When Gravity Fails

352

The intense grief over Terry’s death causes a reaction between Starsky and Hutch that takes them both by surprise—and leads to complications and reactions that culminate years later when working on an undercover assignment with a detective named Kira.

 

Originally published in 1995 in the zine Blue Eyes and Blue Jeans, produced by Idiot Triplets Press and edited by Linda McGee. Winner of a 1995 STIFfie Award for Best Story.

Author’s dedication: For Trish, because she made me finish it.

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ALPHA ~ February 1977

Terry had been dead for two weeks, taking with her Starsky’s dreams of home and a family, and leaving Hutch to pick up the pieces. On the fourteenth night the two survivors played marathon Monopoly and drank a lot of beer, succeeding briefly in forgetting the purpose of the get-together. Until the clock struck midnight and Starsky brought out the farewell gifts, opening the door to memory and regret.

The bereaved man coped well, maintaining a tenuous equilibrium as an example for his partner, until Hutch read Terry’s final message aloud. Even then Starsky tried, producing a raggedly determined smile, but after a few seconds his face crumpled and his shoulders began to shake. “Oh, God, Hutch…”

Ah, Starsk… Don’t. Don’t… Moving around the flickering candles and the Monopoly board, he opened his arms. “C’mere…”

Starsky came, wrapping his arms around Hutch’s waist, melting against him in that needful way that went right to the heart. Hutch held on, longing for the ability to make the hurting stop, to absorb it into himself somehow and make everything right again for his best friend—while wanting to cry himself for Starsky’s suffering. Limited to the prosaic, he cradled the tousled head and rocked the grieving man in his arms, offering the support of his presence. “Shh… It’s okay. I’m here, buddy…”

After a while the tears stopped, but his companion made no effort to withdraw from the embrace. The close-held body was warm and heavy in his arms, familiar as his own, and he was never sure, afterwards, at exactly which moment the need to comfort slipped over into something else. But when Starsky lifted his head with a shaky sigh and stroked his hot wet cheek against Hutch’s, it was the most natural thing in the world to return the pressure, to turn the down bent face and to brush his mouth tenderly against his partner’s.

Nothing could have prepared him for the shock of recognition, the sensation of homecoming when their lips met for the first time. With barely a lurch the universe shifted and everything fell into place—Starsky suddenly the focus of every unrecognized need, every unfulfilled desire, every inchoate longing. In this suddenly transformed reality it came as no surprise when, after only a moment’s hesitation, the other mouth opened like an exotic flower under his.

I love you. Oh, I love you. Love you, love you... The silent litany chimed through Hutch’s mind and body as he sank into the sweet sharing, enchanted by the naturalness of it.

Starsky’s surprised little whimper, the needy arms that encircled his back to pull him closer, and a small uncontrolled moan that escaped into his mouth confirmed the mutuality of their need. Candles, play money, and the litter of game board and gifts were shoved blindly aside so their bodies could find one another on the kitchen floor.

Considering the amount of alcohol they’d consumed over the course of the evening, arousal should have been an impossibility; yet there was no denying the throbbing heat in his loins, nor the hunger in the wiry, eager body that sought so desperately to merge with his. He squirmed closer, aching for more contact, pressing against matching hardness so that both of them cried out with the sensation.

Wanting to touch more of his newly-found beloved, to learn all there was to know, Hutch slid his hand up under the red sweater, discovering with his palm the strange new texture of lightly-furred belly and chest, the tiny unexpected hardness of erect nipples.

Abruptly, Starsky tore himself away, shoving at Hutch with both hands, pushing him back. “Don’t!” Scrambling backwards through the wreckage of the Monopoly game, Starsky collided with a thump against the solidity of the stove.

The body that had been molded so close to his a few moments ago was taut with agitation, eyes wide and frightened, as if confronted with a poisonous serpent. Hutch knelt facing him, strung out with arousal, uncomfortably aware of the hard, hungry thrust of his sex in his jeans. They were both panting like they’d chased a suspect up twelve flights of stairs in an August heatwave. “Starsk? What…?”

“What are we doing?” Starsky whispered in hoarse denial. “This is crazy…”

“I love you.”

“Not like that.”

Like the killing thrust of a rusty bayonet, the rejection ripped through him. Reeling from the shock of the wound, Hutch responded without thought. “Why not?”

The question hung in the charged silence, awkward and unanswerable. In Starsky’s troubled eyes Hutch saw the birth of a new doubt. “Hutch. Are… Is there something you haven’t been telling me? Are you…?”

He could feel the hated blush flood his face but ignored it, determined not to be ashamed. “Gay?” he completed. “No, I’m not gay.”

“Then, why?”

Stalemate. Hutch stared at Starsky helplessly. Don’t you feel it?

Starsky was looking to him for answers. And he had nothing to offer, either in defense of his actions or to convey his inner conviction that the… sharing… was right for them. And while the ache in his body subsided and his brain raced madly in search of explanations, one part of his being flared with resentment at Starsky for dumping all the responsibility for this in his lap. They knelt, frozen in wordless confrontation, while the clock ticked on and Hutch searched for words.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said at last “It just feels… felt… right.”

As he watched Starsky’s non-reaction to that, he became aware that one of the Monopoly pieces was digging into his left knee, and shifted to remove it. Starsky flinched back from the movement, twisting the metaphorical knife. Not to you? Familiar self-doubt swept over Hutch, washing away his certainty. Too fast. It was all too fast. And much too powerful. He should have known better.

Inside his head, frantic voices screamed at him to LEAVE, to escape the scene and circumstances of his humiliation without delay. A stronger part refused to flee like a guilty felon. Besides, he asked himself with wry bitterness, where could I go? If he was certain of nothing else, he knew that he could no more escape Starsky than he could run away from his own heartbeat. Better to remain calm, regain control of himself and the situation, and say and do whatever was needed to heal the breach. Cover up his unwelcome revelation so that he could retain at least some dignity, along with David Starsky’s friendship and respect.

He forced himself to meet Starsky’s eyes, reading the confusion and fear there. “Right. You’re right. This is crazy.” From somewhere, he dredged up a smile and a half-hearted laugh. “That’s what I get for letting the beer do my thinking for me.”

After a lengthy, searching appraisal, Starsky nodded. “That makes two of us,” he answered generously. He ran his hand through his hair and surveyed the disaster area that was the kitchen floor. “This place is a mess.”

“I’ll help you clean up.”

A quick sidelong look and Starsky nodded again. “Okay.” He began gathering up wrapping paper and beer bottles, carrying them to the trash. Hutch unfolded his fingers and stared at the game piece he still held clutched in his hand. The little race car was Starsky’s perennial, exclusive marker. His use of it contested, the superstitious idiot was willing to make his opponent’s life a living hell of pouting and bad grace. Hutch had given up that battle long ago. Shrugging mentally, he tossed the piece into the box.

Working in busy isolation, the two men soon had the kitchen in order. Hutch was numb, dazed by the kaleidoscope of unforeseen events and emotions. He wanted nothing more than to escape to the haven of his own home, where he could sort through his shell-shocked thoughts in privacy. Rising, he looked for his partner.

Starsky was doing a great impersonation of a rambling rose. Returning from putting the game away in the bedroom, he paused to straighten a pillow on the sofa, crossed to the table, adjusted a chair absently, then went to the refrigerator. He looked in, then closed the door and stood staring into space for a few moments before turning to his partner. “Thanks for the help.” The light was behind him and his eyes were opaque, unreadable.

“Sure.”

Cautiously, as if afraid a sudden action might precipitate some unnamed disaster, Starsky reached out to grasp Hutch’s arm just below the elbow, matching their forearms. Hutch mirrored the hold instinctively. The contact, he understood, was meant to convey reassurance. He waited.

“Look, I need some time alone, okay?”

Deliverance was at hand. He squeezed the arm, nodded understandingly, and moved away. “Yeah, sure.” He looked around for his gun and jacket, made himself put them on carefully and correctly, patted his pockets for his keys.

“Hey.” Concern in tired eyes. “You okay to drive?”

“Yeah, sure. Goodnight, Starsk.”

“‘Night, partner. See you Monday.”

“Sure.” He was beginning to feel like a damned parrot.

His hand was on the doorknob when Starsky caught up with him, silently extending Ollie. Chest aching, Hutch accepted the stuffed bear. “Please love them both, and don’t let either of them change.” Yeah. His control was slipping, but he was almost free. “Thanks. Sorry.”

He made it out the door and to the steps before Starsky’s voice stopped him again. He turned to face the silhouette in the open doorway, trying to conceal his impatience. “What is it?”

“Take it easy, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

***

To everything there is a season, and the quasi-annual mass repotting session was long overdue. Hutch sat cross-legged on the sunporch floor, an island in a spread-newspaper ocean, surrounded on all sides by packaged potting soil, peat moss, and the sundry accoutrements of plant care. Pink-tinged, dying sunlight filtered in, offering an illusion of warmth, which was not mirrored in his heart. Monday, their day off, had been spent in lonely isolation. Starsky was either not at home or not answering his phone. After two half-hearted attempts—uncertain of what he would say should he succeed in making contact—Hutch had determinedly devoted himself to other matters.

He was working with the spider plants, weaning the aerial offspring from the mother plant and resettling them into individual pots. From the stereo, the mournful voice of Judy Collins provided a melancholy background.

From the clutter of pots, Hutch selected a small glazed elephant that had come with a short-lived cactus. Lisa would like this one. Through a school-sponsored program, the handicapped girl had recently begun working part-time at a nursery, and was nurturing an eclectic collection of infant houseplants in her bedroom window.

Keeping his hands occupied did nothing to restrain his intractable mind, which insisted on replaying the source of his current depression, returning to it as a tongue worries a sore tooth, to see if it still hurt. It did.

By the time he’d driven carefully back to Venice Saturday night, he’d been too physically and emotionally wrung out for anything more demanding than sleep. They were scheduled for second shift on Sunday, and Starsky hadn’t called during the morning, for which Hutch was grateful. A day’s introspection had left him with one unassailable truth and one unanswerable dilemma. Truth: He not only loved David Starsky, he desired him. And he had absolutely no idea what, if anything, he ought to do about it.

A shift spent in the company of a distant, formal stranger who would not meet his eyes, and relentlessly rebuffed Hutch’s one attempt at discussion, left him with the unhappy knowledge that there might be nothing he could do. Starsky clearly intended to wipe the incident from existence, erase it as if it had never happened. It seemed that a declaration of undying love would be less than welcome.

Now he was left feeling like the forest after a firestorm has swept through—all scorched, useless cinders, barren of life and hope.

“Myself, I long for love and light, but must it come so cruel, must it be so bright?”

Right on, Judy. His choice of music was doing nothing to improve his state of mind, accentuating his depression rather than dispelling it.

Though as both youth and adult his looks had drawn offers, the concept of homosexual sex had never appealed to him, until now. The wildfire passion that had flared so unexpectedly between them had left him euphoric—filled with the sudden understanding that he’d wanted to do this for a long time, that this level of intimacy was what he’d been searching for and that right here in his arms was the missing piece he’d needed to complete him.

The concept of expanding their relationship into the sexual realm had surprised but didn’t intimidate him. When he recalled the ecstasy promised by that single encounter, the idea had irresistible appeal. He’d figured out the implications, and accepted them. Now it was up to Starsky to do the same. Or not.

Any illusions about the sanctity of happily-ever-after love he’d retained after Vanessa had been dragged through the mud and destroyed by the fiasco of his affair with Gillian. Oh, he still played the games—smiled the winning smiles, uttered the charming witticisms, made the expected moves. But he knew it for the empty ritual it was, and made certain to pick women who asked no more than he could give. But Starsky still believed in the all-American, white picket fence myth—still wanted it.

You’re such a macho little firecracker. Could you be satisfied with a male lover?

Your dream died, your chance for the traditional ‘happy ending.’ But when one door closes, another opens. Please, Starsk… It could be so good… Can’t you see that?

He hunched his shoulders in resignation. It’s got to come from him. The School of Broken Hearts had nothing new to teach Ken Hutchinson. Why should he be surprised if he was denied this newest, best love as well?

Where are you tonight?

Shut up, Hutchinson!

In the middle of his deliberations, the volume of the stereo dropped several abrupt decibels and Judy’s lament was superseded by a familiar voice. “Hutch? Where the hell are you?”

Quick surge of pleasure/pain—trepidation and sudden breathless hope—quickly suppressed. Starsky was the last person he’d expected to see tonight. Twisting a stem of silver queen pothos, Hutch felt it snap off in his fingers. “In here.”

The disgruntled soliloquy drew nearer. “Didn’t you hear me knocking? What are you… Oh.” Starsky appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” Hutch greeted mildly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Eight years’ experience made Starsky’s body language as plain as a newspaper headline. He was truculent yet ill-at-ease, unsure of his welcome, and also subtly angry. Had he come to pick a fight?

Woundedly glad to see his visitor’s discomfort, Hutch resumed his work. Three small plantlets fit nicely into the terra cotta pot destined for Minnie Kaplan.

Judy sang softly, “What I’ll give you, since you asked, is all my time together…”

“Do you have to do that now?” Starsky demanded impatiently.

Sighing inwardly, Hutch unfolded himself, brushed potting soil off his hands, and approached the doorway. Ignoring the pang of resentment when Starsky stepped hastily back, he went to the kitchen to wash his hands. He turned from the sink to discover that his partner was lurking warily in the doorway.

Refusing to be rattled, he said, “Want a beer?”

“Uh, yeah… no… yeah.”

Don’t worry, I’m not trying to get you drunk. Managing not to speak the inflammatory words aloud, he handed over a can of Coors and leaned against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest “What’s happening?”

“Not much.” Oh, guarded. After a brief hesitation, Starsky offered, “I went by the cemetery.”

Hutch responded with a noncommittal nod. Then, unable to stand the suspense any longer, he prompted, “What’s on your mind, Starsky?”

“Does something have to be on my mind?” he snapped defensively.

Tension saturated the silence while Starsky stood, radiating unease and an undefined aura of need that his partner found impossible to resist. What are you doing here, Starsk? What do you want? Whatever it was, he’d get it. Starsky had free claim to anything it was in Hutch’s power to give. He waited until Starsky muttered unwillingly:

“We need to talk.”

He confined his response to an expectant lift of his eyebrows. “So talk.”

“I think maybe we’ve gotten too close.”

Don’t go away. It can be any way you want, only don’t leave me.

Had Starsky seen the terror in his eyes? He took one abortive step toward Hutch, as if to reassure him. “I mean… Saturday night… I’m not sure what… how we…” He stuttered to a halt.

“I thought we’d decided it was just the beer talking.” Hutch could hear the tension in his voice.

Starsky set his beer on the counter top and began swirling the can in little circles, eyes fixed firmly on the motion while he spoke. “I loved Terry. But I keep thinking… If it had been the other way, if it had been you… killed… I don’t think I could have taken it. Even if I had Terry to help me. I mean. I loved her, was going to marry her. Was talking about spending the rest of my life with her.”

Hutch knew, suddenly, what was coming.

“But I didn’t love her as much as I love you. Tell me what that means.”

It means we’re made for each other. The compulsion to voice the thought was almost irresistible. We’re best friends. Partners. We’re everything to each other, except lovers. It’s just one more step, babe. Just one little step… He answered cautiously. “You knew Terry for a few months. We’ve known each other for years.”

He shook his head impatiently. “No, it’s more than that.” Starsky looked at him briefly before dropping his eyes and murmuring huskily, “I never… kissed a guy before, Hutch. Never felt tie way I did with you. What does it mean?”

He wants me to tell him what to do. Hutch had known already that he could slough off Saturday’s experience, if necessary. Now he realized that he possessed as well the power to lead them in another direction.

Victory was here, in his grasp. Come to bed with me, Starsk. Let me love you. It could be so good…

Starsky was his for the taking. He could seduce him, probably with very little effort.

And then, what? He knew David Starsky too well to foresee a rosy future for them. The strutting macho ladykiller image he projected so strongly at times was not all an act. It was not all Starsky was, but represented an important part of his self-image. Hutch’s heady new truth threatened that. It could tear them apart, and everything would be lost.

Starsky was strong in so many ways, with an aggressive masculinity that dared Hutch to match it, even to compete with it. But underneath the tough surface was a core of honest innocence that was so much a part of Starsky, so completely artless, that Hutch was powerless against it. No one, from cradle to grave, could resist it. From child-like Lisa Graham to aged Maggie Kincaid. Not Minnie, nor Terry, nor even Edith Dobey. And not Ken Hutchinson, formerly happy heterosexual.

Gazing into that beseeching face—so familiar, so dear, and open to him now—his cop’s memory served up the image engraved there Saturday night: the wide-eyed look of a startled deer… And his own first, all-too-accurate analogy: a man confronting a serpent—one wearing a trusted friend’s face, tempting with the fruit of forbidden knowledge. Rejecting the metaphor as Episcopalian original-sin bullshit didn’t alter its painful aptness in this situation.

But he liked it, Hutch’s heart insisted. …Until he realized what was happening. Then it scared the hell out of him.

Conscience warred with self-interest. A very large part of him wanted to challenge that goddamned naivete, frustrating because it was so completely unassumed. Ranged against the selfish urge was the habit of protection.

He could pat Starsky on the head and send him home with a speech about the brotherhood of cops, partners in particular. He knew Starsky would accept it. Probably that’s what I’d do, if I were really your best friend.

Even as he vacillated, Hutch resented his own uncertainty. Why couldn’t he either reject the concept utterly, or embrace it wholeheartedly? Instead, he couldn’t pursue it, and couldn’t forget it. I can see why it’s not a good idea. Stupid, dangerous. But how can I stop feeling this way?

The timing was all wrong, he acknowledged. Rebound. If the role of seducer was unattractive, how much more so that of predator, swooping down while his friend was suffering and vulnerable to feast on the fruits of death. Whether Starsky ever saw it that way or not, the small doubt would always remain. Could he live with that?

In response to Starsky’s question, he answered as noncommittally as possible. “It means we need each other, I guess.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Starsky demanded angrily. “I don’t understand any of this!”

Reassurance or revelation? In the end he found he could offer neither. Stymied by the sincerity of Starsky’s confusion, Hutch looked deep into the needful, trusting eyes, and lied. “What do you want me to say? You were hurting, and I wanted to help. Maybe things got… a little out of hand. I’m not gonna apologize for it, but it doesn’t have to mean anything more than you want it to.”

The ball’s in your court, love. I know what I feel, but you’re gonna have to figure out for yourself what you want.

“You’re my best friend.”

Thought Terry was your best friend. She sure thought so. The revelation followed quickly. And I wasn’t jealous, because I knew it wasn’t true. The insight warmed him, somehow, and his smile was genuine. “You’re mine, too.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” Something flickered and was quickly hidden behind those deep eyes. Was it… disappointment?

Buoyed by sudden hope, Hutch nevertheless stuck to his decision. I won’t be your serpent.

“You won’t lose me. I promise.” Starsky loved him, even if only as a best friend. Tomorrow was, as yet, unwritten. Not now, but maybe someday… Believing it because he wanted to—had to—Hutch was able to offer his arms and be grateful when Starsky came to him, pressing against him in a sexless yet satisfying embrace.

Stepping back, Starsky chuckled shakily. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“What’s a partner for?” Hutch asked for the thousandth time.

Starsky stayed for about an hour, during which the two men chatted with growing ease about the myriad unimportant subjects that so easily fill the time shared by best friends. By the time he left, the balance between them had been restored.

As the door closed behind him, Hutch consoled himself with satisfaction at their return to amity, and hopes for their future.

If it’s meant to be, it’ll still be there when—if—we’re both ready. One day, you’ll really understand. And you’ll come to me again. Until then… I’ll be here for you, and I’ll try not to resent the waiting.

“Sad, deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving. Ah, but then you know, it’s time for them to go. But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving. I do not count the time…”

Yeah, Judy. That’s right, too. I can wait. Feeling exhausted yet hopeful, Hutch sighed and returned to his plants.

***

OMEGA ~ May 1979

The murders at the Golden Lady Ballroom had been solved. Joseph Anthony Webster, former Army sergeant and Viet Nam veteran, was in custody and would be scheduled for psychiatric evaluation. Evidence had been collected, statements taken, and reports filed.

Now it was almost 9:30 p.m.: time to sort out the more personal fallout triggered by the investigation. Seething with an outrage that had not abated for being fourteen hours old, Starsky mounted the steps at Venice Place and let himself in without knocking.

The apartment was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the living area. A mournful female voice crying from the stereo reinforced the atmosphere of gloom. His quarry was a shadowy figure sitting at the kitchen table with a half-empty whiskey bottle and a full glass on the surface before him. When Hutch did not rise, Starsky strode to the kitchen area to confront him.

“I suppose you know why I’m here,” he said. Silence greeted the statement. Provoked, he demanded, “Well?”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Hutch snapped ungraciously.

“You’re sorry. Well, that makes everything all right, then.” Anger spilled forth. “I trusted you, you big shit, and you… you slept with my girlfriend.”

“So get another one.”

“What?!”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, face twisting with mocking irony. “Don’t worry, Starsk, another bimbo will come along. Your bed won’t be cold for long.”

The sheer audacity of the response robbed him of speech.

Hutch slanted a drunken look his way. “You’re a real stud, aren’t you? David Starsky, the stallion of the Ninth Precinct. No woman can resist you. Laura. Sharon. Rosey. Roxy. KC. They practically have to take numbers. You ought to have a revolving door in your bedroom.” Hutch took a swallow of liquor and rose to continue the unexpected attack. “They ought to erect a statue. Tell me, how many notches are carved on your bedpost?”

Starsky seethed at the unfairness of that speech. “So speaks Ken Hutchinson, the monk. Besides, that’s not the point. Kira was different. She wasn’t just another…”

Callousness became deliberate cruelty. “No, your usual girlfriends generally manage to stay out of bed with your partner.”

His fists clenched in impotent rage. “You bastard. I trusted you! But you… I tell you I love her, you say ‘fine,’ then you can’t wait to go see if you can get her in bed.”

“I went over there to ask Kira how she could be telling you she loved you, and giving me the come-on at the same time.”

“And then what?”

“What?”

“How did it get from Truth or Dare to you coming out of her bedroom?” Even now the image hurt.

Hutch flinched. “She… She said she loved us both, in different ways. She said if she ever found ‘Mr. Right,’ she’d be faithful, but until then…” He trailed off.

The irrefutable truth that, regardless of Starsky’s feelings, Kira obviously hadn’t considered him ‘Mr. Right’ stung like salt on an open wound. “So that makes it okay?”

Embarrassment tinged Hutch’s features and he ducked his head. “No,” he murmured. “It doesn’t. I know what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry you got hurt. I didn’t plan it, Starsk. It just… happened.”

“Bullshit You don’t operate that way. Nothing ‘just happens’ that you don’t damned well want to happen!” The accusation was made without thought; it wasn’t until Starsky heard what he’d said that the absolute truth of the statement hammered into his gut. His sense of betrayal trebled.

Hutch looked as if he’d been slapped, and Starsky knew he had been correct. He watched the familiar face, reading clearly the combination of confusion and shame as Hutch searched for a response, and in his outrage he dove for the jugular.

“That’s true, isn’t it? You weren’t just thinking with your nuts. You wanted to fuck her.” The crudity of his terminology didn’t register with Starsky, but his opponent pounced on it like a fox on a hare.

“Yeah, I wanted to fuck her. But it sure as hell wasn’t rape. She wanted to fuck me, too. So look at it this way: If I’m not the person you thought I was, then neither is Kira, is she? Aren’t you better off knowing it now than later?”

“Am I supposed to thank you?”

Hutch deflated, big body seeming to fold in upon itself. “No. No, babe, you’re not supposed to thank me. You’re not even supposed to forgive me.” He turned away, head bowed, and ran a hand back through his hair. Seen in profile he looked utterly weary, an impression confirmed by his next words.

“I just get so tired, you know?” he muttered.

Starsky didn’t answer and Hutch continued, talking more to himself than to his partner.

“So tired of the games, tired of the parade. Tired of watching you play musical beds, and pretending I want to do the same. Tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me. Tired of watching you chase them. You’ve got to try and get in bed with every good-looking woman you meet.” He looked at Starsky then, his pain demanding a response. “How many of them do you give a damn about, really? Here you are—you’ll just… give yourself away to anyone who’s willing to have you, as long as they’re female. But you won’t…” He stopped abruptly.

Starsky straightened, alert now, anger temporarily set aside as he scented an important truth. “Won’t what?”

“Never mind.”

Starsky persisted. “What, Hutch?”

Hutch took another swallow of his drink and seemed to change the subject “Who do you come to when you really need something? When you’re hurt, or lonely or pissed off or worried or just bored? Who do you come to for everything except…” Hutch caught himself, suddenly. The glass slammed onto the table with a crack and his expression hardened. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out of here. I’m a no-good bastard, and I don’t deserve to have you for a friend. So just go away.” He seemed, quite suddenly, on the verge of losing control.

‘Getting out’ was the last thing on Starsky’s mind. “No. This ain’t gonna go away, Hutch. How are we gonna work together if we don’t get this settled?”

The reasonable question seemed only to provoke him. “There’s nothing to settle. It’s over. Everything.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Starsky was stupefied. He’d been—still was—furious, with just cause. But while he didn’t see how he could just overlook his partner’s betrayal, it had never occurred to him that they had no future. Suddenly he wanted to hit Hutch again, for the arrogant dismissal.

“Are you just drunk, or are you really crazy? What the hell do you mean, ‘It’s over’?” He planted himself squarely, in physical refusal to be budged, and challenged his partner. “It’s time to tell the truth, Hutch. What’s going down, here?”

Hutch eyed him bleakly. “Nothing you want to know about.”

“Don’t be an ass. Of course I want to know. What’s going on? What do you want from me?”

Hutch’s voice was rough and bitter with self-loathing. “I want what you can’t give.”

Frustration raked Starsky’s nerves. “What?!” he yelled. “What can I give you that I haven’t already?”

And suddenly it was all there, in the frozen stillness of Hutch’s stance, the expression of mingled longing and shame on his shadowed face, and, above all, in the agony in his eyes.

Starsky knew, the sick certainty threatening to choke him.

He saw Hutch recognize his comprehension and seize on it, attacking with crude, vicious words. “That’s right, Officer Starsky. At last, the Terrible Truth is revealed. Your partner’s queer. And he wants your ass. There’s your ‘truth.’ Are you satisfied now?”

Uncertain at whom the anger was directed, Starsky wondered if he’d wandered into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Stupidly: “Are you saying you’re… gay?” Why did those words provoke an eerie sense of deja vu?

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Bark of harsh laughter. “I don’t care.”

Suddenly Starsky remembered the investigation into John Blaine’s death, Hutch’s apparently easy acceptance of Blaine’s sexuality—of the whole subculture—and his remarks concerning why gays stayed in the closet. “Are you trying to tell me…” He swallowed and plunged on, feeling as slow-witted as he knew he must sound. “Are you telling me that you sleep with men?”

“Oh, good guess,” sneered the stranger wearing his best friend’s face. “You win the door prize. Here, let me show you the door.” He moved abruptly in that direction.

Starsky stayed stubbornly put. “How many?”

“How many men?” Hurtful. “Dozens.”

A blossoming of sudden suspicion instantaneously became certainty. “Jack Mitchell?”

Hutch looked surprised, then nodded decisively. “He was the first.”

Desperately, Starsky repeated, “I don’t believe you.”

“And I don’t care. All I care about is that you get the hell out of my apartment.” Huteh reached for his arm, and Starsky flinched. Hutch retracted his hand immediately. “Don’t worry. It’s not contagious. Good-bye, Starsky.” He turned his back, rigid posture proclaiming rejection.

“I’ve gotta think.”

Hutch swung to face him again, expression ugly. “What’s there to think about? Your partner’s queer, and you’re not. End of story.”

The hell it is. This is my life you’re fucking up, too. The denial was automatic.

“Well, what can I tell you, my brother, my killer? What can I possibly say? I guess that I love you, I guess I forgive you. Fm glad that you stood in my way…”

Stony demeanor crumbling rapidly, Hutch almost begged. “Do I have to call a cop? Please leave!”

Too numb to respond, too confused to argue, temporarily defeated, Starsky found himself turning away from the man he’d thought was his best friend and leaving the apartment.

***

“Four strong winds that blow lonely, seven seas that run high. All these things that don’t change, come what may. But our good times are all gone, and I’m bound for movin’ on…”

Music to be depressed by. Once again, Judy Collins was his companion in solitude, sharing songs of sorrow and leave-taking. Emotionally gutted by the confrontation with Starsky, Hutch lifted the stack of records to the top of the spindle and re-started the stereo before returning to sit at the table. Laying his head on his folded arms, he let the pain of his loss engulf him.

The best-laid plans…

Things weren’t going to work out as he’d hoped. Ever. One drunken night he’d caught Starsky in a moment of vulnerability, and on that incident he’d constructed two years’ worth of air castles—a fantasy of love and permanence as ephemeral and unrealistic as the euphemism suggested. Starsky was never going to love him as Hutch now understood he needed to be loved by his best friend. The sickened expression on his face when he’d realized what Hutch wanted made that as plain as if he’d shouted his repudiation.

Refusing to recognize his own jealous resentment, Hutch had thought his play for Kira was competition, the type of male one-upmanship that had characterized his relationship with his partner from its inception. Kissing her, making love to her, the thrill of knowing that Starsky had had her, too… Kira had certainly been more than willing to play the game. The bitch.

He’d quickly begun to miss the intimacy of their friendship, though. Enough to go to Starsky’s apartment in an effort to mend fences. And then Starsky had made his bombshell announcement: “I love her.” And Hutch had done what he had done and said what he had said and now it was too late.

I’ll have to quit, he thought miserably. Even if Starsky was willing to work with him again after the most recent altercation, there was no way to put the genie back in the bottle, ignore the truths that had been revealed today.

In the end, friendship hadn’t been enough. He couldn’t continue to subsist on parts of Starsky’s life—had to have more, have it all. So, though it had torn him apart, he’d done his best to set them both free.

He’d succeeded in driving Starsky away. And now there would be nothing. No companionship, laughter, thrill of risks shared, knowledge of support ever-ready. No more “me and thee.” No more… magic.

How had he ended up in this place, so far from where he’d set out to be?

“When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez, and ifs Easter time, too. When your gravity fails and negativity won’t pull you through. Well, don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue…”

***

Typical fucking Hutch. He’s in the wrong, and I’m feeling guilty!

Starsky had parked the Torino in the empty lot of a closed food mart three miles from Venice Place and sat gnawing the knuckle of his left forefinger as he tried to wade through the unforeseen events that had just taken place.

You’ve treated me like shit a lot of times over the years. And I’ve put up with it because I thought you couldn’t help it, and I thought it didn’t matter. I thought that, underneath all the crap, you were my friend. Dammit, you are my friend.

Unaccustomed to examining his own motivations, he found himself even less comfortable attempting to untangle Hutch’s. Hutch was the analytical member of the partnership.

Partnership. Could Hutch really want to break it up?

Did Starsky really want to save it?

Those were only the first in a plethora of questions raised in the last half hour. Everything had seemed so straightforward at first. Hutch had been an even bigger bastard than usual, and Starsky wasn’t going to take it anymore. He had driven to Hutch’s apartment on wings of righteous outrage, determined to have it out with his self-centered partner.

Now the issue of Hutch sleeping with Kira seemed the most minor concern with which he needed to deal.

Okay, so tackle it first, then.

Starsky remembered how it had begun. The female detective with whom they’d been assigned the case was, in Starsky’s opinion, stunningly beautiful, and he had been attracted to her from the start. Hutch, on the other hand, had shown no indication of interest, yielding the field to his partner with no suggestion of regret, until…

Until when? Until Starsky had made the relationship serious? Taken every opportunity to flaunt it, to detail how great the sex was, how Kira was “his,” how much better he was doing than Hutch? In addition to overlooking signals that suggested that Kira did not share the values he found important, he had ignored the fact that she was manipulating both of them, and getting off on it. “I welcome the competition.” If he had really loved her, would he have said that?

Hutch was right; he didn’t rape her. If she’d loved me, would she have done what she did? At this point he accepted that Kira’s feelings or lack thereof were no longer part of the issue. It was Hutch who was important.

Hutch’s roll call of Starsky’s lovers, which had been far from complete, had been somehow embarrassing. Why had he needed to pursue them all so aggressively? And how often had Hutch tried to snake them away, only to lose interest if he succeeded? While Starsky had taken disgruntled notice of this fact, he’d never analyzed it before. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have attributed it to competitiveness, but now… Now, remembering the anguish and anger in his partner’s voice a half hour ago, he took another look at Hutch’s behavior.

It’s as if it wasn’t the girls that were important, but getting them away from me. And once he’d broken us up, and they weren’t a threat anymore, they didn’t mean anything to him.

Hutch probably hadn’t even realized he didn’t want Kira for himself.

That thought segued neatly into Point Number Two.

Hutch says he’s gay.

Do I believe him?

Like a sunlit ocean wave, memories of Terry’s wake rose to engulf him—Hutch reaching for him, enfolding him in a protective embrace, entreating him to release his grief. And the flare of aborted passion that had followed that catharsis.

Starsky had treated it as a moment of drunken comforting, determinedly assuming it to be the same for his partner. And Hutch had let him.

Yet at the time of the… kiss, he’d said he loved Starsky, and Starsky had known he did not mean fraternal love. Hutch had also said quite clearly that he wasn’t gay. Starsky strove to recall his exact words during their confrontation about that night. Hutch had said that the incident didn’t have to mean anything, except that they were friends. Had he been deceiving him? Or protecting him?

Starsky had seized the rationalization gratefully and had buried the event, interred it so deep that not even John Blaine’s death had been able to make him confront it.

Johnny. What a shocker that had been!

“His being gay doesn’t change any of the other things he was… That’s probably why he stayed in the closet.”

Had Hutch been trying to open up communication with him? They’d exchanged glances, and Starsky had retreated, not following him up on it. Once again, Hutch had let the matter drop.

He remembered the bitterness his friend had expressed this evening over Starsky’s sexual conquests, the resentment he seemed to feel for the… competition? And the venom he’d unleashed to force Starsky to leave. Had tonight’s scene been another twisted attempt to protect him?

Like one of those sand-and-oil pictures, when one tilted the frame just a bit a different configuration emerged. With a surge of relief that felt almost mystical, Starsky saw the truth.

In spite of his earlier confusion, he now discarded the concept that Hutch had had dozens of male lovers. Ah, my Hutch, you’re such a liar when you want to be, he mused, and was amazed by the fondness that accompanied the thought, as well as his sense of pride at the certainty of his monopoly on Hutch’s affections. What did his reactions mean?

Besides the trust issue, I was mad with you for ruining my dream, showing me my idol had feet of clay. Kira, his golden ideal of femininity, his last chance.

Starsky stopped short as he heard that thought. Last chance? Where did that come from?

Once again, he considered the parade of women who had passed through his bedroom over the past few years, and faced some unpalatable facts about himself. Why had he needed them?

What were you looking for?

Who do you love?

For the first time, he allowed himself to remember not only the comfort of Hutch’s arms and his reliance on his partner’s strength, but also the ravenous hunger that had grown during that unexpected, incredible kiss—the need that no number of female conquests had been able to slake.

It all clicked into place, the undeniable truth printing itself in giant red letters across the viewscreen of his mind. Kira had been his last chance, all right His last chance at denial of what he truly felt, and for whom.

He imagined holding Hutch again, kissing those welcoming lips, feeling the hard, familiar/unfamiliar male form press the length of his body. A frisson of delight skittered through his nervous system, surprising and reassuring him at the same time.

And he wanted to beg his partner to forgive him for the years of stupidity and willful blindness—all the wasted years.

The Torino’s ignition caught with a roar. Don’t go away, Hutch. Just you wait. I’m coming for you, and neither of us is going anywhere.

***

Hutch’s door unlocked with a muted click. If you wanta hide from me, babe, you’re gonna have to get your key back. And there’s not a snowball’s chance of that happening!

The stereo was still playing. “But now old friends are acting strange. They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed. Well something’s lost, but something’s gained, in living every day…”

Hutch was still at the table; head pillowed on his forearms. The light glinted off his hair like a shining talisman, beckoning Starsky closer. As the door opened, he looked up, eyes swollen and puffy. Had he been crying?

“S… Starsky,” he croaked in evident surprise. “What are you doing here?” The words were slurred with alcohol or exhaustion.

Starsky knew him well enough to be certain that, once the initial shock of his reappearance had passed, Hutch would go back on the offensive, and that would get them exactly nowhere. He considered the problem while making a slow, careful approach to the table. “Thought over what you said.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. “And…?”

“I knew I had a choice: love you or never see you again. I couldn’t take never seeing you again.” He knew the instant the words left his mouth that they were a mistake.

Hutch lurched to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “So you decided to come throw yourself on the altar like some sacrifice? No thanks. I don’t need that.”

Starsky made his voice gentle. “That’s not the way I meant it. I’m sorry it came out that way. I meant, I love you, too.”

Hutch was sober in an instant and his anger transmuted to resignation. “Forget it, Starsk. It’s too late.” He shook his head wearily. “It’s years too late.”

No, babe. It may be late, but we’re just beginning… “Why don’t we try it?” he suggested mildly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll… take it from there.” Perhaps surprisingly, he had no doubts that it would work. Certainty mounting, he repeated, “Why don’t we try it?”

Hutch actually looked shocked, which some part of Starsky’s brain found amusing. “Starsky…”

He stepped closer; Hutch retreated until he was backed against the kitchen counter.

“Starsk, please stop.” Hutch sounded desperate. “You don’t want this.”

“I do. Come on, Hutch. Once. What can it hurt?”

Hutch shook his head in stubborn denial. “Starsky, you don’t want this.”

“Will you quit tellin’ me what I want?” In an admittedly underhanded move, he demanded, “Do you want men? Or do you just want me?”

Hutch recoiled. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you, you idiot, and I’m not letting you go. You said you wanted to fuck me. Do you want to hurt me?”

“No!” Hutch looked sickened at the suggestion.

“Then don’t. Don’t hurt me in bed. And don’t hurt me by running out on what we could have. What’s the matter, aren’t I important enough to you to try it?”

“Look, you’re not… gay. It’s a no-win situation.”

Gay as you are, I’ll bet. “We don’t know that. Or do you prefer a lose-lose situation?” While his voice was carrying on the conversation, Starsky’s eyes had been absorbing his partner’s physical appearance, familiar components now seen in a new and exciting aspect—the play of light on tawny hair, the intense blue of his eyes, the classically handsome face he’d always secretly envied. The pushed-up sleeves of his white sweater revealed the interplay of muscles in his forearms while the tan slacks molded to his strong thighs. Once he allowed himself to truly look, all these factors added up to one suddenly very appealing package.

He stalked closer, invading Hutch’s personal space, sorely tempted to just shove his companion up against the counter and let their bodies settle the issue. He had a feeling that about thirty seconds of full-frontal contact would be all it would take to convince the uncooperative blond of his sincerity.

“Whatsa matter, Hutchinson? No guts?”

“I gotta go.” Hutch tried to push past.

Without an instant’s premeditation, Starsky’s hand shot out and wrapped itself in his collar. “Oh, no, baby blue. There have been too many lies between us, for too damned long. You’ve had your say. Now what you’re gonna do, partner of mine, is plant your blond butt on that sofa and wait for me to have mine. Then well figure out what we’re gonna do. If you’ve got any helpful ideas, I wanta hear ’em, but whatever else happens, you’re not leaving here until this is settled.”

Hutch met his challenging stare with one of his own, cold as an Arctic storm. What was going on behind those clouded eyes?

“Sit down.”

“No.”

Starsky’s impatience found release in an explosion of breath. “I swear to God, if you try to leave, I’ll… I’ll shoot your tires out.” Virtually dragging his astonished and unwilling companion to the couch, Starsky shoved him down and sat beside him, placing himself deliberately and ostentatiously between Hutch and the door.

“You didn’t care about me having Kira. You were worried about Kira having me.” Hutch flushed but said nothing. “Once I figured that out, I remembered how glad I was to see the back of Judith Kaufman.”

Hutch jerked back like a startled horse, and half-rose from the sofa. If Starsky hadn’t shifted to counter the move, he felt certain Hutch would have bolted like a horse, as well.

Starsky’s innate sense of fair play rebuked him at the tangible evidence of his companion’s distress. Was it fair to push his obviously reluctant partner into something he might not really want? Then he remembered the yearning hunger conveyed through the medium of that all-too-brief kiss, and the desperation underlying the scenario his partner had performed earlier. Hutch wanted it. Wanted him. Had wanted him two years ago, when Starsky had been too blind, too afraid to accept the treasure he was being offered.

“You love me,” Starsky declared.

Shame, guilt, and terror sprang like fleeing felons from the wild eyes that leapt to meet his.

“And I love you,” he continued.

“Not like that,” came the strangled reply.

Starsky had no trouble recognizing the echo of his own words.

“Exactly like that.” He reached out slowly, seeking his companion’s hair. “I may be a slow learner, but I do get there eventually.”

Hutch jerked away, and Starsky experienced a surge of irritation, which he suppressed quickly. Underneath the bluster, Hutch was lost and confused, having obviously convinced himself that his desire for Starsky was a hopeless cause. He was also more than a little drunk, which wouldn’t be helping his thought processes.

One of them had to be certain. Since he was certain, Starsky didn’t mind assuming the role. “You gonna fight me for your virtue?” he whispered. “Too late for that, babe. We’ve been together for ten years now. I’m not going to let you just… throw me away.” He scooted closer. “If you’re ‘queer,’ then so am I,” he challenged.

“What? You’ve never…”

“Neither have you. You told me so when Terry died.”

“I lied.” It was a last, desperate effort, and moved Starsky not at all.

“No, you’re lying now. But I told you, it’s too late. For both of us. I tried everything I could to forget what happened between us, and I’ll bet you did, too. But it didn’t work for either of us. You said you want me. Well, be careful what you wish for, because you’ve got me. And you’re stuck with me.”

Again he reached out, and this time Hutch did not resist. Starsky explored the surprisingly silky texture of wheaten hair, maintaining their eye contact, letting Hutch see his appreciation. He slid an inch closer and let his fingertips trail through the hair to rest delicately against warm scalp. Hutch’s quick intake of breath mirrored Starsky’s own. His right hand slipped into the hair on the other side of Hutch’s head and he leaned forward. Hutch resisted, but Starsky gripped tighter and it was too late.

He would have liked to use slow, tender persuasion, but Hutch’s reluctance made that impossible, so instead their lips met forcefully, his own demanding response rather than coaxing it as all his pent-up need spilled out into Hutch’s mouth.

This is a man, he thought surrealistically. Then: This is Hutch. My Hutch. He opened himself completely to the kiss, tasting the lips that were made for him. “Yesss…” Sibilant hiss.

With a shuddering sob, Hutch surrendered, his lips parting and his arms enfolding Starsky. Their tongues met and greeted one another in wet acceptance. The years fell away and it was just as it had been before, a merging of souls unsurpassed by anything in Starsky’s experience. But this time he felt no fear.

High on the newly-confirmed truth, he rejected the psychological censor that had kept him distanced from his best friend for two years—ever since his body had realized what loving Hutch could encompass—and all his senses leapt to devour the reality of his perfect mate. The rich scents of his hair and body—liquor and sweat and a very faint trace of aftershave. The unexpected roughness of the mustache against his upper lip, the whiskey flavor of his mouth, and the unexpected security of his masculine strength. Starsky was struck suddenly by the dichotomy of the situation: he knew this body so well—from showers at the station, friendly wrestling matches, football games, basketball, as a source of comfort in times of strife—in every context but this.

Trembling, Hutch buried his face in Starsky’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m so scared.”

“Nothing to be scared of, partner,” he reassured.

“Scared of ruining this.”

“No way. I’m not letting you go now, not now that I’ve finally found you.”

Moist, defeated sigh against his neck. “All right, Starsk, okay. If you’re sure…”

The fearful uncertainty of the concession pricked Starsky, and he chastised himself again for his previous cowardice and insensitivity. He clasped his hand over Hutch’s nape, pressing the blond head into the security of his shoulder. “It’s all right, babe. I’m not gonna run away from you like I did last time.” Gently disengaging one of his companion’s hands from his waist, Starsky turned it and pressed his lips into the calloused palm. “I swear it to you, Hutch.”

Hutch sighed again and sagged against him. They sat in silence for a while, before Hutch muttered, “I’m so tired…”

Starsky looked down at the tawny head and ungainly sprawl of limbs. I’ll bet you are, sweetheart. We’ve both been through a hell of a lot today, haven’t we?

One part of him was driven by an urgency to consummate their commitment without delay, so there could be no denial or turning back. The other realized that neither was in any condition to make their first lovemaking the special event it deserved to be. Resigning himself to patience, he rubbed his face against Hutch’s palm. “Come on, blondie. Let me put you to bed.”

Hutch’s eyes met his and he read the uncertainty there.

“It’s okay,” Starsky said. “No rush. As long as you promise me that when you’re feeling better, you’re not going to try to cop out on me.”

“But…”

Starsky squeezed Hutch’s hand. “Can you stand up?”

“‘Course.” Hutch proved it by stumbling awkwardly to his feet, where he stood swaying with the combined effects of too much liquor on top of physical and emotional exhaustion.

Under normal circumstances Hutch was the protector, always there to provide emotional and physical support during difficult times. But in this case, with the crisis past, he seemed to be functioning solely on autopilot. Starsky relished the opportunity to take care of him for a change.

“Come on, turkey,” he murmured indulgently. “Let me put you to bed.”

Slinging his arm around his partner’s waist, he steered him to the bedroom and onto the bed. The weary blond sat with closed eyes, making no move to undress. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d had on throughout the day. Starsky grasped the hem of the pale sweater. “Come on, lift your arms.”

“Huh?”

“Lift your arms.” He tugged upward and the semi-comatose man obeyed. Setting the sweater aside, Starsky unbuttoned the ugly checked shirt and pulled it off the unresisting figure. “I hate this shirt.” He tossed it after the sweater. With a long-suffering sigh that he didn’t mean, he knelt before Hutch and unlaced his shoes. “Big lug,” he groused when he had to lift the heavy feet individually to remove the shoes and socks. By dint of poking and prodding, he hauled his partner to his feet long enough to remove his trousers. Propping the drooping form up, he yanked back the sheets and chenille bedspread and guided him into bed.

Hutch’s eyes cracked open as Starsky drew the covers over his shoulders. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Then he was asleep.

Starsky stroked shaggy hair back off the high forehead before gathering up the dirty clothes for the wash and leaving the room.

With his partner out for the count, he found himself somewhat at a loss. He was tired, but definitely too keyed up for sleep. Wandering back into the living room, he cast around for something to entertain himself until either Hutch woke up or he was ready for bed.

The stereo was still playing. “Let’s turn off the funeral music,” he said to himself. As he approached the machine, the lyrics to the song in progress caught his ear.

“Open the door and come on in. I’m so glad to see my friend. You’re like a rainbow coming around the bend. And when I see you happy, Well, it sets my heart free. I’d like to be as good a friend to you as you are to me.”

“Hey, that’s nice.” Discovering that the needle was on the last track of the last album, he listened all the way through and let the mechanism switch itself off.

His stomach rumbled suggestively. Shrugging out of his jacket and holster, he went in search of sustenance. A foray into Hutch’s refrigerator yielded half a vegetarian pizza. Accompanied by a Pepsi and chased by two scoops of butter pecan ice cream, it filled in the cracks nicely.

Long used to treating Hutch’s place as his own, he turned the television on at low volume and half-watched a rerun of Wagon Train while scanning the day’s paper. As the credits rolled, he stretched, and wriggled uncomfortably in his grubby clothes.

Like his partner, he had not changed after work, and dust from the explosion of the hand grenade clung to various portions of his anatomy. He felt grimy, sweaty, and generally in need of a shower, so he decided that now was a good time to take one.

Somehow over the years he and Hutch had managed to leave clothes at one another’s apartments. Confident that he would be able to find something else to wear, he felt free to toss his shirts, jeans, and undergarments into his friend’s laundry basket.

The shower was Paradise, sluicing away the sweat and dirt of the day to leave him feeling clean and re-energized. Wrapping a blue towel around his hips, he helped himself to Hutch’s toothbrush and razor. In recompense, he made certain to bring out several fresh bath towels so that his partner would not find anything lacking in the morning.

Just as he was finishing, a disheveled Hutch appeared in the doorway, hair like a tumbleweed, still a little groggy from his sleep. He blinked blearily at Starsky, as if surprised to see him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to…” Trailing off, he backed away.

“No problem. How’re you feeling?”

Hutch grimaced. “Like the bottom of a bird cage. I need to brush my teeth.”

Starsky stepped aside. “Help yourself. I… uh… borrowed your toothbrush.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, communicating clearly his intention to remain.

With an uneasy sideways glance, Hutch approached the sink and began to attend to his teeth. His long hair fell forward in his face and Starsky resisted the urge to smooth it back.

Task completed, Hutch wiped his mouth and flicked another look Starsky’s way. “Thought I’d take a shower.”

“Good idea.”

Starsky hated the renewed self-consciousness. His instinctual knowledge of his partner told him not to let the attitude become entrenched. Stepping forward boldly, he pulled his startled companion into a hug, pressing their naked chests together. He felt the tension in the tall form before Hutch returned the embrace, his slick, sweaty flesh hot against Starsky’s shower-cooled clean skin. Brushing his smooth cheek against Hutch’s stubbled one, Starsky nuzzled a hair-veiled ear. His teeth closed gently over the lobe; his tongue danced over the lobe and briefly into the ear canal, the action arousing a small twist of desire. Hutch’s shiver of response amplified the feeling, and unexpectedly they were kissing.

They were both breathing faster when the kiss ended. Still close, almost nose-to-nose, they stared at one another. Hutch’s pupils were dilated; Starsky imagined his were, too. “I… I’m gonna get in the shower, now,” Hutch breathed.

Touching their foreheads together, Starsky murmured, “Go on, babe.”

Turning away with unnecessary modesty, Hutch shed his shorts quickly and disappeared behind the curtain with a flash of long legs and pale buttocks. Starsky heard the water start.

For a few minutes he stood irresolute, emotions a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation. Now what? The person he loved, who just happened to be a man—a point no longer of concern—was not three feet away, naked under a warm fall of water. What am I doing out here? Certainty growing with every second, he shed the towel and stepped into the shower.

Hutch was just finishing rinsing shampoo from his hair as Starsky nudged his way into the tub. Startled, he swung to confront the invader, one hand dropping—pointlessly, Starsky thought —to shield his privates. “What are you doing?”

Starsky grinned mischievously. “Gonna wash your back, lover,” he announced. “And your front. And your top and bottom.” He reached behind Hutch for the washcloth on the rail. “Here. Let me get this.”

Hutch gaped at him disbelievingly. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times but no sound emerged.

Starsky wet the cloth and began soaping it, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Finally, Hutch mumbled helplessly, “What am I gonna do with you?” His hand, Starsky noticed, had abandoned its protective position.

Knowing he had won a victory for both of them, he smiled gently. “Anything you want, except turn me down. Turn around, babe.”

Surprisingly obedient, Hutch turned to brace his arms against the wall at the end of the shower. Back to the spray, Starsky began to wash him, using the exercise as a chance to learn the body that was long familiar to his eyes through the new medium of touch.

His back first, as promised. Wide, tanned shoulders, prominence of shoulder blades, indention of spine, darker circle of birthmark on the right side. Starsky kneaded the muscles, noting the small mark where Vanessa, in the last of her too-frequent rages, had attacked Hutch from behind with a pair of scissors. The physical injury had been far less severe than the psychological damage.

He moved lower, to the startling whiteness of buttocks. He soaped the pale flesh, feeling the muscles contract under his touch. Greatly daring, he carefully stroked the cloth up the valley between the cheeks, making Hutch gasp and partially straighten. When there was no protest he continued the caress, his own pulse quickening at his lover-to-be’s acceptance of this intimacy.

“Love you, babe. Every bit of you,” he murmured. The columns of Hutch’s legs received sketchier attention, Starsky eager to get to his front. Grasping his partner’s shoulders, he turned him.

Hutch looked dazed—lips parted, mesmerized and unresisting. Slinging the wash cloth over the bar, Starsky soaped his hands, needing a more personal caress for the appealing form before him.

Hutch’s skin was like wet satin, silky-smooth over the contours of long muscles. Starsky bathed long, powerful arms and large, well-shaped hands, whose strong musician’s fingers clenched and flexed under the sensual assault. Hutch leaned back against the wall, eyes slitted in appreciation of the attention, glorying in the touch, glorious to the eye.

Under the cleansing cascade, Starsky washed away the detritus of betrayal, angry words, fear, and denial. His worshipful hands swept over Hutch’s shoulders and across his chest, thumbs stroking along his collarbones and across the dark coins of his nipples, which hardened under the touch. He brushed tenderly at the bullet scar above Hutch’s heart, remembering suddenly the terror that had seized him when he’d heard that gunshot and entered the hall to discover his partner, down and seriously wounded. “She was just a kid.”

Could have lost you. Throat tightening with remembered fear, he clutched Hutch desperately to himself, pressing his face against the shocking reminder of mortality.

Ignorant of the grim path Starsky’s thoughts were following, Hutch apparently interpreted the embrace as an expression of their new unity. His strong arms wrapped around Starsky, matching their bodies like conjoint puzzle pieces, and old fear was banished by the perfection of the fit. Their mouths sought each other, connected and joined, and their bodies strove to do the same. Hips thrust, hardness meeting hardness.

Then Hutch broke the kiss abruptly, staring at Starsky with awe in his eyes. “You… You really want me, like this.”

Before Starsky had time to wonder that Hutch found the fact surprising, a large hand grasped his erection. His head snapped back with voluptuous astonishment and he gave a shout of delight. The hand squeezed, and his hips drove forward involuntarily, desperate for more of the delicious sensation that crackled through his veins like an electric current. Moaning, he closed his eyes and let the pleasure wash over him.

Hutch seemed to know exactly what to do—how to hold him, how fast to move, how hard to tug. Starsky had never felt anything like it.

Hutch was kissing him, avid touches on his lips, face, neck, in his hair. Talking to him, whispering adoration. “Starsk. My David… Love you so much. Wanted you so long. Thought it was all over…”

In the midst of his pleasure, Starsky felt the hard thrust of Hutch’s erection against his belly and realized how one-sided the lovemaking had been to this point. Opening his eyes and stepping back, he looked down at his partner’s manhood.

Hutch was… impressive. His cock was in proportion to the rest of him—big. Long, thick, and rose-dark with arousal, an engorged vein entwining it like a sensual vine. Mine. Starsky took possession of it, feeling it leap against his palm, and was gratified by the cry of rapture that echoed his own.

Doubt banished on both sides, they grappled under the warm torrent of water. Starsky encircled Hutch’s waist. One of Hutch’s arms slid around Starsky’s shoulders; the other dropped to his buttocks, pulling him close. Pressed together like twins in the womb-like deluge, they yielded to the urgency of their need. Their cocks matched one another, caressed, stroked in an increasingly frenzied rhythm.

Starsky whimpered at the perfection of it. The bliss that sprung from the ultimate union of love and lust sizzled through every vein and artery of his body. Their mouths found one another and mated, tongues plunging in wet welcome.

He couldn’t control it, couldn’t prolong it, couldn’t stop it. It was going to come, way too fast. He tore his mouth from its companion. “Hutch…”

And then it was there, the tidal wave breaking over him, drowning him, spilling out of him in great gushes of ecstasy. Through the torrent of passion, he felt Hutch yank him impossibly closer, felt the big cock throb against his groin, heard his lover’s strangled cry, and knew he was there, too.

***

“Oh, God.” The dazed moan pulled him back to reality. They remained standing solely because Starsky had collapsed against his partner, wedging Hutch into the corner. Starsky’s head lay against Hutch’s right shoulder; his mouth pressed into warm moist flesh. With their chests plastered together, he could feel the rapid thudding of his lover’s heart against his own. He spared a moment to be thankful that the shower was in a tub, rather than a cubicle, or they could have drowned without even noticing.

For a long moment they clung together, with the water pelting down Starsky’s back. Then Hutch grasped his shoulders and shifted him upright. Cradling Starsky’s face in his two hands, he peered at him, expression endearingly intense. “Are you all right?”

Feeling more cherished than he could ever remember, Starsky placed his own hands on Hutch’s forearms and smiled into worried eyes. “Best ever.”

Sapphire eyes searched his face, reading the truth of his words. Hutch’s joyful grin was sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He drew Starsky into an impulsive, rib-cracking hug. “Great.”

Starsky oofed. “You sure were a tough sell, partner,” he complained. “I told you it was going to be okay, didn’t I?”

A long minute passed in silence. “I wasn’t sure it was really what you wanted,” Hutch whispered hoarsely. “Until… Until you got hard for me.”

If Starsky hadn’t been thoroughly depleted, the erotic words would probably have hardened him again. He shivered in empathy. “Now do you believe we can be good together?” he insisted.

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart Now I believe.”

The water was beginning to turn cold. Quickly they washed the soap and semen from their bodies and exited the shower. The drying-off process was completed only after they quit trying to take care of one another and dried themselves.

Hutch kept looking at him, touching him, smiling jubilantly. How long had it been since he had seemed so content? Starsky felt utterly satisfied, utterly confident, and utterly determined that his lover would never have cause to regret his choice.

Weariness was dragging at him, but Hutch needed to be taken care of. “You hungry?”

Hutch shook his head. “Tired. You feel like going to bed now?”

“Silver-tongued devil. How could I pass up an invitation like that?”

In response, Hutch grabbed him and wrestled him without much difficulty into the bedroom and under the covers. They lay close together, learning the satisfaction of holding one another as lovers.

Starsky’s eyes were drifting closed when his companion whispered, “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry about… Kira.” A pause before he clarified: “About hurting you.” Starsky realized that sleep would not come until Hutch had cleansed his soul. “At first it was just the usual games. Then you said you loved her. Love.” The husky voice cracked. “After all the others, here was one more getting that part of you I wanted. And I knew she wasn’t worth it, knew she wasn’t good enough for you and would just windup hurting you in the end.”

“I know, babe,” Starsky soothed. “And you were right.”

Hutch wasn’t finished. “And… I think I was mad at you and I wanted to hurt you. Punish you for not wanting me back.”

“It’s okay.”

“How can you say that? I’m always doing crummy things to you, and you always just take it. Why is that?”

Starsky sighed inwardly. He loved Hutch without reservation, but sometimes his introspective nature was a trial. Did Hutch think he was some kind of wimp? Starsky could take whatever he could dish out and give back as good as he got. “Seems to me we’ve both made our share of mistakes, done our share of shitty things. Look, you want me to forgive you? I will, if you’ll forgive me.”

“Forgive you? For what? You didn’t do anything.”

“I pushed you away. Turned my back on what happened after Terry died, left you hurting because I didn’t have the guts to take what you were offering…”

Hutch considered the statement. “Maybe…” he mused, “maybe the timing wasn’t right, then. Maybe you needed to try it some more, until you were sure someone else wasn’t going to come along that you could love like you loved her.”

Starsky smiled at the irony. “Someone already had.”

The bedside phone rang shrilly, making them both jump. Hutch grabbed it before it could clamor again. “Yeah?”

He stiffened immediately and heaved himself to a sitting position, body language broadcasting tension and anger. Alerted, Starsky sat up, too.

“What do you want?” his partner demanded coldly. He paused while the caller spoke. “Yeah, so?” Hutch’s expression grew grimmer as he listened. Starsky scooted over beside him and Hutch turned the receiver so they could share it, a familiar practice.

The sound of Kira’s voice chilled him. “We can’t just leave things the way they are,” she was saying. “Can you meet me tomorrow night? Fm going to call David, too. I need to talk to both of you.”

“I don’t think so.” Hutch’s tone said he would be more likely to dance with the devil.

Starsky’s mind raced, going over the possibilities and certainties inherent in the current situation. Reaching a snap decision, he clamped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Tell her you’ll meet her,” he hissed.

Hutch looked at him as if he’d suggested assassinating Mother Theresa. “Are you insane?” he hissed back.

Kira was speaking again. Her voice, which Starsky had previously found so seductive, did nothing now but grate on his nerves. “I think you both owe me something after that little scene this morning, don’t you?”

He stifled a snort at the irony of them owing her anything. Hutch was shaking his head angrily—at Kira or Starsky or, most likely, both of them. Starsky riveted him with his eyes. “Just tell her,” he mouthed.

Kira’s voice sharpened. “Is David there?”

“I’ll think about it,” Hutch growled. He didn’t slam the receiver down, but his grip was white-knuckled as he replaced it in the cradle. The countenance he turned on Starsky demanded explanation. “I don’t want to see her.” He paused, and a shadow crossed his features. “Do you?”

There was that bleak look of guarded uncertainty again. Starsky would have said such insecurity was out of character, but he’d glimpsed it several times this evening, and knew that it meant Hutch was afraid to trust in their future together. How long would it take to banish that expression for good?

The first step was to make it clear that he held neither illusions nor regrets about the woman who had unwittingly thrust them into one another’s arms. “I don’t want to see her, either. At least, not without a loaded gun. But you know we will. Even if we weren’t gonna be running into her at headquarters, she’d make sure not to let us off the hook without a fight.”

He reached his hand out to his lover, who still looked unconvinced, and waited until he had clasped it to continue. “She made fools of us both, nearly split us up. I can’t beat that, but I’d like to do something… special… for her, even if it’s just telling her off to her face. But I’d want you to be there with me, so she’d see she didn’t spoil what we’ve got.”

Hutch was beginning to look interested, now, and thoughtful. Starsky gave him time to ponder. When an evil gleam lit the blue eyes, he leaned forward intently. No one could top his partner when it came to payback.

Hutch smiled a dangerous smile. “I think maybe we can make her an offer she has to refuse.”

“Tell me.”

But he only shook his head. “Let me think about it some more. Don’t worry, you’ll be in on it.”

Starsky used their interlaced fingers to pull his lover closer. “I’d better be in on everything from now on. In case you weren’t listening before, you’re stuck with me for good.”

“What about women?”

“As you so tactfully pointed out, I’ve had women. More than I can even remember. But I’ll tell you something.” He paused for effect. “Are you listening?”

Holding his gaze with an intensity that was unnerving, Hutch nodded.

Starsky squeezed his hand again. “It’s never been better for me than it was with you. Never.”

Hutch’s eyes dropped and he actually blushed. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’ Can you say the same, partner?”

Hutch met the challenge with a look of renewed confidence that Starsky welcomed. “Definitely.”

“No one else, then?” Starsky pressed.

“No one else.”

“About damned time you saw things my way.” The kiss with which Hutch rewarded that statement was most satisfying, yet Starsky couldn’t suppress a yawn. Peering at the clock, he said, “It’s after one. Can we go to sleep now?”

Hutch ruffled his hair affectionately. “Whatever you want.”

“Sure. I know how long that‘ll last.”

Before switching off the light, Hutch ostentatiously took the phone off the hook. “Shut up, Starsky.”

Too sleepy to continue the war of words, Starsky obeyed.

 

“I’m not looking for another as I wander in my time. Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme…”

---

Chapter End Notes: The songs quoted in this story can be found on the Judy Collins albums Colors of the Day, Living, and Wildflowers. In order of use, they are:

Joan of Arc—Leonard Cohen

Since You Asked—Judy Collins

Who Knows Where the Time Goes—Sandy Denny

Famous Blue Raincoat—Leonard Cohen

4 Strong Winds—I. and S. Tyson

Just like Tom Thumb’s Blues—Bob Dylan

Both Sides Now—Joni Mitchell

Song for Judith (Open the Door)—Judy Collins

Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye—Leonard Cohen