Welcome In

He shouldn’t have left Hutch alone. He knew it. Starsky paced back and forth in his apartment. He’d known what had happened the moment he looked up from cuffing the perp and seen Hutch down on his knees in the filth of an alley they’d been in before.

He knew—he just hadn’t wanted to let himself think of it. Hutch had been the one cheering him on after the assassination attempt. Hutch had been his unfailing support and cheerleader. Starsky knew he wouldn’t have made it through the grueling therapy sessions without Hutch at his back, even if being at his back was only being there in spirit.

Hutch was the one who led the task force to make sure all the t’s were crossed and i’s dotted so that Gunther wouldn’t walk—working insane hours plus visiting Starsky in the hospital at first, and then coming to Starsky’s apartment and making sure food was made and laundry was done and floors were clean. Not to mention driving Starsky to necessary appointments and running any errands before Starsky was cleared to drive.

The little fact that Gunther had died a few short months after he’d been arrested made no difference. The damage had been done, Starsky knew. The damage to Hutch. His own wounds had healed; Hutch’s had not.

Starsky knew the reason they were back on the streets was because Hutch knew Starsky wanted it and because Starsky wanted it and it would make Starsky happy, Hutch made sure it would happen.

Is the cost worth it? Starsky pondered that as he paced. He picked up the phone to call at least four times but hung up before he dialed the last number each time. If he didn’t have the answer, if he couldn’t give Hutch what Hutch needed, then what was the use of calling? He already knew Hutch would brush it off. “I’m tired.” “Didn’t sleep well.” “Just got a bit winded.” He’d heard all the explanations since they’d been back out there.

But now he knew. None of those were true. Hutch was burned out, a wick burned down to the socket, a bright flame that was in danger of being extinguished. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard Hutch laugh and had to go back all the way to a drunken party in his hospital room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Hutch’s incandescent smile—the one that lit not only his eyes but infused his whole body with joy and energy.

Was being on the streets again more important to him than Hutch? When he put it that way, the answer was clear. It wasn’t as if they even had to stop being cops. There were more ways to solve crime than working the streets. Hell, Simonetti and Dryden had even visited him at home during his lengthy recuperation and mentioned IA. Ha, he’d never shared that little tidbit with Hutch.

What about all those unsolved crimes that were backlogged down in R and I? What about the children that Peterson’s small division worked so hard to save? What about the white-collar crime and the new computers and looking at crime scenes with photos and fragments of bullets? What about teaching recruits at the Academy? All of them safe and still valid and just as important.

Starsky took in a deep breath. And what if? What if Hutch didn’t want to, couldn’t be a cop any more? Hutch would have walked away from his career in an instant if Starsky couldn’t have made it back. Because…

Hell…because Hutch loved him. And damn it, he loved Hutch. He realized that since Terry, the only constant in his life had been Hutch. The only constant he’d needed, the only constant he’d wanted.

He grabbed his keys and his wallet—and opened the door to see Hutch there. Soaked to the skin and shivering, hair plastered to his skull, making his eyes look hollow, empty, lost.

Starsky said nothing, pulled him inside and tugged him towards the bathroom.

“What? Hutch, talk to me.” Starsky turned on the shower, warm, not hot water, not when Hutch’s skin was cold to the touch. He unbuttoned Hutch’s jeans, pulled down the zipper, undid the shoulder holster, tugged a soggy shirt over Hutch’s unresisting body. He wondered briefly if Hutch was even aware of Starsky’s presence. He tapped Hutch’s right leg and pulled off a shoe and sock, sucked in breath when he saw the blisters on Hutch’s foot, the mottled reddened skin on Hutch’s body. He shook his head and finished the job of getting Hutch into the shower and warm.

“C’mon, babe,” he said. “I got ya.” He got Hutch under the spray and then took a moment to strip off his own clothes.

“Starsk?” Hutch blinked at him. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Starsky told him as he grabbed a wash cloth. “You’re okay. Let me take care of you, okay?”

For his part, Hutch just nodded and gave himself over to Starsky. Surrender, Starsky thought. A surrender to softness that Hutch hadn’t allowed himself for ever so long.

Starsky soaped up the wash cloth, ran it down arms that still tremored slightly, down long long legs and across blistered toes, swiped it across torso and the solidity of Hutch’s back. He avoided Hutch’s groin—not willing to venture there when Hutch was so vulnerable. He handed the cloth to Hutch, motioned downwards and busied himself with squirting shampoo into his hands.

He heard the cloth drop.

“Let me wash your hair,” Starsky said. “It’ll feel good.”

He watched Hutch swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the strong column of his throat and then nod. Hutch turned, braced his hands against the wall.

Starsky lathered his hair, the strands silky beneath his touch. He took his time, massaging the shampoo into Hutch’s scalp. He could see the tension that Hutch always carried in his back begin to ease.

Hutch moved his head, allowing the cascading water to rinse out the lather and let out a sigh as Starsky began to massage his shoulders.

“Feels good, huh?” Starsky said. His own body was responding, even though he was trying very hard to will it not to.

“Starsky.” It wasn’t a question. Hutch turned around, his own erection jutting upwards, his face pale but for a reddening blush making its way up from his neck.

“Oh.” It was all Starsky could think to say.

“I’ll get out,” Hutch finally said.

“What if I don’t want you to?” Starsky kept his eyes on Hutch’s face.

Hutch had never been good at hiding his feelings from Starsky. Other people complained they couldn’t read him but Starsky knew. He knew every little quirk of the lips, every tightening of the muscles around the eyes, the way the furrow between Hutch’s brows could mean anger or frustration or concentration. Their whole relationship seemed to flit across Hutch’s face now and Starsky watched without saying a word.

“I love you, Starsk,” Hutch finally said but Starsky already knew. He’d experienced it in a thousand ways over the years.

“I love you too.” Starsky rested his hand against Hutch’s cheek, felt him shiver. “Let me. Please, love.”

He knelt before him, remembered some soap opera wedding he’d watched in the hospital and the woman saying, “With my body I thee worship.”

Worship—a gift to Hutch. He rested his hands on Hutch’s hips, the bones solid against his fingers. He ran his tongue up Hutch’s cock, slow, deliberate, and then just as slowly drew the head into his mouth.

He moved his hands to grip Hutch’s backside and he felt the muscles clench under his hands as he began to swirl his tongue against Hutch’s skin. But Hutch was silent, and the only sound was the sucking sound of Starsky’s mouth and the water dripping and pooling around them.

I thee worship, Starsky thought. You, Hutch, mine.

Hutch groaned and Starsky grabbed him closer. Hutch came in his mouth, and Starsky swallowed the sweet salt of him, again and again. This is love. This is what we’ve waited for, what we’ve needed, who we are.

Hutch softened in his mouth and Starsky rested back on his heels. He could feel his own need. He jerked himself off and looked up at Hutch.

Starsky got to his feet, pulled Hutch into an embrace and turned off the shower. He grabbed a towel from over the rod and began to dry his partner, no, his lover, off.

“Shh…” he whispered. “I’m here.”

Hutch nodded and took the towel from him, stepping out of the shower. Starsky followed, grabbed his robe from the back of the door.

Hutch followed him into the bedroom, stood silent and watching as Starsky pulled out dry clothes and tossed them on the bed.

They both dressed. Starsky put on a pot of coffee and then sat down on the sofa beside Hutch.

“Gotta take care of those blisters,” he said as he pulled the first aid kit closer. “Put your feet up.” He patted his thighs.

When Hutch hesitated, he smiled what he hoped was reassuringly. “We just made out in my shower. I think we’re past the embarrassment stage.”

Hutch sighed and did as asked.

Starsky winced as he looked at the blisters but he got out the antibacterial ointment and began dabbing it on the abused skin.

“How’d you get here?” he asked as if he didn’t already have an idea.

“I ran,” Hutch said. “I started running and it started raining and I couldn’t stop.” He let out a hiss as Starsky touched the arch of his foot.

“I was getting ready to come to you.” Starsky began to wrap some gauze on the right foot. “I shouldn’t have ever left you alone.”

“I wouldn’t have let you in.” Hutch rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “God, Starsk, it feels like I’ve been running forever.”

“It was the shooting, wasn’t it?” Starsky said. He moved his hand away from the foot, up onto Hutch’s calf, and let it rest there. “I was okay.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say, but he couldn’t take them back.

“How long? How long until one of us, until you wind up dead?” Hutch didn’t sound angry, only weary. “It was May all over again and I thought…” There were tears in his voice.

“I know,” Starsky said. “And I’m so sorry. So sorry you had to go through all this shit.”

Hutch opened his eyes. “I’m not complaining.”

“I know you aren’t. Babe, I know that. But I know we’re falling apart and we gotta make a change.”

“We? You mean me.” Hutch grabbed Starsky’s hand. “You know we belong on the street together. I can’t trust your life to anyone else.” Then he shook his head. “Not that I…”

Starsky pulled his hand away, leaned into Hutch, put both his hands on Hutch’s face. “Don’t you dare, Hutchinson. Don’t you dare take the blame for what Gunther did.”

He felt a shudder go through Hutch. And all the things he thought he knew fell away and he realized he didn’t know nearly as much as he thought.

“Hutch. Look at me.” Starsky shook him slightly. “Look at me. Please.”

Hutch opened his eyes, the pain in them hurting Starsky.

“I forgive you.” Not that Starsky thought there was anything to forgive, but Hutch did so that was what mattered. “I forgive you.”

Hutch shuddered again and tears brightened his eyes for a moment before he blinked rapidly and they disappeared.

“And you’re right,” Starsky continued. “We do belong together. But not on the street. Not anymore.”

“But it’s everything you worked for, wanted. All you’ve ever wanted is to be a cop. You told me that.” Hutch’s voice held just the smallest quaver, but it also held something Starsky hadn’t heard in it for months—hope.

“You know how many other ways there are to be cops than being out there chasing down perps?” Starsky pushed at Hutch’s legs so he could pull Hutch into an embrace. “All kinda things.”

“Yeah,” Hutch whispered.

“Did I tell you Simonetti and Dryden visited me when I first came home?” Starsky relaxed as Hutch leaned more of his weight onto him. He began to rub a small circle on Hutch’s temple with his thumb.

“Mmm…”

“They mentioned IA.”

It got the response Starsky expected, a snort and then an indignant, “Anything but that.”

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Starsk.”

“Huh?”

“I wanna stop running.” Hutch’s voice dropped off then as he finally gave into sleep.

“You can, babe,” Starsky whispered. “You’re finally home.”