They Fucked With Their Guns On

708

A playful “pretend” kiss leads to so much more.

 

First published in Venice Place Chronicles, Volume IV.

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Peck. Peck. Peck, peck, peck. Peck. Peck.

“You should have taken that typing course when I did, Starsk.”

Starsky sighed. Hutch was in one of those moods, had been all day. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hutch get up, quickly passing out of his range of vision as he circled the table. It was almost 11:00 p.m. and it had been a long shift. Mentally, Starsky cut his partner a little slack and concentrated on completing this last report so they could get out of there.

“There’s only one ‘s’ in Jackson, mushbrain. Not three.”

Starsky didn’t jump. He had known Hutch was hovering behind him. After so many years of living in each other’s pockets-partners and best friends-he had developed an awareness that seemed to track Hutch’s position in relation to his own. “The key stuck. I’m not used to these electric machines yet.” Ignoring the typo, he pecked out the last three words of the summary and reached to pull the paper from the machine.

“Uh, uh, uhhh.”

Starsky grimaced and pushed the return key, waiting impatiently as the paper rolled up. When it was free of the carriage, he slapped it into the file folder before him and snapped the cover closed.

“Done,” he pronounced with satisfaction.

“Except for the debriefing with Dobey. If he ever gets back here, that is,” Hutch reminded him from where he stood digging through the open top drawer of the filing cabinet closest to Dobey’s door. When he failed to find what he wanted, he slammed the drawer in with a crash. “What’s the matter with everyone around here? Can’t they learn to file alphabetically?”

Starsky decided it was time he did something about this before Hutch really got the bit between his teeth. Leaving the file on the table, Starsky sauntered over to Hutch, his demeanor casual, having learned long ago how to avoid telegraphing his intentions even to his long-time partner. Within striking distance, puckering up only at the very last moment, Starsky moved in suddenly, making it appear as if he really was going to lay one on his partner. He did it all the time. Whenever Hutch got to acting pissy. Hutch would give that startled little jump and back off a step or two, even though by now he knew Starsky wasn’t serious. It always effectively put Hutch in his place.

This time, Hutch didn’t jump and he sure as hell didn’t back off. In fact, he tilted his head and opened his mouth  just a little, as if Starsky kissed him every day of the week and Hutch was more than ready to have his tonsils swabbed. Prepared for one thing and receiving quite another, Starsky was unable to halt his momentum  until after their lips had brushed, if only fleetingly.

This time, it was Starsky who jumped and backpedaled, barely resisting the urge to bring his hand up to his lips, uncertain if he wanted to rub away the fire that seemed to burn there from the brief contact, or hold it there so it couldn’t escape.

“Turnin’ my own game against me, are ya, Hutch?” he managed to retain the mental wherewithal to quip.

Hutch looked him up and down as if cataloging his physical assets and deciding if they were something he really considered worth sampling.

“If that’s what you want to think,” he finally replied, turned and let himself into Dobey’s office. By no stretch of the imagination could his withdrawal be taken for a retreat. It was more of an exit. The kind the leading actor in a play might make just before the curtain came down on Act III of a four-act play. The kind that dared you not to hang around for the last act and remain forever ignorant of the plot’s outcome.

Starsky heard the few officers who happened to be in the squadroom to witness the sudden role reversal laughing. Laughing at his expense. It should have pissed him off, but quite frankly, at the moment he was lucky to even notice their existence.

“So Hutch finally decided to turn the tables on you. Looks good on you, Starsky,” quipped a brother officer.

Starsky did a hasty mental scramble, grasping at his tattered bravado and pulling it on over the flabbergasted expression he knew must be on his face. ”That’ll be the day when the Blond Blintz can set me back on my heels,” he denied and, picking up the temporarily abandoned file from his table, followed Hutch into Dobey’s office, casually flipping the door closed behind him.

Hutch, sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs, one long leg crossed over the other and appearing completely at ease, looked up from the open file on his lap as Starsky entered. He looked like an efficient cop ready for a debriefing. He did not look like a man who had, by implication, invited his male partner to french him right in front of their brother officers.

”What the hell did you think you were doing out there?” Starsky hissed, stalking over to stand looming over  Hutch.

”What did you think l was doing?” Hutch asked, not by so much as even the flicker of an eyelash giving away whatever thoughts might be going on behind the cool blue of his eyes.

”Whatever it was, you picked a hell of a place to do it. In front of half the precinct,” Starsky accused.

”There were four other men in that room,” Hutch called him on the exaggeration.

“With tongues tied in the middle that wag at both ends,” Starsky countered. Everybody knew gossip traveled around the precinct like greased lightening. Twenty minutes from now the janitors would have the story, only in that version they probably would have been sixty-nining on Dobey’s desk.

“They’ve been talking about us for years, why would I care now? Besides, you were the one who tried to kiss me,” Hutch reminded him in that infuriatingly superior tone that was just the one that so often prompted Starsky to make the move in the first place.

“To put you in your place,” Starsky exclaimed. He paced away a few steps, swung around, and stalked back. “Is that what you were doin’, Hutch? Puttin’ me in my place?”

“I told you, Starsk. If that’s what you want to think,” Hutch repeated.

Still calm, still superior, he was making Starsky want to do it again, only this time to really lay one on him. To grind a kiss into that vulnerable mouth that Hutch wouldn’t forget in a hurry. To shake that Nordic cool, melt it down until the blood pumping through Hutch’s veins reached the same temperature as the lava in his.

About to lean down over Hutch, to do exactly what he was thinking, Starsky straightened abruptly. He had been about to kiss Hutch. Not one of those kisses into the air meant only to break the tension, or even one of those like he had intended today that were meant only to knock Hutch off his high horse. No, what he had been more than halfway to delivering was a Starsky special. The kind of kiss he gave a girl when he wanted to make her head swim, wanted to get her frilly little panties off as quickly as possible so he could get down to the serious business of relieving the ache between his legs. And he was aching between his legs. His cock was trapped in a tight denim prison and giving him hell.

And Hutch noticed. Of course he noticed, the cool blue gaze traveling down his body, focusing briefly on the worn cloth straining at the crotch of his jeans, then returning, a challenge there that had not been previously apparent.

“Hutch?” Starsky murmured, for the first time in his relationship with Hutch feeling as if he were on uncertain ground.

“Like I said, Starsk. What do you want to think?” Hutch repeated, but he closed the file in his lap and uncrossed his legs then, revealing a bulge that threatened the integrity of the material covering his crotch.

“Babe?” Starsky questioned again, events moving far too fast, and along a path he had never expected to take, for him to follow easily.

Just as he had in the squadroom, Hutch tilted his head, his lips parting, softening, while in his eyes lived an invitation so blatant Starsky couldn’t have missed it if he were blind.

An invitation Starsky found impossible to ignore. He leaned forward again, bracing both hands on the arms of the chair and all of his attention focused on the mouth that beckoned him with a silent siren’s song of promised delight.

The door opened and Dobey walked in. “Don’t tell me you two are fighting again,” he growled as he waddled to his desk. “You two are acting more like a couple of tomcats and less like police officers every day.”

Starsky jerked upright so fast he nearly overbalanced, backpedaling a few steps before he recovered and regained his balance. He scrambled the few feet to the other chair and sat down, legs crossed to conceal the fact that his cock had not yet caught up with the running, was as yet unaware that it wasn’t getting any. When he dared to look Hutch’s way, he was caught between fury and envy to find the big blond looking unruffled and calm. The long legs, however, were once again crossed, and the file, Starsky noticed, was strategically replaced in his lap. Seeing that reminded Starsky of the file he had dropped when he had grabbed the chair arms. He bent to retrieve it, nearly moaning aloud when his cock throbbed a protest at the cruel constriction of his jeans.

Somehow, Starsky made it through the debriefing, but the credit for that had to go to Hutch who fielded every question, every request for clarification Dobey threw their way. Starsky was lucky if he picked up every seventh word. Between the ache in his groin and the half million questions whirling around in his brain, Dobey might as well have been speaking Swahili for all Starsky understood. The captain, who was well past his own quitting time and none too pleased about that, of course, dragged it out until Starsky feared if Dobey didn’t dismiss them soon, his jeans were going to do him a perhaps irreparable injury.

Finally, Dobey dismissed them, and Starsky got on the other side of the door as fast as he could. No relief awaited him there. Half a dozen more officers had returned during their absence and, if the grins were anything to go by, had been apprised of the newest bit of gossip.

“No more playing reluctant virgin, huh, Hutch?” one squadroom wit quipped.

“Yeah. Ready to let him pop your cherry at last,” added the second banana.

“Somebody put LSD in the sugar cubes again?” Hutch shot right back.

Starsky threw a look over his shoulder meant to let Hutch know that he was getting out of there, and it was up to Hutch to decide if he was going to follow suit or continue to trade moronic one-liners. He tossed the file on the desk, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, and made a beeline for the door. With the special awareness not even a hard-on and badly shaken confidence could overshadow, Starsky knew Hutch was behind him, not six inches away from his fast-moving Adidas as he stalked to the elevator. He punched the button viciously, feeling Hutch come up beside him but refusing to look at him, even out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t trust himself to look and not touch.

The elevator took eleven seconds to arrive. Starsky counted them, unable to believe each one of those seconds was not at least an hour long. He stepped into the car when it arrived, realizing only as he did so that the car was empty. The elevator was never empty at Metro. Even at midnight there was always some obnoxious drunk or underage hooker and their arresting officers inside the too-small space.

Starsky knew exactly what Hutch was going to do the second the long finger punched the button for the parking garage. Two floors. Maybe twenty seconds. But Hutch’s finger hovered over the stop button and, as soon as the car began to descend, he pressed it, bringing them to a juddering halt.

“Well, Starsk?” Hutch prodded.

Starsky hesitated, took a deep breath, saw the muscles of Hutch’s hand begin to relax, and shot out of his corner. He covered Hutch’s fingers with his own, pressing hard to hold them there until this scenario played itself out. He moved in on his partner until molecules would have had trouble finding a place to rent between them.

“You’re askin’ for it, Hutchinson,” he warned, just in case this really was one of Hutch’s weird jokes.

“In any way you want to give it to me,” Hutch confirmed.

The tiny little voice of caution that was left in Starsky gave up the ghost then, and he surged up to capture the lips that were once again parted and waiting for him. The angle was wrong, the mustache tickled, and the strength of the tongue that met his nearly foiled his plans to pillage the sweet recesses of Hutch’s mouth. None of it mattered as the taste of Hutch exploded in his mouth, his brain, his balls. He could feel Hutch’s hands in his hair now, hear the moan rumbling around in the long throat, and feel Hutch’s heart pounding against his chest. He pressed closer, praying for zipless sex, in an agony to feel their hot cocks duel in the slippery combination of their mingled pre-come.

The elevator restarted with a jolt, making Starsky realize that both of them had deserted the stop button for the far more interesting territories of his ass and Hutch’s naked back. His hand flashed out from under Hutch’s rucked-up t-shirt to stab the button again.

“How many more of my cherries you want to take up against the wall of this elevator?” Hutch panted.

“All of ’em,” Starsky growled, and claimed the reddened lips again, his stabbing tongue an echo for the restless thrust and parry of his cock. Hutch yielded, his mouth a playground for Starsky’s wishes, and Starsky found he had plenty of them. He tested the edges of the smooth white teeth, licked the soft membrane of the cheeks, and lapped at the much rougher texture of the willing tongue.

A second jolt of reactivation nearly knocked them off their feet. Starsky yanked his hand out of the back of Hutch’s jeans to jab at the button again, but Hutch’s hand, pulled hastily from the progress it had made up the back of Starsky’s t-shirt, caught it in mid-air.

“Fuck me in the back seat of the Tomato if you want, babe. But let’s get the fuck outta here,” Hutch demanded.

Fucking Hutch in the Torino. The concept boggled Starsky’s mind. If he tried it, he’d be lucky to get his cock out of his pants before he came.

For the second time in five minutes, Lady Luck was looking out for two fools too befuddled by lust to give a moment’s thought to consequences. The doors opened a few seconds later to reveal the parking garage inhabited only by row upon row of empty cars.

Starsky yanked his shirt down but didn’t bother to attempt to re-tuck it. His total focus was on getting his blond and suddenly infinitely desirable partner into the Torino and some place where he could get his hands, mouth, and cock back in contact with whatever part of Hutch’s anatomy he could. He never gave a thought, while towing Hutch by the hand across the garage, of what anyone who happened to be lurking in the shadows might think. He would only have said “fuck ’em” in any case.

Starsky was turning the key in the ignition before his butt was firmly planted in the driver’s seat. He put his hand on the gearshift and felt Hutch put his hand on his gearshift.

He groaned. “Ya wanna arrive alive, or ya wanna be road pizza?” he growled.

“You can do it,” Hutch purred, shifting in his seat, easing closer. He switched hands, the left stretching out along the back of the seat, fingers stroking through Starsky’s curls until they found the sweaty nape of his neck, while the right hand reclaimed the throbbing bulge between Starsky’s legs.

“Kathy told me you drove her home one night while she sucked you off. Never ran a light. Never missed a turn. Never even eased off the gas while you were coming in her mouth,” Hutch revealed. His fingers toyed with the tab of the zipper behind which Starsky’s cock surged like a caged animal.

“That was Kathy,” Starsky warned. “You take it out now and I’m gonna come all over the car.”

Hutch slowly ran one finger down the length of Starsky’s zipper. He let the tip of his nail catch in each tooth, building the anticipation to the point where, for the first time in his life, Starsky seriously doubted his ability to drive.

“Wanna fuck you, Hutch, not kill you,” Starsky pleaded. He could easily have reached down and removed Hutch’s tormenting hand from his lap. About as easily as he could have cut off his own balls with a dull knife. Both hands gripped the steering wheel fiercely and his eyes locked onto the road. He made a right turn, committing them to his place, and felt the motion of the car drag Hutch’s fingers over his restrained cock. He gasped as the car swerved and he over compensated, throwing them into the oncoming lane for a moment before they straightened out and shot back into their own lane.

“Be a shame to wind up in a hospital bed,” Hutch conceded, as he took his right hand back.

“Sure wouldn’t want to lay there with a case of terminal blue balls while the doc patched me up,” Starsky agreed.

Hutch shuffled over a little closer, his fingers parting the curls over Starsky’s ear, his warm breath, when he spoke, sighing into Starsky’s ear canal, which seemed to have a direct line to his balls.

“Blue balls is a myth,” he whispered, “created by straight boys to make girls come across.” One finger tickled along Starsky’s jaw then down his throat, pressing only slightly harder as it passed over his Adam’s apple. “Get me home, Starsk. I’ll come across.”

After that, Starsky concentrated at least half of his attention to the road. He made it to his place in record time, not even slowing down when they picked up a black-and-white on their tail. He simply hit the siren two short bursts and stuck his arm out the window to wave them away. The cruiser turned at the next block, forgotten even before the glow of its taillights disappeared from the rearview mirror.

The long flight of stairs came close to castrating him, but Starsky struggled on, his admiration for Hutch growing as he watched the long legs take them two at a time. If he tried that, he’d be singing soprano by the time he reached the landing.

Hutch caught him by the shoulders and slammed his back against the closing door, his mouth coming down in a demand of fierce possession that shook Starsky to his core and dragged sweet surrender from him before he even knew he had it within himself to offer. He gave himself up to the tongue that plundered his mouth and the hands that scrabbled and tugged at his clothes. For one brief moment, he felt the cool kiss of evening air on his cock as Hutch dragged his jeans open, then he arched up into the heat of Hutch’s hand as it claimed him.

Hutch’s mouth tore away from his. “Don’t come, babe,” he demanded.

Starsky was counting his remaining control in nanoseconds now. If Hutch squeezed him just once, stroked the length of his cock just once from base to tip with those long sexy fingers, it would all be over, including the shouting. The fingers wrapped around the base of his cock and squeezed hard enough to force a yelp out of him.

“Don’t come,” Hutch repeated.

Starsky let the pain ease him back from the precipice. Both hands on Hutch’s chest, he pushed the other man across the room until they rammed up against the back of the couch. Hungrily, he sought Hutch’s mouth again, feeling as if he could never get enough of the willing surrender. Right hand pinning Hutch against the unyielding surface, he fumbled with the suddenly intricate and mysterious workings of the belt buckle, snap, and zipper. In his eagerness, his fingers felt like fat, swollen cocks, but Hutch was there, more than willing to assist in his own ravishment. Starsky could feel the gyrations of the body writhing against his as Hutch struggled to wriggle free of the barrier, aware only peripherally of the motions that meant Hutch was toeing off a shoe, kicking loose the leg of the jeans, aware only completely when the long legs parted and he could settle between them, their cocks coming together with a near audible twang.

“Don’t come.” The words were a demand, the tone a plea. “Gotta fuck me, Starsk.”

Only the promise of such a reward stopped Starsky’s restless writhing. He forced himself to back off, grab the edges of his jeans and yank them open and down a few more inches, freeing his balls. A tiny glimmer of caution ignited as the cool air surrounded his super heated flesh, but it was forgotten as Hutch held up a small tube between them that he had dug from his jacket pocket.

Starsky gaped at the lube being offered to him. “Christ, Hutch. Ain’t that carrying ‘be prepared’ to the limit?” he panted.

“Been carrying it for a month. Waiting,” Hutch revealed. He leaned forward and laid one gentle, loving, cherishing kiss on Starsky’s lips.

It was almost a fatal mistake. Starsky saw Hutch read the sudden hesitation he felt just as easily as he read Starsky’s thoughts on the street. The big blond turned away then, widening his stance and bending his knees as he laid himself over the back of the couch. Seeing the broad beautiful ass offered up to him, seeming to glow an unearthly white in the remnants of the streetlight that struggled to illuminate the room, Starsky cast caution to the winds of fate. Not waiting for his mind to catch up, Starsky’s hands reached for his prize, smoothing over the velvet skin. The hard coldness of the metal tube intruded between his hand and the flesh he caressed.

“Hurry,” Hutch commanded.

Like a good dog to his master’s voice, Starsky obeyed. No longer fumble-fingered but sure and certain, he twisted the top off the tube and squirted a generous handful of gel into his palm. He hardly even felt the touch of his own hand as he slicked his eager cock, all his attention, every sense focused on the bounty laid out before him. Finished with his cock, he grasped one muscular cheek and pried Hutch open, his fingers dipping unhesitatingly into the deep crevice, sliding down until they found the soft, secret place his cock ached to pierce. He delved into it, feeling resistance and then the sweet yielding as his fingers were accepted deep into his partner’s body. Hutch groaned and writhed on his hand, showing Starsky he was every bit as eager to give up his virginity as Starsky was to take it.

“Fuck me,” Hutch demanded.

Starsky needed no further invitations. Sliding his fingers free, he eased in between Hutch’s widespread thighs, snubbing the tip of his cock against the slick anus. Careful not to let the movement begin penetration, he laid himself out along Hutch’s back, letting him take part of his weight as he slid both arms around his vulnerable friend. Then, in one smooth thrust that would not be denied, Starsky stabbed his cock all the way up into his lover’s tight ass.

Hutch’s head arched back, a cry of unbearable pain or insufferable pleasure ripping from his throat as the spasming tunnel squeezed mercilessly at Starsky’s embedded cock. Ignoring the need to thrust, Starsky leaned more of his weight into the man beneath him, one hand seeking out Hutch’s long, hard cock, while the other stroked the smooth expanse of the broad chest, finding a nipple and teasing relentlessly until the muscles surrounding his trapped cock eased.

“Want all your cherries, Hutch. Give ’em to me,” he coaxed, his lips trailing nibbling kisses over the sweat¬ slick breadth of Hutch’s shoulders, while his hips eased back, drawing the length of his cock from Hutch’s ass until it almost came free.

Starsky held himself still then, letting Hutch be the author of his own torment until the big blond began to move in a rhythm that spoke of pleasure tinged only slightly, perfectly, with the pain of being claimed, owned for the first time. Thrust for thrust, retreat for retreat, Starsky matched his partner then, taking as good as he got and giving back every morsel of pleasure he was given.

“Come, Hutch. Come for me,” Starsky crooned.

As if Hutch had been waiting all his life for that command, Starsky felt the cock in his hand swell, Hutch’s hot, thick semen spewing into his palm as the body under him shuddered. Starsky held still again, no longer needing to thrust as the climactic contractions squeezed the strong muscles sheathing him in a grip that milked the seed from his cock and a cry from his throat. Shuddering spasm after spasm rocked him until it was only Hutch’s uncertain strength that held him upright.

When the last fading echo had shuddered through his body, Starsky forced his quaking muscles to take his own weight, easing up and taking the strain off Hutch’s bowed back. Both hands braced on the back of the couch on either side of Hutch’s waist and, elbows locked, he rested there, still panting. Hesitantly, he tried to ease his over-sensitized cock free of the channel that still weakly squeezed him. A deep groan from Hutch stopped the careful withdrawal.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“You killed me,” Hutch moaned.

Starsky’s whole body jerked in response to the accusation, his cock slipping free. He looked down at himself, but was unable to tell in the uncertain light whether there was any blood.

“I hurt you,” he mourned. Immersed in his own pleasure, he had let himself….

“A body can’t hold that much pleasure and still live, can it, babe?” Hutch asked.

Starsky relaxed at the dreamy tone, deciding no one could sound that content if he was hurting. He was re-gathering his wits enough to realize that, though Hutch might not be feeling any pain in his plundered ass, his bad back had to be a different matter. If not now, then it certainly would be in the morning. Before he could help Hutch, however, he was going to have to untangle himself.

It took him a moment or two to decide whether to pull up his jeans, or try to get them off over his shoes, electing finally to pull them up rather than risk getting tangled and falling on his ass. He could see Hutch was trembling now, the long limbs quaking in the aftershocks of release and strain. He concentrated what little energy he had left into getting them into the bedroom and stripping off their clothes. He eased Hutch down onto the bed and pulled the covers up over him, kicking the mound of their discarded clothes out of the way. He picked up their holsters, chuckling softly as he hung them on the back of a chair and climbed in on the other side of the bed.

“Somethin’ funny?” Hutch slurred around a yawn.

“We fucked with our guns on,” Starsky said. He rolled over on his side, tucking the pillow under his head, and studied the profile beside him. “Sounds like an X-rated B western. ‘They fucked with their guns on.'”

He studied the man beside him, deciding Hutch looked as thoroughly fucked as anyone he’d ever seen.

“How long you been thinking about this, Hutch?” he asked. He saw the muscles in Hutch’s jaw tense, and reached out to try to smooth the hardness away with his thumb.

“A while,” Hutch admitted after only a few seconds of silence. “Bought the lube about a month ago.”

“Why tonight?” It was a pretty simple two-word question, but Starsky saw it ratchet Hutch’s tension up another notch. He eased closer, slipping his arm around his partner’s chest and hugging reassuringly.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” If Hutch’s tone was meant to be light, it failed.

“Why fucking?” Starsky pursued. “It’s a pretty big leap to go from first kiss to fucking in just a few minutes.”

Hutch seemed no longer content with hiding only half his expression from Starsky. He rolled his head toward the wall, leaving Starsky with nothing to read but the blond mane.

“Wanted everything I could get,” he admitted.

“Whatcha waitin’ for now, babe? For me to say thanks for a great fuck, buddy, and I’ll pick you up at seven?” Starsky asked, the barest edge of bitterness creeping around the question.

Hutch shrugged. “When did you start thinking about it?”

Starsky knew better than to lie. Hutch would see through him before he even worked his way through all the words. “About half a second after you tilted your head and opened your mouth.”

“Damn,” Hutch whispered, a world of pain in the soft curse.

“Which doesn’t mean I’m not gonna be thinking about it again tomorrow, or the next day, or a month from now, or a year.”

Hutch turned his head back, his expression bleak. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I’m not making any promises, Hutch. Except to be honest. I’ve never lied to you, and I’m not about to start now. I don’t think I love you any more now than I did an hour ago. Don’t think that’s possible no matter what we do. I’m just looking at that love and you with different eyes now.”

Starsky placed his fingers over the protest sitting on Hutch’s lips, reached up, and tried to smooth the crease from between the fair brows.

“You said you’ve been thinking about this for a while. Don’t you think it’s only fair to give me a little more than an hour?”

The crease eased a little beneath the soothing caress and reasonable words. “It’s hard to think about fair play when your partner’s just fucked you to heaven and back.”

Starsky knew it was the “and back” part that was getting to Hutch. Back to the real world where Hutch knew why he had offered, but didn’t know why Starsky had accepted. He shifted again, easing his head off the pillow and onto Hutch’s shoulder, bringing up his leg to wrap around the long, smooth thighs.

“It’s supposed to be afterglow, dummy. Not aftergloom,” he reminded his partner whose emotions were in free fall. “You got anything in my closet you can wear to work in the morning?” he asked.

“Will I need to?” Hutch countered.

“Well, what’s on the floor is gonna look like it came outta the bottom of a ragbag by tomorrow,” Starsky reminded him. He really should get up and at least hang up their leather jackets, but decided he would rather shell out for the cleaning bill than move, especially now that Hutch’s arm had come around to hesitantly complete the embrace. Being in Hutch’s arms had always felt good. Tonight it felt like coming home after a long, long journey.

“Yeah, there’s something in the closet,” Hutch admitted in a whisper.

“Good,” Starsky pronounced with satisfaction. Hutch still felt like a storefront mannequin in his arms. Starsky longed to ease him, offer the words Hutch was waiting to hear. But he had already promised not to lie. “Go to sleep, Hutch.”

“Starsk?” It was one last plea that Hutch couldn’t hold back and Starsky couldn’t leave unanswered.

“In the ten years we’ve known each other, baby blue, we ever fail at anything we tried together?” Starsky asked.

The tension went out of Hutch then, and Starsky felt the big body slowly sink into the mattress. It was okay now, and he had the feeling it would be okay in the morning, too. He wasn’t about to make promises tonight that he might not be able keep and that Hutch wouldn’t believe in any case. But he knew he’d be making some tomorrow. Maybe the kind that would last a lifetime.

The End