”

“Why don’t you come back in here, huh? Stop acting like I scare you.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Then why are you hiding in there?”

Starsky rubbed at his hair again. Shook some more wetness out of it. After a moment he stood and let out a deep sigh; “I think I just realized what’s wrong.”

“Oh? Enlighten me?”

“I was expecting fireworks. Earthquakes—”

Hutch rolled his head to the side, grinned; “Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very, frighten—”

“—Hey, cut that out!”

Hutch dissolved into quiet giggles.

“I’m tryin’ to be serious and here you are—” He shook his head and turned to stare into the mirror.

“Aw, come on! I was kidding.”

He got no reply.

“Starsky, come on… Just come here and talk to me. I was kidding!”

Starsky moved out of the room silently, stopped at the couch and loomed over the blonde, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. “That’s the point… Here I was expecting Serious Hutch, with those come-hither baby blues, all machismo and confidence. Direct and to the point. No fuss, just— There to fold me up and knock my socks off—And instead I get this chump cracking wise when I try to get him to talk to me, and making awkward chitchat about how we can’t make love even though I’ve got enough blue in my pants to paint the entire west coast!”

“Is that what you want? Me to fold you up and blow your mind?”

“That’s what I thought I wanted. But that isn’t you, is it… That’s the face you put on for ladies and the rest of the world. This—this is you. Insecure, nervous, silly… Too serious for his own good sometimes. THIS is you. I know that, I’ve known that for years,” He took a slow breath and let it out. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For tryin’ to make you be something you’re not.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I could still fold you up and blow your mind every so often.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hutch caught him by the back of the neck and pulled him down. The angle was just right and he felt the muscles in Starsky’s neck and back jump in surprise, then melt. Starsky’s blunt, strong fingers pushed into his hair, pulled him closer into a quick clash of teeth on supple lips, pinching and sucking in a quick reminder that there was danger here. Dragons lurked in this ocean. Hutch felt a shudder run through himself, catch where his body touched the other and continue through, like an electrical current.

Starsky shoved at his shoulder and scrambled bodily over the back of the couch onto hands and knees, braced over the blonde as he seemed to flow like molten gold into the pressure of fingers over his waist, neck and chest. Plucking at the buttons of his shirt. A melodic sound bubbled from between them, rapture-ecstasy-torture.

Hutch grabbed him, pulled him down by the back pockets of his cutoffs and wedged his left knee between the brunet’s thighs. Tilted his head back, surrendering to the scrape of teeth down his neck, and tough fingers pulling him up by the hip and nape.

And then Starsky stilled, breathing ragged, body heavy and trembling. Voice thin; “Oooh,” He swallowed audibly, “This was a bad idea.”

Hutch lifted his head, dazed; “What?”

“J-just don’t move.”

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No,” He sounded confident, if quiet. “But if you move, I’m gonna come in my pants like a kid.”

Hutch didn’t move. “Five months, huh?”

“I’ve been too drugged up to manage it until now.”

“That why you haven’t been taking your pain meds?”

“How’d you know?”

“I keep count,” Hutch pushed a hand through Starsky’s hair, pressed a gentle kiss to his brow.

“I told you don’t move—”

“I know. Take it easy—Let-let me give you some fireworks, huh?”

“I really am a leg-humping-terrier,” He shuddered almost violently, fingers bruising where he gripped the blonde; “Fuck, this is embarrassing.”

“Uh-uh. No, it’s not—It’s beautiful,” Hutch’s other hand slid carefully from his hip across his stomach, pulled playfully at the soft hairs trailing south and sent shivers coursing up and down. “You’re here, breathing, warm—Alive in my arms. It’s beautiful,” There was just enough room, just enough weight still missing from Starsky’s frame that his hand fit perfectly in between flesh and cotton. “You’re beautiful.”

Starsky groaned loudly, head bowing forward, brow to brow, lashes just sooty crescents on flushed cheeks. Lips plumped from friction and pressure.

Hutch curled his hand carefully around him, pressed gently up against the solid heat he found. “You’ve waited five months for this, huh?”

That hand. Starsky thought maybe the universe had condensed down to that hand. Rough places on his palm from gripping a gun, a pen, a steering wheel. Fingertips firm from guitar strings. His insides felt like jelly, heat pooling down-down-down where Hutch cradled him, careful but surely. “Years… Waited years for you.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, tried to focus on breathing past the almost painful pumping of his heart. He knew that hand, knew that voice, and the face of the man beneath him almost as well as his own. He thought for a moment that it should be weird that Hutch had hold of him like this—Fingertips pressed into his balls, palm curled gently against his shaft—but it wasn’t. Thank everything that it wasn’t! That hand was warm and almost trembling in withheld want. The tension building in his legs, and the bottom of his pelvis grew, almost itching with the need for release. He bowed his head with a groan, arm snaking beneath the blonde’s neck to pull him closer. Please, closer, because this already felt capable of something world altering.

Hutch held him for a moment, hand splayed at the back of his head, breathing assurances and soft words of love, then he smiled, tilted his lips toward one ear and whispered; “Well, let’s see about those fireworks, yeah?”

Hutch claimed his mouth again, relished in the joyful breathlessness of the man in his arms. Body warm and glowing with a sheen of sweat, muscles trembling from pleasure. Face lax and open. Three strokes and Starsky made a noise, deep in his chest, somewhere between agony and epiphany.

“It’s ok, I’ve got you—Feel it, that’s it, babe. Listen to you!” Hutch groaned himself, rocked down against the thigh pressed between his own. “Come on, I’ve got you—”

A rolling shudder down his spine, like an earthquake, hips following the motion. Starsky muttered a curse, a beseeching soft noise into the blonde’s neck, and his body tensed, trembled; starbursts behind his eyes, explosions along every nerve. Heat and passion and Hutch purring in his ear, kissing him dizzy.

It was over too quickly for his taste, he wanted it to last forever. It had been so long, climax almost felt foreign to him. New and exciting. It left his body utterly spent and heavy, pressing Hutch’s down into the couch with a horrible mess between them, gluing the blonde’s hand to his intimate essentials.

Starsky’s left arm was trapped under Hutch’s head, right arm and leg dangling somewhere over the side of the couch. Cheek to cheek he caught his breath. The position was by no means comfortable for either of them, but they didn’t move. Just fit together like puzzle pieces.

“That was great,” Starsky thought his face was numb, words slurred; “Give me thirty minutes and we’ll do it again.”

Hutch laughed, low and deep. “Thirty minutes?”

“Well, maybe I can push to fifteen, but—”

Another reverberating chuckle.

“What about you?” He shifted gently against the solidity he could feel pressed to his hip. “I-uh—I can’t promise fireworks, but…”

“I’ll be OK,” He breathed deeply, free hand making short passes over fresh numb scars. “Think you need another shower though.”

“Fuck that… After I finish you off, let’s just go down t’the beach, scandalize some old ladies.”

“It’s October. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Come on, at least rinse off, or we’ll smell like sex at your appointment tomorrow.”

He hefted a sigh; “Fine. Can’t scandalize the therapists. Need ‘em to sign my ‘back to work’ papers.”

Hutch grinned, followed him to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands clean, watched as Starsky peeled out of his soiled shorts and stepped back into the tub, immodestly soaped and cleaned himself, then climbed out, chest and lower half dripping. Hutch shook his head and watched as the brunet staggered to his bedroom, rolled into bed and snuggled into the pillow with a deep sigh, back rising and falling without a hitch.

Hutch leaned on the door and looked at him. Taking in the gold light of late afternoon playing across his skin. Body still slightly flushed from activity and excitement, but firm and vital and glowing with returning strength and health.

Starsky grinned wickedly, “Like what you see?” He shifted his hips a little, the line around his waist from a tan still making the contrast between his ass and back, even after months of being on medical leave.

“Always.”

He patted the bed beside him and yawned. “Gimmie five minutes and I’ll return the favor.”

“Five minutes?” Hutch approached, eased himself down beside his partner and turned to him.

Starsky’s eyes were already closed; “Yeah… My stamina isn’t what it used to be.”

“That’s alright, we’ve got time,” Hutch found himself devoting every detail to memory. The sounds the other had made. Breathless and overwhelmed, as if he wasn’t sure he was supposed to ever feel that good. The taste of his mouth beneath the toothpaste. The weight and reality of him pressed so close, so perfectly. How his pulse had played against Hutch’s fingers, every twitch and roll of his hips transferred, written on his skin. The helpless yearning in his voice just seconds before he’d come. Each muscle twitching and contracting and pulling against his grip—

Five minutes came and went and Starsky slept. Hutch found himself eventually sitting up against the headboard and playfully twirling every curl on his partner’s damp head into a ringlet. Leaving the brunet nude and somehow cherubic, curled close as he was in sleep and satisfaction. Hutch would probably get an earful for messing with the other man’s hair, but he couldn’t help it. Felt it somehow suited Starsky, made him look younger, innocent in a way, even with the scars of battle on his skin and soul.

The day wore on into evening, dusk, night, and Hutch settled himself down, unfastened his slacks so they didn’t bind during the night and drew the blankets over Starsky so he didn’t catch chill. Hummed softly to himself, and the night around them. Drifted off gently, fully. Found he didn’t know until that moment how tired he was. How little sleep he’d allowed himself since the incident in the parking garage. Since he’d almost lost everything.

Starsky murmured something unintelligible at close to midnight, threw a heavy arm across Hutch’s chest and drew him close. A dreamy kiss to his jaw and a yawn in his ear and he was asleep again.

Hutch grinned, settled down with his head on Starsky’s pillow and drifted back to sleep.

 

HALLOWEEN

(Late October)

Starsky was in a mood. One of those resentful, wounded animal moods that came upon him from time to time. He’d been like that for days, since he’d sat up abruptly with Hutch beside him in bed and realized the blonde hadn’t woken him after the ‘five minutes’ he’d requested. On top of that they didn’t have time before appointments, and Hutch going in for his shift, to initiate anything else. Since then, Starsky had barely spoken unless to complain. He’d taken to muttering about the food, about his stomach, the sliced tomato and lettuce as he peeled them off his sandwiches, the marinara on his pasta. The salads Hutch tried to pair with everything.

“It’s your fault,” Starsky growled. “You keep tryin’ to feed me rabbit food and it just goes right through like a flash flood! I told you—TOLD YOU!”

“I know, I know,” Hutch muttered. “You’ve told me… Multiple times.”

“No wonder my clothes still don’t fit.”

“Your clothes don’t fit because now you’re more muscle than f—”

“Chose your next words carefully,” Starsky gave him a long, narrowed look.

Hutch let the ‘F’ sound play around in his mouth a little, reshaped it with his lips to a noise like a wet balloon losing air. He thought it better to not push his partner any more, Starsky had a volatile temper, even more so of late.

It wasn’t just the food, Hutch could tell. Maybe it was that they hadn’t had much time together since Hutch’s leave had expired and he’d been back on the streets with a temporary partner. Starsky was usually already asleep when Hutch returned, or Hutch was exhausted and Starsky was left to putter around quietly or risk waking him.

Today, though, it was coming to a head. Sore and recalcitrant from physical therapy, psychotherapy, and ‘dinner therapy’ as Huggy called it, Starsky was still shuffling around the apartment with a half pout on his face and his arm braced across his abdomen, not even halfway dressed.

At least he’s put pants on, Hutch sighed to himself. But where did his shirt go?

Yes, he was sore. Yes, physical therapy had started really kicking his ass on a twice weekly basis. But, more than that, Starsky was stubborn, and on some level wanted to be fussed over, even if he wouldn’t admit it. So, it was Whiny-Juvenile-Mulish-Starsky that Hutch was forced to deal with.

“Look at you,” Hutch growled; “You haven’t even combed your hair—Where are your shoes? Did you even shower?”

A grunt.

“Would you put your shoes on, or comb your hair—brush your teeth—Something?”

Starsky flopped boneless across the bed on his face, limbs stretched out. He moaned.

“Look, I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about what you look like when Lydia sees you. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But I’m not taking you out into the civilized world like this. You look like the wolfman!”

Starsky growled threateningly into the mattress and Hutch threw a shirt over his head.

“That why you’ve been growing that rug on your face? Part of your Halloween costume?”

“Rug? ’s not that bad…”

Hutch could barely understand him. “Says you. You don’t have to look at it all day. I had to tell Dobey I had an allergic reaction to explain this shit you left on my neck,” He scratched at it.

“Fuck you,” The oath sounded far less acidic muffled through the bed.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hide beard burn?”

“’shouldn’t’ve fallen asleep on me.”

“Look. My next day off we’ll just hide in bed all day, alright?”

He lifted his head enough to peer out hopefully.

“November first. It’ll be an easy date to remember. Yearly Anniversary of our first time… I’ll buy you flowers.”

“I have therapy on the first. You know that. I’ll be all cramped up. Worse than I am now,” He dropped his face back into the blankets.

Hutch rubbed his brow, “You insisted you had to go. I switched my day off just so I could take you.”

Starsky turned his face back out of the sheet, apparently unwilling to suffocate himself, no matter how tired he said he was. “I appreciate your sacrifice in my name, but I didn’t know I was gonna feel like this after Lydia finished with me.”

“You’re gonna let a five-foot-two woman beat you up?”

“She’s got muscles like a Russian pit fighter, Hutch. Only blonde… and tiny… and not as hairy. She’s a monster.”

“She’s five-two, a hundred-ten pounds tops, and you’re gonna let her pummel you to the point that you can’t find the energy to go out?”

“She didn’t pummel me.”

“Could have fooled me—”

“Monsters maul people. That’s what she does. She mauled me. Teeth, claws and all.”

“Werewolves again… This is the last time I let you watch Lon Chaney before bed. Did you have nightmares or something?” Hutch rubbed his face tiredly.

“No.”

“Anyway, I thought you said you didn’t need physical therapy—That it would be a waste of your time?”

“I was wrong—and you don’t gotta be so smug about it.”

“You’re just upset because you’re not in as good of shape as you thought you were.”

“Sure. Has nothing to do with the therapist being a monster.”

“The only monster I see here is you.”

Starsky bared his teeth, but it lacked venom, even if he did resemble the wolfman. He rolled onto his back, becoming tangled in the sheets. Scratched at the hair on his face, “Maybe I should do a mummy thing instead… what do you think? It’d certainly itch less.”

“I think that if you don’t get up and put on your shoes, I’ll be left in charge of your holiday shopping. I don’t have another day off between now and Halloween, so you’ll have to give out whatever I decide to bring back for you. Unless you feel like walking or hitching a ride to the market.”

Starsky was quiet, thoughtful.

“And do you know what I’d get for all the little hobgoblins?”

“What?”

“Apples, Starsk.”

“Candy apples?”

“Nope.”

“You can’t give kids plain apples for Halloween! That-That’s just cruel!”

“Watch me,” And he turned away, walking slowly toward the door. He was at the bottom of the stairs when Starsky appeared, one shoe on, one in his hand, shrugging on his red hooded jacket over his bare chest.

“Halloween is for candy—”

“Oh, yeah, sure… The whole country descends into lunacy and it’s all for the candy,” Hutch waited while Starsky eased down the steps and leaned against the railing to pull his shoe on. “I’ll be sure to tell all the criminals that, while I’m stuck on a beat with-with Bluto. I mean, Starsky says it’s all about candy! Right? So, it has to be about the candy! Not about the kidnappings, poisonings, rapes, and murders that happen every year because whackos hide behind masks and costumes to get away with crimes they’re too scared to pull any other day of the year.”

“Bluto?” Starsky grinned; “You mean Bines?”

Hutch rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Hey, that’s great! I told you you’d like him! You already got a real nice nickname for him!” He glanced away and muttered to himself; “Better than the last one you gave him at least.”

“I got a partner, don’t know what Dobey was thinkin—”

“It’s temporary! I’m gonna be back before you know it—Jeez, don’t let the guy think you’re a hardcase. You’ll have half the neighboring precincts thinkin’ you’re dangerous! You already scared that one kid down to Narco, don’t screw this up!”

Hutch continued to grumble as he threw himself behind the wheel of his car, slammed the door harder than necessary. Starsky climbed in much slower, slammed his door from necessity not spite.

Hutch glanced at him, then rolled his eyes; “Why didn’t you put on a shirt?”

“Not like you gave me much time,” He pulled the zip a little higher.

“I’ve been trying to get you ready for an hour!”

Starsky slumped tiredly back in the seat without comment, pulling thoughtfully at the hair on his chin.

“Your hair is a mess.”

Still nothing.

“You look like a psychopath.”

“At least I’m not acting like one.”

“I heard that!”

Starsky grinned, hitched his feet up on the dash and rolled his head into the sunlight.

Hutch watched him from the edge of his vision, “I knew you wanted to come along.”

“Shhh, ’m sleepin’.”

Hutch snorted, but left him alone.

Starsky seemed to rally by the time Hutch parked outside the grocery store. There were women moving in and out, some younger, some older in coats with scarves tied over their heads to protect from the wind. Others still had children with them, whining and bellowing for sweets. Jumping up and down in the back seats of station wagons.

A little boy with a silver cap pistol and a cowboy hat was leaning out of a car window making wet, ‘pew pew pew’ noises while his haggard mother tried to make his younger sibling stop wailing. The boy snarled at them as they passed, rolling his lips back from his missing teeth and flipping his tongue up to touch his nose.

“Cute kid,” Starsky said and gave the boy a wave.

“Thanks,” His mother said, her tone indicating exactly how cute she thought he was. “Joseph, sit down and stop making that face, it’ll freeze that way!”

Hutch glanced over his shoulder, hands shoved into his jacket pockets; “Ah, parenthood… Wouldn’t you like a couple of those? A little Davey? Or a Daisy?”

“You kidding? I can barely take care of myself,” Starsky muttered, bumped playfully into the blonde’s shoulder.

Hutch grinned, bumped their knuckles together and cleared his throat, “I think I had a cowboy outfit like that as a kid. Hat, vest… Pair of cap guns.”

“Yeah?”

“Kind of a thing for most boys of that age. My mother thought so anyway.”

Starsky snapped his fingers, face split in a wide grin. “Gene Autry… Silver with the white grips, right?”

“I don’t remember,” Hutch chuckled; “Used to terrorize my sister with them. Mother got tired of it, took them away.”

“Ah, man, Hutch! I begged my pop for one for weeks. I played with that thing until the springs broke and it was held together with tape!”

Hutch chuckled, gave his partner a fond glance and a pat on the back.

The inside of the store wasn’t too busy. Bag boys helping ladies out with their purchases, a child or two racing around, up and down aisles, the various woman slowly perusing the canned goods and produce. Starsky snatched up a basket but Hutch took it from him, so he had to get another.

“Starsk, where are you going?”

“Candy. You can’t be trusted.”

Hutch rolled his eyes but let him go, selected the essentials that he knew the brunet would ignore. Some oranges, bananas, milk, eggs, and bread. A few items that Starsky could use to throw together a sandwich, or something equally fast and easy. He had a feeling this trip wouldn’t be as thorough as he would like. Not with Starsky in his current mood. Would it be possible to drop him back at his place and come out again once he was occupied? Stock the fridge and pantry with things that didn’t come prepackaged or swimming in unnecessary sugars and fats. It would have to be quick, but Hutch thought he could manage it. It just depended on how tired the brunet really was, and how much of it was obstinacy.

He found Starsky perusing the candy a few minutes later. Basket at his feet with his head bent over a package, turning it over and over in his hand.

Hutch nudged the basket in the floor with his foot, blinking at the contents. “Parents are sure gonna love you… Pushing all that sugar on their kids.”

“You know… there’s a reason my place never gets egged.”

“Usually, because we’re on patrol on Halloween.”

“Besides that.”

Hutch thought back over the years; “Well, year before last you were seeing that girl—What’s-her-name—And she was at your place… She gave out the candy?”

“Hundred-thirty kids. Ran out and had to turn off the light. Neighbors had over two-hundred. I’m going to beat them this year, just watch.”

“All that money wasted on twenty-seconds of a kid’s sugar high.”

“Do you just generally hate fun?”

“No, just the senseless waste of a person’s hard-earned money to fulfil a corporate agenda.”

“Corporate agenda? It’s candy.”

“It’s an excuse to sell bulk goods, and overpriced plastic costumes to spoiled children with haggard, overworked parents.”

“You’re lucky I don’t egg your place.”

Hutch picked up Starsky’s basket and carried it to the front of the store. Eyed the store circular ads while the other made small talk with the checkout girl. She was younger by more than a few years and was eagerly showing off her wedding ring. Starsky called her by name, offered quiet congratulations.

Hutch carried most of the bags, out of a sense of duty, but Starsky insisted on carrying most of his chosen candies. He seemed more upbeat now, maybe he’d managed a second wind.

He talked animatedly on their way back about the checkout girl. That she’d worked there for a year or two now, but the wedding had been a surprise; “Well, maybe not a surprise,” he said. “I haven’t been in there in months. I mean, how much did I miss! They rearranged stuff again, too. I thought I was lost for a bit there. Wound up looking at canned fruit. Why they gotta rearrange things every month? Why can’t they just leave stuff where it is?”

“Because then you would just go and get only what you need. You won’t browse. You won’t wander around like a turkey and see something you don’t need and buy it because it looks interesting. Why do you think they have gum displays and knickknacks near the registers? Impulsive buying. You’re an impulsive shopper.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You need to keep lists,” He rummaged in his pocket and withdrew his, shook it in the other’s face, “Only buy what’s on the lists. Stay focused!”

“That how you do it?”

“Yes, that’s how I do it. I don’t look around, I don’t shop hungry. I stick to the list.”

When the time came to climb the stairs back to his apartment, Starsky was flagging visibly. Paused halfway up and pretended that he was inspecting one of the treads; “Does that step feel weak to you?”

Hutch checked it, bounced up and down a little just to allow his partner a moment to breathe without guilt, “No, feels fine.”

“Must be my shoe,” He hummed thoughtfully and continued up.

Hutch put away the milk, eggs and other items. Watched as the candy was stashed in a cupboard, but not before Starsky took out a package of Reese’s cups. Tugging the plastic open and licking the chocolate off his fingers.

“You’re gonna ruin your dinner.”

“Has it ever ruined my dinner?”

He didn’t have a reply.

Starsky sauntered off with his candy, sprawled himself out on the couch with the TV Guide and started humming loudly.

So it was that, barely five days later, just as Hutch was coming in from a long shift, Starsky made an excuse to send him to the grocery store; “There’s this new thing I just saw on the TV—I gotta get some for the kids before they’re all out! I made a list, look!”

Hutch paused beside the couch and looked down at the dark curls falling across his partner’s forehead, scanned the scrap of paper in his hands; “You ate all that candy, didn’t you.”

Starsky shrugged innocently; “Not all of it?”

“It’s two days until Halloween. The stores don’t have any candy left. I know, I helped break up a fight in one earlier.”

Starsky looked up guiltily; “Not even wax lips?”

“Not that I saw.”

He looked crestfallen.

“I knew this would happen. Every year you do this.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes, “’s been months since I had candy, what did you expect?”

“I expected you to have enough sense not to eat sixteen pounds of candy in a week!”

“Didn’t eat all of it. Just the Reese’s Cups,” He looked a little green about the gills; “Think I kind of went crazy with it,” He shuddered, “Can you be a candy junky? I felt like I couldn’t stop myself there for a while. I couldn’t get enough. I’ve never felt anything like it!” His eyes were wide, “But, I learned my lesson.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… Spent the last three days sick as a dog. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at peanut butter the same again.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Starsky shifted uncomfortably in his seat; “You were working late and upset about Bines. I wasn’t gonna bug you because I had a stomach ache. ‘sides, it was my own fault.”

Hutch rubbed his face, “Five months of a doctor recommended diet, your system isn’t used to all that sugar.”

“You’re telling me,” He wrapped his arms around his middle. “You sure the store’s out? It isn’t fair not giving kids candy on Halloween. They’ll be disappointed.”

“Well, maybe next year you’ll think about that before you eat all the damned candy!”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“Look, I know how much you were looking forward to this. I can still go get some apples and oranges, so you’ll at least have something to give them.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”

“At least they’re getting something.”

“You ever seen a kid’s face on Halloween? Not the kids like around here. But the kids who hop the bus, or walk in big groups from their neighborhood to the other side of town? Kids in hand made costumes— The ones who don’t get much good things happening in their lives, yanno? On Halloween it’s not always like that. It doesn’t matter if they’re poor and their parents can’t afford much… It’s not like Christmas. Halloween is different. Nobody knows who you are, or where you came from, nobody cares. Most of the time they’ll give you candy same as the next kid… But you can tell. I can tell. Those kids look at you like you gave ‘em the moon or something.”

And there was the face. All big regretful eyes and pouty lips. Even under that beard it was heartbreaking. Hutch sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. Damn that sad face. Damn him for the sad kid stories, and damn him for looking so fucking heartbroken.

Hutch tilted his head back and rubbed both palms over his face, beaten. “You owe me,” He pointed sternly toward the far wall; “Move.”

“What?” Starsky looked half scared.

“Get up!”

“I don’t feel like goin— I made a list—”

“No, just—” He pulled Starsky up and muttered about damn Bambi eyes, and lifted the couch with a grunt, kicked a package tightly folded in a paper bag out toward his partner’s feet. He dropped the couch with a loud thump. “There… Don’t say I never did anything for you,” and he sat down heavily in Starsky’s spot.

“What the hell is this?” Starsky pointed to the offending package.

“What do you think it is!”

“I don’t know but I’ve seen dope wrapped up like that before and I—”

“It’s not dope, you moron.”

He bent carefully, eyes on Hutch, and opened the package. He blinked, then gave a soft shake that turned into strangled giggles; “Hutch, you—uh- got something you wanna tell me?”

Hutch just glared at him.

“I mean, YOU, of all people hiding Tootsie Rolls and Twix Cookie Bars? I’m shocked! Where did you get it? None of this was on your lists.”

“Not another word.”

“Why are they under the couch? Did you hide ‘em? ‘s like you feel guilty— Do you feel guilty?”

“I hid them so you wouldn’t eat them,” He snarled, “I know you. Every year you say you’re gonna leave candy for the kids, but you go out three and four times to get it because you end up eating it all. You know why your place never gets egged? You end up leaving a bowl of change on your doorstep, or have one of your girls do it—Dammit, it’s not funny!”

“Like hell it’s not funny!” Starsky pulled out one of the half-eaten packages; “Here you are, in my house, puttin’ your stash under my couch!”

“It’s not a stash!”

“If it’s not a stash, why’d you hide it!”

“Will you just get outta here with that before I change my mind and make you give those kids apples? It’d serve you right!”

Starsky took the package away and stuffed it into the cupboard. On his way back through the room he stopped behind the couch and wrapped his arms around Hutch’s shoulders. “Thanks,” And he pressed a kiss to the side of the blonde’s face.

Hutch crossed his arms, still feigning bitterness.

Starsky giggled prodding him playfully in the stomach, “You got a sweet tooth! Come on, admit it!”

Hutch smacked him in the face with a cushion.

“Admit it!” Starsky wrestled the cushion away, rolled across the back of the sofa and landed with his head on the blonde’s thigh. “Admit it! You’ve got a sweet tooth! You like candy just as much as me and were hiding that all for yourself! You’re an impulsive shopper!”

Hutch yanked the cushion up and flattened it over the other man’s face, crossed his arms on it, pinning flailing arms with his legs.

“No.”

He could still hear Starsky laughing.

 

TURNING POINT

(November 1, 1979 3:20 AM) 

The porch light was still on when Hutch pulled to a stop outside Starsky’s building. There were scattered candy wrappers in the driveway, a couple cigarette butts stomped out on the pavement, and two used batteries likely thrown out from a flashlight earlier in the night.

The lights were still on inside and that hideous smiling paper pumpkin with the black cat atop it was taped up on the window overlooking the street. Hutch thought he’d thrown the damned thing out twice, but it kept reappearing. That cat glared at him no matter which way he looked at it, like some green-eyed demon spawn—

Hutch rounded the corner and saw streams of toilet paper decorating the neighbor’s stairwell and their flowering bushes. Caught in the branches of a tree between the two bungalows. There were no egg shells, and no toilet paper around Starsky’s place however, and as he started up the stairs Hutch heard soft noises coming through the windows. Groans and creepy growling, ominous cackling—

He paused at the door, and noticed the hastily scrawled sign taped to the door. Thick letters angled to look scary with an obvious bite taken out of one corner. He tugged it down and stared; “’Don’t Feed the Beast,’” Hutch could imagine Starsky making it, then in a fit of genius literally tearing a chunk out of it with his teeth. He rubbed his brow and tried the knob, finding it unlocked.

The lamp beside the sofa had been draped with an old towel that had holes cut randomly through it. Casting oddly shaped shadows on the walls, and dim slits of light toward the ceiling. The TV was on, sound turned low. Dull static and a flickering grainy image.

The record still turning in the corner finished, clicked a few times and the needle lifted automatically, waiting for someone to tend to it.

Starsky was sprawled over the sofa, left leg propped on the headrest, arms curled pleasantly around an almost empty bowl of leftover treats. There were a few Tootsie Roll wrappers scattered around him and some pocket change counted out into piles on the coffee table. He was still smiling, although half asleep, the black on his nose a little smeared, hair and beard fluffed and purposefully disarrayed, white shirt opened and faux fur sticking from under the cuffs of his sleeves.

He looked pleased with himself.

Hutch shook his head and tiptoed to the record player, turning it off and slotting ‘Halloween Spooks’ back into its sleeve. When he turned back to his partner Starsky’s eyes were open, smile wide and a little flushed.

“Hey, you,” Hutch thought it was damned-near blinding.

Starsky stretched all his limbs and growled with the effort, trembling all over then went suddenly limp and peaceful, tucking his arms under his head; “Hey, yourself.”

“I take it from the… accessories on your neighbor’s lawn, that you won?”

“Two-hundred an’ nineteen!” He chuckled; “They ran out before ten!”

“Most kids are in bed by ten.”

“Kids, yeah… It’s the teenagers you gotta worry about.”

“Aren’t teenagers a little old for tricks-or-treats?”

“Nope… They just prefer the paper kind of treats,” He indicated the piles of change on his coffee table.

“And the paper kinds of tricks,” Hutch unfastened his holster and pulled it off, hung it on a peg near the bedroom door and covered it with his jacket. “And what’s with this?” He held up the sign he’d tugged off the door. “Aren’t you a little old to eat paper?”

“It’s called authenticity!”

“It’s called lunacy,” He dropped it onto the desk and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I scared a kid,” Starsky didn’t sound as pleased by this as Hutch thought he would be.

“Oh?”

“Little girl—probably four-maybe five…”

Hutch peered down at him, “So you put up the sign to warn people you were dressed up like a big kid?”

Starsky pouted at him; “She was really scared. I felt this big,” He held up two fingers pinched together.

“Did you give her extra candy?”

“Of course… I watched out the window after that. Didn’t jump out at the little kids.”

“Well, that was big of you,” Hutch went into the kitchen and came out with a beer, pushed Starsky’s head and shoulders out of the way long enough to sit down, then pulled him back into his lap.

“What about you?” Starsky peeled open a package of Necco Wafers and put one in his mouth.

“Bluto had a big bag of wax lips… kept passing them out when he spotted a kid.”

Starsky giggled and passed a wafer up to Hutch.

“It was all fine until he started in with the Count Dracula routine.”

“Boris Karloff?”

“Who else… Got Dispatch in on it—soon it sounded like a broadcast of Bride of Frankenstein.”

“There’s no vampires in Frankenstein—”

“You know what I mean—”

Starsky was physically covering his mouth and trying to smother his laughter imagining it.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to miss being on the street with you when he’s pra-practically doing a Starsky impersonation all the damned time.”

“He that good?”

“No… Just enough to make me mad that he isn’t you.”

Starsky smiled and put the bowl of candy on the floor. Rolled onto hands and knees on the couch and gave Hutch’s shoulders a shove until he was pinned against the armrest. “You like him, don’t ya!”

Hutch sat his beer down at his hip and fitted both hands in the small of his partner/werewolf’s back. “He isn’t you… But, he’ll suffice until you’re back where you belong.”

Starsky threaded his fingers into those fine blonde locks and let out a playful growl, hips twitching forward a little.

Hutch kept a straight face for all of ten seconds, then snorted a giggle; “You look ridiculous.”

Starsky tugged his head back by his hair and menaced Hutch’s adam’s apple with his teeth. “m’ scary!”

“Hey, bad dog!” Hutch gave him a sharp swat on his rear pocket and everything froze.

Starsky stared down at him with wide eyes, Hutch stared up perhaps just as startled.

Nothing happened for five whole heartbeats.

Starsky turned his wrist and glanced at his watch, but Hutch’s hands were already in motion, sinking into his back pockets and pulling their groins together.

“My appointment’s at one.”

“Plenty of time,” Hutch’s voice was lower than usual, drawn smooth and dark across Starsky’s nerves.

“We really gonna do this?”

“If you’re not ready—”

Starsky gripped his head between his palms, his pupils were blown wide, nothing but a corona of dark blue at the edges. “Do I not look ready to you?” For emphasis he pushed down with his hips and Hutch could feel every inch of him, imagined he could feel his partner’s pulse in the contact.

“We should—uh—” But Starsky had lowered his head again and was working at the hinge of Hutch’s jaw. Kisses that devolved into the scrape of teeth and facial hair. A ticklish shudder ran up Hutch’s spine and he tried to pull away from the contact but Starsky was tenacious. Followed him until he was trapped between the sensation and the back of the couch.

“The-uh—the bedroom. We sh-should go to the bedroom.”

“What’s your hurry?”

“If you leave another—I can claim allergy once—you do that again they’ll eat me alive!”

“Hnn,” Starsky was working at the buttons of his shirt, leaving little sooty smudges from the black on his nose with each kiss; “That’s my job.”

“Starsky—I’m not a woman, you don’t have to work me up. In case you can’t tell—” He rolled his hips against the stomach and chest rubbing against his groin.

“I owe you one… And, because you obviously have the memory span of a goldfish—I still haven’t seen exactly what you’re packin’, while you’ve had your hands all over mine.”

“So, you’re going to draw this out?”

“Every bloody second I can!”

Hutch chuckled, pulled his hands back and folded them calmly under his head, stretched. “I get to watch you… A lot of firsts tonight.”

Starsky looked up at him, gaze warm, “You get off on thinking about that? Being first?”

“Don’t you?”

Starsky shifted, crossed his arms over Hutch’s stomach, the heat of the blonde’s erection pressing into his chest. Kicked his socked feet up in the air against the armrest. “I don’t know… Feels like it was meant to happen I guess.”

“You nervous?”

He shrugged, didn’t confirm or deny. “You?”

“A little,” He took a deep breath, eyes falling shut and for a while he remained still, resting and centering himself in the moment. In the sensation, and idea of what was going to happen. He’d been expecting it to happen, just not tonight. Hadn’t thought he would have the energy, or that Starsky would be in the mood—Well, maybe not that. It didn’t take much for Starsky to find the mood.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” Starsky sounded almost worried.

“No, just feeling it—Feeling you. Your weight, warmth. The energy of you.”

A soft snort; “Yeah?”

“Yeah… Try it. Just close your eyes and focus on where we touch. The ways I feel real, the ways you feel real. How our energies mesh and flow together.”

Starsky unfolded his arms, stretched them up as far on Hutch’s torso as he could reach, tucked his fingers into the blonde’s palms when they came from behind the taller man’s head and opened. Digits folding together. Like puzzle pieces.

For a moment Starsky was tense—stretching maybe—then his body relaxed with a deep long sigh, head pressed into Hutch’s stomach. Hair tickling through the open flaps of his shirt.

Starsky was heavy, the bulk of him like a living blanket pressing Hutch down into the couch cushions. The position was intimate, more so than any of the positions they’d woken up in together in Starsky’s bed the past few weeks. Sometimes they’d be tangled together, sweaty face to sweaty chest or neck. Hair rumpled and untidy, bladders full and eyes sticky with sleep. Others they’d be on opposite sides of the mattress, a respectable distance between them. Starsky swathed in most of, if not all the blankets. Hutch with a sheet tucked around his chest.

Starsky’s fingers flexed, tracing the length of those pressed to his own. Palms gone tingly and hyper sensitive. Every little hair on arms and backs of necks on end.

“I can feel your breathing.”

Hutch tried to keep from shuddering. Hearing the wonder in Starsky’s voice.

“Your body… You’re always warmer than me.”

Hutch let those hands travel up his arms and across his chest, pressing purposefully into every muscle, drawing tingling lines with Starsky’s fingerprints.

“You hide it… like you’re afraid of your own strength… Afraid to hurt someone just by being you. That’s why you walk like that—all curled in. ‘make yourself look less intimidating. Unassuming. But right now, you’re all here, and I can feel it.”

“Yeah?”

Starsky smiled against his sternum, pressed a lingering kiss there, hands pushing in under the blonde’s shirt. “Yeah… You feel me?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Starsky made another growling noise, worrying at a fine line of scar tissue on Hutch’s abdomen. Cut from broken glass, or something—some act of heroics or clumsiness, it wasn’t important. Worked at it with lips and tongue, following the impression of a rib, or the ridge of muscle beneath tanned skin and Hutch’s hands tightened in his shirt, body bucking up and away.

“Don’t—”

But Starsky only smiled and gripped tighter, wrapped himself bodily around the blonde and continued his exploration in spite of the soft giggling and desperate pushes at his head, trying to dislodge him.

“Staaaaahahahahp!” Hutch tried to bend away from him, spine curling voice high, almost thrashing. Finally managing to dislodge the perpetrator of such indignities and push him with hands and feet to the other end of the sofa. Starsky spread out, red faced and grinning, the black worn almost completely off his nose and left in smears and smudges across Hutch’s neck, chest and ribs.

Hutch panted, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, legs jackknifed protectively between himself and Starsky. He stared at the other man in faux outrage. “Yeah, you keep grinning, you—you hyena.”

Starsky flopped his head into his hand and just smiled at him, let the blonde catch his breath before he moved closer. Inched in until he could wrap an arm around Hutch’s knees and rest his chin on them. Left hand toying with the untucked hem of Hutch’s shirt.

One finger hooked in the waistband of his slacks and pulled it away enough to expose the red stripe on his underpants elastic.

Hutch let him explore, kept one arm folded over his chest, to ward off further tickling, the other he flung up over his head and plucked at a loose thread in the lone cushion he hadn’t managed to knock into the floor.

Starsky moved slowly, allowing for a refusal or a word of caution. Tugged at the waistband again and again, sliding his finger closer to the center. “You’ve lost weight.”

“So, have you.”

“Hmm,” The button was gold, it looked good—fetching a gleam against Hutch’s skin from the veiled lamp and the flickering TV. A few soft little springy blonde hairs peeking up under the dip of his navel. The zipper was half visible, pushed outward by heat and want contained in too solid flesh. Down the right side of the shape, three fingers—firm and not as gentle as they could have been. Hutch tried not to move, tried to mentally weld all his joints and muscles to prevent any motion. Give him this, let him explore for a minute before you start reacting. Don’t scare him off.

But then those fingers turned and Starsky pressed the full weight and breadth of his palm against him. Fingers fitting against the bulk and shape and undeniable male fact of him as if putting his hand on another man’s genitals wasn’t something entirely new to him.

The motion seemed smooth, but Starsky’s eyes were lowered, averted just the smallest bit, counting the stitches in the hip seam of Hutch’s slacks, not looking at his hand. Thinking while his lips compressed, about dimensions, height, weight, width—girth. His face went a miraculous shade of red.

“What is it?” Hutch’s mouth felt too dry to manage more than a whisper.

“Just never figured you were packing two pythons.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Ha-ha.”

“Well, what am I supposed to think, that’s my hand there—”

“I promise you, I’m very aware of that.”

“—And you-you’re up my wrist.”

“Your hands are small.”

“Are not.”

“Are too!”

“How do you keep it in your shorts!”

Hutch snorted, choked on a laughed; “Speak for yourself—I’m flattered, really, but I think you’ve just got first-time-jitters.”

Starsky shifted around some more, got his other hand down there, pulled carefully at button and zipper. “I’ve seen you in the shower before—You got an extra pair of socks down there or something?”

Hutch just giggled, helped by lifting his hips when he needed to, so his slacks could be drawn down, and his underwear tugged until the elastic bit in just below his hips and across the swell of his ass. White with a red stripe caught in Starsky’s nimble fingers and pulled.

“You can keep calling me Python if you want, but—”

“Shut up…” Starsky swallowed a lump in his throat, face still red.

“Wanna move to the bedroom now?”

“Why?” His voice sounded a little shaky; “Foolin’ around on the couch not enough for ya’?”

“Was when I was a teenager, and about thirty pounds lighter—”

“Oh, now who needs to eat better—”

Hutch caught his hand and held it, pried Starsky’s fingers away from the elastic and rubbed them working out the tension. “Stars… Hey. We still good?”

Starsky looked up at him, pupils gone wide again. “Yeah.”

“Let me help, OK? Just feel it.”

Hutch eased their hands down, curling Starsky’s hand around him, guiding in one-two strokes before Starsky let out a breath and pushed his other hand into the mix. Sliding into Hutch’s underwear and lifting the rest of him free. Rolling the firm globes against his palm.

Hutch let his head fall back, eyes rolling up. “Show off.”

“I’ve got technique! I’m not usually a hair trigger. Way I figure it—what feels good to me, should feel good to you,” He mouthed at the side of Hutch’s knee through his slacks.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Hutch carefully pulled his fingers away, and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead in an attempt to make some kind of sense out of this. Starsky was an ‘out of the box’ type of person. He was a counterweight to Hutch himself. Able to look at things just differently enough to see answers Hutch had missed, and vice-versa. Hand jobs, apparently were the same. ‘What feels good to me, should feel good to you’. Now all he could think about was Starsky lying in bed doing this to himself. Similar technique to what Hutch did to himself, one hand stroking, fingers curling to brush around the head, other hand kneading his balls. Tugging and gently squeezing. Brushing up against the sensitive flesh behind every third or fourth repetition. But, Starsky’s fingers were just a little rougher, a little faster than Hutch usually handled himself. The urgency palpable, and that tiny sting of discomfort made it different enough—New enough to be unique.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Starsky’s voice had gone lower, dangerous. “Your face—You—” He growled, deep in his chest, “Hutch—your face right now.”

“Hmm—like what you see?”

“Always.”

Hutch grinned, slit his eyes open and peered out from beneath his lashes. “You still look like the wolfman.”

“It’s Halloween.”

Hutch took a slow breath, “Well, I’m getting tired of that costume… Take it off.”

“What if I don’t wanna.”

“Well, if you’re okay with grease stains,” He reached up and pulled Starsky up by the front of his shirt. Propped himself on an elbow and crashed their mouths together.

“Grease stains?” Starsky mumbled between kisses and nips.

“Yeah. Vaseline. It’s easier to do this with a little grease.”

“I—” Starsky pulls back a little, hands tightening in anxiety; “—You use Vaseline?”

Hutch’s brows pulled down, “What’s that look for?”

Starsky rolled his eyes, a wicked grin pulling at the edges of his lips; “Oh, babe, have I got something to show you!” He rocked back and up to his feet, helped Hutch to stand and caught him by the hand and belt loop, tugging him toward the open bedroom door; “Things make so much sense now—You—” A little trill or laughter; “You’re in for an eye opener, pal. A real eye opener!” He tugged the faux fur from his sleeves and started working the buttons on his shirt.

Hutch wordlessly began undressing, feeling weirdly exposed with his genitals hanging out over his elastic. He got his slacks and underwear down, pooled around his ankles as he worked on untying his shoes. “What are you talking about? What makes so much sense?”

Starsky had his shirt off and was working at the closures of his slacks. “You said it hurt, right?”

Hutch blinked; “It does.”

“You used Vaseline?”

“Well, I wasn’t just going to use spit,” He kicked off his shoes and made a grab at Starsky’s waist, intent on peeling him out of his slacks. Maybe getting his mouth somewhere around that lovely crease in Starsky’s thigh. Where his skin was pale and thin and salty after a day trapped behind his clothes. See if the other man was as ticklish there as he was at the backs of his knees and under his arms. A little payback for latching onto Hutch’s ribs earlier.

Starsky let him for the most part, took the motion with a soft grunt and rolled them onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and half-discarded clothing.

Hutch threw a leg over Starsky’s thighs and loomed over him on hands and knees. Eyes dark, breath coming quick with growing desire; “Sally came equipped with more than fingers,” He bent forward for a kiss, and moved to the thin, soft flesh behind the brunet’s ear. Found a place on the ridge of his right clavicle to brush the sharp points of his teeth against.

“Yeah?” Starsky rumbled, curling his left hand into a fist around the collar of Hutch’s shirt. “She use a sex toy on you?”

“Mmm, more than one,” He latched on suddenly, sucking and pinching with his teeth. A small revenge for the beard burn Starsky had left all over the back and side of his neck.

But Starsky didn’t push him away, sucked in a sharp breath and pulled Hutch down, a whine and shiver as the blonde moved lower. Another red mark sucked onto the lower side of his hip. Pulling insistently at slacks and underpants until Hutch could get a hand around his cock.

“And you—you used Vaseline?”

“Uh-huh,” Hutch was moving again, kissing at the lower curve of his stomach, hand moving, chest brushing against the reddened crown of his partner’s sex.

Starsky’s head thumped back on his pillow.

“Nonono,” Hutch’s voice had lowered, gone quiet and dark with desire, “I want you to watch… Night of firsts, you’re not going to want to miss this.”

“Shit,” Starsky lifted his head, chest heaving with quickened breath. He snatched up the other pillow and stuffed it behind him, then reached toward the blonde, “You—” He shuddered, jerked his chin toward the night stand. “Stuff—”

“Uh-huh,” Hutch knew what was in that nightstand. Had fetched a few things out for Starsky while he was still in the hospital. “They’re expired.”

“What?”

“The condoms…”

“Dammit—”

“Easy, take it easy.”

“You take it easy—”

“Stars, look at me. Look at me.”

His eyes moved before his head, locking on Hutch’s face.

“It’s alright.”

He was trembling, right hand flexing on Hutch’s shoulder, the left hovering near his face. “How do you do this, huh?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Hutch moved down a little more on the bed, found the crease of Starsky’s thigh and brushing his face against it, was tempted to leave another mark but decided against it.

“How do you work me up like nobody else, and you’ve only just got your hand on me.”

Hutch grinned, peered up at him from under his lashes and gave a wink. The next second he’d lowered his mouth to the tip and pressed the flat of his tongue up against the underside of the glans.

Starsky shuddered, and his pupils expanded. The muscles in his jaw twitched. He watched for as long as he dared, the way Hutch’s hand moved smoothly on the bottom half of his shaft, lips and mouth stretched obscenely as he sucked and licked—and all the while those eyes never left his.

It wasn’t as easy as the films, and women made it look, Hutch decided. As much as he wanted this, wanted the taste and weight of Starsky on his tongue and in his throat, he had to fight with himself to keep from gagging. He wasn’t used to the foreign bulk of it, pressing his tongue down and teasing at his soft palate. Even the taste was different. He’d curiously tasted himself before, what man hadn’t, but Starsky was different, salty and bitter, mixed with something he couldn’t name. But even the burn of it on his tongue and the back of his throat was worth it. Just for the awed, wanton look on Starsky’s face every time he increased the pressure of his lips, or gave a particularly hard pull. Every whine and barely restrained jerk of muscles in Starsky’s hips and face, or the brush of his hand through Hutch’s hair made him want to push just a little farther. Take a little more—It was goddamned addicting.

“Can we do this again later?”

Hutch pulled off and took a second to rehinge his jaw and wipe the wetness from his lips and chin; “What?”

Starsky swallowed, his whole face was red; “As much as I just wanna let you blow me till I can’t see straight, I’ve got a couple more firsts I want to check off before we run out of time.”

Hutch felt his brows lift, a coy smile playing at his tingling lips; “Oh? What exactly have you got in mind?” He flicked the tip of his tongue against Starsky’s tip again, playfully, and kept his hand moving, slick in the drool and precome that had escaped his mouth.

Starsky’s legs vibrated in barely contained energy, trapped in the tangle of his slacks and underwear, pressed under Hutch’s calves and knees. His jaw went tight, teeth clicking together audibly.

“Want me to fold you up and blow your mind?” Hutch licked down toward the brunet’s balls and gave them a not so gentle squeeze with his free hand.

Starsky’s eyes rolled up and his whole body gave a little spasm, a jolt as if he’d been shocked. He moaned.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you,” Hutch’s eyes shot to his face, “Care to say that again?” It was all there, the need written plainly in the upward curl of his brows and the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth. The sweat standing out in little beads on his brow and upper lip.

The way his pulse beat now-now-now in the side of his neck and cock.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Hutch took him in one more time, as far as he could and pulled back slowly with a low hum; “What’d you say?”

Starsky licked his lips, as if thirsty, and fixed a little spot on the ceiling with the intensity of his gaze. “I said… if you don’t get that lube and get on with the show, I can’t be held accountable for what I may, or may not do to that tail of yours.”

“Oh, is that right,” Hutch kept tugging, waited until Starsky tilted his head down and stared at him, all hunger and evening blue eyes.

Hutch had always known that Starsky could get enthusiastic. Whether it was under cover, in the interrogation room, or even here, between the sheets. It was something you could just tell by being around him. The energy under his skin was electric—contagious. He had no doubt in his mind that Starsky had the means to back up his words. And exceed them if need be.

Hutch took pity on him, or maybe took pity on himself, and rocked back on his heels. Allowing his lover room to finish undressing while he fished out that crinkled, well used tube from within the confines of the drawer.

“Get a towel while you’re up.”

“What?”

“I just changed these sheets—go get a towel!” Starsky threw a paperback at him. Some British Nurse Romance bologna. Probably a leftover from a stewardess or something. He had a few of them, though they never left his bedroom.

Hutch danced away and grinned as he collected a towel, then stood in the doorway watching Starsky crawl around on the bed pushing the blankets and pillows this way and that, clearing an area for them. Then he settled against the headboard with his legs crossed, tube tucked under his arm to warm it.

Hutch couldn’t stop from laughing quietly. He approached slowly, still smiling, wide and bright. Fitted his fingers to the nape of Starsky’s neck, and pulled their mouths together for a deep kiss before dragging himself away. Just long enough to get the towel on the center of the bed.

The clock on the nightstand said four-thirty-six.

“So… what now?”

Hutch met his eyes, saw the flush of his cheeks and the excitement barely contained in his eyes and the set of his broad shoulders. “Now… You show me what’s so world changing.”

“Huh?”

Hutch moved onto the bed, settling himself facing his partner with the towel beneath him. He caught one wrist and tugged a little, bringing the other man with him as he lay back, head propped on the blankets shoved to the foot of the bed.

Starsky raised up onto hands and knees and stared down at him; “You sure?”

“Yeah. If it’s too much—”

“There’s other ways.”

Hutch nodded, felt his heart quickening as Starsky moved over him, caught him behind the right knee and drew his leg up and out. Settled down against his chest, their groins pressed together intimately. Heated friction with every little aborted thrust and pull of muscles. Just this felt amazing. How heavy and real Starsky felt, pressing him into the bed, the little dips and curves and hollows of their bodies fitting together. Every breath and moan transmitted from core to core.

“You ‘kay?”

Hutch smiled, curled his arms under Starsky’s and traced the shifting, bunching muscles in his back, “Yeah.”

“’not too heavy?”

“Hell no,” And drew him in closer.

Starsky caught his other leg and hitched it up. His hand splayed out on Hutch’s thigh, urging him to find some kind of perch on the jut of his hipbone, face buried in the side of his neck with a feral sounding growl.

“Hey—“ Hutch was breathless, “Thought we were getting serious here—” Teeth against the proud swell of his trapezius. “Jesus—Where’d you put the lube—”

“Forget the lube,” Starsky’s legs were raw power, rocking them together, their bodies weeping.

Forget the lube, he says. Here we are humping like teenagers— “You better not try to slip anything in me without it, mister. I mean it—”

“I won’t—I won’t.”

Hutch tangled fingers in his hair and pulled until he could get his mouth on jawbone, bite at the stupid Halloween costume beard Starsky had grown and demand a kiss—a rough mating of tongues and teeth and lips pinched red and swollen.

“Fuck—” Both hands in Hutch’s hair, arms coiled beneath his shoulders—manhandling him up into each kiss. “We got all night—Won’t forget it when it’s time.”

And Hutch’s dazzled mind realized that this was just the beginning. It wasn’t the main course as he’d thought it to be, this was just the opening act—the appetizer.

“You better not keep me up all night!”

“No, no… Up, down—sideways. In, maybe. If you didn’t want me to keep you, ‘should’ve thought of that before.”

“In? Yeah—I could do In…” Hutch squeezed with his legs, felt Starsky’s body hitch and half a breath later he rocked quickly backward like a thing possessed and began groping across the bed, muttering about the damned lube. Hutch laughed, arms curled around his chest, head back, laughter.

Starsky found the tube bent and half flattened under the blankets bunched behind the blonde’s head and descended upon him again. Posed a serious counterpoint to Hutch’s continued giggles as he hitched those long legs around his waist and fought the cap off the tube. But for all his scowling and muttering he was damnably gentle, cautious.

It wasn’t Vaseline, Hutch knew that. This was thinner, left his cock feeling wet, not necessarily slick when Starsky stroked some over him, massaged it over his balls and slipped lower. One finger two—a pause while Hutch cautioned about the sting—gentle twisting and thrusting to work the muscles loose. Lying there with his head back and eyes shut listening to Starsky breathe, gentle ticklish kisses pressed to the insides of his thighs as fingers worked rhythmically up into him. Long minutes just stroking himself in the quiet. The nervousness in Starsky’s voice;

“Are you OK?”

A pause. “Yeah… Keep going.”

A cautious sounding snort; “Never takes this long in the films.”

And Hutch’s brain was loud, chanting ‘It’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt just like it did when Sally put that dildo up in you! Like a car crash!’

“Hutch—uh— you went all tight… ’you OK?”

Hutch put an arm up over his face, took a rattling breath. “I need to talk. Need you to talk—Jus-just something… Distract me.”

“Okay. Talk ‘bout what?”

Hutch pulled his legs up again from where they’d slid down the bed. “What feels good… Your hand.”

“My hand?”

“Yeah… Just—anything.”

“Okay… You—” He cleared his throat, “You’re all pink and gold, you know that?”

Hutch pried open an eye and stared at him.

But Starsky’s face was flushed, sincere; “Earthy colors… Like sunrises,” He brushed his free hand up pressed the ball of his thumb into the divot of his lover’s hip, pushed in hard enough to leave a mark. His eyes roved over him, hungry and dark in his face like oceans. “I think I’m getting’ one of those fetishes.”

“Oh?”

He curled his fingers up emphatically and leaned forward to trace the curve of a rib with his tongue. “I wanna see you in candle light… All laid out in a sea of silk. Wearing one of those fancy necklaces like they’ve got in the jewelry store windows down town. Your neck covered in gold and diamonds.”

“Not pearls?”

“Maybe pearls…”

Hutch giggled, felt some of the nervousness leaving him. “Would costume jewelry work?”

“As long as it sparkles.”

“That’s a little absurd, you know.”

He shoved his fingers up a little harder, relished in the way Hutch followed the motion with a whine, began thrusting his hips up at air. “You’ve got sweat on your chest right now—sparkling… That’s good enough.”

“Yeah.” His breath caught. “You don’t need much direction, do you. You just know where to touch—”

“You forget I’m home alone most of the time with these hands.”

“Oh?”

“Thought I might as well see what all the fuss was about.”

“Good?”

He hummed, noncommittally.

Hutch felt himself relaxing a little more, the movements within him coming easier with less of a sting. “See-see if you can get a third one in there,” He shuddered, could feel Starsky’s arousal pressing against his thigh. Hot and heavy and twitching with want. Felt his heart beating erratically at the thought that this was actually going to happen. A whirlwind feeling in his core because he wanted it—needed it—even if it did hurt. “What do you think of when you’re—”

“You.”

Hutch bit down on a groan as that third finger made an appearance.

“Gotta admit though, the real thing’s better,” He moved in when Hutch reached for him, tasted salt on his cheek and want on his breath. “Want you to do this to me—Slow like this. Take me apart. Deep like you mean it. I wanna feel you for days after. Leave your fingerprints on me where nobody else has. Not even those goddamn surgeons.”

Hutch gripped at the brunet’s neck with both hands, held on tightly enough to bruise as those deft fingers pulled free and the anticipation filled his lungs with the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon. The weight in his arms—the man—his love moved with shaking hands and wide eyes. Searching for consent, for something deeper than skin, and sweat and soul. The bond that had saved their lives over and over. The beat of hearts in unison— It overflowed, filled their chests with life breath.

A sigh and pressure that faded, eased. Bodies flush, shivering in restraint.

Voices hushed like prayers, whispers into kisses and pulse points.

Hutch let his head and shoulders collapse back against the blankets, he felt suffocated by them. Pushed and batted at them and took short half breaths while his body adjusted to the intrusion. Starsky, bless him, held as still as he could, helped push the covers away into a pile in the floor. Soothed tense lines in the corners of the blonde’s eyes and mouth with soft kisses, the gentle kneading of fingers at the back of his neck. Soft words of encouragement. “Just let me know. Let me know when it’s OK. Try to relax.”

Sally hadn’t waited. Sally had given his right cheek a hard slap and set the pace. It had lasted about four minutes before she’d realized he wasn’t enjoying it at all, and she’d let him up. Let him roll his face out of the bed and hide in the bathroom while she got dressed. More embarrassed than he had been with anyone ever before.

Starsky kissed from right shoulder to left, hands petting at his sides, legs and stomach. “Hutch, Babe, you feel good. Real good.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you hurt?”

“Not much—burns.”

“Bad?”

“No,” He wrapped an arm around Starsky’s shoulders, played his fingers up and down his back. He took a deep breath and let it out, held the brunet’s head to his shoulder and urged him to move with a careful upward push of his hips. “If you’re not going to move, I am—”

“You wanna do the work?” He smiled against Hutch’s jaw, “Let me lay back and just look at you—Watch how you move.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you! Your own personal show.”

“Yeah, and nobody else’d ever see it—see you like that. Just you and me, babe,” He drew Hutch’s earlobe between his lips, pulled at it with the pressure of his tongue and teeth. “Fuck, you’d be gorgeous—Watch you ride me—make yourself feel good— I’d like that. Yeah, watch you come apart.”

Hutch felt each word like a physical shock, a heated wanton tingle curling up the length of his spine. “Fuck.”

“I wanna see you come on me… wanna feel it—Taste it— I wanna watch you fuck yourself with me—”

Hutch moved almost violently, hooked a foot behind Starsky’s knees, arm locked behind his head, fingers gripping hair, and with a mighty heave from right arm and leg, he shoved Starsky onto his back, starfished across the mattress with a shocked look on his face.

“Your mouth!” He snarled, wedged his knees into the mattress on either side of Starsky’s ribs and rocked back and down to reseat himself. Moaned aloud at the unforgiving push up into his body, head tilted back, neck stretched. He allowed Starsky a moment, one hand, to trace up the length of his body, curl around his throat to feel the hiss of his breath and beat of his heart, then pulled it down and wrapped all five digits around his cock. Balanced a hand back against Starsky’s knee and rolled his hips. “Your goddamned mouth!”

The noise Starsky made was almost inhuman, bliss and lust and love all rolled into a drawn-out groan. He’d called out in pain like that, the way his throat shaped vowels—but this was far from agony. Close enough to touch, but so far from it.

It didn’t hurt—not like this. Felt full, maybe a little uncomfortable at certain angles, but arching his back—pushing his chest and hips forward as he moved, damned near frantic, shoved the blunt head of Starsky’s cock right into his prostate. Like it was just made to do so. Like their bodies were so attuned to one another even this was synchronized. Pushing him higher and higher and closer and closer with each jerk of his hips.

Starsky bared his teeth, gripped like talons at Hutch’s hip— the bed shook beneath them—muttered ‘HutchHutchHutch.’  Helpless, like he’d been sucked up in a tornado or a hurricane or something equally catastrophic.

Hutch pulled away from Starsky’s knee, braced his hand over his heart and felt the tight muscles in his back begin to scream in protest—low and hard— “FUCK!”

The hand on his dick tightened, pulled hard and fast, four-maybe five times and the world fell away around him. A rumble in his chest choked off to a whine—If he’d had more breath he would have cried out. Bowed his head and shuddered, felt himself in spasm, legs trembling, hands in his hair, petting the sweat from his temples and neck. He was still rocking, dizzy as he caught his breath. Body tingling, little popping crackles along the nerves in his legs and face.

Starsky had a wide splash of white on his chest, some dripping from the underside of his chin. He looked like he’d seen the universe open up just for him.

“Jesus Christ,” Hutch closed his eyes, felt heat in his sinuses, couldn’t blink away the afterimage burned into the backs of his lids. Too much—just too much. He bowed into the pressure of those hands. Felt boneless—unhinged. Close to tears for reasons he couldn’t understand at the moment. His brain felt disconnected from his body—

“You okay?”

He nodded, didn’t know what else to do honestly. Felt Starsky shifting, pushing himself up—an arm around his waist to hold him still. Starsky’s chest against his, arms firm around him, kisses on his cheeks, lips and eyelids.

“You’re incredible—hey—hey are you cryin?” He sounded damned near panicked; “Babe, are you OK? Are you hurt?”

“’m ok.”

“Come here, come here—” He wanted to draw Hutch into him. “I got you.”

Somehow Starsky managed to get them on their feet, staggering like drunkards to the bathroom. Hutch sat on the toilet for a while, felt like his insides were going to cramp. Folded his arms around his stomach and watched while Starsky filled the tub part way. Scratched at the bite marks Hutch had left on his shoulder and hip. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Hutch rubbed a cold wet cloth over his face, felt somewhat human again. Sat in the tub and let Starsky rub his back with soap and a cloth. Pour water over his head from a cup and massage shampoo and cream rinse in. Held himself upright long enough for Starsky to submerge himself, save the points of his knees and scrub his hair. He resurfaced spluttering and dripping like a damned poodle. Then pull him back into a hug, the water splashing over the rim by their combined shifting mass.

It felt good—Better than good. Melted the sore ache in his back and stomach—the slightly abused sting of his asshole. He dozed lying there against Starsky’s chest, feeling those hands petting across his body, the smell of soap and shampoo mixed with steam, the pleasant warm tingle of satisfaction diffusing through his bones. “If you’re like this afterward, I could get used to being kept up all night.”

A snort and the scrape of Starsky’s beard against the back of his neck. Soft humming in his ear, Buddy Holly, Fats Domino, Robert Johnson. Lips against his hair.

Hutch scratched his cheek against Starsky’s chest; “Did you just kiss me?”

“Yeah.”

“Hnn,” He tilted his face up, “Do it again.”

“Of course.”

 

MALEFICENT

(September to November 10, 1979)

It was the plants. If Hutch were asked, he would say the plants were the start of it. He couldn’t well take care of his partner if he had to run to and from his place every day to make sure his plants didn’t die in the California heat. So, by early September his jungle had taken over the little concrete porch of Starsky’s bungalow, and every flat surface around the two southern facing windows. Every morning, before his run, Hutch made his rounds; Gave Starsky his morning pills, checked leaves, and blossoms, and buds. Made sure everyone was fed, noon time medicines for Starsky and the sad little fichus Hutch had rescued from an old neighbor a few months back. Every evening, he spritzed and watered and murmured lovingly with the door open, so he could hear his partner if he was sick, or needed help moving around.

For the most part Starsky stayed curled around his aching stomach with a cold cloth over his eyes and a blanket cocooned around him. Taking silent comfort in the familiar sound of Hutch conversing with his little bit of nature.

Healing was more strenuous than he wanted to admit. Draining. Add to that the ‘withdrawl’ from the high dollar pain killers the hospital had been pumping into him, he was damned near miserable. Nothing could distract him from it for long except sleeping, and even then, the nightmares were often times not worth it.

So, Starsky started puttering around with the plants alongside Hutch, just for something to do that wasn’t costing him more muscle tone. Learned a few dozen scientific names that had more syllables than he had fingers. Started gently wiping the dust from leaves of the indoor plants—A fern, a calla lily, some African violets one of the other detectives in their squad had sent over as a get-well present. A little aloe plant Kiko and Pete had delivered, as it was good for scaring, though he didn’t have the heart to snap off one of the plush leaves and try it.

Other than the trips to and from appointments, Starsky didn’t venture outside much, unless it was just to sit with his back or side turned to the sun and soak up the heat into his bones. It got tiring quickly, and Hutch’s jungle had attracted a bit of wildlife.

There were constantly birds on the gutter, chirping loudly and leaving little white and black piles just for Starsky to step, or sit on, or to drop fresh and sticky down his back when he wasn’t paying attention. Bees buzzing around this lone flower, or that one. At night the porchlight caught each leaf and shadow of a stem and seemed to deepen the darkness. Isolate them somehow, from the rest of the world. Peaceful, protective. It also created the perfect habitat for moths and mosquitoes, and kamikaze beetles that tried to dive into Starsky’s hair, or Hutch’s eye.

Then She came along.

Hutch came in one morning in Mid-September with his left arm rotated forward and his head turned on his neck, staring at his shoulder with a wide smile on his face. “Starsk! Look!” He’d motioned with an expression of utter glee on his face. “Isn’t she beautiful!”

Beautiful. Yeah… sure.

It was a bug.

A big bug.

A very big bug with a triangular head and glaring alien eyeballs. Machetes for arms.

“What the fuck is it! Get it OUT of my house!”

“Jesus! Just calm down, it’s a mantis, it’s not going to hurt you!”

The damned thing looked like it wanted to make for Starsky’s face, turned its head and stared right at him, bloated green and reddish body twitching.

“She was on the big Areca. Probably ready to lay her eggs soon!”

“Okay, yeah, that’s great. Now get it out!” He subconsciously began rolling the magazine he’d been heading to the bathroom with. Breath wheezing with the quickened flutter of his heart.

“You’re fine with cockroaches and flies, but a little mantis scares the hell out of you?”

“Flies and cockroaches are normal—that-that THING—”

“Mantis.”

“Whatever— There’s nothing LITTLE about it! It looks like a freakin’ nightmare bug! Get it out—Does it have wings? Has that thing got WINGS! Is it gonna take off? Get it out before it decides to take off!”

Hutch rolled his eyes and moved slowly back outside, tugged at his shirt until he could offer the mantis—monster—a hand to climb on so he could relocate it back to the big palm.

Starsky shifted warily to the door and watched, thumbed his nose, “What’s so special about it anyway?”

“She… She’s a Praying Mantis. They eat harmful insects.”

“Like mosquitoes?”

“Yeah, mosquitoes, moths, bees, wasps, beetles, aphids, spiders.”

“She’s huge, Hutch—”

“She’s going to lay eggs any day now,” He smiled over his shoulder, “She’s not going to attack you unless you threaten her.”

Starsky hid the rolled magazine behind his back.

The Mantis stayed, and every day when Starsky peeked out, there she was, hanging upside down on one plant or another, watching, or eating some unfortunate moth. Once or twice, when he left the porch light on at night he would find her there snatching mosquitoes out of the air and gobbling them down.

Yes, it was fascinating to sit at the window and watch her through the glass. But ONLY with that pane of glass between them. When he stepped outside and saw the litter of moth and insect wings on the ground like old confetti he felt vulnerable, as if she might fly into his hair like that big moth had when he was a kid. Get stuck in his curls and flap around frantically while he screamed.

Starsky called her Maleficent, like the evil fairy queen from Sleeping Beauty. It had made Hutch laugh hysterically.

It was Hutch that found the egg case. A pithy looking brown thing sticking to the big pot of his Areca Palm. He pointed it out to Starsky with hands lifted in careful warning. “Don’t touch it, don’t get it wet, just leave it alone and in a couple weeks all the eggs’ll hatch and the babies’ll be everywhere.”

“Like little worms? Lar-vees?” He wrinkled his nose.

“No, tiny little mantises. A lot of them.”

Starsky had only just become accustomed to Maleficent, what would he do with a swarm of tiny little ones. “What if I step on ‘em?”

Hutch looked at him incredulously.

“Not on purpose, just—what if I don’t see ‘em, or they get in the house and I step on one?”

“They’ll stay in the leaves. They’re just babies, other bugs could eat them.”

Starsky had felt insulted on Maleficent’s behalf. The thought of some strange bug or bird eating her babies was maddening.

“If they’re tiny, what do they eat?”

“Ants, aphids… Smaller bugs. Not all of ‘em’ll stay. Most of them will fly off to find gardens of their own.”

Starsky started checking the egg case every evening. Once or twice startling Maleficent into striking gently at him with her front spikes and turning her head in his direction. He always pulled his hands back quickly, startled, and gave her a wide berth. Tried to ignore Hutch’s quiet chuckles from the other side of the balcony where he’d taken to lounging on a chair he’d brought over from his place, feet propped up on the railing.

“You know,” Starsky started one evening, keeping an eye on Maleficent where she was hanging upside down with a big brown and black moth held to her mouth. “I’m starting to think we’ve got a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Hutch was babying a big leafy looking thing he’d brought home a few days before with a paper bag wrapped around its roots. A gift from some woman whose business he’d saved by tackling a would-be thief.

Starsky made a gesture to all the plants, and the two laundry baskets of Hutch’s clothes sitting on his sofa. The jars and bottles of powdered this and that on his countertop. “I’m doin’ alright, you don’t have to baby me so much.”

“Who says I’m babying you?”

“You help me in and out of the bath—you do my laundry—won’t let me cook. Won’t let me drive. Won’t let me go down to Merle’s to look at a new car—”

“I’m just looking out for you until you’re back on your feet.”

“I’m standing right here.”

Hutch had shrugged it off, made some excuse or another. Said it was easier, at least. Saved fuel to stay over until he was back on full duty with a temporary partner. Starsky’s place was closer to work anyway. Though not by much.

September crept by, October moved in with a subtle drop in temperatures, and for the most part, Starsky didn’t mention Hutch’s lingering presence in his home again. Hutch’s plants had created a literal jungle on his small balcony. Maleficent’s first egg case had hatched, spilling hundreds of tiny little mini mantises all over the areca. Starsky had even let one crawl around on his exposed arm one morning, under Hutch’s watchful eye, tiny barely perceptible pinpricks of its legs as it waded through the hairs on his forearm, and the goose pimples rising on his skin. He’d had to restrain himself from flicking it away. Instead focused on that tiny little head and those miniature little eyes that turned to look up at him so trustingly.

“You look like a George. I’ll call you George.”

He’d transplanted George carefully, with a little shiver, onto his tomato plant, that Hutch had banished to a ledge by the door, and watched the tiny thing hide itself amongst the leaves. After that, any tiny mantis he saw, he addressed as George. George One, George Two, George Three, and so on if there was more than one.

Hutch thought he was crazy, or at least the concerned look on the blonde’s face said so.

By mid-October Maleficent had left another egg case, this one attached to the overhang of the roof. Slightly larger than the last one. Starsky checked this one daily, excitement plain on his increasingly furry face.

Then, on the afternoon of November first, as they’d come back from Starsky’s appointments he found a wing, a mantis wing. Long and glossy and chipped at one end from a bird’s talon. Hutch held it up pinched carefully between two fingers.

Starsky looked absolutely devastated. Cursed at the birds perching on the roof, and in the bushes near his car. Threw some stones and sticks at them when Hutch wasn’t looking. Called them murderers, and how dare they make George an orphan!

Starsky was pretty much inconsolable for three days. Sat on Hutch’s chair and fed the Georges on his tomato plant flies and little pieces of pastrami, muttered morosely about maybe getting a cat to chase the birds away.

“One of those big orange ones, yanno? That bring people dead birds as presents.”

Hutch just shook his head and left him alone.

By the time the bills had arrived Hutch had watched Starsky mourn for Maleficent in as much as any man can mourn for an insect he’s seventy-five percent terrified of. Hutch collected all the mail and cut each envelope open with a paring knife, laid out the bills on the tiny kitchen table and started counting.

Starsky wandered in with a couple tomatoes from his plant out on the balcony and blinked in shock at the figures working out under Hutch’s pencil; “Are you still paying rent for your place?”

Hutch grunted.

“Jeez—How—How much do I have left in the bank?” He tried to snatch up his bank book, but Hutch slammed a hand down on it. Starsky knew then that the numbers probably wouldn’t be in the black. He’d been off work for six months, and the board was already pushing the doctors for a decision. Saying that since he was still alive, healed, on his own feet, and wasn’t dependent on oxygen; that he couldn’t continue to claim injury pay because he wasn’t exactly disabled by the incident.

‘Incident’. The word made Starsky’s blood boil. But, he could either find another job, or deal with it until the doctors said he was cleared to take a physical, and prove to the board that he was once again fit for duty.

“Hutch,” He took a deep breath; “I gotta know. You had a month and a half leave, but that don’t exactly pay the bills, does it. So… how much trouble are we in?”

Hutch’s shoulders sagged and he let the bank book be taken away.

It wasn’t as bad as he was afraid it would be. But it wasn’t enough either, and judging from the numbers on the register, hadn’t been enough the month before. Starsky heaved a sigh and leaned on Hutch’s back, chin pressing into soft golden hair. “What’ve you been doing? To get the extra cash?”

Hutch shrugged, noncommittally.

Starsky pinched him under the arm.

“I sold some sketches… Some things I had laying around that I’m not using.”

That’s when the idea came, or well, resurfaced in his mind.

“You don’t have to stick around anymore. You’re not my keeper, Hutch. I can figure out—”

The broad shoulders pressed into his chest stiffened.

“You don’t have to do this—”

“Oh, I don’t, do I?”

“Well… Something’s gotta give. You’re not responsible for keeping me, I’m—I’m not you’re kept boy,” He sighed, hid his face in Hutch’s neck, “I—I mean look. How long has it been since you’ve even slept at your place?”

Hutch snorted; “And the honeymoon’s finally over.”

“Come on—Having you in my bed is nice for more reasons than that… But, don’t you ever want your own space?”

“Personal space wasn’t really ever an issue between us.”

Starsky let out a little sigh; “No, I guess not.”

“What are you suggesting, Starsk?”

Starsky’s voice was hushed, he shrugged. “I can get a job until the doctors clear me—if they clear me.”

“They’ll clear you. You just need a little more time.”

“Well, I can contribute at least. No sense in you hocking all your stuff when I’m well enough to work.”

Hutch nuzzled his forearm, was tempted to bite it gently for lack of some other way of getting his affection and frustration across; “I’d hock all I’ve got—”

“You self-flagellating piece of shit, that isn’t the point!”

“Wow, four syllables, very good.”

“I know words!” His arm tightened a little around Hutch’s neck his own love and frustration evident, “The point is, you don’t have to! I’m OK. I couldn’t help before, but I can now. Let me.”

Hutch sighed, leaned into the weight of the other man at his back. “And what kind of job do you think you can do?”

“I could drive a cab.”

Hutch snorted; “That worked out so well last time— Fractured skull and bruised trachea.”

“Shut up,” He took a breath, thinking; “’could wash dishes at Huggy’s.”

“No offence, but I don’t know if you could handle it.”

“What?” He sounded scandalized.

“You move around too much. Washing dishes is boring.”

“It’s repetitive, not boring. I’m down with repetitive. Repetitive means I don’t have to think!”

“Yeah, but then you’ll think about other stuff and space out.”

“Well, what do you suggest.”

Hutch couldn’t deny that even a minimal income, anything truly, that Starsky could contribute—A twenty, or a fifty here or there—could help immensely, but something in his belly went tight at the thought of Starsky out there doing things without someone there to make sure he was OK. Make sure he didn’t lose his breath because he got too hot, or smelling some strong cologne, or someone’s cigarette smoke as he’d done a few times while they’d gone out.

What if he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t communicate to someone that he had medicine in his pocket—What if Hutch wasn’t there to watch his back and someone—some sicko from their past thought he was an easy target without his partner and a badge to defend him.

“You go all tense when you’re thinking… It looks painful. Do you need a laxative?”

Hutch felt his breath leave him in a rush. Muttered under his breath and pushed at Starsky’s face with an open palm.

“Well, I’ll look around. Can’t be too hard to find a little work just to tide us over, economy be damned,” He sighed, thoughtful, “In the mean-time… Why don’t you just stay here?”

“I’m already staying here.”

“No, I mean—Quit your place. It’d save money at least. Wouldn’t have to keep up rent on a place you never stay at and mine.”

Hutch took a deep breath, thoughtfully let it out on a melodic hum. “Officially move in together? Is that what you’re getting at?”

“I guess,” Starsky pawed through some of the bills, trying to add figures in his head.

“You guess?” Hutch took the papers and shuffled them back together conspiratorially.

“We’re practically living together as it is, might as well share the closet.”

Hutch hummed again, amused, but didn’t show it. “Any particular reason you’re bringing this up now?”

“Besides the money thing, my lease is coming up at the end of the year.”

An affirmative grunt. “My lease isn’t up until August.”

“Well, we could stay there… If that’s OK.”

Hutch hummed again, brows pulled down.

Starsky rubbed his cheek on his lover’s crown, “What’re you thinking?”

Hutch patted his wrist gently, “I’m thinking your savings is almost gone, and mine isn’t much better.”

“All the more reason for me to do something!”

Hutch looked around thoughtfully; “There’s not a lot of room there though.”

“You have more stuff?”

Hutch snorted; “Yes, I have more stuff. I have a whole apartment full of stuff… And I don’t know if all your junk would fit.”

“Well, I don’t technically own all of this…”

“No?”

“Place was furnished… It’s easier to move boxes of clothes, books, and stuff than beds and couches and—”

“Okay, okay…” He looked around with a more scrutinizing eye. Starsky was a normally tidy person. He had a method to his organizational madness. A utilitarian, if eclectic kind of way about him. He liked little things. Little knickknacks, books, tiny plants, tiny tomatoes he could rinse off and pop whole into his mouth when his stomach agreed. If you discounted all the large items, the bed, the side tables, the furniture… It—It just might work.

Hutch sighed; “Maybe—We might be able to do it, at least until my lease is up… But what if we get sick of one another—”

“If you haven’t gotten sick of me these last three months, I don’t see that happening. I’ve been a right bastard to live with.”

Hutch rolled his eyes; “What if you get sick of me? I—” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say that the idea of Starsky striking out on his own, doing things for himself again, wasn’t a little intimidating. All Hutch could think about was those first few weeks after the shooting. How Starsky hadn’t been able to do anything for himself once he’d woken up.

Lying there held together with suture and bandage tape. The doctors didn’t want him moving lest his fucking rib cage split open under his arm. The warnings that cut intercostal muscles, and a savaged lung, liver, and stomach took time to heal, and would take effort to make elastic enough to allow him to move and breathe and eat without discomfort.

All Hutch could think about was Starsky lying there, barely conscious while his mother fed him like an infant all over again. How damned FRAGILE his partner—his other half—had been.

Hutch stared distractedly into the ether and felt a cold sweat prickling across his brow. Five months ago, Starsk, you couldn’t even eat solid food. You couldn’t hold your head up without help, and now you wanna go back to work? Chase addicts, and crooks with guns? Run down alleyways not knowing if they’re going to turn and shoot at you or what? They’re gonna clear you to go back to work any time now and those bullets almost ripped you in half.

Starsky pressed his lips to the tender skin behind Hutch’s left ear. “So… Should I start at Huggy’s, or see if I can convince the Metro Cab company to let me come back for a while?”

Hutch snorted. He wasn’t in any way comfortable with the idea of Starsky out there working before his doctor had cleared him. Besides, what if the board took that as a sign that he wasn’t coming back? What if they used it against him in some way? What if Starsky couldn’t go back to the force?

What if he could?

Hutch patted his bicep encouragingly, but the feeling in his gut was nothing but dread. He collected all the bills and shuffled the letter from Merle to the bottom of the stack so Starsky wouldn’t see it.

“Start with Huggy. That way at least someone’ll try to keep you out of trouble—”

Starsky pinched him under the arm again; “Nice to know I have your complete confidence, Blondie,” And he shuffled away with a scowl.

 

ODDS AGAINST

(November 5, 1979)

There was a George in the kitchen, perched on the lip of a coffee mug, dipping little pincers into the cold liquid and bringing them to its little mouth, seeming to enjoy Hutch’s untouched java. George was almost three inches long now, a few hollow little sheddings littering the earth under Starsky’s tomato plant.

Finding the sheds had worried him at first, until he’d pulled out an encyclopedia and scoured the article on Praying Mantids, as well as passages he’d found in a farmer’s almanac.

“He’s out running early, huh?” Starsky scratched the side of his face, yawned and glanced toward the door, noticed the vent was open and shook his head. “Decided not to wait on me this time… the jerk.”

George said nothing.

“What’re you doing in here anyway?” Starsky leaned over the table, hands on his hips; “I’m starting to get suspicious that you’ve learned to open doors… One day, George, you’re gonna get in here and I’m not gonna notice it and you’ll be stuck. Then your sister’ll get worried and look up at me with her big googoo-eyes, and I’ll think the birds got you. I’ve got a condition, George, you know that. My heart can’t take a lot of stress. And if you’re stuck in here and I don’t know to let you out again you’ll starve to death. Wha’d’you think that’d do to me if I find you all dried up in the corner somewhere? Huh? I’ll feel like shit. Is that what you want?”

George continued with his coffee.

Starsky rolled his eyes, “I’m startin’ to sound like my mother,” He carefully picked up the cup and placed it in the window beside the lavender plant Rosie Dobey had given him recently; “There, make yourself useful.”

About that time Hutch returned, flushed and sweaty. “Who’re you talkin’ to?”

“George. He likes his coffee black, gets that from you.”

Hutch rolled his eyes, approached and glared at the little mantis; “How can you tell it’s a he?”

Starsky was shoulders deep in the ice box; “The wings… Males are smaller, but have longer wings,” He shut the door and turned with half a slice of cold pizza between his teeth; “Think it’s about time he got his own room, or we might find him minus his head pretty soon.”

Hutch snorted, tried to cover it with a cough as he filled a glass with water. “How do you suppose we do that? They’re bugs.”

“They’re Arizona Mantises. I looked it up. I figure, if we keep them on separate plants, they won’t eat each other for a while. And while they mature I can separate the others before the second case hatches. The girls have mostly left already. The book says they don’t like living in groups, they’ll eat one another. But, there’s only one female George left that I can tell… But it’s still early—He can clean up the lavender for now,” He pointed to the plant.

“I told you it had aphids—” Hutch peered closer as George jumped into the flowers and started spearing the fat little green bugs. “He eats like you. Both hands at once.”

“He’s a growing boy! Got another molt or two before he’s fully grown.”

“What’s your excuse, huh?” Hutch plucked up the coffee cup and emptied it. “Gonna molt?”

Starsky gave him a sideways glare and continued gnawing on his pizza. It had gone stale and kind of hard in there, and the cheese had congealed in a way that was less than appetizing, but it was better than those awful ‘shakes’ Hutch had been regularly foisting off on him since he’d been released. Though, he had to admit, the ones Hutch put peanut butter in weren’t terrible, it was the thought of the other ingredients that made him sick. “What’re your plans today?”

Hutch was already messing with his powders and potions, “Not much. Thought I’d read the paper, do some laundry before your appointment. You?”

“Laundry… Call Huggy,” He sucked some sauce from his thumb.

“Hey, maybe you can work off our tab if he agrees to let you in the dish room.”

Starsky rolled his eyes; “I don’t know… Think you could pitch in a little more around here if I did?”

“What?”

“You know, help clean up?”

Hutch glanced around carefully; “It looks fine, what are you talking—”

“Dust, Hutch—You—I can’t stand dust,” His hands twitched, as if he had the texture of it between his fingers.

“You saying I collect dust?”

“You’re a dust magnet. Your car, your shoes—”

“I’m dirty?”

“Not dirty— you’re… well, you’re tidy enough that I don’t want to kill you all the time—”

Hutch moved in, eyes hooded, lips quirked up into a grin; “I’m dirty, Starsk?”

Starsky’s gaze flickered and he tilted his chin up defiantly; “You can be.”

“Oh, I can? What about you? I seem to remember some filth coming out of your mouth the other night. How you wanted me to do it to you slow, like I meant it—”

Starsky always had the propensity to blush so prettily. Sometimes, it was faint, barely noticeable. Others it was as bright as that damned car of his; “Not in front of George,” And he yanked the zip of Hutch’s jacket up tightly to his throat.

Hutch rolled his eyes, “Alright, what else is on the agenda?”

“Thought about goin’ to a movie.”

“Did your paper route finally pay enough for the ticket?”

“I mean together, yanno?”

“Oh, God, Starsk,” Hutch’s shoulders sagged and his face tilted up; “I don’t want to go sit in Huggy’s office and watch that-that stupid Alien movie again—”

“Hey!”

“—I don’t know how he got hold of that reel, but you had nightmares for a week!”

“Not that kind of movie!” He scowled, waited until Hutch had rubbed the annoyance from his brow before he continued.

“Not that kind of movie, huh?”

“No.”

“What then, the Bette Midler one?” He tried to hide a grin.

“Not that kind of movie either.”

Hutch narrowed his eyes. Noticed the color on Starsky’s face.

“You know, like a date.”

Hutch felt the color drain from his face, then quickly rush back. “A date? You… you wanna go watch a porno? Together?”

He shrugged innocently. As innocent as he could look with that dreamy look in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You get hot enough around the collar without adding porno to the mix. I’d have to fight you off with a stick,” Hutch turned back to his blender. “You’re about as smooth as sand paper, you know that.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean—”

“It means, that if you wanna roll around in bed like horny teenagers you don’t have to take me to a show first.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do then? Putting the moves on some girl is the only experience I’ve got!”

“Well, buddy, I’m not some girl,” He pointed at Starsky with a measuring spoon, then at himself; “And if you want any of me, all you’ve gotta do is ask for it.”

“What, that’s it? I just gotta ask?”

“You know you were a lot more genteel about this last time,” his face was almost as red now as it usually was after his more vigorous runs.

“Genteel?”

“Yeah.”

“So, if I just asked you if you wanted to bend me over the table there—”

Gray powder spilled all down Hutch’s front and he turned with a shocked expression on his face.

Starsky tried not to laugh. Waved a hand and proceeded to laugh anyway; “I’m sorry—Y-your face!”

Hutch sat the now half empty jar back down on the counter top and went for the broom, glaring down at his partner; “You think that’s funny?”

“I think it’s hilarious!”

“Do you know how expensive this stuff is!”

“Sorry—” He wasn’t really. The look on his partner’s face had been priceless.

Hutch mumbled to himself about two dollars an ounce this, and seven dollars a jar that, while he cleaned up the mess.

“Hey, give me a little of that!” Starsky caught a little on a spoon and added a drop of water then held the mixture up to the little mantis perched on the lavender plant.

“What the hell are you doing now!”

“I wanna see if George likes it as much as he does pastrami. ‘s supposed to be liver, right?”

“Desiccated liver—”

“Yeah, that.”

“—You can’t feed that to a bug, he won’t eat it!”

“He’s got a name.”

“Oh, excuse me—George won’t eat it,” He rolled his eyes.

“How do you know?”

Hutch turned and watched, saw the little head peer at the spoon, little arms raised. After a moment it—George—seemed to consider the concoction, but turned away in favor of the aphids.

“Told you,” Hutch shook his head and waddled to the door, shook out the mess on his clothes.

Starsky wiped off the countertop and rinsed the spoon, eyed the aphids with mild disgust. “I don’t blame you… Anything’d taste better than that stuff.”

“I heard that!”

0-0-0

Laundry day wasn’t necessarily a big event. If you didn’t wait until you only had one pair of underwear clean to do it, you could get by with one or two loads a week. Less if you were careful.

Hutch was the type of person to wait until his last pair of underwear, unless Starsky started eyeing the pile of dirty clothes in his basket like he did Hutch’s health shakes. Tolerance over thinly veiled disgust.

Sometimes it was maddening, the way Starsky was always picking up things, and ‘putting things away’. Like his damned hands itched if there was a bit of dust or a damp towel over the curtain rod.

“There’s a towel rod for a reason!”

“I’ll show you a towel rod.”

“Hey, I can drive if you want,” Starsky said, he sounded half disinterested, moving down the stairs with his own laundry basket behind Hutch.

“No, it’s alright.”

A grunt, “Did you clean the back seat out?”

“It hasn’t had the chance to get dirty. Bluto drove last week, and he’s probably more of a neat freak than you are… You know he carries around a little bag to put his cigarette butts in?”

“Huh?”

“Keeps it folded up in his pocket so he can throw them away at the end of the day—Who does that?” Hutch pulled open the back door of his car and kicked a few empty foam cups off the seat so he could slide his basket in.

“People who don’t want to mess up the ecology?” Starsky sighed, cringing as he put his own in and shut the door.

“And his wife—he goes on and on and ON about his wife!” Hutch slammed himself behind the wheel.

“Maybe he loves her?” Starsky knocked on the window and pointed to the lock.

Hutch was still rambling “I don’t know how many times he’s told me they’re trying to have a baby. At least four times a day—”

Starsky settled in, cranked his window down a little; “Him and Bernice are tryin’ to have a baby? That’s terrific!”

“Starsky,” Hutch seemed exasperated; “I don’t need to know about his sex life.”

“You never had a problem hearin’ about mine—or sharing yours.”

“That’s different!”

“How is it different?”

“It’s just different.”

“You know,” Starsky said after a moment’s thought, “I honestly can’t tell if you like Bines or hate him. I’m sittin’ here trying to figure it out and I can’t. You either genuinely hate his livin’ guts, and complaining about him is the only way you can keep yourself from committing a heinous crime against his person. Or you truly like him deep down, and you’re just complaining so I don’t think you like him, because you’re scared I’ll think you like him more than me.”

Hutch stared at him.

Starsky motioned at his face; “You might wanna close your mouth or that caterpillar is gonna crawl in there—”

Hutch rolled his eyes and stomped on the gas.

“—Then it’ll lay eggs in your esophagus and they’ll bust outta your chest like—” He pulled at his shirt and made an awful sound.

“You’re really somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me,” He grinned. A smug, full of shit grin, all spread out in his seat with his arm propped in the open window. He moved forward suddenly, reaching for Hutch’s chin, “Gimmie a kiss, sweetheart!”

“Stop it, I’m driving, you meatball!” Hutch put a hand in his face, pushing him away but Starsky relented, both of them holding back laughter.

“Do you wanna get us killed?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then sit back, relax—and keep your hands to yourself.”

“What about my tongue?”

“Tongue too, Mr. Gag-Reflex.”

“Spoilsport.”

0-0-0

Starsky was lounging on his back on one of the folding benches when Hutch spoke. The laundromat was mostly deserted, save an elderly woman singing Hymns in Spanish at the back, or else Hutch wouldn’t have said anything.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Huh?” Starsky flipped the page in his magazine, turned it to get a good look at the centerfold.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“Nothin’ much.”

“Well, how about you tell me anyway?”

“I’m thinkin’ about cabs… And washing dishes.”

“Still want to get another job?”

“How else are we gonna pay for shit?”

“Dobey could call any day now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Hutch peered in through the dryer front, watched his boxers bouncing around with his t-shirts.

Starsky took a deep breath and let it out, dropped the magazine to his chest and rubbed tiredly at his face. “They put Dawson out on disability pension because he got shot in the leg.”

“Knee.”

“What?”

“He got shot in the knee,” Hutch tilted his head thoughtfully, prompting Starsky to continue.

“Anyway, they kept saying they were gonna clear him for desk duty for three months before they pensioned him out.”

“And?”

“I got a hell of a lot more than a bullet in the knee.”

“You think they’ll try to pension you out instead?”

Starsky said nothing, but the way he was laying, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his left leg jiggling a little with unreleased tension spoke volumes.

“If they were going to do that they’d have done it already, they wouldn’t have taken away your injury pay.”

“What if they try to stick me behind a desk permanently?”

“Then we’ll drive desks,” Hutch felt the words were somehow thick in his throat.

“They won’t do that… Won’t take you off the street.”

Hutch looked up, saw how still the other was; “What do you mean?”

“You may not like Bines, but you work good together—”

“Tolerance… I ‘tolerate’ Bluto because I have to. He’s not you, he’ll never be you—and I can’t work with him—or anyone else—as well as I work with you.”

“Yeah, but they’d rather have at least one of us on the streets if they can’t have both and you know it.”

He strode over and hopped onto the bench by Starsky’s head, stared down at him; “What’s this self-pity bullshit?”

“If I can’t hack it, they’ll split us up—and they may do it anyway. You know how much influence IA will have with the board—We got in so much shit—”

“Starsky.”

“No, listen! We got in so much shit, the two of us, who in their right minds would put us both back on the street together!”

“We got into shit, yes. But how many freaks, and sickos—how many rapists, and murderers, and pushers have we put away? How many big scores do we have on our record? They won’t break that up, not without giving you a damned good shot at making it.”

“You’re sure confident about this—”

“Of course I am,” LIAR!

“Well, I’m not…” He rubbed his nose, glanced away to fight back the tremor in his core; “You saw me the other day… There’s no way I’ll pass the fitness exam—No way in hell!”

“I thought you didn’t believe in hell?”

“You know what I mean!”

Hutch took the magazine away, scanned the pictures of cars and women and the articles about god knew what. Tossed it down the folding bench away from them; “You know what Lydia told you.”

Starsky rolled his eyes, let out an exasperated breath.

“There’s only one thing holding you back right now, and that’s YOU. We’ve just gotta work on your stamina. Get you to the gym, put you on the treadmill. Jog around the park—Look, this is all you’ve got left to do. You’ve come this far with flying colors… You can do it, and I’ll be right here with you.”

Starsky said nothing, still seemed sullen.

Hutch rubbed his eyes, glanced toward the back of the room and made sure they were alone, save the elderly lady going through a second rendition of Ave Maria. He leaned forward and hissed in Starsky’s ear. “I know you’re tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pushing yourself harder than you ever have. I get it—I can feel it too. But the hard part’s over, this—this is the simple stuff. The brass tacks,” He spun a curl around his fingers; “We’ll work together, set goals—and rewards.”

“Rewards, huh?”

Hutch nodded, as if he were talking about ice cream cones, or movie tickets. “We get you to a jog… I’ll buy you dinner. Whatever you want—”

“Steak? Potatoes?”

“And all the root beer and candy you can handle—Within reason!” He held up a finger.

Starsky grinned. “Okay… and?”

“We get you to a run… We’ll use my day off for extracurricular activities.”

“Extracurricular activities?”

“I was thinking, maybe… costume jewelry? Those silk sheets of yours?”

Starsky’s eyes widened, cheeks going reddish. “Yeah?”

“Among other things, of course.”

“And if I get back to where I was Before?”

Hutch was quiet, thoughtful. “If you can get yourself fit—regardless if it’s where you were or not—” He leaned closer, voice lowered to a dark rasp; “I’ll fold you up and knock your ridiculous purple socks off.”

Starsky shivered. “Yeah?”

“If that’s what you want, yes.”

“So… even if I don’t pass the requalification?”

“Even if you don’t—Though I’m telling you, you’ll be fine—I’ll take you places you’ve never been.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

0-0-0

Starsky wasn’t really a morning person. He could seem like one, if he happened to be in a particularly good mood when morning came, but usually, he would rather sleep in and have a nice big breakfast.

This time, however, he was motivated.

Starsky was already awake and puttering around, making soft sounds like a marching band as he went through a series of stretches in the living area.

Hutch rubbed his head, still drowsy and yawned on his way to the bathroom. By the time he reappeared, much more awake and ready for his morning run, Starsky was pulling on his shoes and smoothing wrinkles in his socks.

“You know, seeing you up and ready to go before I’m even dressed is probably the most discomforting thing I’ve experienced in a while.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“I keep looking at the clock expecting to have lost a few hours.”

Starsky grinned, “It’s a nice day. Figured we should get an early start.”

“Well,” Hutch pawed through his laundry to find an exercise suit, yawned again and started pulling it on. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“How could I be disappointed?” Starsky gave the long lines of his body an appreciative leer.

Hutch just rolled his eyes; “Okay… Plan is, walking up the hill until we hit the fire road… Reassess at that time—if you’re managing, we can go farther. After that, we see how long you can maintain a jog.”

“Lydia’s got me jogging on the treadmill.”

“Yeah, but a treadmill is different than the street… Tomorrow, we repeat. By the end of the week if you’re able to jog from here to the fire road and back—”

“I want steak—with those red potatoes and garlic fried in butter. And that chocolate fluff pie like we had at Dobey’s birthday? And beer—more than one!”

Hutch shook his head, face warm and aching from a widening grin. “Alright. Do we shake on it?” He held out his hand, but Starsky just grinned, gripped either side of his face and pulled him in for a quick, chaste kiss.

He complained about having to walk, but Hutch expected no less. By the time they reached the access road Starsky had a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, but his breathing wasn’t too labored. His pulse, though slightly elevated, wasn’t worryingly quick. Hutch had to concede that maybe he’d be paying up his end of the deal a lot sooner than he’d imagined.

“Your choice, pal. Keep going up, or try a jog back down.”

Starsky eyed the road, seemed to genuinely give it some thought, pressed two fingers to the side of his neck to monitor his own pulse. Jogging down-hill wasn’t really that hard. It wouldn’t exactly hurt to do it, but it wouldn’t push him, wouldn’t get him anywhere closer to his goal.

Hutch looked him up and down, then took a deep breath; “Want to keep going? Just a little while?”

A little while was nearly a mile, by the end of it Starsky had to sit for a bit, back straight, and take deliberate breaths. Hutch sat beside him, smiled and dusted his hands together.

“Did better than I expected.”

“Yeah?”

“I was half expecting a repeat of last week.”

Starsky rolled his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face onto his arm. “Walking I can do… Lydia has me walking all the damned time! Climbin’ stairs, on the treadmill—Stretchin’ and twisting. Put me on a flat surface I’ll walk all day!”

“Up-hill and jogging are going to take some work though.”

He nodded. “Gimmie one week—I’ll race you up—”

“Oh? You’ll race me?”

“Jogging—One week!”

Hutch chuckled, gave Starsky’s head a playful shove. “Five bucks sound good to you?”

“You’re on!”

Hutch won, of course he did. His lungs were healthy and his body up to police standard. But Starsky was close behind. Bent over his knees huffing for breath, but there was no malice, no anger in his eyes.

“That five bucks to a blow-job, I can beat you home,” Starsky said with a wicked grin.

“You serious?”

“Only one way to find out—”

Hutch made a swipe at him, but Starsky had already turned on his heel and dashed off. Down-hill really was a lot easier to manage at a run, Hutch should have known better. But, he wasn’t all that disappointed after all.

 

REUNITED

(November 17, 1979)

“Ever heard the saying ‘you’re beating a dead horse’?”

Hutch turned slowly and met his partner’s eyes. Tried the ignition again but got the same awful click-click-click-click-click.

Of all the times for something to go wrong with his car, it had to be now. Tonight. THE Night.

“It’s the starter. You know it’s the starter,” Starsky had his arms crossed, petulantly watching the blonde’s struggle. “I’ve been telling you for a week that it was goin’ out—”

“It’s the battery.”

“No, if it was the battery you wouldn’t have that clicking noise.”

Click-click-click-click-click-click.

Hutch sighed, “Just stay here, I’ll figure it out,” He popped the hood, shouldered open his door and stomped to the front of the car.

Starsky stayed put, muttered to himself; “It’s the starter. If you’d just get it replaced—Merle could have it done in two days! New starter, new belts—” He cranked a knob on the dashboard; “—new heater. Maybe I can talk him into a new radio… some wiring work, tighten your steering, new ignition switch—”

It wasn’t what he’d unhappily dubbed ‘The Squash’. But it had all the earmarks of an illegitimate child of the beast. A camel gold colored seventy-three Chevy Impala with pealing clear coat and a crumpled rear fender. Damned thing had had dry-rotten whitewalls and flying saucer hubcaps on it when Hutch had picked it up for three hundred bucks at one used car lot or another. Hutch had deemed it suitable for police work. Starsky had no idea where he’d put the shrimpy little brown buggy he’d puttered around in before things had gone to hell in May. ‘Belle’ or whatever the hell he’d called it, but as long as it wasn’t in his driveway, he didn’t care.

The Gimpala, as Starsky had secretly been calling it, had chrome down the sides, on the grille and bumpers, around the wheel wells. Brown interior with a plush headliner. Ashtrays on every door and the center back of the seat. A four-door sedan with enough trunk room to fit a corpse. There had been a smattering of small holes in the back, driver’s side door and side panel. Looked like someone had taken bird shot to it, and a musty, strange smell that permeated the carpet.

Starsky thought it may have at one time been worthy of calling a vehicle… about seven years, a hundred-fifty-thousand-miles, and thirty some odd dents, scratches, and fender-benders ago. You had to slam a fist into the dash to get the damn dials to light up, and the radio only got two stations. Static and More Static.

But, for whatever reason, Hutch liked it. Not as much as the LTD, or his other scrap heaps. But, enough to drive it, put gas in it, and lock it against thieves at night. The more holey than righteous door was swapped out for one of a slightly different sandy gold color, and the dents and dings began a loving cultivation of rust. Leaving little pinprick holes along the lower edges of the fenders. Starsky had seen wasps climbing in and out of them on a few occasions, had been tempted to plug a couple with gum.

“I’m hungry!” Starsky called out, loudly enough to be heard. “You were in such a hurry to get ready and go. Can we just call a cab? It’s already ten after.”

“I’ve almost got it!” Hutch came back around and fished a tack hammer from under his seat and pecked lightly on the starter a few times, fiddled with the battery connections. “Don’t go anywhere!”

“I’m gonna starve before you get this pile of—Just hit the starter. You’re not gonna break it anymore than it’s already broken.”

“Hush you,” Hutch pecked a few more times. “Okay, try it!”

Starsky rolled his eyes and slid over into the driver’s seat. Click-click-click-click-click-click.

Hutch blew on the battery connections. “Again.”

Click-click-click-click.

“Starsk, are you holding the key right?

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to jiggle it a little to the right.”

Click-click-click-click-click.

“No, the right! My right!”

Click-click-click.

“The starter’s shot! Give it up, Hutch!”

“You’re just not doing it right—” Hutch shook his head in exasperation. “Let me.”

Starsky climbed out and took the tack hammer, stood there with his head bowed watching as Hutch shook the key in the ignition as he turned it.

Click-click-click-click-click-click.

“Come on, baby, you can do it!” The blonde crooned.

Click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click.

Starsky moseyed around the front of the car and bent over the engine, peering in at the grey, and black, and little bits of color hidden under gunk and grease. Shook his head. “It’s the starter.”

Click-click-click-click-click.

Hutch bowed his head against the steering wheel.

Starsky slithered his arm in, gripping the hammer, and banged four times against one side of the starter, then four times on the other and twice on top. “Okay, try it.”

“What did you just do!” Hutch was out of the car, leaning over the engine with wide eyes. “You don’t just take a hammer to an engine! It’s a sensitive piece of machinery!”

“I didn’t take a hammer to the engine. I took a hammer, if that’s what you wanna call this thing, to the starter. My uncle Al used to do it to his all the time. Try it, should start right up… If something else doesn’t die first.”

Hutch glared at him, grumbled bitterly, and climbed back behind the wheel.

Click-click—And the engine started with a wheeze and a cough and a little squeal.

Starsky grinned and shut the hood. Twirled the tack hammer a little as he made his way back to the passenger door. He slid in and shut it, didn’t look at the blonde as he handed the hammer back. “You going to listen to me and take it to Merle in the morning?

“If I take it to anybody, I’ll have to ride the bus to work,” He tucked the hammer back under his seat with a few other rattling tools and pulled out onto the street.

Starsky let out a sigh and propped his chin on his hand; “Maybe I could get my car back—”

“You can’t. You know that,” Hutch sighed, looked away sadly; “What about a Buick?”

Starsky snorted.

“There’s that black one I was looking at—”

“Don’t make me sick.”

“What about the Mustang we saw Thursday?”

“The one the size of a soda can? Where would we put the perps we arrested? The roof? No thank you.”

“Okay… a Volvo? Bluto drives a Volvo. He’s always saying how his brother in law can get a deal—”

“Never!” He looked scandalized; “Why do you want me to get another car? Why can’t I get mine fixed!” He jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb; “Doc said I could drive again! And, may I remind you, I should be cleared for duty soon. I’m perfectly fit, just not enough to go chasing crooks down the street! What are you afraid of? You scared I’m gonna get in an accident? When have I ever been in an accident.”

“You don’t want me to answer that question.”

A sigh; “Fine, okay. But, it’s MY car!”

“Did you forget what Merle said when we called him last month?”

Starsky deflated. “No,” He sounded like a scolded child.

Hutch was quiet, glanced at him; “I get it. Trust me. Do you think it was easy for me to replace my car?”

“Your car w—”

“No, it wasn’t easy. It took time for me to even be OK with the idea. But, it was also a necessity. I can’t get you to appointments on the bus. I can’t ride the bus to work long term. And Bluto lives on the other side of town—”

“Yeah, but you traded one crap heap for a slightly different crap heap.”

“You can’t hold on to the past. Things change. You’ve changed… Hell, I’ve changed.”

Starsky sighed, like the life was being strangled out of him. “Yeah,” He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, “I guess Merle could find another one—”

“He had enough trouble replacing it the first time, and repairing it the second, third and fourth times. Do you really think you’ve got the cash for him to find another one?”

Starsky looked heartbroken; “But I like my car.”

“Yeah, and what did Merle say about it?”

Starsky slouched, expression gone grim; “Totaled.”

“Exactly.”

Starsky went quiet, slumped, staring out the window, pulled the hood of his jacket low over his eyes.

“Starsky—Jesus, are you crying?”

“No.”

“It’s just a car.”

“It’s not just a car…” He rubbed the end of his nose again, didn’t look out from under his hood; “That—That car saved our lives on more than one occasion. I can’t imagine— Out of everything, you can honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you’d be okay driving around in some other car with me? Some-some Buick? That car’s as much a part of you as it is me and you know it.”

Hutch felt a twinge in his chest, felt his mouth opening, words on the back of his tongue ready to roll out into the air between them. Everything, all the stress and misdirection, the whole fucking point of the evening, and here he was ready to spoil it because of Starsky’s damned Bambi face. He ground his teeth and forced himself to breathe in and out slowly.

“I know things change. But—” Starsky’s voice faded off, and for a long time he said nothing else. But I need this, can’t you see that? I’m scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few weeks. I’m worried that if I can’t manage it, I’m done. I couldn’t hack it driving a desk for the rest of my life. I’d go nuts. I’m scared that all of this work, all the hurt and struggle I’ve gone through isn’t going to be enough; that I’m just too different now, too broken. I’m afraid I’m totaled too… I just need something familiar. Just one thing so I don’t feel like I’m starting from scratch.

He didn’t say it, but Hutch could feel it in his chest, had carried its weight in silence and misdirection for months. It wasn’t just about the car, and Hutch knew that. The car was a symbol, a talisman to which he and Starsky looked for certainty while everything had been such a chaotic mess.

Hutch supposed that’s what gave him the strength to remain quiet, to ignore Starsky for a while longer. He focused on the road, the light rain beginning to fall, and the diminishing light of evening. He found a parking place about half a block from The Pits and had no sooner shut off the engine than Starsky was climbing out and moving down the street.

Hutch followed at a distance, watched his partner’s back as the brunet moved along. They were in the home stretch. Or so Starsky insisted. The physical therapist had cleared him recently to begin a heavier workout schedule. More walking and core exercises, building his strength back to what it once was. But after the ‘miscommunication’ they’d had at the beginning of the month, Hutch had kept an eye on him, an eye and a tight leash.

He remembered that Starsky had been in a spectacular mood when Hutch had come back after his shift Halloween night. Bragged loudly about all the trick-or-treaters, nose still blacked, hair a wild mess and fake fur still sticking out from under the cuffs of his shirt. He’d lost the plastic fangs somewhere, said they’d pinched his gums. The good mood had lasted all night, as Hutch was amused to find. They’d gotten very little sleep. And the next morning, he was still all smiles and energy after his appointment. Had bounced into the car with Hutch and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Said Lydia had wanted him to do a mile a day at a jog. The mood had lasted long enough to have a light lunch, and return to the bungalow—

Maleficent’s demise had put a damper on everything, that was for sure, but investing himself in keeping George safe had given him purpose Hutch hadn’t seen in almost a year. It was nice to see that fire back in his partner’s eye. So, Hutch had agreed to help with his exercises, and finding separate ‘rooms’ for each George. The new workout routine started on Friday morning, Hutch woke him to share in his morning run— only to have to sit on the grass with his partner fifteen minutes later with a hand on Starsky’s chest coaching him on how to breathe, steadying the hand clutching an inhaler like a lifeline.

Hutch had nearly thrown the smaller man in his car and gone straight to the hospital, but Starsky had recovered after a couple hits of Albuterol and sat up with his head hanging between his knees, neatly shaven face red and sweaty from more than exertion. He was quiet the rest of the short, slow walk home. Had to sit on the stairs with his head in his hands for almost thirty minutes with a cold wet towel on the back of his neck before he had the energy to make it up.

Hutch remembered the mood had solidified after that. Starsky became withdrawn, bitter. When they tried the run again Saturday morning the result was almost the same—though it happened faster, and by the time they made it back Hutch was furious. Waited until his partner was settled on the steps wheezing, then went up and called Lydia at home, forced his voice to remain hushed, strained as he wanted nothing more than to shout.

“I didn’t tell him to run!” Lydia was just as furious, though she had no compunctions about shouting; “I told him a few short walks a day—Walks! Gentle walking. Work up to a jog over a week or two then slowly increase. Gently work his lungs—Is he even still conscious?”

Hutch slumped into a kitchen chair; “Yeah. Sorry… He’s just so—”

“He’s a stubborn jackass!” Lydia sighed. “He pushes himself above and beyond then gets angry when he stalls out.”

“I’ll have a talk with him,” Hutch felt his lips pull back from his teeth; “I’ll definitely be having a talk with him.”

“I’m glad he’s dedicated to his recovery,” Lydia said with a sigh; “Truly I am, but, these things take time, and he needs to realize that pushing too hard will only hurt him.”

He’d talked with Starsky about it, though ‘talked at’ may be more accurate. Hutch was ninety-percent certain he’d been ignored in favor of feeding the mantises pieces of chicken, but he kept a rein on their walks after that.

As much as Starsky resented it, he seemed wary as well. Unsure of himself in a way he never had been before. Deep down, Hutch wondered if Starsky even wanted to go back. For all his talk of eagerness to get back to the streets, there was a look—a shadow in the corner of his eye that made Hutch think, perhaps; All that talk was bravado, just an attempt to convince himself as much as Hutch.

If only his car hadn’t decided to act up.

Starter… Fucking starter. I want my Ford back.

Huggy was leaning on the bar grinning at Starsky when Hutch came in. Had plied him with a beer and potato chips. Hutch met their gazes evenly, watched Starsky take a deliberate drink, as if for spite, then turn back to Huggy with a noticeable smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you both outside of that apartment at the same time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hutch’s mouth opened but Starsky beat him to it; “The Warden won’t let me cook, but he’s too tired.”

Hutch rolled his eyes, and left the two there at the bar to chat. He knew that The Bear would keep his partner occupied long enough to make this whole thing possible. He’d been planning for weeks now, waiting for just the right moment. The stubborn anger over his diet, and Hutch’s car had finally given him the opening he’d needed. Starsky was ignoring him as much as was possible considering they were practically living together. So, he’d made phone calls and didn’t have to worry about being found out. He was more than thankful Starsky hadn’t paid much attention to the fact they hadn’t parked in the alley. If he had the whole plan would have been a bust.

He knocked gently on the door to Huggy’s office and grinned at the face that appeared in the crack; “Huggy’s got him talking about food, coast is clear.”

“Dear God, we’ll never get his attention now!” Came a voice from inside.

Someone giggled.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage,” Hutch put a finger to his lips and waved them back through the kitchen one and two at a time. “Booth in the corner.”

Starsky wasn’t stupid. He knew something was going on, because Huggy leaned in close and started talking quickly about this new dish his cook was wanting to try, would Starsky lend his sensitive palate and give it a review before it was added to the menu.

“South Carolina Barbecue, with deep fried onion rings, on a homemade sweet roll, served with cole slaw and fried red skin potatoes.”

“Sounds good, whose cooking?”

“Bet you’ll never guess.”

“Mona?”

“Guess again.”

“Anita?”

“Once more.”

“I give up, who is it?”

“Olivia Carter ring a bell?”

“Should it?”

“’Ne Rubenstein— Used to run with big Elmo T? Well, Olivia went straight, got herself married. She’s good friends with my cousin Antonia now—”

Starsky propped his jaw on his fist, “How much did I miss!”

“Quite a bit, apparently! Antonia’s looking to take over position of Chef as soon as she graduates, with Olivia as her sous chef.”

“A real Chef?”

“Tryin’ to class up the joint a little, why not start with family!”

Starsky shrugged, then shifted forward a little; “Speaking of classing up the joint- uh— Wouldn’t be lookin’ for another dishwasher, would you? Just until I’m reinstated and all—”

Huggy’s brows drew down; “What?”

He stared down into his glass, “Hutch’s been trying to keep it from me, but recovery’s expensive. I’m not fit enough to go back on the street yet, but…” He took a drink, “Well.”

“You got shot to hell while on the clock, they not giving you compensation?”

“According to them, it didn’t disable me— So I’m officially cut off.”

“Didn’t disable you— that-that’s— Didn’t they LOOK at you? I was there, man. I saw what those sickos did. I saw—” He clamped his mouth shut tightly, anger changing his usually smiling face into something dangerous. “You’re not disabled in the traditional sense… You’re still up and running. But you’re not ever going to be the same—” His face pinched uncomfortably, as if words had failed him, and he realized how it sounded. As if he didn’t believe Starsky was capable of a full recovery. “I mean that—”

“I hear you… It’s alright. I’m not the same, but I’m still here. I’m up and walkin’ and breathin’ on my own. Still got a long way to go, but according to the psychical therapist there’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to return to ‘normal’,” He snorted the last word, “As long as I don’t over do it.”

Huggy chuckled; “You? Over do it? Never.”

He grinned; “Anyway, a little extra cash flow would help… So, thought I’d come to you first.”

“As flattered as I am that you thought of me first, I am unfortunately full up on dish washers at the present.”

Damn.

“And I care too much about my customers to have you prancing around in shorts and a tee-shirt waiting tables. But I’ll keep my ears open… Just to be clear, though, nothing involving nudity, or sequin g-strings, right? Because if that’s on the menu, I could probably have you gainfully employed by sun-up.”

Starsky choked on his beer, bowed his head into his arms and giggled while Huggy wiped the mess off the bar top.

It was at that moment Starsky became aware of a change in the room. He could hear bodies moving behind him. More than had been there when he came in, he raised his head and patted Huggy’s arm as he leaned his elbows on the bar once more.

“Huggy,” He said softly; “Are they gonna try to scare the hell outta me, or wait until I turn around?”

Huggy’s shoulders sagged, but his mouth curled into a grin, “Well, ‘scare the hell outta you’ was their first instinct, but I managed to quell that beast.”

Starsky fought to hold back a smile.

Hutch joined him at the bar, looking innocent. Made an excuse about the john for his absence. Funny as it was, Hutch could put on an undercover face with the utmost conviction, but couldn’t lie worth shit. Neither of them could truthfully.

“Anyone I know back there?” Starsky nodded his head toward the corner of the room without turning.

Hutch looked shocked; “How did you know!”

“Dobey’s cologne.”

Hutch scowled, “You better act surprised.”

“I am, no acting about it,” He sighed and sat his glass down; “How’d you manage it? I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Well, you have been pretty evil of late,” Huggy said, passing Hutch a beer as well.

“Evil? Really?”

“Evil is putting it lightly,” Hutch mumbled, “When you’re not nagging about your stomach, you’re moaning about having to walk, or having to climb the stairs. Or you’re complaining about my car.”

“I’ve always complained about your car.”

Huggy shoved a finger at them; “Or, he’s talking about those bugs of his—”

“They have a name!”

“A man who has bugs for pets— And NAMES them!”

Hutch gave a little huff. “A name, Huggy. They’re named George… All of them.”

Huggy blinked at him slowly, turned to Starsky, and with a shake of his head walked away. He muttered to himself about crazy white people keeping bugs for pets. “Should have got him a dog or something when I had the chance.”

Hutch shook his head, and gripping Starsky’s shoulder, turned him toward the group of people in the corner.

There was a cheer and someone popped a party cracker, spraying confetti into the air.

Starsky was surprised, there was no doubt about that. Edith Dobey had a camera and snapped a few photos, Minnie and Cheryl gave Starsky hugs in turn as he was surrounded by the group.

Starsky was even smiling when he leaned toward Hutch and muttered; “I didn’t even put on a good shirt—Why’d you let me leave without a good shirt!”

“I tried to, but you’re too stubborn.”

“What’s this about anyway!” Starsky gave Edith a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek as she ushered him toward the booth to sit, and Huggy’s waitresses started bringing out food, beer and wine. “We had a ‘welcome back’ dinner already.”

“Are you going to complain?” Dobey said pushing a plate and fork at him.

“No.”

“It’s not a party, exactly,” Hutch said nudging Huggy toward a seat and helping the waitresses find their own. “More of a reunion.”

“Reunion? Like a High School Reunion?”

Huggy pushed another drink into Starsky’s hand; “Fill your mouth and give your voice a rest.”

Starsky gave Hutch a quick look, as if seeing what his partner would say about the alcohol, but did as he was told, sipping down the foam before pointing toward a platter of burgers dripping with cheese. “Hey, what’s on those! I want two of them!”

A few more people drifted in, Meredith, a couple other familiar officers and detectives from work. Lydia his physical therapist and her secretary Marlene, both carrying a desert hidden under whipped cream.

At one-point Huggy drifted to the door and locked it, flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and pulled the shades. One of the waitresses turned the music up a little louder.

An hour must have passed, maybe longer, Starsky wasn’t exactly sure, but along with his third beer he was handed a glass of ice water with a lemon wedge in it.

Dobey had his arm draped lovingly around his wife’s shoulders and had removed his tie. He was grinning to himself while working on his third, or perhaps fourth glass of wine. “Should we tell him?” Dobey gave Edith a look.

“Tell me what?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s not the right time. Ken’s been planning this for a while.”

“Tell me what! What is it!” Starsky felt a little light. A gentle warmth in his limbs and belly. It had been a while since he’d had anything more than a stolen sip of Hutch’s beer when his back was turned, or that sacred ‘One Beer’ on occasion that Hutch allowed it. He felt like it was high school all over again.

“No, no, It’s fine. What is it?” Hutch smiling, patted Edith’s arm reassuringly. “If it’s good news, share!”

“Someone tell me! Come on!”

Dobey was trying not to chuckle, but Edith had a dainty hand to her mouth, letting out soft lady like giggles.

“What’s going on! Do you know?” Starsky managed to catch Hutch’s sleeve and pulled at it over Cheryl’s shoulder.

Hutch shrugged and shook his head; “I’ve got no clue, buddy.”

“Oh, fine!” Dobey took another drink and sat his glass down. “As of December first, you’re cleared for desk duty.”

Starsky’s face went slack, eyes wide. The room seemed to hush. “What? You—You’re not pullin’ my leg?”

Hutch reached at him lamely and pulled at his sleeve in turn. The doctor had mentioned it before, but Hutch hadn’t realized it would be so soon. At least not until Starsky had seen the lung specialist in January. He said nothing, just watched the sparkle in Starsky’s eyes growing, the grin pulling his mouth wide, cheeks going pink.

“The board left it to my discretion when you’ll be taken off light duty. So, I thought I’d warn you… I’ll not have any tricks. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you and if you look tired I’m sending you home for the day, got it?”

“Yes, sir, Cap’n!” His voice was a little higher than normal, tight with excitement.

Hutch smiled, gave his partner’s arm a squeeze, even if inside he felt a tickle of worry. Was it too soon? What if something happened?

There were scattered congratulations from around the room, and Meredith perched herself in the booth behind Starsky on her knees, leaning over the bench back to offer her own words and to pull at his hair and declare it was too long for regulation.

“I’m not a cadet anymore!” Starsky swatted at her good naturedly. “If you’re gonna pick on me, take a look at Blondie over there. What’s regulation about that!”

“Oh, no, you leave me out of this!” Hutch pushed up out of his seat, taking his drink and Starsky’s with him.

“Aw, come on! Bring that back!”

“No driving while under the influence, Sergeant!” Dobey said with a low chuckle.

“I’m not driving, he is!” Starsky pointed with a sour look on his face. “He won’t let me touch the wheel of that Gimpala—”

Hutch snorted.

Starsky propped his jaw on his fist and scanned the room, noticed Huggy was lingering near the door fiddling with Meredith’s Polaroid Camera, but otherwise separate from the celebration.

“Huggy!” He called out, “What’re you doing hiding over there! Minnie scare you off?”

Minnie swatted the back of his head.

“Nothing of the sort!” Huggy handed Meredith’s camera back, “I’m just contemplating the fact this party seems to be one short.”

Hutch shuffled over, mimed counting everyone in the room as it fell quiet, all eyes and smiles tense in anticipation. “You’re right… Not everyone’s here.”

Starsky peered around, “What’s he talkin’ about?”

Hutch made a show of consulting his watch; “Of course taking time has always been his style.”

“Style?” Huggy snorted; “If that’s what you want to call it… I’ve always thought it was more FLASH, than style. But, then again, I’m not the recipient of such an altruistic group endeavor.”

“What?” Starsky’s nose wrinkled and he looked around, noticed the grins hidden in glasses or palms, the bright encouraging smile on Hutch’s face.

Hutch took a deep breath, hoping to hold back the trepidation growing in his chest. Winked when Meredith snapped a picture of the confused, slightly uncomfortable look on Starsky’s face. “He means… Go get your present, dummy.”

Starsky was still for a three count, then was off like a shot. Deciding a hasty vertical exit was more reasonable than daring to ask Cheryl to stand up. Minnie laughed, loud and hard when Starsky accidentally pushed his behind into her face, she shoved against his thigh to get him up and over the backrest.

Hutch hadn’t seen him moving so fast, so excited, in weeks. He took the thirty-five-millimeter camera Edith shoved at him and sighted through the view finder. Snapping and advancing the film as he went.

“Oh, man—ohmanohman—” Starsky was practically vibrating, popped out the door even before Huggy had the damned thing open and shoved both hands into his hair.

Hutch managed to get two photos, one of Starsky silhouetted against the headlights as Merle pulled the Torino to a stop in front of the bar. And the second, a half blurred closeup of Starsky turning and running at him with a look of pure glee on his face. Too many teeth and too wide eyes.

Starsky wrapped both arms around his chest and squeezed. Pressing a loud emphatic smack on one cheek.

Hutch choked, struggling to keep the other from picking him up; “Back! My back! Y-your chest, stop it!”

“You big blonde shit! You told me Merle said it was totaled!” Starsky released him and Hutch managed to pass the camera off to someone else and just watched his partner.

Starsky stood there for a moment in the street, rubbing his face, covering his mouth, pushing at his hair. Eyes wet looking and it was almost as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh and cheer, or weep.

Merle looked smug, though Hutch supposed the man had the right to be. He shuffled over to Starsky and had a few quiet, private words, patted the younger man’s back and grumbled spiritedly about being pulled into a hug. Saying repeatedly; “This is my good shirt, you’re gonna give me creases!” And practically pushed Starsky into the driver’s seat.

“Now, I was promised some grub,” Merle rubbed his hands together eagerly, and paused long enough for introductions to be made to most of the other officers and well-wishers.

Hutch waited, leaned an elbow on the Torino’s roof and a hand on the door and peered in at his partner. “Okay?”

Starsky was gripping the steering wheel, one foot still on the pavement, the other tucked naturally into the footwell. He nodded, cleared his throat and snuffed. “You told me she was totaled.”

“Had to find a way to keep you from finding out.”

Starsky looked at him, almost sadly. “I believed you.”

“I’m sorry, buddy. But, there really was a lot of damage… I didn’t know if—And then everyone started pitching in to get her fixed. I didn’t know what else to do but keep it a secret.”

“You tried to sell me a Buick!”

Hutch spluttered out a laugh at the indignation on the other man’s face.

“How could you ever think…” He shook his head, dismayed. “A Buick!”

“Think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?”

“Depends, what are you doin’ later?” His lashes were lowered, grin crooked and enticing, and the way he slid his hands on the steering wheel was damned near pornographic.

Hutch felt his cheeks heat. Stuttered and coughed—

Starsky grinned and looked away, ran a hand over the dashboard and pushed himself back into the seat with a sigh of satisfaction. “Merle is a miracle worker.”

“I guess… He-uh— He left one. Couldn’t manage to get them all out.”

“Huh?”

Hutch motioned to Starsky’s right. “Check your key ring.”

Starsky tilted his head and peered at the end of the fob hanging from the keys, gave a soft hum of amusement to find a smashed bullet encased in plastic.

“If you don’t like it, well. It’d make a hell of a conversation piece at work.”

“No, it’s… It’ll remind me that things’ve changed,” He lifted his left leg in and wiggled his behind into the seat; “It’ll take some time to wear down this new upholstery though. My butt groove’s gone.”

Hutch gave a breathless laugh and hung his head.

“Well, come on!” Starsky grinned wickedly; “Let’s take ‘er for a test drive!”

“We still got food in there—Cake!”

“Just around the block! Come on!”

“Starsk—”

The brunet’s voice came out low and seductive, “Come on, I’ll show you a real good time!” He waggled his brows.

“You’re gonna regret this if you scratch the paint.”

“Come on! Quick, before they miss us!” He was bouncing in his seat, leaned over and popped open the passenger door for Hutch; “I’ve only got so many convalescent days left. Let me enjoy it! Come on! Hurry up, Blintz!”

Hutch was barely inside and shutting the door before the car leapt forward. One hand on the dash, the other on the edge of the door; “Would you slow down? You’re gonna make me sick!”

“You better not vomit in my car!”

“Oh, but mine can be vomited on?”

“That was one time!”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, hot stuff, I thought you wanted to drive.”