Story Post: Side Effects
This is a episode tag to A Coffin For Starsky. Just a little piece of fluff.
About 5,000 words.
Slash, PG rated, more or less.
Side Effects
Hutch could not fucking believe it.
Secretaries. Tennis. Scuba. Marlin fishing.
Secretaries.
He opened his mouth to vent the magma building up inside him, erupting before he had time to think about why he was so angry.
“You conniving … malingering …”
“All right,” Dobey said, loudly enough to override and silence Hutch. Both detectives turned to look at their captain, Starsky still dripping from the water Hutch had poured over his head.
“Go ahead,” Dobey said - incredibly. “Take the two weeks. It’s slow enough right now, and you’ve more than earned it.”
Both men watched their captain turn and go back into his office. Not until the door shut could Hutch absorb what he’d just heard.
Insane. Dobey’d gone absolutely … everyone had gone absolutely out of their minds.
He looked at Starsky, saw the same astonishment reflected back at him for a moment before his partner’s expression shifted to guilt.
Damn straight. Seething, Hutch deliberately turned away, sat down at his typewriter and began, one hammered key at a time, to finish his report. Second suspect male, mid 20s, blond, 5’7”, 120 lbs., blue-ink tattoo on upper right arm of mermaid. Starsky, still obviously stunned, wiped off his face, collected his prescriptions, one bottle at a time, and pocketed them, then just stood there. Hutch could feel his partner’s eyes on him, could feel his hesitation.
“Hutch,” he began, one toe into the mine field.
“Have fun in St. Thomas,” Hutch said, with all the enthusiasm of a travel agent, or a customs official, someone who watched strangers come and go to places he could never afford. Only in this case it was Starsky going. Without him. Without even telling him - just like a stranger.
And money can’t get me to the destination I want. Nothing can. I thought … I hoped that … maybe …
The last few days of hell had taught Hutch a thing or two about what he wanted. Those 24 hours of clamped-down terror, closer to his partner than he’d ever been, closer than he’d ever been to anyone, every breath shared, every heartbeat stabbing like a knife as it counted down Starsky’s lifeline - that day and night had spelled out to Hutch, in fiery, scarring letters, how much Starsky meant to him.
That night, standing by his partner’s bedside expecting him to die, immersed in that understanding, had been the worst of it, but standing at his bedside in the wee hours of the following morning, knowing he was going to live, after that understanding had sunk into Hutch’s bones, branding him body and mind - that was no picnic either. Torn between silence and confession, he’d chosen to wait, at least until Starsky was out of the hospital. It was a lot to dump on a man who’d nearly died, that you had just realized you couldn’t live without him.
Bringing them to today. Just out of the hospital and already his partner was moving away from him. Moving toward the New York secretaries. And Hutch knew - he’d already known, but this knowing, today’s knowing, choked him with anger and frustration, like ashes in his throat and in his heart - that there would always be the New York secretaries, the L.A. stewardesses, the San Diego waitresses.
Starsky just stood there, slightly hunched, as Hutch typed ruthlessly.
Dark blue Ford truck, late model, partial license LT E 1.
Starsky opened his mouth. Closed it. Walked to the door at a pace halfway between his usual brisk bounce and the pained hobble he’d faked coming in. Hutch ground his teeth together. Lost vicinity of Third and Crenshaw.
He heard the squadroom door open. He yanked the report out of the typewriter, ripped the carbon off, and shuffled around on his desk for the file folder.
He heard the door close.
* * *
Two days later, Hutch pulled his LTD up to Starsky’s place, surprised to see the Torino in its usual spot. Starsky must’ve taken a cab to the airport rather than let his cherished Tomato sit in some vast anonymous parking lot at LAX.
He knew better than to ask me for a ride.
Anger and hurt swelled in his chest as he got out and climbed the stairs. How Starsky could be so cold, so fucking selfish as to try to fake his way into a vacation like that, to lie to him …
To lie to him, to lie to him and take off without him-
Hutch stopped at the door and squeezed his eyes shut, anger turning inward. What are you, a child who needs his partner around all the time? Just because you’re suddenly obsessed with him doesn’t mean he isn’t the same Starsky he always was …
Hutch shook his head. That didn’t wash. Starsky would never treat him like this. Sure, he’d try to fool Dobey, try to trick his way into a holiday - but Hutch would’ve been in on it. Even if Starsky wanted to go to the Caribbean on his own, or even with a girl, he’d’ve told Hutch, enlisted his help in the con job, not tried to sneak away like this.
He’d lied to Hutch, and that fucking hurt. The fact that he wanted to spend his vacation without Hutch was a secondary wound.
Taking a deep breath, Hutch reached up to fetch the spare key from the lintel. A fleeting temptation to take his guitar and trash Starsky’s apartment crossed his mind, but he had no real desire for revenge, however petty. All this would have been no more than an annoyance, he knew, had it not been for his own emotional upheaval. Learning one’s feelings for one’s police partner crossed over into a definitely socially unacceptable area had a way of shaking one’s equilibrium.
Still … Hutch unlocked the door and went inside, looking around the tidy apartment for his guitar. Still … even if he hadn’t suddenly started feeling like a hormonal teenaged girl, Starsky’s lie would have angered him. He didn’t think he was being irrational about that.
Hutch spotted his guitar leaning against the far side of the sofa and crossed to collect it, laughing softly at himself. You are not the best judge of what’s irrational right now, Hutchinson.
What he needed to do was take this time - while Starsky was cavorting with women whose names he would have forgotten by the time he was on the flight home - and think hard about what he was feeling, what it meant, and what he was going to do about it that wouldn’t result in the ruin of the best partnership and the best friendship he could ever hope for.
A sound from the bedroom made him jump, almost dropping his guitar. Hutch set the instrument down and raised his hand to hover over his gun, still, listening hard. It had sounded like … the bed shifting, or the building settling …
Again - definitely the bed. Hutch tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, fingertips sliding over the butt of the Magnum.
A figure lay curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, the head of dark, sweat-damp hair unmistakable. At the soft sound of a groan, Hutch lunged for the bed, panic clenched in his throat.
“Starsk …” He grabbed his partner, pulling him gently upright, Starsky’s back against his chest. “Starsk.”
The shivering body stilled for a moment, chills trumped by surprise.
“Hutch?” Starsky raised his head. His skin was white, damp with sweat.
“What’s going on?” Hutch slid one arm around Starsky’s shaking shoulders, holding him tight to his chest as the other arm reached for the phone, but Starsky caught his hand. His fingers were weak, icy. “Jesus.” It was back - the poison was back, somehow -
“No. Hutch. It’s OK. It’s … side effects.” The words vibrated out of his chest in between shivers. “The doc warned me.” He hissed in a breath. “I’ll be OK. It comes and goes.”
Hutch wrapped both arms around his partner’s chest, feeling the tremors jolting through the body in his arms. “You sure?”
Starsky nodded, smiling wanly. “It’s the last of the p-poison … workin’ its way out of my system.”
“How long have you been like this?”
“Started last night,” Starsky muttered.
Last night! “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”
Starsky flinched at the shout. “I knew you were mad at me. Figured you’d tell me it served me right.” He shuddered, visibly fighting it, and laughed. “I’m okay. Really. It’s just side effects. The doc warned me to expect ’em … sort of unexpectedly.” He looked up at Hutch, trying to convey reassurance. “It’s okay. I probably just need to lie down and take it easy ’til it passes.”
“Like hell,” Hutch snarled. “I’m calling the goddamn’ doctor.”
Starsky didn’t argue. “He’ll just tell you the same thing.”
But Hutch was already dialing, his free arm still holding Starsky against his chest.
After several minutes on hold he got Dr. Franklin, who told him, in more technical terminology, exactly what Starsky’d said.
“You can bring him in if you’d feel better,” Dr. Franklin said.
“Maybe that’d be …” Hutch began.
Uncannily, Starsky shook his head.
“No hospitals. I’m OK here.”
Hutch sighed out a long breath. “He says he’d rather not. You’re sure it’s going to be all right?”
“If the symptoms worsen, bring him in. Otherwise, it should work its way out of his system in another 24 hours or so. Just keep him warm and comfortable. Plenty of liquids.”
Another sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” Hutch hung up the phone.
“Told ya,” Starsky said. He’d stopped shivering, and Hutch eased his panic-tight hold on him. After a few minutes of calm, deep breathing, Starsky sat up, looked around the room, down at himself.
“I’m a mess.”
Hutch couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I need a shower.” Starsky pushed himself up, using Hutch for leverage, and Hutch rose behind him, prepared to protest, to catch him if necessary. Starsky let his blanket fall to the floor, revealing the ragged sweatpants and t-shirt he was wearing, and shuffled toward the bathroom.
Hutch followed.
Starsky stopped, one hand upraised as if he’d just remembered something curious, and turned around to scowl at Hutch. “What’re you doing here?”
After a blank moment in which he absolutely couldn’t remember, Hutch said, “Came to pick up my guitar.”
Starsky blinked. “Oh.” Then he started for the bathroom again, stripping off his t-shirt as he moved. The action made him stagger a little, but he caught his balance as Hutch lunged forward.
“Starsky … maybe you ought to-” Hutch’s protest stopped when he saw his partner bend as if to pull off his sweats. He swayed and Hutch caught him, easing him back onto the foot of the bed.
“I need a shower,” Starsky argued. “I been sweatin’ all night.”
“Okay, but let me help you.” Hutch knelt down to help pull Starsky’s sweatpants off.
“You gonna give me a bath?” Starsky said, his voice low and incongruously sexy. Hutch glanced up, half embarrassed, half irritated.
“You want me to?” he said. Starsky shook his head.
“Nah. Not up for it.” He grinned and Hutch pulled the sweats off him one leg at a time. He swallowed down the instant of gut-level reaction at the realization his partner wasn’t wearing any underwear. It was hardly unusual, and they’d certainly seen one another naked before, but Hutch was feeling acutely, painfully aware of his partner as a man right now, and right now was no time for that. If there could ever be a time for that, which Hutch doubted.
“Har har,” he made himself scoff. “Very funny.” He started to rise but Starsky planted both hands on his back and used him to push himself upright.
“What am I, a walker?” Hutch groused, climbing to his feet and following his naked partner into the bathroom, studiously keeping his eyes above waist level. Not that that was much easier; Starsky’s stomach and chest were tailor-made for sexual fantasies.
Starsky stopped at the shower door, leaning on the wall, one hand resting on the door handle.
“Just hang on.” Hutch brushed past Starsky, started a hot shower, and grabbed his partner’s elbow. “Be careful. Don’t slip. I’ll be right here. Do you have soap and everything?”
“Yes, mother,” Starsky said, pushing him back and closing the glass door.
Hutch collected towels and sat on the closed toilet, watching the wavery shape of his partner through the milky glass of the shower door.
I’m not your mother, Starsk. Your mother wouldn’t have a hard-on from seeing you naked. Your mother wouldn’t be sitting here torn between worry and desire, loving you so much it scared her, and wondering what the hell to do about this whole mess. I’m definitely not your mother.
He realized he was strangling the towels in his hands and tried to make himself relax.
Starsky bathed with dispatch, turning off the water and banging the shower door open. Hutch immediately got up and wrapped him in the towel, steadying him as he stepped out.
“I can do it,” Starsky complained feebly, but Hutch stayed close while his partner dried himself off, then shamelessly flung the towel toward the shower. Hutch found his eyes flicking all over the bathroom, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, as he fought to keep from staring at his partner’s naked body. He might still be feeling the effects of the poison, but his body looked as solid, masculine and vital as ever. He was even half hard from the shower and the brisk rubdown. Hutch felt himself blush hotly and lowered his eyes.
“Let me get your pajamas.” He fled the tiny, steamy bathroom and fumbled a pair of seldom-worn blue pjs out of Starsky’s dresser. He dropped the pants on the bed and shook out the soft cotton shirt, nervously holding it in front of him. “Here.”
Starsky came close and turned around, and Hutch slid the shirt onto his partner’s shower-warmed body.
Get a grip. The man’s sick, he almost died, and all you can do is ogle his body like some lecher. He grabbed the bottoms, hoping Starsky wouldn’t notice how flushed and unsteady he was.
“Can you pick up your feet a little?” he asked, bending to ease the bottoms over Starsky’s feet and up his legs.
Starsky leaned on his shoulder as he pulled up the pajama drawers and tied the string, hands shaking, feeling feverish all over. Careful. Don’t brush against him, against his cock, his warm, silky cock ….
“You okay?” Starsky asked him.
He forced a smile. “I’m fine, dummy. I’m not the sick one.” He grabbed the blanket and pulled it around his partner’s shoulders, drawing him toward the bed.
“Nah.” Starsky balked. “I wanna sit up for a while. I’m thirsty, too.”
“Come on.” Hutch gently pushed him to the couch and eased him down, then went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of orange juice. When he brought it back, Starsky took it in both hands and Hutch felt a pang in his chest at that sign of weakness. All of this - he almost died, and all of it because he did his job. Because he’s a good cop. It’s not fucking fair.
Hutch held himself still, unbreathing, trying to calm down as Starsky tipped his head back and chugged the entire glass, handing it back to Hutch with a sigh.
“That was good. Thanks.”
Hutch put the glass in the sink and came back. Starsky had sunk down on the couch a little, his head lolling against the back, the blanket hanging loose around him. Hutch went into the bedroom, on some strange sort of autopilot, and stripped the sheets, exchanging sweat-stained for fresh and remaking the bed. God. All night. All night he was here, sick, shaking, and he wouldn’t call me. Jesus.
He tossed the old sheets into Starsky’s laundry hamper and returned to the living room, where Starsky, apparently, hadn’t moved.
Hutch forced himself to ask, “You going to miss your flight?”
Starsky didn’t open his eyes. “Already did.” He didn’t seem to care.
“When was it?”
“Monday.”
“Monday?” Something didn’t make sense. “You said you didn’t get sick ’til last night.”
Starsky just sat there.
“Starsky, if you were okay Monday, why’re you still here?” He moved closer and Starsky let his head flop over so he could look at his partner.
“Changed my mind.”
“When?” Hutch blurted.
Starsky shrugged, dislodging the blanket. He looked up at Hutch, his eyes bright. “I woulda called you, but … I thought I better give you a while to cool off. Then I started feelin’ kinda sick, so …”
He trailed off while Hutch thought about Starsky’s version of “kinda sick”: lying here in a pool of sweat, shaking, nauseated, aching down to his bones, alone.
He stepped over Starsky’s outstretched legs and sat on the couch. “What made you change your mind?”
Starsky’s head lolled in his direction, but his partner didn’t speak, only looked at him for a long, silent time.
Then Starsky said softly, “I made reservations for both of us,” and Hutch’s heart lurched.
“I knew we had the time comin’, and … I was just so glad to be alive. You know? I figured for sure we could talk Dobey into it.” He closed his eyes. “I was gonna surprise you.”
“Starsk …” Hutch whispered, confused.
“Then I remembered you had your cousin’s wedding to go to next weekend.”
Hutch started; he’d forgotten. His sister planned to fly out to join him in seeing their youngest cousin, Marjorie, get married in San Diego.
Starsky’s eyes opened. “I figured I’d call Huggy from the office and cancel. I mean, I guess I coulda gone without you, but …”
“I thought …” Hutch swallowed. I thought you wanted to go alone. I thought you didn’t want me.
“I know,” Starsky said. “I didn’t think Huggy’d call and make it sound like that, like I was going by myself.”
“But …” It still didn’t make sense. “That show you put on …”
Starsky rolled his eyes. “I was just yankin’ your chain, Hutch. Yours and Dobey’s. I didn’t think Huggy’d call me before I called him. I didn’t think that you’d think …” He shook his head. “Ah, I don’t know. It got all messed up.” He looked hard at Hutch. “I wouldn’t do that, Hutch. I wouldn’t lie to you and go off by myself that way. I mean, you saved my friggin’ life-”
Hutch shook his head, suddenly angry. “Don’t. You don’t owe me a goddamned -”
“No-” Starsky reached out, grabbing his arm. “I mean, even if you hadn’t, I … I wouldn’t’ve just gone off without you.”
Hutch squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like such an asshole for thinking what he’d thought, for believing - fearing - Starsky would do that to him. He’d just wanted too badly to believe other things, to believe these new crazy feelings might have a chance … he was off-balance, his emotions running too high, his natural understanding of and trust for his partner contaminated by these wild desires.
“I just … wanted to go with you,” Starsky said, his voice again strangely soft, almost wondering, the tone forcing Hutch to open his eyes.
Ah, Starsk, don’t. Don’t be like this, so warm, so loving. I can’t keep it inside if you’re going to be like this.
Starsky was staring at him. “I wanted us to go together,” he said, and - astonishingly - flushed, dropping his gaze. “And then, when we couldn’t … there wasn’t any point in goin’.” He shrugged again. “Rather be here with you than there without you.”
“Starsk …” Hutch covered Starsky’s hand with his.
And with that wonderful lack of self-consciousness Hutch had always envied, Starsky leaned over to drape himself across Hutch’s chest, curling up against him with a sigh, as if he were a big pillow.
Laughing, overwhelmed that - despite everything - Starsky had no doubt of his welcome, Hutch wrapped his arms around his languid partner and leaned back on the arm of the sofa. Drawing Starsky with him, he stretched out as comfortably as he could, blinking fast to get rid of the sudden moisture in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Hutch,” Starsky murmured. “Don’t go for a while, okay?”
Hutch hugged him. “Go ahead and rest,” he said, stroking Starsky’s back through the blanket. “I’m here.” Always here, Starsk. Always.
* * *
Hutch woke up not knowing, at first, where he was, or what was resting on top of him.
Then he remembered. He was stretched out on Starsky’s sofa, his neck bent across the arm and his partner a warm, Starsky-scented weight, sprawled over his torso, sound asleep, hands lying open on Hutch’s chest, legs split around Hutch’s right leg and one thigh compressing Hutch’s cock.
Which liked that compression a lot, Hutch realized, his entire body flushing with embarrassment and arousal. Now what?
Starsky murmured contentedly and snuggled closer, and Hutch clenched his jaw to prevent any sound as Starsky’s hip rubbed against his erection. Oh Christ. What the hell was he going to do?
Starsky stilled, his head tilting up to look sleepy-eyed at his partner.
“Hey.” He smiled.
“Hey,” Hutch whispered. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty good.” He shifted again - and Hutch realized with a cold flash of mortification that his partner was aware of his … slight problem.
Starsky glanced downward and his smile broadened. “Seems like you’re feelin’ pretty good too.”
At any other time Hutch would have been slightly embarrassed and mostly amused; now, his own feelings left him raw, ashamed, unable to make light of it. He pushed Starsky against the back of the couch and slid out from under him, rolling to his feet.
“Hutch-”
He was at the door when he glanced back to see his partner standing white-faced beside the couch. He swayed - Hutch crossed the room in a split second, catching Starsky’s arms as they both sank onto the couch again.
“Shit,” Starsky breathed. “Sorry. Got up too fast.” One hand clasped Hutch’s wrist, the other his shoulder, as Starsky sat, head bowed, breathing steadily. “Whew. I’m okay now.” He looked up at Hutch, not letting go.
“I didn’t mean to … y’know, offend you or anything,” he said gently. “It’s no big deal. It happens. I was only kiddin’ around.”
Hutch clamped his mouth shut to avoid saying I know; that’s exactly the problem. Or It is a big deal and it didn’t just happen. It happened because of you.
Starsky looked down, let the hand resting on Hutch’s shoulder slide down lightly ’til it rested on Hutch’s thigh, depriving Hutch of the ability to breathe.
“I was gonna …” Starsky mumbled. His fingers tightened around Hutch’s wrist, one convulsive pulse of nerves. “I was gonna offer to help ya out,” Starsky finished, and raised his face to show a blush, but not the slightest sign that he was joking.
Hutch gaped. “S-Starsk …” His own hands dropped, numb, from Starsky’s shoulders, and Starsky took it exactly as anyone would - as rejection. He let go of Hutch’s wrist, let his hand fall from Hutch’s thigh, and turned away.
“Sorry. I only meant …” He turned back abruptly, determination on his face, holding Hutch’s eyes with his own. “You’re so … You just-” He clenched both hands in front of himself. “If you coulda, you woulda traded places with me in a New York minute, wouldn’t you?” It was obvious he wasn’t talking about a Caribbean vacation.
“Not on your life,” Hutch lied huskily. And Starsky smiled, seeing right through him.
“I love you so much … sometimes I think it’s not even possible to love someone this much. But I do. I’d do anything for you. Anything.” The fists opened, throwing caution to the winds. “Givin’ you a hand with a hard-on … that’s nothin’.”
Oh God. Hutch finally managed to breathe, not sure whether he was ecstatic or miserable or just totally confused. It’s not nothing to me.
So he whispered, ”That’s not a good enough reason.”
Still holding his eyes, Starsky blinked. “Hutch?” His hands crept back, one on Hutch’s knee, the other reaching upward, toward his face, cautious. “What-what’re you sayin’?”
Hutch grabbed his shoulders once more, drawing their bodies hard together and commandeering his mouth, swallowing down the grunt of surprise, sucking away the startled exhalation and filling the warm hollow with his hungry tongue. Starsky’s body moved against his, hard and hot, and his mouth opened, welcoming Hutch’s tongue, caressing it with his own, setting fire to Hutch’s insides.
Vaguely he became aware of hands pushing at his shoulders, but when he jerked back, horrified at himself, Starsky caught him, panting, red-faced, but not letting him go.
“Whew.” His eyes glittered up at his partner. “I guess you want a little more than a hand with your hard-on.” He wriggled closer, provocatively, but Hutch stayed stiff. This was too important to plunge into blindly.
When Starsky stilled, Hutch confessed, “I want a lot more than that.” His voice came out a growl, harsh with controlled need.
“You got it,” Starsky said softly. Hutch shook his head.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking-”
“So ask,” Starsky said - an order - his eyes locked onto Hutch’s face as if to catch every nuance of feeling Hutch allowed to show.
“I - I want to make love to you-”
“You got it.”
Again Hutch shook his head, sharply. He’s not listening, he doesn’t get it. “Not just now. Not just today.”
“You got it.” Starsky’s fingers wandered from Hutch’s shoulders to his shirt buttons.
“Starsk, I’m serious, god damn it -”
“Me too.”
“You don’t even … have you even thought about it-stop that!” He lifted one hand to brush Starsky’s fingers away, and they fluttered off, then back, sliding under the open shirt front. “Starsk … I mean, I want us to - to - ”
“You got it,” Starsky said again, pressing his hands, hot as brands, flat against Hutch’s chest. “Ain’t you been listenin’? I love you. I love the hell outta you. You wanna make love with me, today, tomorrow, forever? You got it, you got it, you got it.”
“But … but …” Stunned, Hutch drew back, sitting properly on the couch again but for Starsky’s legs, still draped over his. “You - you can’t tell me you’re suddenly … interest-attracted to men.” He realized it had been some time since he’d breathed, and forced his lungs to remember how to do it. Starsky watched Hutch with a curious tilt to his head.
“You were in my lap a second ago,” Starsky said, glancing toward the bodily region in question. Hutch did the same, and fire blazed in his stomach to see the swell of his partner’s erection through the thin cotton of his pajamas. “Did it seem like I wasn’t interested?”
“Oh, Christ, Starsk …” He breathed the words, a prayer, less than a whisper, his palms tingling, magnetized to his partner’s body.
“I’m not queer, Hutch,” Starsky said, not making the word an insult. “I mean, I don’t think I am. I love you is all. I don’t know how or why, and I know it’s weird as hell. Maybe I always got a little thrill outta touchin’ you, but I didn’t think about it. But …” His gaze flickered, suddenly shy, and Hutch felt fond amusement tickle his own mouth. “But if you want to, you know, make love, man, I’m willing to give it a shot.” He grinned up at his partner, and Hutch shook his head.
“Starsk …” He laughed softly. “I love you back, buddy. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, but -”
“Then maybe we could stop talkin’,” Starsky urged. “Don’t give me a chance to chicken out here.” He leaned forward, then slithered forward, until he was in Hutch’s lap again, hands braced on the couch at either side, while Hutch sat frozen under him, excited and confused and not knowing whether his body was saying yes or no or both.
“Look at us,” Starsky purred, his lips teasingly close to Hutch’s. “Two big tough cops, too chicken to just love each other.”
Lifting shaking hands, Hutch explored Starsky’s face, his neck, shoulders - all of them places he’d touched before, but it was as if he’d never been aware of his hands before, how sensitive they were, how they drank in details of heat and soft skin and the wiry brush of hair, how hungry his palms were to fill themselves with Starsky.
Framing Starsky’s face, he admitted, “I’m not tough when it comes to you.”
Wonder softened the fire of the blue eyes locked onto his, and Starsky eased forward, bringing their mouths together, slowly, as though he were reveling in the novelty of every feeling, memorizing every taste and scent and sound. He wasn’t delicate - if Hutch had thought he could, or would, pretend he was kissing a girl, there was no chance of that while enveloped by Starsky’s scent and weight and strength and stubble and … oh god … Starsky toyed with his mouth, teasing with lips and teeth and tongue and soft chuckles until Hutch surged upward and took over the kiss, Starsky’s deep hum of approval vibrating against his chest.
He almost bit Starsky’s tongue off when the phone jangled. They jumped apart, both a little flushed, both smiling stupidly.
“Let it ring,” Starsky said, taking his kisses on a leisurely sojourn along Hutch’s jaw and down his neck, tickling and sucking while Hutch squirmed and clutched at him and thought Oh man, I was wrong, you’re a damned good kisser.
The phone kept ringing, though, and somewhere around Hutch’s sternum, just when Hutch’s half-erection started to swell at the thought that Starsky was going to keep on working his way down, Starsky stopped.
Sighed. “I better get it.”
Hutch caught at him as he sat up, capturing his reaching hand.
“You’re on leave.”
“Might be important.”
“I’ll get it.”
“But it’s my phone.”
Hutch pushed his hand away and grabbed the receiver with the other. “If it’s important, I’ll give it to you. If it isn’t, I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” He felt Starsky’s surrender and picked up the receiver.
“Starsky residence.”
Starsky made a “la dee dah” face at him.
“Hutch?” Dobey’s familiar half-question, half-command made Hutch stiffen, untangling gently from his partner to stand, as if at attention.
“Yeah, cap’n. What is it?”
“Thought I might find you there. We got a double homicide at Rosario’s taco shop on Fourth Street.”
“Cap-” Even as Hutch choked out the word Dobey recognized it as an attempted dodge.
“Everyone else is already out, Hutchinson. Watering your partner’s plants can wait. Get over there on the double. Pronto.”
Hutch winced as Dobey slammed the receiver down, then hung up the phone, gently, as if it or something near it - himself, maybe - would break. Then he looked at Starsky, sitting on the arm of the couch, apparently relaxed, patient.
“I have to go,” Hutch blurted, angry - angry at everything, at Dobey, at the job, at himself for not saying fuck it, for not having the courage to stay - for being relieved, god damn it. He was relieved.
“I know,” Starsky said.
“Starsk … I …” He moved, two steps toward the door, a step back. “I …” He blurted a laugh, hating himself. “I’m scared.”
Starsky didn’t move from the couch, watched him, close, following his every move, predatory. “I know.”
“Stop it, god damn it.” He rubbed his hands over his scalp, glanced at the door, at escape - but it wasn’t escape. He didn’t want to run. He was scared to death, but he wanted this more than anything he’d ever wanted - even if he was so scared he didn’t know what to do with it once he had it in his hands. “I mean it. I’m … I’m scared.” He looked hard at Starsky, angry again, ready to blame, but his partner sat there, not coming close, not asking, not begging, not doing anything but watching and waiting.
Hands knotted, Hutch whispered, “I love you,” as if he were ashamed of it.
Starsky said, “I know.” Unsmiling, acknowledging everything that went along with those words, acknowledging the weight of it all bearing down on Hutch.
He backed toward the door and Starsky watched, unmoving, unafraid. Hutch shook his head, turned as though the door, not Starsky, were the threat, and he couldn’t have his back to it any longer.
“I … gotta go.” He grabbed the doorknob. Stared at it. Blurted, “I’ll be back.” He squeezed the doorknob, crushing it so hard it hurt, then lifted his head, making sure his voice carried. “I’ll be back.” He wrenched the door open, lunged through, slammed it behind him and hurried down the stairs, hearing Starsky’s voice in his head.
I know.
The End
About 5,000 words.
Slash, PG rated, more or less.
Side Effects
Hutch could not fucking believe it.
Secretaries. Tennis. Scuba. Marlin fishing.
Secretaries.
He opened his mouth to vent the magma building up inside him, erupting before he had time to think about why he was so angry.
“You conniving … malingering …”
“All right,” Dobey said, loudly enough to override and silence Hutch. Both detectives turned to look at their captain, Starsky still dripping from the water Hutch had poured over his head.
“Go ahead,” Dobey said - incredibly. “Take the two weeks. It’s slow enough right now, and you’ve more than earned it.”
Both men watched their captain turn and go back into his office. Not until the door shut could Hutch absorb what he’d just heard.
Insane. Dobey’d gone absolutely … everyone had gone absolutely out of their minds.
He looked at Starsky, saw the same astonishment reflected back at him for a moment before his partner’s expression shifted to guilt.
Damn straight. Seething, Hutch deliberately turned away, sat down at his typewriter and began, one hammered key at a time, to finish his report. Second suspect male, mid 20s, blond, 5’7”, 120 lbs., blue-ink tattoo on upper right arm of mermaid. Starsky, still obviously stunned, wiped off his face, collected his prescriptions, one bottle at a time, and pocketed them, then just stood there. Hutch could feel his partner’s eyes on him, could feel his hesitation.
“Hutch,” he began, one toe into the mine field.
“Have fun in St. Thomas,” Hutch said, with all the enthusiasm of a travel agent, or a customs official, someone who watched strangers come and go to places he could never afford. Only in this case it was Starsky going. Without him. Without even telling him - just like a stranger.
And money can’t get me to the destination I want. Nothing can. I thought … I hoped that … maybe …
The last few days of hell had taught Hutch a thing or two about what he wanted. Those 24 hours of clamped-down terror, closer to his partner than he’d ever been, closer than he’d ever been to anyone, every breath shared, every heartbeat stabbing like a knife as it counted down Starsky’s lifeline - that day and night had spelled out to Hutch, in fiery, scarring letters, how much Starsky meant to him.
That night, standing by his partner’s bedside expecting him to die, immersed in that understanding, had been the worst of it, but standing at his bedside in the wee hours of the following morning, knowing he was going to live, after that understanding had sunk into Hutch’s bones, branding him body and mind - that was no picnic either. Torn between silence and confession, he’d chosen to wait, at least until Starsky was out of the hospital. It was a lot to dump on a man who’d nearly died, that you had just realized you couldn’t live without him.
Bringing them to today. Just out of the hospital and already his partner was moving away from him. Moving toward the New York secretaries. And Hutch knew - he’d already known, but this knowing, today’s knowing, choked him with anger and frustration, like ashes in his throat and in his heart - that there would always be the New York secretaries, the L.A. stewardesses, the San Diego waitresses.
Starsky just stood there, slightly hunched, as Hutch typed ruthlessly.
Dark blue Ford truck, late model, partial license LT E 1.
Starsky opened his mouth. Closed it. Walked to the door at a pace halfway between his usual brisk bounce and the pained hobble he’d faked coming in. Hutch ground his teeth together. Lost vicinity of Third and Crenshaw.
He heard the squadroom door open. He yanked the report out of the typewriter, ripped the carbon off, and shuffled around on his desk for the file folder.
He heard the door close.
* * *
Two days later, Hutch pulled his LTD up to Starsky’s place, surprised to see the Torino in its usual spot. Starsky must’ve taken a cab to the airport rather than let his cherished Tomato sit in some vast anonymous parking lot at LAX.
He knew better than to ask me for a ride.
Anger and hurt swelled in his chest as he got out and climbed the stairs. How Starsky could be so cold, so fucking selfish as to try to fake his way into a vacation like that, to lie to him …
To lie to him, to lie to him and take off without him-
Hutch stopped at the door and squeezed his eyes shut, anger turning inward. What are you, a child who needs his partner around all the time? Just because you’re suddenly obsessed with him doesn’t mean he isn’t the same Starsky he always was …
Hutch shook his head. That didn’t wash. Starsky would never treat him like this. Sure, he’d try to fool Dobey, try to trick his way into a holiday - but Hutch would’ve been in on it. Even if Starsky wanted to go to the Caribbean on his own, or even with a girl, he’d’ve told Hutch, enlisted his help in the con job, not tried to sneak away like this.
He’d lied to Hutch, and that fucking hurt. The fact that he wanted to spend his vacation without Hutch was a secondary wound.
Taking a deep breath, Hutch reached up to fetch the spare key from the lintel. A fleeting temptation to take his guitar and trash Starsky’s apartment crossed his mind, but he had no real desire for revenge, however petty. All this would have been no more than an annoyance, he knew, had it not been for his own emotional upheaval. Learning one’s feelings for one’s police partner crossed over into a definitely socially unacceptable area had a way of shaking one’s equilibrium.
Still … Hutch unlocked the door and went inside, looking around the tidy apartment for his guitar. Still … even if he hadn’t suddenly started feeling like a hormonal teenaged girl, Starsky’s lie would have angered him. He didn’t think he was being irrational about that.
Hutch spotted his guitar leaning against the far side of the sofa and crossed to collect it, laughing softly at himself. You are not the best judge of what’s irrational right now, Hutchinson.
What he needed to do was take this time - while Starsky was cavorting with women whose names he would have forgotten by the time he was on the flight home - and think hard about what he was feeling, what it meant, and what he was going to do about it that wouldn’t result in the ruin of the best partnership and the best friendship he could ever hope for.
A sound from the bedroom made him jump, almost dropping his guitar. Hutch set the instrument down and raised his hand to hover over his gun, still, listening hard. It had sounded like … the bed shifting, or the building settling …
Again - definitely the bed. Hutch tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, fingertips sliding over the butt of the Magnum.
A figure lay curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, the head of dark, sweat-damp hair unmistakable. At the soft sound of a groan, Hutch lunged for the bed, panic clenched in his throat.
“Starsk …” He grabbed his partner, pulling him gently upright, Starsky’s back against his chest. “Starsk.”
The shivering body stilled for a moment, chills trumped by surprise.
“Hutch?” Starsky raised his head. His skin was white, damp with sweat.
“What’s going on?” Hutch slid one arm around Starsky’s shaking shoulders, holding him tight to his chest as the other arm reached for the phone, but Starsky caught his hand. His fingers were weak, icy. “Jesus.” It was back - the poison was back, somehow -
“No. Hutch. It’s OK. It’s … side effects.” The words vibrated out of his chest in between shivers. “The doc warned me.” He hissed in a breath. “I’ll be OK. It comes and goes.”
Hutch wrapped both arms around his partner’s chest, feeling the tremors jolting through the body in his arms. “You sure?”
Starsky nodded, smiling wanly. “It’s the last of the p-poison … workin’ its way out of my system.”
“How long have you been like this?”
“Started last night,” Starsky muttered.
Last night! “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”
Starsky flinched at the shout. “I knew you were mad at me. Figured you’d tell me it served me right.” He shuddered, visibly fighting it, and laughed. “I’m okay. Really. It’s just side effects. The doc warned me to expect ’em … sort of unexpectedly.” He looked up at Hutch, trying to convey reassurance. “It’s okay. I probably just need to lie down and take it easy ’til it passes.”
“Like hell,” Hutch snarled. “I’m calling the goddamn’ doctor.”
Starsky didn’t argue. “He’ll just tell you the same thing.”
But Hutch was already dialing, his free arm still holding Starsky against his chest.
After several minutes on hold he got Dr. Franklin, who told him, in more technical terminology, exactly what Starsky’d said.
“You can bring him in if you’d feel better,” Dr. Franklin said.
“Maybe that’d be …” Hutch began.
Uncannily, Starsky shook his head.
“No hospitals. I’m OK here.”
Hutch sighed out a long breath. “He says he’d rather not. You’re sure it’s going to be all right?”
“If the symptoms worsen, bring him in. Otherwise, it should work its way out of his system in another 24 hours or so. Just keep him warm and comfortable. Plenty of liquids.”
Another sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” Hutch hung up the phone.
“Told ya,” Starsky said. He’d stopped shivering, and Hutch eased his panic-tight hold on him. After a few minutes of calm, deep breathing, Starsky sat up, looked around the room, down at himself.
“I’m a mess.”
Hutch couldn’t think of anything to say.
“I need a shower.” Starsky pushed himself up, using Hutch for leverage, and Hutch rose behind him, prepared to protest, to catch him if necessary. Starsky let his blanket fall to the floor, revealing the ragged sweatpants and t-shirt he was wearing, and shuffled toward the bathroom.
Hutch followed.
Starsky stopped, one hand upraised as if he’d just remembered something curious, and turned around to scowl at Hutch. “What’re you doing here?”
After a blank moment in which he absolutely couldn’t remember, Hutch said, “Came to pick up my guitar.”
Starsky blinked. “Oh.” Then he started for the bathroom again, stripping off his t-shirt as he moved. The action made him stagger a little, but he caught his balance as Hutch lunged forward.
“Starsky … maybe you ought to-” Hutch’s protest stopped when he saw his partner bend as if to pull off his sweats. He swayed and Hutch caught him, easing him back onto the foot of the bed.
“I need a shower,” Starsky argued. “I been sweatin’ all night.”
“Okay, but let me help you.” Hutch knelt down to help pull Starsky’s sweatpants off.
“You gonna give me a bath?” Starsky said, his voice low and incongruously sexy. Hutch glanced up, half embarrassed, half irritated.
“You want me to?” he said. Starsky shook his head.
“Nah. Not up for it.” He grinned and Hutch pulled the sweats off him one leg at a time. He swallowed down the instant of gut-level reaction at the realization his partner wasn’t wearing any underwear. It was hardly unusual, and they’d certainly seen one another naked before, but Hutch was feeling acutely, painfully aware of his partner as a man right now, and right now was no time for that. If there could ever be a time for that, which Hutch doubted.
“Har har,” he made himself scoff. “Very funny.” He started to rise but Starsky planted both hands on his back and used him to push himself upright.
“What am I, a walker?” Hutch groused, climbing to his feet and following his naked partner into the bathroom, studiously keeping his eyes above waist level. Not that that was much easier; Starsky’s stomach and chest were tailor-made for sexual fantasies.
Starsky stopped at the shower door, leaning on the wall, one hand resting on the door handle.
“Just hang on.” Hutch brushed past Starsky, started a hot shower, and grabbed his partner’s elbow. “Be careful. Don’t slip. I’ll be right here. Do you have soap and everything?”
“Yes, mother,” Starsky said, pushing him back and closing the glass door.
Hutch collected towels and sat on the closed toilet, watching the wavery shape of his partner through the milky glass of the shower door.
I’m not your mother, Starsk. Your mother wouldn’t have a hard-on from seeing you naked. Your mother wouldn’t be sitting here torn between worry and desire, loving you so much it scared her, and wondering what the hell to do about this whole mess. I’m definitely not your mother.
He realized he was strangling the towels in his hands and tried to make himself relax.
Starsky bathed with dispatch, turning off the water and banging the shower door open. Hutch immediately got up and wrapped him in the towel, steadying him as he stepped out.
“I can do it,” Starsky complained feebly, but Hutch stayed close while his partner dried himself off, then shamelessly flung the towel toward the shower. Hutch found his eyes flicking all over the bathroom, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, as he fought to keep from staring at his partner’s naked body. He might still be feeling the effects of the poison, but his body looked as solid, masculine and vital as ever. He was even half hard from the shower and the brisk rubdown. Hutch felt himself blush hotly and lowered his eyes.
“Let me get your pajamas.” He fled the tiny, steamy bathroom and fumbled a pair of seldom-worn blue pjs out of Starsky’s dresser. He dropped the pants on the bed and shook out the soft cotton shirt, nervously holding it in front of him. “Here.”
Starsky came close and turned around, and Hutch slid the shirt onto his partner’s shower-warmed body.
Get a grip. The man’s sick, he almost died, and all you can do is ogle his body like some lecher. He grabbed the bottoms, hoping Starsky wouldn’t notice how flushed and unsteady he was.
“Can you pick up your feet a little?” he asked, bending to ease the bottoms over Starsky’s feet and up his legs.
Starsky leaned on his shoulder as he pulled up the pajama drawers and tied the string, hands shaking, feeling feverish all over. Careful. Don’t brush against him, against his cock, his warm, silky cock ….
“You okay?” Starsky asked him.
He forced a smile. “I’m fine, dummy. I’m not the sick one.” He grabbed the blanket and pulled it around his partner’s shoulders, drawing him toward the bed.
“Nah.” Starsky balked. “I wanna sit up for a while. I’m thirsty, too.”
“Come on.” Hutch gently pushed him to the couch and eased him down, then went into the kitchen and poured him a glass of orange juice. When he brought it back, Starsky took it in both hands and Hutch felt a pang in his chest at that sign of weakness. All of this - he almost died, and all of it because he did his job. Because he’s a good cop. It’s not fucking fair.
Hutch held himself still, unbreathing, trying to calm down as Starsky tipped his head back and chugged the entire glass, handing it back to Hutch with a sigh.
“That was good. Thanks.”
Hutch put the glass in the sink and came back. Starsky had sunk down on the couch a little, his head lolling against the back, the blanket hanging loose around him. Hutch went into the bedroom, on some strange sort of autopilot, and stripped the sheets, exchanging sweat-stained for fresh and remaking the bed. God. All night. All night he was here, sick, shaking, and he wouldn’t call me. Jesus.
He tossed the old sheets into Starsky’s laundry hamper and returned to the living room, where Starsky, apparently, hadn’t moved.
Hutch forced himself to ask, “You going to miss your flight?”
Starsky didn’t open his eyes. “Already did.” He didn’t seem to care.
“When was it?”
“Monday.”
“Monday?” Something didn’t make sense. “You said you didn’t get sick ’til last night.”
Starsky just sat there.
“Starsky, if you were okay Monday, why’re you still here?” He moved closer and Starsky let his head flop over so he could look at his partner.
“Changed my mind.”
“When?” Hutch blurted.
Starsky shrugged, dislodging the blanket. He looked up at Hutch, his eyes bright. “I woulda called you, but … I thought I better give you a while to cool off. Then I started feelin’ kinda sick, so …”
He trailed off while Hutch thought about Starsky’s version of “kinda sick”: lying here in a pool of sweat, shaking, nauseated, aching down to his bones, alone.
He stepped over Starsky’s outstretched legs and sat on the couch. “What made you change your mind?”
Starsky’s head lolled in his direction, but his partner didn’t speak, only looked at him for a long, silent time.
Then Starsky said softly, “I made reservations for both of us,” and Hutch’s heart lurched.
“I knew we had the time comin’, and … I was just so glad to be alive. You know? I figured for sure we could talk Dobey into it.” He closed his eyes. “I was gonna surprise you.”
“Starsk …” Hutch whispered, confused.
“Then I remembered you had your cousin’s wedding to go to next weekend.”
Hutch started; he’d forgotten. His sister planned to fly out to join him in seeing their youngest cousin, Marjorie, get married in San Diego.
Starsky’s eyes opened. “I figured I’d call Huggy from the office and cancel. I mean, I guess I coulda gone without you, but …”
“I thought …” Hutch swallowed. I thought you wanted to go alone. I thought you didn’t want me.
“I know,” Starsky said. “I didn’t think Huggy’d call and make it sound like that, like I was going by myself.”
“But …” It still didn’t make sense. “That show you put on …”
Starsky rolled his eyes. “I was just yankin’ your chain, Hutch. Yours and Dobey’s. I didn’t think Huggy’d call me before I called him. I didn’t think that you’d think …” He shook his head. “Ah, I don’t know. It got all messed up.” He looked hard at Hutch. “I wouldn’t do that, Hutch. I wouldn’t lie to you and go off by myself that way. I mean, you saved my friggin’ life-”
Hutch shook his head, suddenly angry. “Don’t. You don’t owe me a goddamned -”
“No-” Starsky reached out, grabbing his arm. “I mean, even if you hadn’t, I … I wouldn’t’ve just gone off without you.”
Hutch squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like such an asshole for thinking what he’d thought, for believing - fearing - Starsky would do that to him. He’d just wanted too badly to believe other things, to believe these new crazy feelings might have a chance … he was off-balance, his emotions running too high, his natural understanding of and trust for his partner contaminated by these wild desires.
“I just … wanted to go with you,” Starsky said, his voice again strangely soft, almost wondering, the tone forcing Hutch to open his eyes.
Ah, Starsk, don’t. Don’t be like this, so warm, so loving. I can’t keep it inside if you’re going to be like this.
Starsky was staring at him. “I wanted us to go together,” he said, and - astonishingly - flushed, dropping his gaze. “And then, when we couldn’t … there wasn’t any point in goin’.” He shrugged again. “Rather be here with you than there without you.”
“Starsk …” Hutch covered Starsky’s hand with his.
And with that wonderful lack of self-consciousness Hutch had always envied, Starsky leaned over to drape himself across Hutch’s chest, curling up against him with a sigh, as if he were a big pillow.
Laughing, overwhelmed that - despite everything - Starsky had no doubt of his welcome, Hutch wrapped his arms around his languid partner and leaned back on the arm of the sofa. Drawing Starsky with him, he stretched out as comfortably as he could, blinking fast to get rid of the sudden moisture in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Hutch,” Starsky murmured. “Don’t go for a while, okay?”
Hutch hugged him. “Go ahead and rest,” he said, stroking Starsky’s back through the blanket. “I’m here.” Always here, Starsk. Always.
* * *
Hutch woke up not knowing, at first, where he was, or what was resting on top of him.
Then he remembered. He was stretched out on Starsky’s sofa, his neck bent across the arm and his partner a warm, Starsky-scented weight, sprawled over his torso, sound asleep, hands lying open on Hutch’s chest, legs split around Hutch’s right leg and one thigh compressing Hutch’s cock.
Which liked that compression a lot, Hutch realized, his entire body flushing with embarrassment and arousal. Now what?
Starsky murmured contentedly and snuggled closer, and Hutch clenched his jaw to prevent any sound as Starsky’s hip rubbed against his erection. Oh Christ. What the hell was he going to do?
Starsky stilled, his head tilting up to look sleepy-eyed at his partner.
“Hey.” He smiled.
“Hey,” Hutch whispered. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty good.” He shifted again - and Hutch realized with a cold flash of mortification that his partner was aware of his … slight problem.
Starsky glanced downward and his smile broadened. “Seems like you’re feelin’ pretty good too.”
At any other time Hutch would have been slightly embarrassed and mostly amused; now, his own feelings left him raw, ashamed, unable to make light of it. He pushed Starsky against the back of the couch and slid out from under him, rolling to his feet.
“Hutch-”
He was at the door when he glanced back to see his partner standing white-faced beside the couch. He swayed - Hutch crossed the room in a split second, catching Starsky’s arms as they both sank onto the couch again.
“Shit,” Starsky breathed. “Sorry. Got up too fast.” One hand clasped Hutch’s wrist, the other his shoulder, as Starsky sat, head bowed, breathing steadily. “Whew. I’m okay now.” He looked up at Hutch, not letting go.
“I didn’t mean to … y’know, offend you or anything,” he said gently. “It’s no big deal. It happens. I was only kiddin’ around.”
Hutch clamped his mouth shut to avoid saying I know; that’s exactly the problem. Or It is a big deal and it didn’t just happen. It happened because of you.
Starsky looked down, let the hand resting on Hutch’s shoulder slide down lightly ’til it rested on Hutch’s thigh, depriving Hutch of the ability to breathe.
“I was gonna …” Starsky mumbled. His fingers tightened around Hutch’s wrist, one convulsive pulse of nerves. “I was gonna offer to help ya out,” Starsky finished, and raised his face to show a blush, but not the slightest sign that he was joking.
Hutch gaped. “S-Starsk …” His own hands dropped, numb, from Starsky’s shoulders, and Starsky took it exactly as anyone would - as rejection. He let go of Hutch’s wrist, let his hand fall from Hutch’s thigh, and turned away.
“Sorry. I only meant …” He turned back abruptly, determination on his face, holding Hutch’s eyes with his own. “You’re so … You just-” He clenched both hands in front of himself. “If you coulda, you woulda traded places with me in a New York minute, wouldn’t you?” It was obvious he wasn’t talking about a Caribbean vacation.
“Not on your life,” Hutch lied huskily. And Starsky smiled, seeing right through him.
“I love you so much … sometimes I think it’s not even possible to love someone this much. But I do. I’d do anything for you. Anything.” The fists opened, throwing caution to the winds. “Givin’ you a hand with a hard-on … that’s nothin’.”
Oh God. Hutch finally managed to breathe, not sure whether he was ecstatic or miserable or just totally confused. It’s not nothing to me.
So he whispered, ”That’s not a good enough reason.”
Still holding his eyes, Starsky blinked. “Hutch?” His hands crept back, one on Hutch’s knee, the other reaching upward, toward his face, cautious. “What-what’re you sayin’?”
Hutch grabbed his shoulders once more, drawing their bodies hard together and commandeering his mouth, swallowing down the grunt of surprise, sucking away the startled exhalation and filling the warm hollow with his hungry tongue. Starsky’s body moved against his, hard and hot, and his mouth opened, welcoming Hutch’s tongue, caressing it with his own, setting fire to Hutch’s insides.
Vaguely he became aware of hands pushing at his shoulders, but when he jerked back, horrified at himself, Starsky caught him, panting, red-faced, but not letting him go.
“Whew.” His eyes glittered up at his partner. “I guess you want a little more than a hand with your hard-on.” He wriggled closer, provocatively, but Hutch stayed stiff. This was too important to plunge into blindly.
When Starsky stilled, Hutch confessed, “I want a lot more than that.” His voice came out a growl, harsh with controlled need.
“You got it,” Starsky said softly. Hutch shook his head.
“You don’t even know what I’m asking-”
“So ask,” Starsky said - an order - his eyes locked onto Hutch’s face as if to catch every nuance of feeling Hutch allowed to show.
“I - I want to make love to you-”
“You got it.”
Again Hutch shook his head, sharply. He’s not listening, he doesn’t get it. “Not just now. Not just today.”
“You got it.” Starsky’s fingers wandered from Hutch’s shoulders to his shirt buttons.
“Starsk, I’m serious, god damn it -”
“Me too.”
“You don’t even … have you even thought about it-stop that!” He lifted one hand to brush Starsky’s fingers away, and they fluttered off, then back, sliding under the open shirt front. “Starsk … I mean, I want us to - to - ”
“You got it,” Starsky said again, pressing his hands, hot as brands, flat against Hutch’s chest. “Ain’t you been listenin’? I love you. I love the hell outta you. You wanna make love with me, today, tomorrow, forever? You got it, you got it, you got it.”
“But … but …” Stunned, Hutch drew back, sitting properly on the couch again but for Starsky’s legs, still draped over his. “You - you can’t tell me you’re suddenly … interest-attracted to men.” He realized it had been some time since he’d breathed, and forced his lungs to remember how to do it. Starsky watched Hutch with a curious tilt to his head.
“You were in my lap a second ago,” Starsky said, glancing toward the bodily region in question. Hutch did the same, and fire blazed in his stomach to see the swell of his partner’s erection through the thin cotton of his pajamas. “Did it seem like I wasn’t interested?”
“Oh, Christ, Starsk …” He breathed the words, a prayer, less than a whisper, his palms tingling, magnetized to his partner’s body.
“I’m not queer, Hutch,” Starsky said, not making the word an insult. “I mean, I don’t think I am. I love you is all. I don’t know how or why, and I know it’s weird as hell. Maybe I always got a little thrill outta touchin’ you, but I didn’t think about it. But …” His gaze flickered, suddenly shy, and Hutch felt fond amusement tickle his own mouth. “But if you want to, you know, make love, man, I’m willing to give it a shot.” He grinned up at his partner, and Hutch shook his head.
“Starsk …” He laughed softly. “I love you back, buddy. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, but -”
“Then maybe we could stop talkin’,” Starsky urged. “Don’t give me a chance to chicken out here.” He leaned forward, then slithered forward, until he was in Hutch’s lap again, hands braced on the couch at either side, while Hutch sat frozen under him, excited and confused and not knowing whether his body was saying yes or no or both.
“Look at us,” Starsky purred, his lips teasingly close to Hutch’s. “Two big tough cops, too chicken to just love each other.”
Lifting shaking hands, Hutch explored Starsky’s face, his neck, shoulders - all of them places he’d touched before, but it was as if he’d never been aware of his hands before, how sensitive they were, how they drank in details of heat and soft skin and the wiry brush of hair, how hungry his palms were to fill themselves with Starsky.
Framing Starsky’s face, he admitted, “I’m not tough when it comes to you.”
Wonder softened the fire of the blue eyes locked onto his, and Starsky eased forward, bringing their mouths together, slowly, as though he were reveling in the novelty of every feeling, memorizing every taste and scent and sound. He wasn’t delicate - if Hutch had thought he could, or would, pretend he was kissing a girl, there was no chance of that while enveloped by Starsky’s scent and weight and strength and stubble and … oh god … Starsky toyed with his mouth, teasing with lips and teeth and tongue and soft chuckles until Hutch surged upward and took over the kiss, Starsky’s deep hum of approval vibrating against his chest.
He almost bit Starsky’s tongue off when the phone jangled. They jumped apart, both a little flushed, both smiling stupidly.
“Let it ring,” Starsky said, taking his kisses on a leisurely sojourn along Hutch’s jaw and down his neck, tickling and sucking while Hutch squirmed and clutched at him and thought Oh man, I was wrong, you’re a damned good kisser.
The phone kept ringing, though, and somewhere around Hutch’s sternum, just when Hutch’s half-erection started to swell at the thought that Starsky was going to keep on working his way down, Starsky stopped.
Sighed. “I better get it.”
Hutch caught at him as he sat up, capturing his reaching hand.
“You’re on leave.”
“Might be important.”
“I’ll get it.”
“But it’s my phone.”
Hutch pushed his hand away and grabbed the receiver with the other. “If it’s important, I’ll give it to you. If it isn’t, I’ll get rid of whoever it is.” He felt Starsky’s surrender and picked up the receiver.
“Starsky residence.”
Starsky made a “la dee dah” face at him.
“Hutch?” Dobey’s familiar half-question, half-command made Hutch stiffen, untangling gently from his partner to stand, as if at attention.
“Yeah, cap’n. What is it?”
“Thought I might find you there. We got a double homicide at Rosario’s taco shop on Fourth Street.”
“Cap-” Even as Hutch choked out the word Dobey recognized it as an attempted dodge.
“Everyone else is already out, Hutchinson. Watering your partner’s plants can wait. Get over there on the double. Pronto.”
Hutch winced as Dobey slammed the receiver down, then hung up the phone, gently, as if it or something near it - himself, maybe - would break. Then he looked at Starsky, sitting on the arm of the couch, apparently relaxed, patient.
“I have to go,” Hutch blurted, angry - angry at everything, at Dobey, at the job, at himself for not saying fuck it, for not having the courage to stay - for being relieved, god damn it. He was relieved.
“I know,” Starsky said.
“Starsk … I …” He moved, two steps toward the door, a step back. “I …” He blurted a laugh, hating himself. “I’m scared.”
Starsky didn’t move from the couch, watched him, close, following his every move, predatory. “I know.”
“Stop it, god damn it.” He rubbed his hands over his scalp, glanced at the door, at escape - but it wasn’t escape. He didn’t want to run. He was scared to death, but he wanted this more than anything he’d ever wanted - even if he was so scared he didn’t know what to do with it once he had it in his hands. “I mean it. I’m … I’m scared.” He looked hard at Starsky, angry again, ready to blame, but his partner sat there, not coming close, not asking, not begging, not doing anything but watching and waiting.
Hands knotted, Hutch whispered, “I love you,” as if he were ashamed of it.
Starsky said, “I know.” Unsmiling, acknowledging everything that went along with those words, acknowledging the weight of it all bearing down on Hutch.
He backed toward the door and Starsky watched, unmoving, unafraid. Hutch shook his head, turned as though the door, not Starsky, were the threat, and he couldn’t have his back to it any longer.
“I … gotta go.” He grabbed the doorknob. Stared at it. Blurted, “I’ll be back.” He squeezed the doorknob, crushing it so hard it hurt, then lifted his head, making sure his voice carried. “I’ll be back.” He wrenched the door open, lunged through, slammed it behind him and hurried down the stairs, hearing Starsky’s voice in his head.
I know.
The End