Working Back Up

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Post Sweet Revenge, not everything is working right for Starsky or Hutch.

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“Honey, I’m home!” Starsky caroled triumphantly as he pushed open his front door.

“Shouldn’t I be inside before you say that?” Hutch grumbled with mock aggravation as he pushed past Starsky into the apartment and unceremoniously dumped his duffle on Starsky’s couch.

“Who says I was talking to you?” Starsky asked with a sly grin. He walked over to his spider plant. “Maybe I missed Sophia here while I was stuck in rehab.”

“Well she didn’t miss you,” Hutch replied, rolling his eyes. “The only reason she’s still alive is because I repotted her while you were out.”

“You have to repot them?” Starsky asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

Hutch snorted and moved to the linen closet. “Take a load off,” he said. “I don’t want to have to take you back to back to Golden Fields after you worked so hard to get out of there.”

Starsky shuddered. “Bite your tongue.” But he ignored Hutch’s advice. He didn’t want to sit down. He felt like he had been spending his whole life sitting around lately, and he was too happy to be back in familiar surroundings to waste it sitting on his couch. He moved into the kitchen and cautiously opened the refrigerator door.

“Hey, you bought groceries!”

“Of course I did,” Hutch called back. “How else can I be sure you’ll eat something other than pizza and Chinese take-out?”

Starsky was glad that he didn’t have a refrigerator full of rotten hamburger meat, furry green mold, and the smell of six-week old sour milk. But at the same time he was irritated to discover that Hutch had done all the work for him. It was his apartment, his refrigerator, and he ought to be doing the shopping.

He tried to quell his irrational anger. Hutch was only being practical. Starsky had been stuck in Golden Fields Rehabilitation Center for the last month, where his biggest accomplishments were walking all the way down the hall and back and climbing up and down three steps. And for the first two weeks, he couldn’t even do the hallway thing without a fucking walker that made him feel like an old man.

The shooting had taken a lot out of him. And while even though Starsky knew he was making progress—he didn’t have to use the fucking walker anymore, right?—he also knew it was going to be a long while before he got it all back.

If he got it all back.

So really, the groceries were no big deal. He could get them next time. Starsky took a moment to envision himself at Von’s, holding onto the grocery cart like it was the fucking walker, making his way painstakingly through the aisles of food. He could do that. Probably. Sure.

“I thought I told you to sit down,” Hutch said reprovingly as he joined Starsky in the kitchen.

“Huh, I thought you did, too,” Starsky replied with a grin calculated for maximum annoyance. “How about that?”

Hutch just smiled, seemingly delighted to have Starsky giving him crap. Just like old times.

“So, I was thinking spaghetti and a salad,” Hutch said, opening the refrigerator and leaning inside.

The irritation flared again. “Sure,” Starsky agreed. “I think I’m up to making some spaghetti.” It was his apartment, for chrissakes. Hutch might get away with cooking in his own place, but in Starsky’s?

“Starsk, do you remember what you wanted to do the first thing you got back home?” Hutch asked, reaching up into the cupboards overhead for the pasta and squatting with thoughtless ease to retrieve the saucepans stored in the cupboards below.

“Beat you to death with a wooden spoon?” Starsky wondered mildly.

Goddamn if Hutch weren’t trying to hide another smile. There was no justice in this world. “There are fresh towels and a clean set of clothes in the bathroom,” he said amiably. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

Starsky couldn’t keep the sour expression off his face even if he’d wanted to. Hutch was playing dirty. Just like old times. Starsky had mentioned on several occasions over the past few weeks how much he was looking forward to washing off the rehab center’s “old, sick people smell.” And now that Hutch had reminded him, Starsky could no longer ignore that very odor still clinging to his hair and skin.

Gracefully accepting defeat, he stomped angrily into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Under the soothing spray of the hot shower, Starsky let some of his anger drain away. He really had needed this, and Hutch had probably known just how much. For the first time in recent memory, Starsky actually had privacy. He was behind a door that locked, and no nurse or nurse’s aide would knock on the door and ask if he needed help. He was standing in the shower, soaping himself up. He wasn’t sitting on an uncomfortable, plastic shower chair. He wasn’t getting soaped up by some little-girl aide who was too damned young not to make Starsky uncomfortable in the face of his helpless nudity.

Starsky soaped his chest, reveling in the fact that not only did he not have to worry about nosy nurses or aides, but he didn’t have to worry about Harvey Clapinger and his eighty-year-old prostate banging on the door and asking when Starsky would finish up in there. Christ, but it was hell to have a roommate. Bad enough even when a body was well, but a sick person shouldn’t have to deal with other sick people. It just wasn’t any good for anybody.

Starsky realized this was probably the first time he had actually been alone in a room since he had been shot in the parking garage. He wondered if that were some kind of record, and if he could somehow notify Guinness.

“Hey Starsk?” Hutch’s voice filtered through the bathroom door. “What do you want to drink?”

Starsky sighed. At least Hutch wasn’t outright asking if he needed help in the shower. So much for privacy. “How about wine?” he asked, knowing that he couldn’t have alcohol with his pain-killers. “Or scotch? Got any vodka out there?”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Hutch answered, and Starsky knew that he would get a full glass of milk with dinner and not so much as a mouthful of beer.

Starsky fingered his groin, enjoying the sliding contact with the soap and water. He reached lower and fondled his scrotum, and it occurred to him that there was one other privilege to privacy he had been unable to enjoy since his shooting. He leaned back against the wall and let the water wash over him as he used both hands to stroke himself in earnest, tugging on his cock, rolling his balls over and over. He didn’t even need to bring some fantasy image to mind. Just being alone in the shower was fantastic enough. His shoulder ached, his legs were getting tired, and his breath came in little gasps as he rushed toward the completion hovering just at the edge of his reach. Almost there. Almost there.

Fuck Hutch anyway. There were plenty of things Starsky could do without his help.

Orgasm swept over him. Starsky huffed in relief as he pulsed over his fingers into the waiting wash of water.

That was better.

After finishing up, Starsky was gratified to discover he could relax enough to enjoy the spaghetti, salad, and Pillsbury rolls Hutch had fixed for dinner. Starsky even enjoyed washing it down with a cold glass of milk.

***

Kathy Marshall was just what Starsky needed tonight. Tomorrow marked Starsky’s return to work. He would park in the police garage, climb the flight of stairs that led into the familiar halls of Metro, and spend all day stuck behind a desk in R and I. Of course, by “all day” he really meant between the hours of eight and noon. He was only cleared for light duty, part-time. And he had to take it if he wanted to continue getting medical benefits through the department.

“Hey, at least it’s a step in the right direction,” Hutch had pointed out. “You’re doing police work again! You’re earning a paycheck again. Hey, and you’ll get to see Minnie. Just think of it as working your way back up to where you belong. This is a cause for celebration.”

Starsky wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know if he could really cut the mustard behind a desk. He was a man of action; everyone knew that. How much could he really contribute reading through dusty files and poking at the incomprehensible computer terminals?

And what if this was all that would be left for him?

But Hutch looked so damned happy, Starsky swallowed his uncertainties and found a smile for his partner. If Hutch wanted to celebrate, then they would celebrate. And by a stroke of divine intervention, Kathy Marshall had called, having just arrived in town for a weekend layover. So Starsky had something he really could be thankful for.

To be honest, it felt really good to get out for a change. He had fun charming Kathy and occasionally flirting with Gwendolyn, the stewardess Kathy had brought along to be Hutch’s date for the evening. Hutch played along, pretending to be worried about Starsky’s advances, and challenging that any woman of real discernment could see right through Starsky’s dubious appeal. It was all in good fun, and when Hutch possessively pulled the blonde stewardess closer to his side, Starsky couldn’t help but laugh as he draped his own arm around Kathy’s shoulders.

A familiar song came on over the speakers, and Starsky’s eyes wandered out to the center of the room. He stood up and held out his hand to Kathy. “Let’s dance, beautiful.”

Hutch’s easy smile disappeared in a flash. “Uh, Starsky—”

“Get your own partner, blondie,” Starsky cut him off, sliding his hand down to Kathy’s waist. He didn’t need Hutch’s permission for a stupid dance. He had been fine all evening—all week, practically. He could certainly take Kathy for a spin or two. Hutch needed to quit being such a mother-hen for a change.

At first, it was just like he remembered. Kathy was a great dancer, and she could follow his lead like a dream. They moved together easily, and he could read all her signals. But his shoulder complained sharply when he led her through a turn, throwing off his timing. They both picked up the beat again with no trouble, but suddenly Starsky found himself trying to plan his moves ahead of time, deciding what he could do and what might be too much. He couldn’t just let the music move him as he had in the effortless past. His rhythm suffered more as a result. Kathy picked up on his unease, and like the good dance partner she was, she met him at his level, not trying to goad him into the more difficult moves that they had executed in previous dates. She kept it simple, and her smile never faltered.

The smile was genuine, but it stabbed a needle of misery into Starsky’s heart. Tonight, on this dance floor, as Kathy played down her own prowess, she was doing for Starsky what she normally did for Hutch. It was almost more than Starsky could stand.

Even worse, Starsky realized he was winded by the end of the second number. Fortunately, the next song was a slow dance, and he pulled Kathy close.

“Sorry, beautiful,” he murmured into her ear. “Guess I’m more out of shape than I’d thought.”

Kathy chuckled warmly and tipped her head up to look him in the eye. “I’m having a great time, Dave,” she assured him. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

Starsky inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume and felt warm arousal flood through him. “You want to get out of here?” he asked. “Maybe you could help me through some moves in private.”

Kathy’s glittering grin was all the answer he needed. They said goodbye to Hutch and Gwendolyn, and took a cab back to Starsky’s place. In the quiet of Starsky’s bedroom, he discovered that creativity didn’t always translate into acrobatics. And if he didn’t necessarily have all the energy he once relied on, well, Kathy had energy enough for both of them.

Holding a sweet, satisfied armful of gorgeous woman in the dark, Starsky wondered if Hutch had been anywhere near as lucky with his own date. Starsky smiled as Kathy shifted in his arms to snuggle even closer.

Probably not.

***

“Man, Hutch, I’m telling you, I had no idea how much Minnie loved us before I started working R and I. That place is crazy! I got a dozen different people asking me to find a dozen different things and all of them want the answers right now.” Starsky took a bite of his cheeseburger and sighed in appreciation. Huggy had outdone himself with this one. “There are hundreds of files to look through! And half of them aren’t where they oughta be. The fact that Minnie gets us as much as she does, as fast as she does, is unbelievable! She deserves a raise.”

Hutch smiled into his own burger. “Starsky, if this is your way of asking me to pick up the tab for lunch, forget it. It’s your turn.”

Starsky scowled. “I’m serious. It’s really rough down there.”

Hutch nodded. “All the more reason to have you there to do the work,” he reasoned. “You’re not afraid to knuckle down and do the hard stuff.”

Starsky sighed and stabbed a french fry into the puddle of ketchup on his plate. “I don’t know, Hutch,” he confessed. “Sometimes I feel like I make as many messes as I clean up. Did you hear about the computer thing?”

Hutch could only delay answering for so long by chewing a large bite of his burger with great care. “Look, anyone could have made that mistake—”

“I don’t think anyone has managed to erase the entire digital files for all criminals apprehended in Bay City between 1976 and 1979 whose last names begin with the letter A, except for me” Starsky corrected bitterly. He shook his head. “I still can’t figure out what happened. That’s three whole years of work down the drain, Hutch.”

“Minnie says that they can retrieve the back-up data from headquarters.”

“Which is a month or two out of date, so we’ve only lost a couple months of work instead of a couple of years. Terrific.” And either way, it was Minnie who was saving Starsky from his own incompetence.

“You found the connection between Jerry Wilson and Andrew Rowland.”

“Yeah, two more petty thieves off the streets,” Starsky groused. “I’m sure the people of Bay City feel safer already.”

“Starsk—”

“So what about you?” Starsky asked, tired of the subject. “What new and ugly truth have you brought into the light about James Marshall Gunther?”

Hutch shrugged. “I interviewed the president of Western Electronics. He probably didn’t know anything about most of Gunther’s dealings, but he didn’t have any trouble overlooking a couple of tidy money-laundering schemes that Gunther ran through his company.” He sipped his water. “I don’t know if that’s going to go anywhere or not. I mean, the D.A. can only prosecute so many people before running out of manpower. And every time I think I can tie something up, it turns out to lead to a whole new set of loose ends.”

“You did the interview by yourself?” Starsky asked, feeling unaccountably hurt by the thought.

Hutch shrugged again. “He was a mealy-mouthed, white-collar, pencil-pushing, stuffed shirt. It didn’t stretch me too much to go in there without you.”

“No reason why I couldn’t have been there, though. Ain’t like I need to do any heavy lifting or be quick on my feet for a freaking interview,” Starsky sulked, knowing he was being ridiculous but unable to shake the feeling of being left out.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. Then he added, “Would have been more fun with you there, too. There was this moment when I really wished—”

“Dave? I thought that was you!”

Starsky and Hutch both turned toward the woman approaching their table. “Nancy,” Starsky greeted her with surprise. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Nancy Rogers smiled brightly and waved a hand in the air. “Yeah, my job usually keeps me on the other side of town, nowadays. Hi, Hutch!”

Hutch gave Nancy a polite, but somewhat distant smile. It occurred to Starsky that Nancy probably brought back memories of Gillian. “Hi Nancy,” he turned to Starsky. “Uh, look, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later, okay?” With that, he tossed his napkin on the table and left.

If he’d moved any faster, Starsky wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a sonic boom. “Sure,” he muttered to the empty air. “See you later.”

“Bye Hutch,” Nancy called without the slightest indication that she noticed anything amiss. “Wait,” she said, turning back to Starsky with an air of puzzlement. “Don’t you have to go back to work, too?”

“Not today, schweetheart,” Starsky drawled, not wanting to get into the whole explanation.

Fortunately, Nancy didn’t seem remotely interested in an explanation. “So…does that mean you’re…free for the afternoon?”

He had a physical therapy appointment at two-thirty. “Could be,” he extemporized. “You have something in mind?”

Nancy’s delighted and slightly predatory grin raised more than Starsky’s hopes for the day.

***

“I don’t believe this, Starsky!” Hutch fumed, pacing back and forth in Starsky’s apartment. “What is going through your head?”

Starsky fought to keep from rolling his eyes. He hadn’t seen Hutch so completely pissed off in a long time. In some ways, it was actually a kind of relief to know that Hutch finally felt comfortable to lose his temper around Starsky again.

But mostly, it made Starsky want to pop him one in the mouth. Still, Starsky knew he had no one but himself to blame. He hadn’t been thinking, between slices of pizza with Hutch, when he’d mentioned his most recent afternoon assignation with Nancy. He should have known that Hutch would immediately connect the dots and then demand a full accounting of Starsky’s time.

“Hutch, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. It was just a couple of sessions—”

“Three!” Hutch emphasized his words with three fingers in the air. “Not a couple. Three sessions of physical therapy. That you blew off!”

“Three sessions over five weeks,” Starsky protested. “I made all the other ones. And the last one I missed was a couple of weeks ago! Michelle still says I’m doing great!”

“She also said that you have a long way to go!” Hutch threw his hands up in the air. “C’mon Starsky! I mean, maybe I could understand if this was for something serious, but quickies with Nancy Rogers?”

“Hey, Nancy and I are both very serious about our quickies,” Starsky panned, waggling his eyebrows. If anything, Hutch’s face got even redder. Starsky tried to head off his partner’s incipient stroke. “Look, Hutch, it was only for a little while. Nancy’s already back at her regular job across town—”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point, huh? Because all I’m hearing is you’re mad because I spent a couple of hours last month getting laid instead of putting myself through PT hell!”

“That PT hell is what’s going to get your endurance up so you can go back to work on the streets!” Hutch said. “Or is that not what you want anymore? Because I’m getting mixed signals, here, buddy.”

A red haze tinged Starsky’s vision. “Fuck you, asshole! You got no idea how hard I been working, and you sure as hell got no business telling me how fast I got to set my pace! It ain’t you that’s getting up in the middle of the night for another hit of Tylenol so you can get another four hours of sleep. It ain’t you that’s got to sit and let Michelle tear your arm out three times a week, and it ain’t you that has to tear your own arm every fucking night so you can keep up with what she teaches you!”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Hutch said quietly. “Don’t you think I know how helpless I am when it comes to you? H—how—how damned little good I do in terms of all the work you have to do?”

The naked anguish in Hutch’s voice, in his eyes, was enough to bring Starsky up short. Shit, this argument had gotten way out of hand. “Aw, Hutch. Wait, now. You know that’s not true.”

Hutch turned away then, and Starsky could see him struggling to regain his composure. “Starsk, I need to know. Do you want to come back to the streets?” He looked at Starsky again. “Is that still what you want anymore?”

“Are you kidding me?” Starsky asked, genuinely bewildered. “It’s everything I still want! What, you think I want a permanent transfer to R and I?”

“You’ve been doing real good work, there,” Hutch said softly. “Captain, Minnie…everyone is really happy to have you.”

“What the hell do I care about everyone?” Starsky asked. He’d no idea that Hutch had been thinking along these lines. How long had the dumb blond been gnawing this bone? “I want to be your partner, partner. That’s the best job there is, and the only one I can do better than anybody else. Besides,” he added, trying for levity. “Don’t let Min fool you. Half the time she’s ready to strangle me with a telephone cord.”

Hutch seemed to consider that for a moment. A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “And this is different from our relationship how?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky grumbled good-naturedly. But he was still disturbed by the distance he could now see stretching between himself and Hutch. They were missing their signals, again, just like those rotten couple of months before the whole mess with Gunther got rolling. Starsky had thought they were past that problem, but here it was, back again.

“Honest, Hutch,” he said earnestly, trying to bridge the gap. “I want the same thing you want.”

To Starsky’s utter astonishment, the expression that crossed Hutch’s face was as bleak and devastated as any he’d ever witnessed.

“I know you do, Starsky,” Hutch said quietly, but his face was impassive, and the words sounded like a lie.

“Hutch—”

“Look, I’m sorry I lost my temper. How about we call it a night and start over tomorrow, okay?” Hutch’s eyes were so pathetically hopeful that Starsky had no idea how he could tell Hutch no, that was not okay. There was clearly some kind of problem between the two of them and they needed to hash it out and fix it up immediately. Like, maybe yesterday.

What he said instead was, “Sure, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The gratitude in Hutch’s eyes was enough to make Starsky want to hit something again. But he decided against that course of action and instead waited for Hutch to pull out into traffic with his latest excuse for a car. Then Starsky locked up his apartment, hopped into the Torino, and headed out into the night.

He found himself at Tramps, though he couldn’t have explained why, had anyone asked. Certainly a night of dancing wasn’t going to do a thing to help whatever was wrong between himself and Hutch. But at the same time, there was a rightness to burning out his frustration on the dance floor. It felt good to just get up and move, and as long as he paced himself, he wouldn’t have to worry about pooping out too quick.

He’d already made a couple of turns with a couple of lovelies when a vaguely familiar blonde sidled up next to where he sat at the bar.

“Buy you a drink?” she offered, her dark eyes sparkling.

Starsky lifted his half-full glass. “Just Coke tonight, beautiful. Got to work in the morning.”

The woman nodded and flashed a toothy smile. “I thought I remembered you. You’re Kathy’s friend. Dave, right?”

Kathy’s name made everything click into place. This was the girl who had been Hutch’s date the last time Kathy had been in town. “Yeah, that’s right,” he confirmed. “And you’re Gwendolyn.”

Her smile got wider. It was always good to remember the ladies’ names. “You want to dance?”

Starsky could see in her eyes the offer was open to more than one interpretation. He finished his Coke. “You betcha.”

***

Bringing Gwendolyn back to his place had probably not been Starsky’s smartest idea, now that he’d actually thought it through. Of course, he hadn’t been doing much thinking when he’d brought her home, which explained the problem. It had been a lot of fun at the time, but now that morning had arrived, Starsky found himself in the awkward position of wanting to shove the beauty out the door so he could have a few minutes peace before he went to work.

It had occurred to him, as he’d drifted off last night, that Hutch’s request to “start over” the next day might have been an offer to drive Starsky into work. That had led to the realization that, if Hutch were planning on stopping by in the morning, it would look kind of bad if he walked in the door to discover another woman in Starsky’s apartment when they had just been arguing—sort of—about Starsky’s recent sexual proclivities.

So Starsky really wanted to hustle her out of there. But the cab hadn’t arrived yet to take her home. Which meant all he could do was play the considerate host and try not to check his watch every thirty seconds.

At least she was nice enough to spend the time boosting his ego into the stratosphere while they waited.

“Wow, I feel so good,” she exclaimed for probably the third time. “You have really got some moves, Dave.” She wriggled against him and pressed a kiss onto his lips. “Makes me wish you didn’t have to rush off to your job.”

Starsky manfully resisted temptation. She was good, but not so good that he was willing to call in to work, even if he ended up driving himself in today. “Sorry, Gwen. I’m afraid I don’t have any sick leave at the moment.”

She sighed but took the rejection smoothly with a toss of her golden hair. “Well, maybe we can try it again some other time,” she said easily. There was no overt request in her comment, just a statement of possibility.

“Could be,” he replied, equally noncommittal.

She laughed and sinuously stretched her arms over her head, giving Starsky a very nice view of her rack where her blouse tightened over it. “Jeez, I feel good,” she repeated. “No wonder Kathy kept you for herself.”

Starsky snorted and moved over to pour them each a cup of coffee. “What, Hutch didn’t show you a good time?” He and Hutch had shared enough women that he could be confident in his partner’s sexual prowess.

But to Starsky’s amazement, Gwendolyn actually rolled her eyes and made a face. “Dave, if that cold fish ever tells you some story of how great he is the next time you’re both in the locker room, you can tell him I told you he needs to come up with another story to tell.” She blew on her coffee and sipped it, then winced and reached over for the sugar.

Starsky could feel his jaw hanging open. “You’re kidding me,” he blurted.

Too late, Starsky realized his mistake, because the last thing he wanted to do was hear more on this subject. Gwendolyn, however, took his remark as encouragement.

“Uh-uh,” she said, stirring sugar into her coffee. “You know, until I saw your scars last night, I thought maybe I had gotten it backwards, and he was the one recovering from an accident,” she said blandly, not recognizing the crudity of her casual comment. “But I guess he’s just another guy who can’t—”

A perfunctory knock heralded Hutch’s entrance through the apartment door. “Starsk? I picked up some crullers from Deb’s. You can…” He trailed off into surprised silence at the sight of Gwendolyn standing in Starsky’s living room.

For her part, Gwendolyn stared first at Hutch, and then back to Starsky, with something not unlike utter horror painted all over her pale, pretty face.

No one said anything. Starsky had a brief hope that maybe a person really could die of embarrassment, and then he wouldn’t have to try and dig himself out of this hole he’d found himself in. But there was no way he could ever be that lucky. Come back from the dead, sure, but no way would he get out of this.

A car horn sounded outside. “That must be my cab,” Gwendolyn said tightly. She set down her coffee mug, grabbed her purse, and rushed out the door, leaving Starsky and Hutch alone in the awkward silence.

They stared at each other for a long, long moment. Starsky imagined he could actually see Hutch wondering just what Gwendolyn might have said, what Starsky might now know. Starsky was trying very hard to keep any knowledge whatsoever off his face. The silence just kept stretching on.

“You got me a cruller?” Starsky finally said, sounding sick to his own ears.

Hutch swallowed. “Uh, yeah.”

“That was real nice of you.”

Hutch blinked, evidently at a loss. Ah, man, this was so bad. This was so much worse than Starsky had ever imagined it would be if Hutch had caught him with Gwendolyn.

“You want some coffee?” Starsky offered, desperate to break the silence.

Something shifted in Hutch, then. “Starsky, do you know what you look like?”

Starsky took a gamble and glanced deliberately down at his hands. “Well, I’m not brown enough to look like I feel…”

Hutch’s bark of laughter was like rain after a drought. “If you don’t wipe that guilty puppy expression off your face, I’m going to swat you with a newspaper,” he threatened. “Now, are you ready to go, or what?”

“God, yes.”

***

“Hey Minnie, can I ask you something?” Starsky wondered.

Officer Minnie Kaplan arched an eyebrow. “Depends.”

Starsky gave her his most charming smile. Flirting with Minnie was an old game with well-established rules. “On what?”

“On whether the answer will get your head out of the clouds and back to work,” she replied pointedly. “The files on the Masterson murders aren’t going to find themselves, you know.”

Starsky winced. He hadn’t realized that his inattention had been quite so obvious. “Right, sorry.” He turned his attention back to the stacks. Masterson should be filed under M. But if it had been where it should have been, Starsky would have found it ten minutes ago. Wasn’t one of the suspects for that one named Humbolt? He pushed the rolling chair he was seated in over to the H section with his feet and started riffling through the name tabs.

“So what is it?”

“Huh?” Starsky said absently. Hamilton. Harris. Hemlin. DeStephano? Starsky pulled that one out and set it aside to file under the Ds later. Was it really so hard to use the freaking alphabet? Come on.

“What did you want to ask me?” Minnie probed.

Starsky paused in his perusal. “Do you know if Hutch has…paired up with anybody, lately?”

“Starsky, what are you asking me about Hutch for?” Minnie asked with a touch of asperity. “You two have a falling out?”

Starsky sighed. “Not exactly.”

“Then why—”

Starsky shoved his feet against the stack, sending himself rolling over to where Minnie was seated in front of the police department computer. “I’ve finally figured out you know lots of things I don’t know,” he said, tucking his chin down and looking up at her through his lashes. He picked up her hand and stroked it. “It’s all part of your mystery.”

Minnie’s mouth quirked on one side. “Trashy boy,” she said fondly. She took her hand back. “But in this case, you know what I know. Hutch hasn’t had time to,” she cleared her throat, “pair up with anybody. Least not while he’s been at work. This Gunther thing—and you,” she added with an arch look, “—have kept him too busy for anything on the side.” She tipped her head and gave him a speculative look. “You really ought to know more than me, sugar. Only time he doesn’t stay late at work is when he’s meeting up with you.”

Starsky’s ears pricked up. “Yeah?”

“Would I lie?”

“If you tell a lie, Min, I don’t want to hear the truth,” he answered smoothly.

Minnie laughed. “Go find that Masterson file, honey. Babcock is just sure something in there is going to break open the Clarke case.”

Huh. Maybe he should be looking for Masterson under the Cs.

***

Starsky decided it was a testament to how much he loved Hutch that, after spending all morning going blind locating and reading through case files, he was spending his afternoon in the library. At first, he was at a loss on how to proceed, and he had no intention of asking any of the librarians for help. Even though not every librarian was a blue-haired, bespectacled lady, Starsky still felt this particular subject was too embarrassing to discuss in a public place. More than once, Starsky considered just chucking the whole idea and heading back home.

The only reason he didn’t was he was pretty sure—not one hundred percent, but close—Hutch was in some kind of trouble. Well, maybe not trouble, exactly. But something was definitely wrong.

Because even though he didn’t know Gwendolyn and had no reason to believe her, Starsky didn’t think she was lying. Although hey, if Hutch had had one bad night, and he couldn’t work himself up over some girl, that wasn’t any big deal. That happened all the time. Or so Starsky had heard. So what if Hutch—sensitive, passionate, big-hearted lug that he was—couldn’t get aroused on an evening when he had practically insisted on taking Starsky out for a double date to celebrate Starsky’s return to work?

Yeah.

Now that Starsky had been alerted, he could tell that there was something…off…with his partner.

Unsure where to begin, Starsky took a stab in the dark and started nosing around the stacks that were devoted to health and medicine. He eventually wandered across a few textbooks for human anatomy, and then—more helpful—human physiology. He initially made the mistake of trying to look up “impotence” in the index, and got absolutely nowhere, much to his frustration. So to speak.

Then it occurred to him to start working the problem from the other end, as it were, and found a lot more information about erections and ejaculation. Starsky waded through dry, multisyllabic explanations about the parasympathetic nervous system and a multitude of tissues and glands. In the painstaking process of removing anything that might be remotely titillating about the act of orgasm, the textbook authors and editors had also eliminated a fair amount of comprehensibility as well. It took a little work to figure out the bottom line, but after listening to Hutch for all these years, Starsky was a master of finding the kernel of wheat hidden within a bushel of chaff.

It all boiled down to the fact that sex had a physical and mental component. If something was going wrong either in the body or in the brain, then orgasm was a no-go. And why the textbooks couldn’t have said it that simply was something Starsky didn’t understand.

So, if Hutch had a problem then where did the problem lie? There were a number of choices—prostate problems, high blood pressure, kidney problems, spinal problems, and even taking some kinds of medications. But Hutch was young, and if his yearly physicals were anything to go by, he was in good shape. And if there had been some kind of health problem, Starsky was pretty sure Hutch would have said something. Pretty sure. Hutch would have said if he’d been diagnosed with prostate cancer, or something similarly bad, right? If nothing else, the police department would have had to be informed.

So it was unlikely—though not impossible—the problem was with Hutch’s body. The brain thing was a whole other story. Starsky compared what he knew about Hutch’s recent life to the checklist of potential problems he had compiled from the textbooks. Stress. Was Hutch experiencing any unusual stress? Starsky considered the shooting, the months after the shooting, and that Hutch was currently the lead detective on the case to put Gunther away for being the head of a crime syndicate. Yeah, Hutch had that one.

Poor self-esteem. Starsky’s gut said no, Hutch did not suffer from a lack of self-esteem in the least. But he tried to give the idea due consideration anyway. Hutch liked to hide behind an arrogant, aloof demeanor, but arrogance didn’t necessarily have to be based in an honest belief of worth. And Hutch did have a distressing tendency to take on more than his fair share of guilt and a sense of failure whenever something went sour in his life, whether it was something personal or on the job. But if Hutch really believed he didn’t matter, then what was he working so hard on the Gunther case for? Starsky couldn’t decide either way. So that was a maybe.

Unusual fatigue. Well, taking care of Starsky certainly hadn’t been good for his sleep for several weeks. And Starsky had an idea that Hutch hadn’t always been getting good sleep even after he moved back to his own apartment. Give Hutch that one, too.

A change in a relationship. Well, if Minnie’s intelligence was good, then Hutch wasn’t in a relationship at all. In his heart, Starsky knew Minnie was right—there just weren’t enough hours in the day for Hutch to get into something heavy. So that was a no. But it wasn’t really something that Hutch had going for him.

And that brought Starsky to the last point on his list: depression. Starsky thought about Marianne Owens. About Kate Larrabee. About Hutch getting shot by that teenage girl. Luke Huntley. Lionel Rigger. And then, just as things were starting to turn around, Starsky had almost been murdered right on their own turf.

Starsky was beginning to wonder how Hutch was able to function at all. No wonder he hadn’t been chasing the ladies lately. For all that Starsky had been run through one hell of a physical wringer, it was clear that Hutch hadn’t necessarily gotten a better deal. Starsky felt bad about not realizing just where his friend had been coming from while they had both been working to get Starsky first back home and then back on the job.

For that matter, it probably hadn’t helped anything for Hutch to know that while he was feeling tired, worried, and sad, Starsky was busy catting about. Sometimes Starsky could just kick himself.

No point crying over spilled milk, though. The question now was if Starsky could do anything to help clean up the mess. His thoughts drifted back to last night’s argument with Hutch, and the assertion that Hutch was helpless to assist in Starsky’s recovery. If that had been true, then it would have also been true that Starsky couldn’t do a thing to help Hutch. But here, Starsky had an advantage.

He knew how much Hutch had helped him, even when Hutch’s hard work hadn’t seemed to do anything at all.

***

It was a good thing Minnie was right about Hutch working late most nights, because otherwise dinner wouldn’t have been ready by the time Hutch walked through his own front door.

“Something smells good,” Hutch said with a smile. He didn’t seem surprised to see Starsky cooking a meal in his apartment, but that was probably because the Torino was parked out in front for all of creation to see.

Starsky had thought about it, and he didn’t want this to be an ambush. “It’s good and done, anyway,” he answered. “I’m glad you’re finally here. I’m starving. What are you working so late for, anyway? Ain’t like you had a stakeout.”

Hutch shrugged as he hung up his coat and then his shoulder holster. “One thing led to another. Time got away from me. You know how it is.”

“I guess I do,” Starsky allowed. “So sit down already.”

Hutch complied. “Oh my God, that looks like a green salad.” He threw Starsky a suspicious look. “Who are you, and what have you done with my partner?”

Starsky rolled his eyes and poured wine into both their glasses. “Don’t worry about him. He’s having a good time downstairs checking out my pod. Now do you want to make fun of all my hard work, or do you want to shut up and eat your chicken alfredo?”

Starsky kept the conversation light while they were eating. He didn’t want to get into anything too heavy until he could work on a full stomach, and he was hoping that Hutch might be a bit more mellow after a good meal, too.

“That was really great, Starsky. Thank you,” Hutch said, a genuine smile lighting his face. “But all good things must come to an end, Gordo, so why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”

Right. Of course Hutch knew something was up. “Well, first of all, I just wanted to do something nice for you,” Starsky confessed. It was true. Puttering around Hutch’s kitchen was almost as much fun as the actual meal, just because it meant he was actually doing something, for a change, instead of having something done for him.

Hutch raised his wine glass in a sketchy salute. “You did. This was really nice to go to all this effort.”

Starsky would feel a lot better about the whole thing if Hutch weren’t so damned pleased by it all. It wasn’t like he had been such a bastard that Hutch didn’t expect anything good from him at all, was it? “Well, don’t get too mushy. You ain’t seen how I left your kitchen yet.”

Hutch grinned, probably knowing Starsky had not left the mess he implied. “Right. So what else is this dinner about?”

Starsky scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable but committed. “Well, about this morning,” he said. “With, um, Gwendolyn.”

Hutch grimaced. “Don’t… I’m not upset about Gwendolyn, Starsk. I haven’t seen her since that night with Kathy. It just surprised me to see her, that’s all.”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry about that,” Starsky apologized. His gaze drifted down to his plate, and he turned his fork over in his hand. “But that’s not where I’m going with this. See, uh… Gwendolyn, uh, she kind of…said something I didn’t want to know. Except, now that I do know, I think maybe it could be a good thing, but only if you know what I know.” He looked up from his fork. “You know?”

Starsky watched confusion, suspicion, dawning comprehension, and finally disgusted resignation parade across Hutch’s face like scenes in a movie theater until Hutch closed the curtains by hiding his face in his hands. “Christ,” he murmured without heat. “Starsk, we have got to start dating from a larger circle of women.”

“You’re telling me?” Starsky asked, relieved by the relative calm of Hutch’s response. He’d been fearing a much bigger blow-up. “Hey, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t even know your middle name, much less anything about your dating scene.”

Hutch dropped his hands and glared at Starsky. “Yeah, the one thing I’ve always liked about you is your complete lack of curiosity,” he quipped, dry as a salt dish. “So, if you don’t want to know what I now know you know, would you mind telling me why we are discussing one of the more humiliating moments of my life?”

Starsky shrugged. “Well, it just got me thinking.”

Hutch looked appalled. “Thinking?”

“Yeah, you know. I mean…” Starsky sighed. “Hutch, are you…okay? I mean, are you, um, working all right?”

The exasperation on Hutch’s face melted into something softer as Starsky’s meaning sank in. “Yeah,” he said simply. He reached his right hand across the table to cover Starsky’s left. “I’m fine. Really. It…” Hutch sighed and lifted his hand away to gesture. Starsky felt oddly bereft by its loss.

“It was just a bad combination of me being tired and distracted,” Hutch went on, smoothing the edge of his mustache with his thumb. “Add that to the fact that I hadn’t been very attentive to her all evening… I couldn’t blame her for being offended.”

Starsky scowled. “What, like she never had an off night?” he questioned, irritated on Hutch’s behalf. “I swear, if I’d have known that she could be mean, I’d have never brought her home.”

“Just what did she say?” Hutch wondered incredulously. “Wait! Don’t answer that!” He held up his hands as if to fend off the unwanted information. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t.”

“She didn’t say much,” Starsky offered. “Just that—”

“No! Really, Starsky. I really do not want to know. At all.”

Starsky nodded. “Okay.”

Hutch gave Starsky a measuring look. “Okay?”

“Sure.” Starsky took another swig of wine, emptying his glass. “I mean, as long as you’re okay.”

“Starsky, I’m fine. I’m healthy as a horse. There’s not a thing wrong with me.”

“Good,” Starsky acknowledged, still feeling that he couldn’t just let it go at that. “That’s great.”

Both men quietly considered their empty plates.

Starsky broke first. “So you’ve been able to, you know, since—”

“Starsky!”

“‘Cause if you haven’t, then you maybe should see a doctor, Hutch!” The words tumbled out, trying to stay ahead of Hutch’s indignation. “There’s like, cancer and heart problems that can cause these things!”

Hutch made a visible effort to rein in his temper. “Starsky,” he gritted through his teeth. “If I tell you that, yes, I have been able to have an erection since my disaster date with Gwendolyn, can we please, please stop discussing this?”

“I ain’t asking just to be nosy, Hutch,” Starsky pointed out in a small voice. He hated the idea that Hutch might think he was asking simply out of prurient interest.

“I know, buddy,” Hutch sighed, clearly despairing of any immediate relief from this intensely awkward conversation. “But in this case, I think you’re making a big deal out of one bad date.”

“If it was just one bad date, sure,” Starsky agreed. “Even you get one get-out-of-jail-free card, right? But you’re not dating anyone, right now. You haven’t for a while, I guess. And it made me wonder if…” Starsky wasn’t quite sure how to phrase this part delicately.

“If I were letting one bad night turn into a nightmare of performance anxiety?” Hutch said bluntly. “Starsk, it hasn’t been that long since I’ve had a date—”

This was news. “Oh yeah? You dated someone since Gwen?”

Hutch closed his mouth. Starsky had the sudden insight that Hutch really had no idea how much time had passed between that date and this moment. Which, frankly, was kind of surprising. Even when Starsky hadn’t been getting any, even when he wasn’t all that interested in getting any, he had always known how long it had been since he’d last had some.

Now he really was curious. “How long ago was your last date before Gwen?”

Hutch’s eyes flicked to Starsky in surprise and just as quickly flicked away. He got up from the table and began to pace. “I don’t think we should talk about this anymore.”

Starsky’s cop instincts kicked in. Before Gwendolyn, Hutch had only been staying at his own place a week, and he had visited Starsky daily. Nothing could have happened then. And before that, Hutch was sleeping on Starsky’s couch. And before that, he was visiting Starsky every day at Golden Fields. Before that was the hospital. Before that, the shooting. Before the shooting was Lionel Rigger. And before that…

“Holy shit.” Starsky stood up so fast he tipped over his chair. “You ain’t had sex with someone since Kira?”

“I really don’t think we should talk about this anymore, Starsky,” Hutch warned, his eyes dangerous, his agitation unmistakable.

But it was like Starsky’s train of thought had taken a rollercoaster turn. There was no stopping the series of revelations as they flashed past. Kira was over a month before the shooting. And then the weeks in the hospital and then rehab… He glanced down at his fingers, ticking off the time.

“Oh for God’s sake, Starsky, it’s been about five months, give or take a few weeks, okay? It’s not that big a deal!”

“Are you kidding me? When was the last time you went five months without sex?” Starsky demanded.

“My divorce!”

Hutch’s words hung suspended between them. His expression was inexplicably one a perp who had just realized that he had been tricked into copping to a crime and was now facing a prison sentence as a result.

Wait a minute…

A change in a relationship.

Softly, not wanting to spook him, Starsky asked, “Who’d you get divorced from, then, huh? Kira?”

“No!” Hutch snapped hoarsely, running a shaking hand through his pale hair.

Starsky pressed his advantage. “Then, who?”

But somehow that last push crossed the line Hutch had drawn in the sand. In an instant Hutch had closed the distance between them, gripping Starsky’s biceps hard enough to hurt, shaking him—shaking him!—with unconcealed fury.

“Answer me this, partner,” Hutch snarled. “When you told me you weren’t jealous anymore, and you loved Kira, did you say it to get me to back away from her? Or back away from you?”

Starsky had known this moment was coming—had invited it with his questioning—but was still unprepared once it had arrived. He opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw just hung there with no words to shape. Hutch’s wild expression twisted into something ugly and bitter, and he pushed away so hard that Starsky fell to the floor.

“Get out of my place,” Hutch said dully, turning away.

Starsky struggled to his feet, rubbing the spot on his backside where he had fallen. He wondered if Hutch’s willingness to use his strength against Starsky again was some weird sign of recovery. “I’m not going to leave, Hutch.”

Instantly the rage was back, snapping between them like a live wire. “Starsky,” Hutch growled. “I’m not playing around—”

“I’m here to stay, Hutch,” Starsky said firmly, meaning it. “I’m here. To stay.”

Hutch advanced slowly, giving Starsky time to change his mind, to run, but Starsky stood his ground, feeling something like he did, long ago, when he was faced with an angry bear.

“I’m not leaving y—” Hutch stopped the words with a heated kiss, crushing Starsky’s lips, forcing his tongue into Starsky’s unresisting mouth. Starsky tried to match the ferocity of the other man’s need, but there was just no way. Unable to manage the swell of passion, he tried just to keep his head above water and ride its wake.

He didn’t protest when he was eased to the living room floor. He let Hutch open his shirt and reveal all his scars. He groaned appreciatively when Hutch’s hungry mouth moved down his neck, and then further to suck at his chest and run his hot, heavy hands along Starsky’s ribs. Starsky held his breath as he felt the top button of his jeans pop free. Lifted his hips when Hutch slid down the zipper and tugged them open, shoving his briefs out of the way.

There was one flashing instant when Starsky thought perhaps he ought to say…something…to slow things down—ask what Hutch was doing, if this was what he wanted. But the moment was lost when Hutch took him into his mouth.

“God, Hutch! I… God…oh… Hutch…” His mind was white with the pleasure that coursed up and down his spine. Oh God, it just wasn’t possible to feel this much.

And just as suddenly, it stopped, leaving Starsky gasping and lost. “Oh please… Don’t…don’t…”

“Is this what you want?” Hutch demanded, his voice husky and low. “Is it?” Starsky lifted his head, and the way Hutch was looking up at him, over the length of Starsky’s dripping cock, made Starsky think of a lion protecting his kill.

“Yes,” Starsky panted, uncertain if he could stand the passion storm, but knowing that to stop now would kill him.

“You want this, Starsk?” The predator’s eyes gleamed in challenge.

Starsky’s head cleared just enough for him to realize this was important. This needed saying. “This is what I want, Hutch. I want you to give it to me.”

And then that agonizing pleasure was laying waste to him again. His hips lurched helplessly into that seductive, wet heat, completely beyond Starsky’s control. A warm hand gripped his balls, squeezing gently, sending hot sparks up his belly. Starsky banged his head sharply against the floor, but hardly noticed the pain amidst the rest of the overwhelming sensations.

“Yes, Hutch… Please…yeah… Oh, yes. Oh, yes!”

He was drowning, and it felt so, so unbelievably good. All at once, the pleasure contracted, drawing inward for one final assault on his senses that cracked through him like white lightning.

OH YES.

***

Consciousness returned to Starsky with a slow catalogue of bodily sensation. His head was sore where he had knocked it against the floor. His chest was cool where it was open to the air. His rear still smarted from where he had fallen earlier. His pants were soggy and uncomfortable where they bunched at his crotch, which was cold and sticky.

He felt fantastic.

Hesitantly, almost unable to believe he still had command over his body, Starsky rested a hand on the soft, blond head that rested, warm and weighty, on his hip. For a moment, there was nothing in the world more wonderful than to be allowed to stroke that fine, silky hair. Then the head turned under his hand, and Starsky was staring into the eyes of the man who had shattered him so completely.

The fire he saw there had been banked, but was burning just as hotly.

“Let’s get off the floor,” he said, mastering first his voice, and then the ability to suit his actions to his purpose.

He had to adjust his jeans a bit so he could stand up properly. Even so, the world wobbled just a little once Starsky was on his feet.

“Starsk?” Just that quick, Hutch was familiar again, placing a supportive hand under Starsky’s elbow, offering stability in the midst of chaos.

Starsky met Hutch’s eyes, saw the concern there mingling with the passion and the love.

“We ain’t done yet, blintz,” Starsky said steadily. “Hope your sheets are clean.”

In the bedroom, Starsky slowly and deliberately removed his clothes. He had thought that Hutch would mirror his actions, but the big blond just stood there, staring at Starsky like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Starsky let him look his fill for a few moments.

“C’mon, babe,” he said finally, stepping into his sphere and working open the buttons of Hutch’s shirt. “Give me a hand here.”

As if waking from a dream, Hutch’s eyes cleared, and he shucked off his clothes in a quick, workmanlike fashion. Once naked, he seemed at a loss again, but by this time Starsky had a plan. Which mostly involved not stopping to think too much.

Starsky guided Hutch backwards to lie down on the bed, and then lowered himself down to cover Hutch’s pale, smooth nakedness with his own body. Hutch sighed as Starsky nuzzled his neck, nipping gently at the tender skin.

“Taste good, babe,” Starsky murmured, moving up Hutch’s jaw to claim his mouth. Before, Hutch was all savagery, practically tearing Starsky’s pleasure out of him, but now he opened gently to Starsky’s pressing tongue, letting him explore at his leisure. That was just fine. Starsky wasn’t in any hurry for this to be over.

Kissing Hutch was just like kissing a woman. It was sweet and sexy and held a promise of better things to come. Kissing Hutch was also like nothing Starsky had ever known. The rough bristle of his mustache, the low bass of his sigh, the barely restrained strength in the hands that hovered just over Starsky’s shoulder blades—these things were all alien to Starsky’s experience as a lover. But they were also as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, because they were Hutch.

Suddenly eager to map this foreign, yet familiar, territory, Starsky kissed his way down from Hutch’s mouth, back over his throat, and across the wide, flat plane of his chest. Hutch was smooth, almost as smooth as any woman, but Starsky didn’t waste much thought on the comparison. He found a round, flat nipple and fastened onto it, sucking tenderly, flicking his tongue back and forth over the rising tip.

“Oh, Starsk,” Hutch breathed, his fingers twining lightly through Starsky’s curls.

Inspired, Starsky reached out and grasped Hutch’s other hand, bringing the wrist to his mouth so he could lay down tiny kisses all the way up to his elbow. Hutch moaned and squirmed restlessly beneath him. When Starsky returned to bite at the nipple he’d been sucking, Hutch gasped and bucked up once before going rigidly still.

Starsky grinned. “Afraid to move, blondie?”

“Just…” Hutch swallowed convulsively. “Don’t want you to stop.”

“Guess it’s ‘who do we trust time,'” Starsky replied, his words muffled somewhat by the press of his lips Hutch’s skin. Hutch responded with a soft groan as Starsky licked roughly at Hutch’s other nipple.

Starsky traveled down Hutch’s torso, marking the hoarse, whispered encouragements resulting from his actions. When kissing wasn’t enough, Starsky began running his hands reverently over Hutch’s heated skin—stroking his ribs, skimming his stomach, tickling his thighs. Hutch’s words dissolved into choked and muffled grunts, and his body began to tremble.

A soft, wistful exhalation was all the sound Hutch made as Starsky kissed the rosy, leaking tip of his cock. He continued to kiss it, wanting to convey more than desire, more than need, but an awe that Hutch would show himself to Starsky in such a vulnerable, desperate state. The hand in Starsky’s hair gripped and loosened reflexively, and Hutch’s other hand clutched at his shoulder as if to communicate his need.

“Starsk… W-wait…”

Starsky looked up. Hutch was staring at him, open-mouthed and slit-eyed, shivering with anticipation. “What do you need, babe?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened and relaxed. “Hold you?” he pleaded.

Starsky pulled himself up to nestle by Hutch’s side and let Hutch wrap his arms in a tight embrace. “I’m here, babe,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Hutch placed a gentle kiss on Starsky’s temple. “I love you, Starsky,” he whispered quietly into his ear.

“I know,” Starsky replied. “I love you, too, you dumb blond.”

Hutch’s laugh caught and stuttered in his throat as Starsky’s hand closed around him in a firm, unyielding grip. His eyes fluttered closed as Starsky began to pump, slowly at first, but faster as his confidence grew. He caught his lower lip in his teeth to stifle his cries of pleasure as Starsky finally, finally found that sweet rhythm he’d been seeking. The restrained trembling escalated into forceful shudders; Hutch’s fingers began to dig sharply into Starsky’s back. His hips bucked once, twice, and then Hutch’s eyes snapped open and caught Starsky’s gaze as he gave a hoarse cry and spilled over into Starsky’s hand.

For a moment, the only thing in Starsky’s world was the rough music of his and Hutch’s panting breaths. Then those large hands began to move again over his back, petting him gently, gratefully. Starsky released Hutch’s penis and wrapped his arm over Hutch’s chest, hugging him tight.

They cuddled like that for a while, and Starsky drifted into a light doze, feeling utterly at peace. He woke later, still held in a loose circle of Hutch’s arms. Hutch was awake and staring thoughtfully into the night, as though he was unaware of Starsky’s regard.

“Hey, Hutch?” Starsky whispered in the dark.

Hutch tightened his embrace for a brief hug before releasing Starsky again. “Yeah?” Starsky thought there might be a faint smile around Hutch’s lips.

“I’m sorry,” Starsky said simply. “About hurting you. With Kira.”

Hutch glanced at him in surprise. “No, it wasn’t your fault, Starsk,” he reproved mildly. “You couldn’t help it. I know that. I even knew it then, I think.”

Starsky acknowledged this by tucking his head under Hutch’s chin. “Still,” he said.

There was a comfortable silence. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

***

“C’mon, Starsky. We’re going to be late.”

Starsky swigged down a huge gulp of coffee and dumped the rest down the sink. He grabbed his jacket and followed Hutch to the door. “Hey, wait one second, huh?”

Hutch turned, the war between his need for timeliness and his need for Starsky evident on his face. “What is it?”

Starsky pressed a kiss into his lips. “Just that.” With a smirk, he slipped past Hutch and out the door. “Come on, blintz! Work waits for no man!”

They walked in step to the Torino and slid inside like no time had ever passed, and no change had ever taken place between them.

“You were wrong, you know,” Starsky mentioned as he turned the ignition.

“About what?” Hutch wondered, blue eyes gleaming.

“You do your best work where I’m concerned,” Starsky replied.

Hutch grinned and Starsky stepped on the gas.