S/H Zine Story: Puzzle Box (NC-17)
Title: Puzzle Box
Author: morganlogan
Pairing: S/H
Wordcount: 9,710
Rating: NC-17
Category: FT, Hutch H/C, post-SR
Beta: CC
Summary: With Hutch, there's no such thing as a slam-dunk.
Notes: Originally published in Lucy Doty's memorial zine for Tabby Davis, Test of Faith.
The coroner lifted her camera and snapped a shot, flooding the scene with harsh, unforgiving light. Hutch blinked, but the afterimage stayed, the colors crisp and sharp as if painted with a palette knife. Etched permanently in his memory now, these dark splashes of blood against the white flesh, and the brown of the young man’s eyes, already dulled with dust.
Always, the eyes were the worst part.
He heard a whining noise, grating and pleading, and stalked over to the artist of the scene, Harry Dinkins, who was huddled by the dented filing cabinet, his broken arm being tended to by an unsympathetic paramedic.
“Did you say something, crumb?” Hutch asked the perp, forcing the words out between his teeth.
Harry gave a little squeak and went silent, staring at him with wide gray eyes.
The hand that had suddenly appeared on Hutch’s arm gave a squeeze, and he made an effort to relax under Starsky’s grip.
“Ready to go?” Starsky asked, as if they were just finishing a couple of beers before hitting the road.
Hutch nodded heavily. For some reason, his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He waited while Starsky had a word with the uniform standing guard over Harry, and then they left.
Starsky swung down the hallway ahead of him with his usual hipshot strut. Hutch envied his energy. Starsky always bounced back. It was in his walk. It was in the way he drove the Torino, peeling them away from the scene with a healthy squeal.
But Starsky didn’t take them straight back to Metro. Hutch turned his head and raised an eyebrow, and Starsky responded, “They’ve gotta take that flake to the hospital to get his arm set. It’ll be at least a couple hours before they’ve got him in the tank.”
A reprieve. Hutch needed it bad, which was probably why Starsky was turning the corner on Seventh, taking them down to McArthur Park. He found a parking place right on the lake and killed the engine.
Hutch made no move to get out, instead staring out the passenger window. The thick gray-brown trunks of the palm trees framed the green of the lake and the foaming fountain that tore through the afternoon air.
“Dinkins reminds me of Solkin,” Starsky said, and Hutch flinched. He didn’t need the reminder of that other lowlife pederast and what he had caused Hutch to lose in this very park. Abby was years gone, but he still remembered the silk of her hair against his face as they rolled in the grass. And the guilt marring her beauty as she told him goodbye.
Starsky’s hand was on his shoulder, and Hutch let the touch spur him out of the Torino and onto the cement path. He heard Starsky get out behind him and follow.
The touch wasn’t new, but the accompanying yearning it inspired was just weeks old. Or maybe just finally recognized, the awareness born when Starsky had kissed him for the first time over the chessboard, the pieces scattering beneath his hands as he leaned across and surprised Hutch’s lips. In spite of the cold shock that had gelled in his gut, Hutch had felt heat in his face, the burn touching his chest and the sides of his neck. He’d made a sound and pulled back.
Starsky hadn’t said anything, had just watched with careful eyes as Hutch pushed himself abruptly away and then paced back and forth, absently prodding the fallen chess pieces with his foot to herd them into a neat pile.
“Hell of a way to get out of losing the game,” Hutch said at last, his voice shaking. He could still feel those soft lips on his. He nudged another errant pawn back toward the cluster, sensing more than seeing Starsky’s answering shrug.
“Just felt like it was time. Or are you gonna say you haven’t been feeling it, too?” he said defensively.
Hutch couldn’t deny the undercurrents had been gathering strength ever since Gunther. Or even earlier, maybe since that moment at the beach, badges in hand....
But the fear struck him then and he shook his head, walking halfway to the door before he realized he couldn’t leave it like this, leave Starsky hanging without back-up when he’d been so brave. Hutch turned and lifted his head.
Starsky had settled back onto his seat. His hands were folded on the table, as if he were sitting in a meeting. His eyes were deep in the shadows.
“I need...to think, Starsk. You understand?” Hutch lifted his hands a little at the disappointment and fear that suddenly creased his partner’s strong features.
“I’m not saying-” Hutch’s attempt at reassurance cut off as he realized he didn’t even know what he was trying to say. “I-I just-”
“’S okay, Hutch,” Starsky said, and then his lips curved in a rueful smile. “I knew before I even tried it that you were sure to go and make it complicated.”
Even as he flinched inwardly at the implied slam, Hutch felt relief and gratitude fill him that Starsky wasn’t going to push him on this. That they were still, apparently, okay.
“Okay,” Hutch said, letting out a heavy breath.
Starsky nodded, but the deep blue of his eyes suddenly seemed mysterious, unknowable as the ocean.
And Hutch felt uneasy again.
The paddleboats were out in force on the lake, filled with summer vacationers tootling happily back and forth between the banks. Hutch stepped off the path to let a couple of joggers pass, and then sighed when Starsky joined him at his elbow.
“Too little, too late for Denny,” Starsky said, scuffing at a rock by his foot, and Hutch nodded. It finally occurred to him he wasn’t the only one feeling the despairing shame of it-that they had arrived hours too late to save the kid’s life. Hutch tentatively put an arm around Starsky’s shoulder, and was grateful when his partner leaned into him with a bump before pulling away again.
We still have this. Hutch’s relief was almost subconscious.
“At least there won’t be any others,” he said, choking on it a little. Small consolation-at least to the young man’s family and friends. But he heard Starsky make a sound of agreement.
“Guess we should book,” he said after a long moment.
Normally at this point Hutch might pat Starsky on the belly, or Starsky would grip the back of Hutch’s neck and shake him a little before giving him an ungentle push back toward the car. Instead, for some reason they both continued to stand in silence, and Hutch felt a tension in it, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He forced himself to tuck an elbow gently against Starsky’s ribs.
Starsky moved, heading back up the path, and Hutch followed.
ooOoo
Officer Benson brought Dinkins up from the tank to the interrogation room, and Starsky intentionally put the perp in the lower chair before the gray table. He nodded his thanks to Benny, who left with a final disgusted grimace at Harry. The piece of shit looked miserable, his head hanging low over the plastered arm he’d rested on the table. The arm that had swung a knife at Starsky just a few hours earlier. The arm that Hutch had done a number on in wringing the blade from Harry’s hand.
“Let’s go over it, Harry,” Starsky said, trying to sound friendly and sympathetic. He looked up and took a quick glance at Hutch, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Hutch’s eyes were burning a mean blue.
Harry’s head nodded a little, while Starsky switched on the tape recorder and microphone and once again informed him of his rights.
“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?” Starsky said. Harry nodded again and Starsky suppressed a sigh of exasperation.
“Nod out loud for the tape recorder, Harry,” he said. Hutch made an impatient movement, and Harry darted him a look without lifting his head.
“Yes, I-I understand,” Harry said quickly, his voice high and breathy.
“Then go ahead,” Starsky said. “Take it from the top.”
“They let me out of the hospital two months ago,” Harry began. “They made me leave-I swear I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay where it was safe, but Doc Finch said I was all cured and they needed my room for someone sicker....”
As Harry whined on, Starsky kept the corner of his eye trained on Hutch, who had dropped his hands and was rubbing them against his hips. He looked nervous and upset. Actually, that was pretty much how he’d looked for two weeks now, ever since Starsky had made his move.
I really thought it was a slam-dunk. The timing was perfect, I know it. They’d been back on the streets for a month. Starsky was fit, as fit as he’d been in his life. They were back in the groove, had slipped back into it as easy as sliding on soap. Thanks to all the time they’d spent together while Starsky recovered from the “attempt,” as Hutch called it, they’d never been more in tune.
Or so I thought.
Just a quiet night at the chessboard after a typical day on the streets, with Hutch looking confused as ever by Starsky’s Law, but seeming relaxed and pretty damned happy. He’d castled, then taken a sip of his beer, smiling a little. One stray drop of liquid had hung on his full lower lip, and Starsky had found himself rising from the bench and leaning over the table to kiss it off.
He hadn’t thought about it ahead of time-at least, no more than he had been over the past months. It just had never seemed like the right time before. For one thing, there was the persistent pain of his injuries, and his dependency on the pain drugs and on Hutch being there for him to help him get by. But more importantly, there was his sense that Hutch was still too freaked by what had happened to risk the careful balance they had found to get through the rough time. It wouldn’t have been fair to throw something new at him when Hutch was finding it tough enough just accepting that the world hadn’t ended.
Hell, Starsky was having a hard time accepting it himself. He’d thought it was all over. He still couldn’t remember the shooting itself, just the right before, and then the overwhelming weakness and chill that had told him it was pretty bad.
Hutch had his hands on my chest. There was blood on his forehead, and the expression on his face made me realize just how fucked I was. I don’t ever want to see that look again. Not ever.
But that night across the chessboard, it was like the attempt had never happened. They were back. And Starsky thought for sure....
But Hutch couldn’t handle it. Why? It wasn’t like he even acted very surprised-how could he be? We’ve been heading toward this ever since I can remember. Even during the year before, when things got ugly sometimes, it’s always been there. I know he felt it. I know it like I know my own hands.
Starsky looked down at them now, barely registering Harry’s droning whine. The tape was at the twenty-minute mark, and soon Starsky would have to flip it. He looked over at Hutch, wondering if he’d missed anything important.
Hutch was staring at him. He looked away when Starsky caught him at it, his long hair swinging softly, a few stray strands catching against his cheek. Minus the moustache, the long hair made him look weirdly young, but there was a hardness in his jaw and a tightness below his eyes.
Starsky knew they’d have to talk, and soon.
Harry stumbled to a stop, and Starsky shook his head. He hadn’t been paying attention and had no idea how to prompt the man on any missing points.
“What about your medication, Harry?” Hutch asked darkly. “How come you stopped taking it?”
Harry gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat. “I m-met a girl. Doc Finch said that was good, that I should try t-to be like other guys.”
Starsky nodded encouragingly. “So?”
“So the medicine was making me not feel-” Harry stopped, looking embarrassed. “Not myself. I wasn’t...I couldn’t-”
“Couldn’t get it up, slimeball?” Hutch said caustically.
Harry flinched.
“Harry, didn’t it occur to you that if you stopped taking ’em you might do something bad?” Starsky asked, genuinely curious, even as his stomach tightened in anger at how very bad Harry had been.
“I didn’t feel bad,” Harry whispered. “I felt good, so good.” Harry’s voice was trembling, and he dropped his good hand off the table and into his lap.
Hutch pushed off the wall with a wordless growl, and Harry jerked in fear then moaned in pain, clutching at his cast.
Time to wrap it up. Starsky turned off the tape recorder and pushed to his feet, the chair grating harshly behind him. Harry’s head dropped low and he moaned a little more.
“Fuck,” Hutch said, and stalked to the door to yank it open. “Benny, come take this lowlife,” he called out. Benny came in and Hutch brushed by him, walking out.
Starsky collected the tape recorder and microphone and nodded his thanks to Benny. “We’ll transcribe, and then we’re gonna have to get him back up here to sign his statement.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” Benny said. “C’mon, you,” he jerked his head at Harry. Starsky watched with approval as Benny cuffed himself to the prisoner’s good arm.
Hutch was waiting by the elevator, and they rode up in silence, going back up to the squadroom to type up the confession. Since Hutch could hunt-and-peck faster than he could, Starsky did the arrest report while Hutch sat with the headphones, tapping and tapping. His scowl deepened the more he typed, and after a while Starsky yanked a bottle of aspirin from his desk and tossed it to Hutch, who grimaced in thanks and tossed down a couple of tablets with his coffee.
A few hours later, they had the signed confession sent off to the DA’s office, and Dobey was waving them home for the day with a gruff, “Good work.”
“I need to shower for about three days,” Starsky said in the car, the silence emanating from the passenger seat getting to him.
Hutch grunted something that sounded like agreement. At the next stoplight, Starsky looked over to where Hutch’s big hand was tensely gripping his thigh.
Holding on. What’re you holding onto, babe? Starsky had given Hutch time to adjust to the new truth between themmore time than he thought Hutch neededand maybe that had been a mistake on his part. He still didn’t always get it right with his complicated partner. Whatever it is, it’s not gonna go away. Maybe it’s just better to have it out.
Decided, Starsky took them to his apartment.
ooOoo
“Why’re we here?” Hutch asked. Obviously, he hadn’t been paying much attention during the drive.
Starsky gave him a wordless look and saw Hutch’s shoulder hunch a bit before he straightened and got out of the car.
There was beer waiting in Starsky’s fridge, which was one of the reasons he’d picked his place to have a showdown. The other was that Hutch would be without wheels, so he couldn’t go driving off if the conversation got too heavy.
From the way Hutch was pacing the length of the living room, he might end up walking home, anyway.
“Here,” Starsky said, tossing him a bottle. “Why don’t you take a load off?”
Hutch didn’t seem to hear him, but he used his key to pop the top off his beer, and took a long drink before resuming his pacing.
“Hutch. Siddown.” Starsky said it a little harshly and was glad to see it had the desired effect. Hutch flicked his head in his direction and then sank down onto the couch. He flipped the cap from his beer and it landed with a clink into the ceramic bowl sitting on Starsky’s coffee table. Then Hutch leaned back and rested the bottle on his leg, staring at Starsky evenly before raising his eyebrow. Starsky read the look clearly, So? You wanted to talk? Talk.
Starsky sighed in exasperation and raised his own eyebrows in turn. You know the ball’s in your court. C’mon and give.
Hutch looked away and took a slow swig of his beer. Starsky waited.
Hutch looked back at him and lifted his lips. “A real sicko, that Harry,” he said.
The apparent subject change was a little confusing. Hutch continued deliberately, “Sick in the head. A pervert.” He stared at Starsky, a slight mocking tilt to his brow.
It took a moment for the hidden meaning to really hit, and by then Starsky’s blood had already started rising.
“I know you ain’t saying what I think you’re saying.” His voice was low and trembling. He took a closer look at Hutch’s face, and then he saw it. Hiding there, deep in those eyes. Fear. Bone white fear, and a barely-contained panic. His mind flashed back to Hutch’s hand clenched stiffly on his leg in the car, and Starsky’s anger left him like a ghost.
He took a deep breath and settled back down in the armchair, then lifted his bottle in a toast.
“Nice try. But you must really be a moron to think you can put one over on me. I know you too fucking well, Hutch.”
Hutch closed his eyes, and when they opened again, they were staring down at his lap. But it was too late for hiding.
“It’s too late,” Starsky echoed the thought. “It’s been too late for a while, pal. So why don’t you come clean before you do us both some damage?”
Hutch spoke to his hands. “’S not that easy....”
“Fuck easy,” Starsky said curtly. He let the truth roll out of him. “You owe me this. You owe me for every time in this last shitty year that you pushed me, made me want to keep trying. Made me stick around, damn it, when I just wanted to give it up. You owe me.”
Hutch took a funny breath and then keeled over sideways on the couch, propping his feet on the cushions and dropping a hand over his eyes.
“Why?” he mumbled, and Starsky leaned forward in his seat. “Why does it have to change?”
“I told you. It already has,” Starsky said softly. “Didn’t you notice? Sometimes, when I was in the hospital and it got real bad, sometimes...all you had to do was touch me to make it right. You remember that?”
He saw Hutch give a small nod. “But that was-”
“Hutch. Tell me why you’re having so much trouble with it. You...you’ve never been hung up about that stuff before-”
“‘That stuff’?” Hutch echoed mockingly, and Starsky stiffened. But Hutch relented almost immediately. “Sorry. Yeah, it’s already changing. Look at us.” Hutch waved his beer in a vague gesture. “When did we ever have to talk about us before? I don’t want it to change. I like how you...know me. I don’t want to lose....”
“Lose what?” Starsky asked quietly when Hutch didn’t go on.
“Us,” he said on a sigh. “Like we’ll...turn into something else. Something I don’t recognize.”
Starsky considered that a moment.
“Bullshit,” he said.
Hutch jerked his arm down to stare at him.
“You heard me. Just more bullshit, Hutch. I told you: we’re already there. Or almost there. Question is why you’re being such a chickenshit about it.”
Starsky grinned a little, just inside his head, when Hutch’s face flamed red and he suddenly sat up on the couch. He set his beer on the table and stared at Starsky.
“Okay, partner. You wanna know the truth? The truth is you don’t know me. Nobody knows anybody, not really. Not all of them. Anyone who tells you different is selling you something.” After this pronouncement Hutch rose to his feet and started pacing again, his hands rubbing at his arms.
“I know you,” Starsky said evenly, turning to track him.
“Bullshit,” Hutch parroted, throwing him a mocking look. “We only ever know what we show each other, and we never, ever show one person everything. Never. But I’ll tell you who does know those parts of me, the stuff you’ve never seen. Abby. Gillian.” Hutch paused in his pacing and faced him. “And Van. Let’s not forget her,” he said, his tone raw with bitterness.
“Ah. I get it,” Starsky said. “You think I’m like Van.” It was stupid. He should’ve known it would be something this stupid.
Hutch shot him an acid look and stiffened when he caught the amusement that must have been showing on Starsky’s face.
“This isn’t a joke,” Hutch said, and his voice had gone hoarse.
“No, not a joke,” Starsky agreed calmly when he saw those hands clench into fists.
“If we did this thing, I wouldn’t be able to...I couldn’t stop myself from...being...something you don’t want,” Hutch whispered.
Starsky couldn’t take it. He stood quickly and moved toward his partner to stand in front of him.
“How do you know I don’t want it?” Starsky asked, keeping his voice low.
Hutch shook his head.
“Just ’cause some stupid chick didn’t? Or is it something else?” Starsky tilted his head. “Maybe I should be asking if you want to see that side of me.”
Hutch looked startled, as if the question had never even occurred to him. Which it probably hadn’t, Starsky realized with relief.
“No? Then why, Hutch? Tell me what would be so awful that I’d run screaming?”
Hutch shook his head again. He was breathing roughly, his hands still clenched at his sides. Starsky lifted his own, and Hutch swayed back minutely.
“Okay,” Starsky said. “Okay. Sit down, all right?”
Hutch obeyed, taking the armchair this time, and Starsky settled onto the coffee table opposite him, their knees almost touching.
“Why can’t we drop this?” Hutch said, sounding hopeless.
Talk was getting them nowhere. Starsky edged forward, opening his legs so the insides of his knees surrounded Hutch’s. Then he dropped a palm on Hutch’s thigh, letting his fingers trail inside.
He felt the heat there and heard Hutch take a shaky breath, and Starsky let the knowledge touch his voice. “That’s why,” he whispered.
“That’s not everything,” Hutch said. “It doesn’t have to be-”
“So we just go on?” Starsky said, starting to get a little pissed. “You willing to let me go try and find it somewhere else, just because you’re too damned chicken to take what’s yours?”
He saw Hutch’s head lift in surprise, and read the instant jealousy and grudging acceptance of his point. Starsky sighed and stood.
“I need that shower. You can call a cab or something if you wanna go. Or...you can stay.” Starsky walked away, his pride unwilling to bend any further by begging.
He went to the bathroom and stripped quickly, making sure he had a clean towel on the rack before getting into the shower and turning on the water. The first cold sting made him flinch a little, but then he gratefully let it pour down his chest and ease his aching hard-on. It seemed like he’d been carrying it forever, ever since he’d stopped needing the painkillers and had gotten his first erection in months during one of Hutch’s gentle back rubs.
Just over the roar of the water he heard a sound; at first he was uncertain what it was. He turned his head and listened closely, identifying it as heavy clothing dropping to the floor. His heart started to hammer a little. Can’t be. Is he really...?
The shower curtain moved, the rings sliding musically on the rod, and then his big, naked partner was standing in the tub with him. Starsky could smell his skin, feel the bulk of him behind him, just like he always did, sensing the familiar form like a part of his own body. He didn’t turn right away, wanting to hold the moment, this moment when Hutch had finally come to him.
Also, he was suddenly shaking like crazy.
But he couldn’t be the wimp he’d accused Hutch of being, so he turned. Hutch was staring at him, the blue of his eyes unholy under the blond hair. They both moved, and suddenly Hutch’s lips were on his.
Starsky found himself responding for a time to the harsh demand before he realized there was something wrong. This wasn’t the sweetness he’d encountered over the chess table, that one moment when Hutch’s soft lips had moved under his before he yanked himself back. There was something too deliberate about the forcefulness of Hutch’s mouth, and the tense hands on his shoulders that were pushing them both under the spray of the showerhead. Starsky broke away, pushing back.
He’s not there yet. Starsky stared at Hutch, watching the wetness slide down his cheek from his soaked hair, and suddenly he was back in the laundry room, all those many years ago, with Hutch telling him just whom it was they could trust.
Same people we always trust. Us.
He answered the question in Hutch’s eyes. “Not like that,” Starsky said just over the sound of the water. He raised his hand and gently thumbed away the drops that threatened to fall from Hutch’s pale eyebrow. Like this. He let his hand drift over Hutch’s cheek and fall away. Trust me, Hutch.
Hutch closed his eyes slowly; opened them again. He raised his hand and rested it softly on Starsky’s chest, over his thundering heart. Then he leaned in and kissed him lightly, tongue-tip barely brushing Starsky’s lips, before he pulled back.
Like that? Hutch’s eyes asked.
Starsky smiled. Yes. Just like that. Just like I’ve seen you with them, wasting all that sweetness on one-night stands never meant to last a goddamn minute. Or like you held me when I’d just gotten out of the hospital, as if the smallest touch could break me wide open again.
Then Hutch’s hand skimmed up his chest and reached over his shoulder, coming back with the soap. Hutch lathered his hands, watching Starsky intently, before he dropped it in the dish and laid his soapy hands on Starsky’s chest. Hutch caressed him, cleaning him, moving over his scars and teasing the nipples with his fingers, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s.
Oh, God. Finally Hutch was touching him the way he’d wanted so badly for so long, and he felt his chest heaving under the big hands, as if there were no air left anywhere. His pulse was thudding in his temples and neck, and his cock was rising, filling with blood, stirred by the tender touch.
Hutch looked down, and Starsky’s breath froze in his throat. Now’s when he’ll freak. It seemed like things had been going too well for there not to be a catch. But Hutch only gave a slight smile and put his hands on Starsky’s shoulders, turning him.
The water hit his hard-on, making him gasp a little and move forward so it centered on his stomach. And then Hutch’s hand was there, making him gasp even harder when he felt the soapy grip take his cock and stroke it. He wanted to get the angle right. Like touching himself, only he’s touching me. Then all thought took a hike as Hutch’s other hand came from below to cup his balls, fondling them.
Starsky started panting. He could sense the heat of Hutch’s own arousal behind him, but not close enough to touch. So he reached back and caught a firm butt cheek to pull him in, to feel the heat pressing against his ass.
Hutch moaned in his ear, the first sound he’d made since stepping into the shower, and as if it were a signal, they both started moving, Hutch’s hand pumping his cock, and Starsky pushing into the stroke then pulling back against Hutch’s erection, which rode high on his ass, hard and hot.
Starsky was moaning, feeling it rise so fast inside him that he knew when he came it would be painfully hard. But he wanted it, wanted to get it over with, this first time, so it would be a done deal-this thing between them would finally be real. He groaned low, feeling the jerking hand taking him close to the edge, and he tilted his head back and found Hutch’s mouth waiting. Hutch released his balls to hold the side of his head, and he was gasping against Starsky’s lips. Then Starsky cried out and came, squeezing his eyes tight as the sharp pleasure shot through him. His cock spurted hard and Hutch eased his grip, just holding him until the pulsing stopped.
Starsky sagged in relief, and Hutch caught him, the other hand cupping water from the spray to rinse him off.
“Let’s get you dried off,” Hutch said, his voice too soft, as if he were barely breathing. Starsky wanted to protest, because he knew Hutch had to be hurting pretty bad, but his legs were Jell-O, shaking under him. He braced himself against the wall while Hutch retrieved the towel, and then he was being patted down.
Before he knew it, he’d been led to the bed, where he sat down gratefully. Hutch had wrapped the damp towel around his own waist and had another in hand that he worked over Starsky’s hair. It felt good to be looked after. It reminded Starsky of his days just out of the hospital, when he’d first become aware of the profound emotion surging between them.
But at the same time, it felt too one-sided. Starsky didn’t want a caretaker. He wanted a lover. He wanted to make Hutch feel the way he himself had felt in the shower, barely able to stand the pleasure being given to him. So when Hutch lifted the towel, Starsky grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside him on the bed. He leaned over and gave Hutch a slow kiss, opening his eyes as he pulled back.
“Starsk.” Hutch said it as if he were just seeing him.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Starsky grinned, but Hutch didn’t smile back, just stared at him, something like wonder on his face. “Hey, what you got hiding under there?” Starsky said, pitching his voice low. He yanked at the towel covering Hutch’s waist, but Hutch caught his hand.
“C’mon, baby blue,” Starsky said, getting impatient. He pushed Hutch onto his back, and Hutch made a whuff of surprise. Starsky looked down at the bulge tenting the towel, and started to reach for him.
“Lights,” Hutch said, catching his hands again.
Starsky settled back and tilted his head. “You want I should turn off the lights?” he asked in disbelief.
Hutch nodded.
“You think you got something I haven’t seen about a thousand times?” He kept his voice light, teasing, but Hutch looked away.
Starsky sighed and turned to hit the switch on the bedside lamp. The room was still dimly lit by the glow coming from the living room, but it wasn’t enough by far for Starsky’s tastes.
You’re gonna have to get over this, and soon, Blintz. Because I need to see you. Only maybe that was why Hutch wanted the lights off. Maybe he even wanted to fantasize...?
No. He wouldn’t be here if that was the score.
Hutch moved up on the bed to lie flat and Starsky scrambled beside him. He leaned over Hutch to kiss him again, his favorite part so far-the feel of those soft lips tugging at his, and the tongue curling just inside to meet his own. They kissed for a while until Hutch started moaning a little, quiet, needy sounds that made Starsky’s cock try to get another rise on, even though it was way too soon. Finally, Starsky reached down once again to free Hutch from the towel, and this time Hutch let him.
This is it. Starsky let his palm drift up one strong, smooth thigh until he could wrap his hand around the stiff shaft waiting for him.
“Starsk. God.” Hutch’s voice quivered.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you right here,” Starsky said, smiling in the dark. He bent and licked at Hutch’s chest, finding a peaked nipple with his tongue, and felt Hutch shiver beneath him. Then Starsky started stroking Hutch's cock, squeezing the skin and moving it firmly up and down. He brushed his thumb against the slit, and Hutch moaned softly. Starsky kept sucking at the small nipple and started jerking Hutch faster, until he felt the shaft throb larger in his hand.
Hutch’s hand sank into Starsky’s hair, pulling him upward, and Starsky went with it, went into the kiss with a moan of delight. They were still kissing when Hutch cried out and came, his hand joining Starsky’s on his cock to squeeze tight, fluid spurting and coating their hands while Hutch shuddered and bucked.
“Oh, my God,” Hutch said at last, forehead pressed to Starsky’s cheek. Starsky smiled and withdrew his hand to wipe it on the sheet. He settled his head against Hutch’s on the pillow, sighing with relief. It was as if they’d just jumped a fence and were in the clear.
“You okay?” he heard Hutch ask.
“Better’n okay,” Starsky mumbled, a little surprised at the question. The bed moved as Hutch shifted over onto his side, and then his hand came around Starsky’s waist. The last thing Starsky felt as he drifted into sleep was the soft touch of warm lips against his temple.
But when he woke up, Hutch was gone.
ooOoo
Hutch was running scared.
Acknowledging the fact didn’t seem to help any, because he’d found himself almost sleepless the entire night, still feeling the hum of electricity in his body, still seeing the beautiful slope of Starsky’s slick back in the shower, feeling his cock in his hand, hearing his own voice crying out Starsky’s name, until finally Hutch had crept out and called a cab. And now he was doing his morning run, only it was more like a panicked sprint and, at the pace he’d set, he expected to have a cardiac arrest before he turned the corner on his second mile.
I had sex with Starsky. With my best friend. His brain was stuck on the one track, beating in time with his feet. Before, he’d had sex with women who sometimes became friends, but much more often didn’t. With none of them had he ever had the kind of closeness he’d always had with Starsky, even back at the Academy when they’d barely known each other. Never had any of them stuck around long enough to see the sides of him that Starsky had.
And truthfully, he’d never given any of them the opportunity. Starsky was always the one he went to when he was hurting, even if he couldn’t speak about what was killing him. Just knowing Starsky was there was usually enough. And when things got really bad, when he was stripped down to a needy, pukey mess, who was always there? His partner.
None of the women had even come close to being a partner. Certainly not Van, who always seemed to expect from him the same golden image he’d presented on their very first date.
What the hell was he going to do? How could his world support Starsky in the role of his lover instead of his friend? How long would it be before he lost everything?
His lungs gave out before his legs, and he huffed his way back to his apartment, no less panicked than he’d been before he started.
ooOoo
Son of a fucking Blintz, Starsky thought fiercely as he sped down to the Torino, his hair still damp from his hasty shower. Hutch’s phone had gone unanswered, and Starsky knew in his gut that his idiot partner was running from him, from them. And since everything had been perfect until the point when Starsky had gone comatose, he figured it was that blond brain working overtime that was once again responsible for their misery.
He pulled up to Venice Place, glad to see Hutch’s current wreck of a vehicle parked in front. He’d turned off the ignition and was just out of the car when the door to the building opened and Hutch appeared.
They stared at each other across the roof of the car in momentary shock, and then Hutch walked toward him. He looked like he’d just showered. His hair was wet, slicked back, and his face was flushed red.
“Ah. Can I get a ride?” Hutch asked hesitantly.
Starsky managed to get his jaw re-hinged. “Can you...? Jesus, Hutch!”
Hutch looked nervously around them and jerked his head in a nod. He twitched again when Starsky slammed his palm on the roof.
“Ow! Shit,” Starsky muttered, and was astonished to hear a choked sound coming across from him, as if Hutch had swallowed back a laugh.
“Just get in,” Starsky said, yanking open his door and flopping onto the seat. He refused to look over at Hutch, who got in beside him and closed his door quietly.
Starsky started up the Torino and headed toward Metro. They were early, so he took the city streets instead of heading for the freeway, wanting to give them some time. After a few minutes, he risked a side-glance. Hutch was staring forward, seemingly intent on the road. But when Starsky looked down at his hands, he noticed they were twitching on Hutch’s thighs.
“I’ve been thinking...” Hutch broke the silence.
“No kidding,” Starsky said, laying heavy on the sarcasm.
Hutch made a sad sound, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you’ve been thinking? Took you all morning to come up with that?” Starsky couldn’t help the anger in his voice. “What’re you sorry for?”
Hutch said quietly, “I’m sorry I left, but I had to...work it through. You know me...” Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky saw him run a hand over his face.
“Yeah, I know you,” Starsky said pointedly. A little less angry, he finally turned his head to get a quick look at Hutch’s face. “You were running.”
Hutch gave him a small smile, a bare quirk of the lips. “Starsk, I don’t know-”
The radio squawked and Starsky cursed the timing.
“All units, all units in vicinity of Pico and La Cienega. Two-eleven in progress at Delice Bakery.”
Hutch grabbed up the mic.
“Hutch,” Starsky protested, “we’re not even logged in yet.”
“This is Zebra Three logging in at oh-seven-twenty. We are in the vicinity of that two-eleven and responding. ETA three minutes. Over.”
“Copy that, Zebra Three. Unit forty-one is also responding. Over.”
Starsky grimaced and stepped on the gas while Hutch put up the Mars light.
ooOoo
Hutch took a quick look in the window and then sped into the storefront with Starsky at his back. It wasn’t a random robbery, after all. The owner of the bakery had called in to report that the gunman was a former employee who had now holed himself up in the kitchen and was threatening to shoot anyone who came near him.
The owner, identifiable by the large apron barely covering his round belly, hurried over to them babbling a little hysterically, his bald head shiny with sweat.
“Mr. Heintz, please calm down and tell us what you can about the situation,” Hutch said, keeping his pistol unholstered. Starsky was making a quick survey of the entrance to the back room, peeking through the small window.
“It’s Jorge. He’s always been good baker, but a little funny in the head, you know?” Heintz made a circle near his temple. “Lately, though, he’s been really losing his pieces, how you say...?”
“His marbles?” Starsky said, coming back over. He said low, to Hutch, “Can’t see him from here, but it’s a big room, lots of obstructions.”
“Yes, his marbles. He think everyone want to get him all the time, everyone evil after him. Keep acting crazier and crazier, so sure he was. Finally, I tell him he can’t work here anymore, and today he come back with a gun.”
“A paranoid?” Hutch gave Starsky a glance.
“Yes, that, I think,” Heintz said.
“Nifty,” Starsky muttered.
“Okay, Mr. Heintz. I want you to go outside where it’s safe. There are more officers on the way, and I want you to tell them what you told me.” Hutch checked his gun again, and Starsky nodded at him. Together they approached the door, each taking a look through the window before pushing in.
It was dark.
Hutch immediately found cover behind a large bin, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. As soon as he could see well enough, he took a peek around the corner.
What he saw froze him momentarily, and he stifled a gasp. He waved his hand to Starsky, who was huddled on the other side of the door next to a freezer. Starsky took a quick look around the edge of it and then scuttled over to meet him.
“What?” he asked, so low Hutch could barely hear him.
“Sign, up on the wall. ‘No smoking: Propane’,” Hutch whispered tensely. “We can’t fire in here.”
Starsky gave a low groan.
Hutch raised his voice. “Jorge? Are you in here, Jorge?”
He heard a clang and a muffled curse.
“Who’s that? Who’s there?” The voice was coming from the far corner, next to a big oven.
“We’re friends, Jorge. We’re the police, here to help you,” Hutch said.
He heard a low, crazed laugh.
“Cops? Help me? That’s a laugh.”
“We will, Jorge.”
“You can’t help me,” Jorge shouted. “No one can help me. I knew they were out to get me, and then old man Heintz made it official. I got nothing now.”
Starsky made a disgusted sound, and Hutch shushed him.
“You’re making things worse, Jorge. If you’d just come along easy, we can fix things."
More semi-hysterical laughter followed his pronouncement. It rippled on, rising higher and higher, sounding louder.
Starsky tapped Hutch on the shoulder and then moved, slipping back to his previous location. He took another peek and then shook his head, showing he still didn’t have a shot. Hutch thought it was just as well. They weren’t going to get the man out of here by force, at least not without risking blowing themselves to kingdom come.
The crazed laughter was starting to get to him. Hutch moved around the far side of the storage bin, hoping to make eye contact with the flake. “Jorge, talk to me, amigo. I know we can work this out-”
“Snake tongue!” Jorge yelled. “Telling me nothing but lies!”
That’s when it went bad. There was no warning, only a muffled bang and then a larger WHUMPH, and Hutch found himself flying backward through the air, arms outstretched like wings.
Starsky!
ooOoo
Starsky was shielded from most of the explosion, but when the fridge jolted he was thrown to the ground, his forehead taking a nasty knock on the hinge of the door along the way. He clutched his head, coughing through the smoke. With his Beretta still in hand, he took the corner, gun at the ready.
He needn’t have bothered. Jorge was down for the count, and about an eternity longer. The blast had knocked over the freezer he was hiding behind, and all that was visible were his white pants and black shoes. Ding dong, the witch is dead, Starsky thought, still reeling in shock.
“Hutch? Hutch!” he called out, and was instantly filled with dread when he heard a weak, “Starsk?” in response.
No no no, pal. Where are you?
A very small fire was blazing near the far oven, but the blast hadn’t been that large, and fortunately the walls of the room appeared to be fireproof. Starsky stared up at the fire sprinklers, which apparently were taking the day off. The lingering smoke made it almost impossible to breathe, to see, but Starsky finally found Hutch on the far side of the room, crumpled against the wall.
“Hutch!” Starsky bent over him.
“Hey,” Hutch said, coughing weakly. He lifted a hand, gesturing toward Starsky’s head. “You’re bleeding.” His voice was filled with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Starsky said impatiently. “What’re you still doing on the floor, huh, buddy?” The low light was making it difficult to see if Hutch was injured.
“I’m not sure,” Hutch said vaguely, looking down, and Starsky followed his gaze to his stomach. There, implanted in his side, straight through the plaid shirt, was a piece of something where no something should have been.
“Hutch...” Starsky started weakly.
“Guess it was my turn, huh?” Hutch said, still looking down, his voice a whisper. “It’s funny-it doesn’t hurt at all,” he said wonderingly, moving his hand.
Starsky stopped him. “Don’t touch it! Jesus, I gotta get a medic. Promise me you’ll keep your hands off.”
Hutch nodded and Starsky rushed out, his shoes barely hitting the floor. He had just enough presence of mind to pull his badge and hold it up as he pushed through the doors.
“I need a paramedic!” Starsky shouted at the startled uniform before turning and pounding back the way he came.
He fell to his knees beside Hutch, who was trying to shift himself away from the wall.
“Don’t move, Hutch, please!”
Hutch nodded. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking, Starsk,” he said, almost conversationally, as Starsky leaned low and tried to assess the damage.
“Yeah? What’re you thinkin’?” Does it go all the way through? Looking at it made him queasy. The jagged shard of white metal, possibly from the propane tank itself, was protruding obscenely from Hutch’s side. Not too much blood, yet. We gotta keep him still until they can get it out of there.
“Well, it just occurred to me that Jorge and I have a lot in common,” Hutch continued, sounding dreamy.
Oh, God, don’t say that. Jorge is for the fishes, buddy. “How’s that?” Starsky yanked off his jacket and bunched it up, lifting Hutch’s head to tuck it underneath.
Hutch smiled at him in thanks. “See, Jorge was so scared he would get fired, that he went and got himself fired.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Starsky said, still not really tracking. Hutch grimaced and moved a little, and Starsky put his hands on Hutch’s hips, holding him down. “Keep still,” Starsky hissed.
“Okay,” Hutch gasped. A shudder took him, and Starsky winced, clutching at his hand, trying to ease him through it.
When it passed, Hutch relaxed back. His eyes met Starsky’s, hand still grabbing on.
“We just gotta hang on, babe. Medic will be here soon,” Starsky said. “What were you talking about?” Keep him talking. Keep him conscious.
Hutch sighed. “Well, what I’m thinking is...that even if...I mean I’m sure to mess this up eventually, but at least I can try not to, for a while. Give it my best shot. If-if you’ll have me, I mean.”
Starsky finally heard what his partner was saying. “Lemme get this straight. You were worried you were gonna fuck us up, so that’s why you fucked us up? That’s what was going on this morning?”
Hutch made a harsh sound in his throat, almost a laugh. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Don’t you know I wouldn’t let you screw things up?” Starsky asked, patting Hutch’s arm. “I mean, what’re partners for, anyway?”
Hutch shook his head and smiled at him. “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe I was thinking of the others...but you’re so different.” His eyes rolled a little, and his voice became weaker. “With them, their colors were all faded...browns instead of blues, or grays instead of greens...” Hutch was starting to drift, Starsky realized. He squeezed the hand in his, trying to keep him there.
Hutch startled a little, then stared at him. “But not you, Starsk. It’s like from the first moment I met you, pure Technicolor....”
“Like Dorothy when she hit Oz,” Starsky whispered, his heart tangled up in his throat.
“I guess,” Hutch agreed, looking confused. His face twisted suddenly, and Starsky knew the shock was wearing off, and he was starting to feel the pain.
Where is that fucking medic?
“Hey, you know how I think of you?” Starsky said, talking fast, trying to distract.
Hutch shook his head, his face still contorted.
Starsky babbled on. “My mom had this Japanese puzzle box once, when I was a kid, you know? So pretty-tan and red, lacquered all shiny with this star design. I was fascinated with it. I kept at it whenever she wasn’t home, trying to get it open. But there was always some other step, some new mystery to it. That’s you, Hutch.”
Hutch’s eyes were only half-open, but locked on his face. “What happened with the box?”
Starsky shrugged. “Finally, one day I found the sequence that got me into the center of it, into the most secret compartment-”
“And it was empty,” Hutch said softly.
Starsky nodded. “But-”
“See, that’s what I’m afraid of, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, his eyes closing.
He was still out like a light when the paramedics finally arrived.
ooOoo
Starsky was urging him to keep the shrapnel.
“We can put it on our desk,” he said with glee. His grin was so bright it rivaled the white hospital walls.
Do you have any idea what you do to me when you smile like that?
“Hutch?” Starsky said, sounding uncertain when Hutch didn’t respond. The surgery had been quick and pretty painless-for him, at least-and the painkillers were working fine, although they were doing a number on his head. But there were some things that hardly needed thought.
“Starsk, I’m not going to keep the damned thing,” he said with an effort, sticking to his role.
Starsky’s grin widened impossibly. “Aw, c’mon, babe. Think how cool it would be. Everyone’ll be asking what it is, and we can give ’em a different story every time. Like it’s part of an alien spacecraft, or it’s from the Berlin Wall....”
Starsky kept talking and Hutch just soaked it in, letting his partner distract him from his irritation at being laid up. At least he was going home today. A short stay this time, nothing like last time.
No, this is nothing like last time. Hutch suppressed a shudder. With an effort, he shoved aside his memories of those hours spent in the ICU waiting for Starsky to die.
“...to my place.”
“What was that?” Hutch said. He’d obviously missed something.
“I said,” Starsky repeated patiently, “when they spring you loose, I’ll take you straight to my place.”
“How come your place?”
“So I can keep an eye on you after work,” Starsky said. The grin was gone, the long face growing grave.
“I’m fine,” Hutch said, responding to the look. “You know that. Barely even bled, the thing was wedged in so tight. Missed all the important parts, too.” He’d been damned lucky.
“But they’re still worried about infection. And I can do stuff for you, get you things to eat, like that.”
Hutch had a hazy memory of some things he’d said back at the scene that made him a little uncomfortable with the idea of close quarters with his partner. Why is it so hard? To take what he offers? Show him how badly I need it?
But he already knew the answer to that.
Still, he had promised to try not to fuck it up. And Starsky was giving him that shy smile, one hand on Hutch’s blanketed leg, squeezing a little.
“Okay,” Hutch said softly, and the smile brightened once again.
Hoo boy. Am I in trouble.
ooOoo
“What’re those?” Hutch asked, his expression a cross between dismay and horror.
“Hair-cuttin’ shears, as if you didn’t know, Mr. Marlene.”
“Starsk...” Hutch began.
“Be reasonable, Hutch. Your hair is all singed from the blast. It looks ridiculous.” He got busy wrapping a towel around Hutch’s neck, ignoring the heavy sighs.
Starsky worked quickly, trying not to get distracted by the feel of the silky hair between his fingers. Blondie, he thought affectionately. He snipped fast, thinking Hutch would be losing his patience soon, and also that the faster he cut, the less likely he’d mess it up. But it came out pretty okay. A little long in the back, but Hutch kept grunting whenever he snipped too high, so he let it be.
“Voila!” he said, pulling the towel from Hutch’s neck and making a big show of brushing the stray hairs from his shirt.
“Mirror?” Hutch said dryly. Starsky hurried to the bathroom and came back with a piece of mirror he used sometimes to see the back of his own head.
“Is that a spare from the Torino?” Hutch said, grinning.
Starsky nodded and grinned back, handing it over.
Hutch looked in the mirror and made an approving noise. “Not bad, buddy. Maybe you should rethink your career options.”
Starsky gave him a punch in the shoulder for that one. “C’mon, get settled on the couch and I’ll bring you some grub.”
Hutch obeyed with only minor grumbling, which surprised Starsky. Actually, he was surprised all to heck with how agreeable Hutch was being about everything ever since the accident.
Starsky didn’t trust it.
He threw a pot on the fire and boiled up some macaroni and cheese, bringing it with a big glass of milk to Hutch, who was drowsing on the sofa. Hutch eyed the concoction and raised an eyebrow but started in. Starsky put the Dodger game on and joined him on the couch to eat a bowlful himself.
“Sutcliffe again,” Hutch said, making a disgusted noise.
“Oh, hey,” Starsky said. “I almost forgot. Huggy dropped something off for you, said you asked for it.” He bounded up and located the brown package he’d dumped on the table by the door. When he returned to his seat, he found Hutch had turned an interesting shade of red.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Hutch muttered. He took the package.
“What’s in there?” Starsky asked, intrigued.
Hutch looked tongue-tied.
“It looks bigger than a breadbox,” Starsky said, shifting closer on the couch. He wasn’t sure what the source of Hutch’s embarrassment was, but something in his eyes was pulling at Starsky, and he leaned over and, for the first time since Hutch had disappeared on him that night, gave his partner a kiss.
He kept it slow and easy, relishing the feel of Hutch’s lips beneath his, the soft stubble of the cheeks under his palms. His partner didn’t seem to be holding anything back. Starsky’s heart thudded like a jackhammer when Hutch’s hand crept up the back of his neck to sink into his hair.
“Oh, man,” Starsky murmured, and he broke the kiss, not wanting them to get too heated up. Hutch wasn’t ready for any fun and games. But before Starsky pulled back, he couldn’t resist dropping a soft kiss on the tip of Hutch’s nose.
Hutch stared up at him, a smile quirking his broad mouth.
“Did you just kiss me on the nose?” he asked, sounding incredulous.
Starsky felt himself blush.
“You did! You kissed me on the nose. No, wait, I’m glad,” Hutch said, grabbing his arm when Starsky tried to pull away. “It makes it easier. To give it to you.”
“What is it?” Starsky grumbled. This better not be another one of his stupid practical jokes.
“Open it and see.” Hutch tentatively offered him the package.
Starsky took it, still suspecting a trick of some kind. The package was wrapped in brown paper and twine. It didn’t really look like a present. He edged the twine over the corners and shredded the paper, anxious to get the thing open.
Inside was a tan-and-red lacquered puzzle box, with a geometric star pattern inlaid on the top. Starsky’s mouth dropped open.
Hutch’s voice interrupted his surprise. “Is it? I mean it’s probably not the same....”
“No! I mean, it’s close; it’s damned close, Hutch. Geez, I can’t believe you got me this.” Starsky slid open the first compartment on the side, grinning with delight when it moved easily. “Oh, wow.” He leaned back against the couch and happily started sliding the pieces, backtracking sometimes when he realized he’d stepped wrong. After a while he tilted sideways, planting himself against Hutch, and he felt Hutch’s hand slide up into his hair again, thumb rubbing the back of his neck.
He’d never been happier in his life.
“You’re real good at that,” Hutch said softly.
Starsky nodded absently, still puzzling through the sequence. He was getting close. He felt a tickle of anticipation wondering what might be in the innermost compartment.
Tongue pressed to his upper lip, he completed the sequence with a soft thunk and pulled open the top.
Inside, there was...nothing.
Starsky ignored the momentary stab of disappointment. After all, the box was the important thing. That, and what it meant. He smiled and raised his head.
“I couldn't put it in there,” Hutch whispered, his voice rough.
Starsky frowned into the warm blue of his eyes. “What, Hutch?”
“What I...what I really wanted to put inside,” Hutch said, barely audible.
Starsky tilted his head, his confusion easing when Hutch took his hand and tugged, holding it to the left side of his chest. He felt the deep rhythm of Hutch’s heart beating against his palm.
Starsky smiled, his own heart going crazy to beat the band.
“You’re right, Blintz. It’d never fit.”
Finis.
San Francisco, CA
February 15, 2006
Author: morganlogan
Pairing: S/H
Wordcount: 9,710
Rating: NC-17
Category: FT, Hutch H/C, post-SR
Beta: CC
Summary: With Hutch, there's no such thing as a slam-dunk.
Notes: Originally published in Lucy Doty's memorial zine for Tabby Davis, Test of Faith.
The coroner lifted her camera and snapped a shot, flooding the scene with harsh, unforgiving light. Hutch blinked, but the afterimage stayed, the colors crisp and sharp as if painted with a palette knife. Etched permanently in his memory now, these dark splashes of blood against the white flesh, and the brown of the young man’s eyes, already dulled with dust.
Always, the eyes were the worst part.
He heard a whining noise, grating and pleading, and stalked over to the artist of the scene, Harry Dinkins, who was huddled by the dented filing cabinet, his broken arm being tended to by an unsympathetic paramedic.
“Did you say something, crumb?” Hutch asked the perp, forcing the words out between his teeth.
Harry gave a little squeak and went silent, staring at him with wide gray eyes.
The hand that had suddenly appeared on Hutch’s arm gave a squeeze, and he made an effort to relax under Starsky’s grip.
“Ready to go?” Starsky asked, as if they were just finishing a couple of beers before hitting the road.
Hutch nodded heavily. For some reason, his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He waited while Starsky had a word with the uniform standing guard over Harry, and then they left.
Starsky swung down the hallway ahead of him with his usual hipshot strut. Hutch envied his energy. Starsky always bounced back. It was in his walk. It was in the way he drove the Torino, peeling them away from the scene with a healthy squeal.
But Starsky didn’t take them straight back to Metro. Hutch turned his head and raised an eyebrow, and Starsky responded, “They’ve gotta take that flake to the hospital to get his arm set. It’ll be at least a couple hours before they’ve got him in the tank.”
A reprieve. Hutch needed it bad, which was probably why Starsky was turning the corner on Seventh, taking them down to McArthur Park. He found a parking place right on the lake and killed the engine.
Hutch made no move to get out, instead staring out the passenger window. The thick gray-brown trunks of the palm trees framed the green of the lake and the foaming fountain that tore through the afternoon air.
“Dinkins reminds me of Solkin,” Starsky said, and Hutch flinched. He didn’t need the reminder of that other lowlife pederast and what he had caused Hutch to lose in this very park. Abby was years gone, but he still remembered the silk of her hair against his face as they rolled in the grass. And the guilt marring her beauty as she told him goodbye.
Starsky’s hand was on his shoulder, and Hutch let the touch spur him out of the Torino and onto the cement path. He heard Starsky get out behind him and follow.
The touch wasn’t new, but the accompanying yearning it inspired was just weeks old. Or maybe just finally recognized, the awareness born when Starsky had kissed him for the first time over the chessboard, the pieces scattering beneath his hands as he leaned across and surprised Hutch’s lips. In spite of the cold shock that had gelled in his gut, Hutch had felt heat in his face, the burn touching his chest and the sides of his neck. He’d made a sound and pulled back.
Starsky hadn’t said anything, had just watched with careful eyes as Hutch pushed himself abruptly away and then paced back and forth, absently prodding the fallen chess pieces with his foot to herd them into a neat pile.
“Hell of a way to get out of losing the game,” Hutch said at last, his voice shaking. He could still feel those soft lips on his. He nudged another errant pawn back toward the cluster, sensing more than seeing Starsky’s answering shrug.
“Just felt like it was time. Or are you gonna say you haven’t been feeling it, too?” he said defensively.
Hutch couldn’t deny the undercurrents had been gathering strength ever since Gunther. Or even earlier, maybe since that moment at the beach, badges in hand....
But the fear struck him then and he shook his head, walking halfway to the door before he realized he couldn’t leave it like this, leave Starsky hanging without back-up when he’d been so brave. Hutch turned and lifted his head.
Starsky had settled back onto his seat. His hands were folded on the table, as if he were sitting in a meeting. His eyes were deep in the shadows.
“I need...to think, Starsk. You understand?” Hutch lifted his hands a little at the disappointment and fear that suddenly creased his partner’s strong features.
“I’m not saying-” Hutch’s attempt at reassurance cut off as he realized he didn’t even know what he was trying to say. “I-I just-”
“’S okay, Hutch,” Starsky said, and then his lips curved in a rueful smile. “I knew before I even tried it that you were sure to go and make it complicated.”
Even as he flinched inwardly at the implied slam, Hutch felt relief and gratitude fill him that Starsky wasn’t going to push him on this. That they were still, apparently, okay.
“Okay,” Hutch said, letting out a heavy breath.
Starsky nodded, but the deep blue of his eyes suddenly seemed mysterious, unknowable as the ocean.
And Hutch felt uneasy again.
The paddleboats were out in force on the lake, filled with summer vacationers tootling happily back and forth between the banks. Hutch stepped off the path to let a couple of joggers pass, and then sighed when Starsky joined him at his elbow.
“Too little, too late for Denny,” Starsky said, scuffing at a rock by his foot, and Hutch nodded. It finally occurred to him he wasn’t the only one feeling the despairing shame of it-that they had arrived hours too late to save the kid’s life. Hutch tentatively put an arm around Starsky’s shoulder, and was grateful when his partner leaned into him with a bump before pulling away again.
We still have this. Hutch’s relief was almost subconscious.
“At least there won’t be any others,” he said, choking on it a little. Small consolation-at least to the young man’s family and friends. But he heard Starsky make a sound of agreement.
“Guess we should book,” he said after a long moment.
Normally at this point Hutch might pat Starsky on the belly, or Starsky would grip the back of Hutch’s neck and shake him a little before giving him an ungentle push back toward the car. Instead, for some reason they both continued to stand in silence, and Hutch felt a tension in it, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He forced himself to tuck an elbow gently against Starsky’s ribs.
Starsky moved, heading back up the path, and Hutch followed.
ooOoo
Officer Benson brought Dinkins up from the tank to the interrogation room, and Starsky intentionally put the perp in the lower chair before the gray table. He nodded his thanks to Benny, who left with a final disgusted grimace at Harry. The piece of shit looked miserable, his head hanging low over the plastered arm he’d rested on the table. The arm that had swung a knife at Starsky just a few hours earlier. The arm that Hutch had done a number on in wringing the blade from Harry’s hand.
“Let’s go over it, Harry,” Starsky said, trying to sound friendly and sympathetic. He looked up and took a quick glance at Hutch, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Hutch’s eyes were burning a mean blue.
Harry’s head nodded a little, while Starsky switched on the tape recorder and microphone and once again informed him of his rights.
“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?” Starsky said. Harry nodded again and Starsky suppressed a sigh of exasperation.
“Nod out loud for the tape recorder, Harry,” he said. Hutch made an impatient movement, and Harry darted him a look without lifting his head.
“Yes, I-I understand,” Harry said quickly, his voice high and breathy.
“Then go ahead,” Starsky said. “Take it from the top.”
“They let me out of the hospital two months ago,” Harry began. “They made me leave-I swear I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay where it was safe, but Doc Finch said I was all cured and they needed my room for someone sicker....”
As Harry whined on, Starsky kept the corner of his eye trained on Hutch, who had dropped his hands and was rubbing them against his hips. He looked nervous and upset. Actually, that was pretty much how he’d looked for two weeks now, ever since Starsky had made his move.
I really thought it was a slam-dunk. The timing was perfect, I know it. They’d been back on the streets for a month. Starsky was fit, as fit as he’d been in his life. They were back in the groove, had slipped back into it as easy as sliding on soap. Thanks to all the time they’d spent together while Starsky recovered from the “attempt,” as Hutch called it, they’d never been more in tune.
Or so I thought.
Just a quiet night at the chessboard after a typical day on the streets, with Hutch looking confused as ever by Starsky’s Law, but seeming relaxed and pretty damned happy. He’d castled, then taken a sip of his beer, smiling a little. One stray drop of liquid had hung on his full lower lip, and Starsky had found himself rising from the bench and leaning over the table to kiss it off.
He hadn’t thought about it ahead of time-at least, no more than he had been over the past months. It just had never seemed like the right time before. For one thing, there was the persistent pain of his injuries, and his dependency on the pain drugs and on Hutch being there for him to help him get by. But more importantly, there was his sense that Hutch was still too freaked by what had happened to risk the careful balance they had found to get through the rough time. It wouldn’t have been fair to throw something new at him when Hutch was finding it tough enough just accepting that the world hadn’t ended.
Hell, Starsky was having a hard time accepting it himself. He’d thought it was all over. He still couldn’t remember the shooting itself, just the right before, and then the overwhelming weakness and chill that had told him it was pretty bad.
Hutch had his hands on my chest. There was blood on his forehead, and the expression on his face made me realize just how fucked I was. I don’t ever want to see that look again. Not ever.
But that night across the chessboard, it was like the attempt had never happened. They were back. And Starsky thought for sure....
But Hutch couldn’t handle it. Why? It wasn’t like he even acted very surprised-how could he be? We’ve been heading toward this ever since I can remember. Even during the year before, when things got ugly sometimes, it’s always been there. I know he felt it. I know it like I know my own hands.
Starsky looked down at them now, barely registering Harry’s droning whine. The tape was at the twenty-minute mark, and soon Starsky would have to flip it. He looked over at Hutch, wondering if he’d missed anything important.
Hutch was staring at him. He looked away when Starsky caught him at it, his long hair swinging softly, a few stray strands catching against his cheek. Minus the moustache, the long hair made him look weirdly young, but there was a hardness in his jaw and a tightness below his eyes.
Starsky knew they’d have to talk, and soon.
Harry stumbled to a stop, and Starsky shook his head. He hadn’t been paying attention and had no idea how to prompt the man on any missing points.
“What about your medication, Harry?” Hutch asked darkly. “How come you stopped taking it?”
Harry gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny throat. “I m-met a girl. Doc Finch said that was good, that I should try t-to be like other guys.”
Starsky nodded encouragingly. “So?”
“So the medicine was making me not feel-” Harry stopped, looking embarrassed. “Not myself. I wasn’t...I couldn’t-”
“Couldn’t get it up, slimeball?” Hutch said caustically.
Harry flinched.
“Harry, didn’t it occur to you that if you stopped taking ’em you might do something bad?” Starsky asked, genuinely curious, even as his stomach tightened in anger at how very bad Harry had been.
“I didn’t feel bad,” Harry whispered. “I felt good, so good.” Harry’s voice was trembling, and he dropped his good hand off the table and into his lap.
Hutch pushed off the wall with a wordless growl, and Harry jerked in fear then moaned in pain, clutching at his cast.
Time to wrap it up. Starsky turned off the tape recorder and pushed to his feet, the chair grating harshly behind him. Harry’s head dropped low and he moaned a little more.
“Fuck,” Hutch said, and stalked to the door to yank it open. “Benny, come take this lowlife,” he called out. Benny came in and Hutch brushed by him, walking out.
Starsky collected the tape recorder and microphone and nodded his thanks to Benny. “We’ll transcribe, and then we’re gonna have to get him back up here to sign his statement.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant,” Benny said. “C’mon, you,” he jerked his head at Harry. Starsky watched with approval as Benny cuffed himself to the prisoner’s good arm.
Hutch was waiting by the elevator, and they rode up in silence, going back up to the squadroom to type up the confession. Since Hutch could hunt-and-peck faster than he could, Starsky did the arrest report while Hutch sat with the headphones, tapping and tapping. His scowl deepened the more he typed, and after a while Starsky yanked a bottle of aspirin from his desk and tossed it to Hutch, who grimaced in thanks and tossed down a couple of tablets with his coffee.
A few hours later, they had the signed confession sent off to the DA’s office, and Dobey was waving them home for the day with a gruff, “Good work.”
“I need to shower for about three days,” Starsky said in the car, the silence emanating from the passenger seat getting to him.
Hutch grunted something that sounded like agreement. At the next stoplight, Starsky looked over to where Hutch’s big hand was tensely gripping his thigh.
Holding on. What’re you holding onto, babe? Starsky had given Hutch time to adjust to the new truth between themmore time than he thought Hutch neededand maybe that had been a mistake on his part. He still didn’t always get it right with his complicated partner. Whatever it is, it’s not gonna go away. Maybe it’s just better to have it out.
Decided, Starsky took them to his apartment.
ooOoo
“Why’re we here?” Hutch asked. Obviously, he hadn’t been paying much attention during the drive.
Starsky gave him a wordless look and saw Hutch’s shoulder hunch a bit before he straightened and got out of the car.
There was beer waiting in Starsky’s fridge, which was one of the reasons he’d picked his place to have a showdown. The other was that Hutch would be without wheels, so he couldn’t go driving off if the conversation got too heavy.
From the way Hutch was pacing the length of the living room, he might end up walking home, anyway.
“Here,” Starsky said, tossing him a bottle. “Why don’t you take a load off?”
Hutch didn’t seem to hear him, but he used his key to pop the top off his beer, and took a long drink before resuming his pacing.
“Hutch. Siddown.” Starsky said it a little harshly and was glad to see it had the desired effect. Hutch flicked his head in his direction and then sank down onto the couch. He flipped the cap from his beer and it landed with a clink into the ceramic bowl sitting on Starsky’s coffee table. Then Hutch leaned back and rested the bottle on his leg, staring at Starsky evenly before raising his eyebrow. Starsky read the look clearly, So? You wanted to talk? Talk.
Starsky sighed in exasperation and raised his own eyebrows in turn. You know the ball’s in your court. C’mon and give.
Hutch looked away and took a slow swig of his beer. Starsky waited.
Hutch looked back at him and lifted his lips. “A real sicko, that Harry,” he said.
The apparent subject change was a little confusing. Hutch continued deliberately, “Sick in the head. A pervert.” He stared at Starsky, a slight mocking tilt to his brow.
It took a moment for the hidden meaning to really hit, and by then Starsky’s blood had already started rising.
“I know you ain’t saying what I think you’re saying.” His voice was low and trembling. He took a closer look at Hutch’s face, and then he saw it. Hiding there, deep in those eyes. Fear. Bone white fear, and a barely-contained panic. His mind flashed back to Hutch’s hand clenched stiffly on his leg in the car, and Starsky’s anger left him like a ghost.
He took a deep breath and settled back down in the armchair, then lifted his bottle in a toast.
“Nice try. But you must really be a moron to think you can put one over on me. I know you too fucking well, Hutch.”
Hutch closed his eyes, and when they opened again, they were staring down at his lap. But it was too late for hiding.
“It’s too late,” Starsky echoed the thought. “It’s been too late for a while, pal. So why don’t you come clean before you do us both some damage?”
Hutch spoke to his hands. “’S not that easy....”
“Fuck easy,” Starsky said curtly. He let the truth roll out of him. “You owe me this. You owe me for every time in this last shitty year that you pushed me, made me want to keep trying. Made me stick around, damn it, when I just wanted to give it up. You owe me.”
Hutch took a funny breath and then keeled over sideways on the couch, propping his feet on the cushions and dropping a hand over his eyes.
“Why?” he mumbled, and Starsky leaned forward in his seat. “Why does it have to change?”
“I told you. It already has,” Starsky said softly. “Didn’t you notice? Sometimes, when I was in the hospital and it got real bad, sometimes...all you had to do was touch me to make it right. You remember that?”
He saw Hutch give a small nod. “But that was-”
“Hutch. Tell me why you’re having so much trouble with it. You...you’ve never been hung up about that stuff before-”
“‘That stuff’?” Hutch echoed mockingly, and Starsky stiffened. But Hutch relented almost immediately. “Sorry. Yeah, it’s already changing. Look at us.” Hutch waved his beer in a vague gesture. “When did we ever have to talk about us before? I don’t want it to change. I like how you...know me. I don’t want to lose....”
“Lose what?” Starsky asked quietly when Hutch didn’t go on.
“Us,” he said on a sigh. “Like we’ll...turn into something else. Something I don’t recognize.”
Starsky considered that a moment.
“Bullshit,” he said.
Hutch jerked his arm down to stare at him.
“You heard me. Just more bullshit, Hutch. I told you: we’re already there. Or almost there. Question is why you’re being such a chickenshit about it.”
Starsky grinned a little, just inside his head, when Hutch’s face flamed red and he suddenly sat up on the couch. He set his beer on the table and stared at Starsky.
“Okay, partner. You wanna know the truth? The truth is you don’t know me. Nobody knows anybody, not really. Not all of them. Anyone who tells you different is selling you something.” After this pronouncement Hutch rose to his feet and started pacing again, his hands rubbing at his arms.
“I know you,” Starsky said evenly, turning to track him.
“Bullshit,” Hutch parroted, throwing him a mocking look. “We only ever know what we show each other, and we never, ever show one person everything. Never. But I’ll tell you who does know those parts of me, the stuff you’ve never seen. Abby. Gillian.” Hutch paused in his pacing and faced him. “And Van. Let’s not forget her,” he said, his tone raw with bitterness.
“Ah. I get it,” Starsky said. “You think I’m like Van.” It was stupid. He should’ve known it would be something this stupid.
Hutch shot him an acid look and stiffened when he caught the amusement that must have been showing on Starsky’s face.
“This isn’t a joke,” Hutch said, and his voice had gone hoarse.
“No, not a joke,” Starsky agreed calmly when he saw those hands clench into fists.
“If we did this thing, I wouldn’t be able to...I couldn’t stop myself from...being...something you don’t want,” Hutch whispered.
Starsky couldn’t take it. He stood quickly and moved toward his partner to stand in front of him.
“How do you know I don’t want it?” Starsky asked, keeping his voice low.
Hutch shook his head.
“Just ’cause some stupid chick didn’t? Or is it something else?” Starsky tilted his head. “Maybe I should be asking if you want to see that side of me.”
Hutch looked startled, as if the question had never even occurred to him. Which it probably hadn’t, Starsky realized with relief.
“No? Then why, Hutch? Tell me what would be so awful that I’d run screaming?”
Hutch shook his head again. He was breathing roughly, his hands still clenched at his sides. Starsky lifted his own, and Hutch swayed back minutely.
“Okay,” Starsky said. “Okay. Sit down, all right?”
Hutch obeyed, taking the armchair this time, and Starsky settled onto the coffee table opposite him, their knees almost touching.
“Why can’t we drop this?” Hutch said, sounding hopeless.
Talk was getting them nowhere. Starsky edged forward, opening his legs so the insides of his knees surrounded Hutch’s. Then he dropped a palm on Hutch’s thigh, letting his fingers trail inside.
He felt the heat there and heard Hutch take a shaky breath, and Starsky let the knowledge touch his voice. “That’s why,” he whispered.
“That’s not everything,” Hutch said. “It doesn’t have to be-”
“So we just go on?” Starsky said, starting to get a little pissed. “You willing to let me go try and find it somewhere else, just because you’re too damned chicken to take what’s yours?”
He saw Hutch’s head lift in surprise, and read the instant jealousy and grudging acceptance of his point. Starsky sighed and stood.
“I need that shower. You can call a cab or something if you wanna go. Or...you can stay.” Starsky walked away, his pride unwilling to bend any further by begging.
He went to the bathroom and stripped quickly, making sure he had a clean towel on the rack before getting into the shower and turning on the water. The first cold sting made him flinch a little, but then he gratefully let it pour down his chest and ease his aching hard-on. It seemed like he’d been carrying it forever, ever since he’d stopped needing the painkillers and had gotten his first erection in months during one of Hutch’s gentle back rubs.
Just over the roar of the water he heard a sound; at first he was uncertain what it was. He turned his head and listened closely, identifying it as heavy clothing dropping to the floor. His heart started to hammer a little. Can’t be. Is he really...?
The shower curtain moved, the rings sliding musically on the rod, and then his big, naked partner was standing in the tub with him. Starsky could smell his skin, feel the bulk of him behind him, just like he always did, sensing the familiar form like a part of his own body. He didn’t turn right away, wanting to hold the moment, this moment when Hutch had finally come to him.
Also, he was suddenly shaking like crazy.
But he couldn’t be the wimp he’d accused Hutch of being, so he turned. Hutch was staring at him, the blue of his eyes unholy under the blond hair. They both moved, and suddenly Hutch’s lips were on his.
Starsky found himself responding for a time to the harsh demand before he realized there was something wrong. This wasn’t the sweetness he’d encountered over the chess table, that one moment when Hutch’s soft lips had moved under his before he yanked himself back. There was something too deliberate about the forcefulness of Hutch’s mouth, and the tense hands on his shoulders that were pushing them both under the spray of the showerhead. Starsky broke away, pushing back.
He’s not there yet. Starsky stared at Hutch, watching the wetness slide down his cheek from his soaked hair, and suddenly he was back in the laundry room, all those many years ago, with Hutch telling him just whom it was they could trust.
Same people we always trust. Us.
He answered the question in Hutch’s eyes. “Not like that,” Starsky said just over the sound of the water. He raised his hand and gently thumbed away the drops that threatened to fall from Hutch’s pale eyebrow. Like this. He let his hand drift over Hutch’s cheek and fall away. Trust me, Hutch.
Hutch closed his eyes slowly; opened them again. He raised his hand and rested it softly on Starsky’s chest, over his thundering heart. Then he leaned in and kissed him lightly, tongue-tip barely brushing Starsky’s lips, before he pulled back.
Like that? Hutch’s eyes asked.
Starsky smiled. Yes. Just like that. Just like I’ve seen you with them, wasting all that sweetness on one-night stands never meant to last a goddamn minute. Or like you held me when I’d just gotten out of the hospital, as if the smallest touch could break me wide open again.
Then Hutch’s hand skimmed up his chest and reached over his shoulder, coming back with the soap. Hutch lathered his hands, watching Starsky intently, before he dropped it in the dish and laid his soapy hands on Starsky’s chest. Hutch caressed him, cleaning him, moving over his scars and teasing the nipples with his fingers, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s.
Oh, God. Finally Hutch was touching him the way he’d wanted so badly for so long, and he felt his chest heaving under the big hands, as if there were no air left anywhere. His pulse was thudding in his temples and neck, and his cock was rising, filling with blood, stirred by the tender touch.
Hutch looked down, and Starsky’s breath froze in his throat. Now’s when he’ll freak. It seemed like things had been going too well for there not to be a catch. But Hutch only gave a slight smile and put his hands on Starsky’s shoulders, turning him.
The water hit his hard-on, making him gasp a little and move forward so it centered on his stomach. And then Hutch’s hand was there, making him gasp even harder when he felt the soapy grip take his cock and stroke it. He wanted to get the angle right. Like touching himself, only he’s touching me. Then all thought took a hike as Hutch’s other hand came from below to cup his balls, fondling them.
Starsky started panting. He could sense the heat of Hutch’s own arousal behind him, but not close enough to touch. So he reached back and caught a firm butt cheek to pull him in, to feel the heat pressing against his ass.
Hutch moaned in his ear, the first sound he’d made since stepping into the shower, and as if it were a signal, they both started moving, Hutch’s hand pumping his cock, and Starsky pushing into the stroke then pulling back against Hutch’s erection, which rode high on his ass, hard and hot.
Starsky was moaning, feeling it rise so fast inside him that he knew when he came it would be painfully hard. But he wanted it, wanted to get it over with, this first time, so it would be a done deal-this thing between them would finally be real. He groaned low, feeling the jerking hand taking him close to the edge, and he tilted his head back and found Hutch’s mouth waiting. Hutch released his balls to hold the side of his head, and he was gasping against Starsky’s lips. Then Starsky cried out and came, squeezing his eyes tight as the sharp pleasure shot through him. His cock spurted hard and Hutch eased his grip, just holding him until the pulsing stopped.
Starsky sagged in relief, and Hutch caught him, the other hand cupping water from the spray to rinse him off.
“Let’s get you dried off,” Hutch said, his voice too soft, as if he were barely breathing. Starsky wanted to protest, because he knew Hutch had to be hurting pretty bad, but his legs were Jell-O, shaking under him. He braced himself against the wall while Hutch retrieved the towel, and then he was being patted down.
Before he knew it, he’d been led to the bed, where he sat down gratefully. Hutch had wrapped the damp towel around his own waist and had another in hand that he worked over Starsky’s hair. It felt good to be looked after. It reminded Starsky of his days just out of the hospital, when he’d first become aware of the profound emotion surging between them.
But at the same time, it felt too one-sided. Starsky didn’t want a caretaker. He wanted a lover. He wanted to make Hutch feel the way he himself had felt in the shower, barely able to stand the pleasure being given to him. So when Hutch lifted the towel, Starsky grabbed his wrist and pulled him down beside him on the bed. He leaned over and gave Hutch a slow kiss, opening his eyes as he pulled back.
“Starsk.” Hutch said it as if he were just seeing him.
“Yeah, it’s me.” Starsky grinned, but Hutch didn’t smile back, just stared at him, something like wonder on his face. “Hey, what you got hiding under there?” Starsky said, pitching his voice low. He yanked at the towel covering Hutch’s waist, but Hutch caught his hand.
“C’mon, baby blue,” Starsky said, getting impatient. He pushed Hutch onto his back, and Hutch made a whuff of surprise. Starsky looked down at the bulge tenting the towel, and started to reach for him.
“Lights,” Hutch said, catching his hands again.
Starsky settled back and tilted his head. “You want I should turn off the lights?” he asked in disbelief.
Hutch nodded.
“You think you got something I haven’t seen about a thousand times?” He kept his voice light, teasing, but Hutch looked away.
Starsky sighed and turned to hit the switch on the bedside lamp. The room was still dimly lit by the glow coming from the living room, but it wasn’t enough by far for Starsky’s tastes.
You’re gonna have to get over this, and soon, Blintz. Because I need to see you. Only maybe that was why Hutch wanted the lights off. Maybe he even wanted to fantasize...?
No. He wouldn’t be here if that was the score.
Hutch moved up on the bed to lie flat and Starsky scrambled beside him. He leaned over Hutch to kiss him again, his favorite part so far-the feel of those soft lips tugging at his, and the tongue curling just inside to meet his own. They kissed for a while until Hutch started moaning a little, quiet, needy sounds that made Starsky’s cock try to get another rise on, even though it was way too soon. Finally, Starsky reached down once again to free Hutch from the towel, and this time Hutch let him.
This is it. Starsky let his palm drift up one strong, smooth thigh until he could wrap his hand around the stiff shaft waiting for him.
“Starsk. God.” Hutch’s voice quivered.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you right here,” Starsky said, smiling in the dark. He bent and licked at Hutch’s chest, finding a peaked nipple with his tongue, and felt Hutch shiver beneath him. Then Starsky started stroking Hutch's cock, squeezing the skin and moving it firmly up and down. He brushed his thumb against the slit, and Hutch moaned softly. Starsky kept sucking at the small nipple and started jerking Hutch faster, until he felt the shaft throb larger in his hand.
Hutch’s hand sank into Starsky’s hair, pulling him upward, and Starsky went with it, went into the kiss with a moan of delight. They were still kissing when Hutch cried out and came, his hand joining Starsky’s on his cock to squeeze tight, fluid spurting and coating their hands while Hutch shuddered and bucked.
“Oh, my God,” Hutch said at last, forehead pressed to Starsky’s cheek. Starsky smiled and withdrew his hand to wipe it on the sheet. He settled his head against Hutch’s on the pillow, sighing with relief. It was as if they’d just jumped a fence and were in the clear.
“You okay?” he heard Hutch ask.
“Better’n okay,” Starsky mumbled, a little surprised at the question. The bed moved as Hutch shifted over onto his side, and then his hand came around Starsky’s waist. The last thing Starsky felt as he drifted into sleep was the soft touch of warm lips against his temple.
But when he woke up, Hutch was gone.
ooOoo
Hutch was running scared.
Acknowledging the fact didn’t seem to help any, because he’d found himself almost sleepless the entire night, still feeling the hum of electricity in his body, still seeing the beautiful slope of Starsky’s slick back in the shower, feeling his cock in his hand, hearing his own voice crying out Starsky’s name, until finally Hutch had crept out and called a cab. And now he was doing his morning run, only it was more like a panicked sprint and, at the pace he’d set, he expected to have a cardiac arrest before he turned the corner on his second mile.
I had sex with Starsky. With my best friend. His brain was stuck on the one track, beating in time with his feet. Before, he’d had sex with women who sometimes became friends, but much more often didn’t. With none of them had he ever had the kind of closeness he’d always had with Starsky, even back at the Academy when they’d barely known each other. Never had any of them stuck around long enough to see the sides of him that Starsky had.
And truthfully, he’d never given any of them the opportunity. Starsky was always the one he went to when he was hurting, even if he couldn’t speak about what was killing him. Just knowing Starsky was there was usually enough. And when things got really bad, when he was stripped down to a needy, pukey mess, who was always there? His partner.
None of the women had even come close to being a partner. Certainly not Van, who always seemed to expect from him the same golden image he’d presented on their very first date.
What the hell was he going to do? How could his world support Starsky in the role of his lover instead of his friend? How long would it be before he lost everything?
His lungs gave out before his legs, and he huffed his way back to his apartment, no less panicked than he’d been before he started.
ooOoo
Son of a fucking Blintz, Starsky thought fiercely as he sped down to the Torino, his hair still damp from his hasty shower. Hutch’s phone had gone unanswered, and Starsky knew in his gut that his idiot partner was running from him, from them. And since everything had been perfect until the point when Starsky had gone comatose, he figured it was that blond brain working overtime that was once again responsible for their misery.
He pulled up to Venice Place, glad to see Hutch’s current wreck of a vehicle parked in front. He’d turned off the ignition and was just out of the car when the door to the building opened and Hutch appeared.
They stared at each other across the roof of the car in momentary shock, and then Hutch walked toward him. He looked like he’d just showered. His hair was wet, slicked back, and his face was flushed red.
“Ah. Can I get a ride?” Hutch asked hesitantly.
Starsky managed to get his jaw re-hinged. “Can you...? Jesus, Hutch!”
Hutch looked nervously around them and jerked his head in a nod. He twitched again when Starsky slammed his palm on the roof.
“Ow! Shit,” Starsky muttered, and was astonished to hear a choked sound coming across from him, as if Hutch had swallowed back a laugh.
“Just get in,” Starsky said, yanking open his door and flopping onto the seat. He refused to look over at Hutch, who got in beside him and closed his door quietly.
Starsky started up the Torino and headed toward Metro. They were early, so he took the city streets instead of heading for the freeway, wanting to give them some time. After a few minutes, he risked a side-glance. Hutch was staring forward, seemingly intent on the road. But when Starsky looked down at his hands, he noticed they were twitching on Hutch’s thighs.
“I’ve been thinking...” Hutch broke the silence.
“No kidding,” Starsky said, laying heavy on the sarcasm.
Hutch made a sad sound, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you’ve been thinking? Took you all morning to come up with that?” Starsky couldn’t help the anger in his voice. “What’re you sorry for?”
Hutch said quietly, “I’m sorry I left, but I had to...work it through. You know me...” Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky saw him run a hand over his face.
“Yeah, I know you,” Starsky said pointedly. A little less angry, he finally turned his head to get a quick look at Hutch’s face. “You were running.”
Hutch gave him a small smile, a bare quirk of the lips. “Starsk, I don’t know-”
The radio squawked and Starsky cursed the timing.
“All units, all units in vicinity of Pico and La Cienega. Two-eleven in progress at Delice Bakery.”
Hutch grabbed up the mic.
“Hutch,” Starsky protested, “we’re not even logged in yet.”
“This is Zebra Three logging in at oh-seven-twenty. We are in the vicinity of that two-eleven and responding. ETA three minutes. Over.”
“Copy that, Zebra Three. Unit forty-one is also responding. Over.”
Starsky grimaced and stepped on the gas while Hutch put up the Mars light.
ooOoo
Hutch took a quick look in the window and then sped into the storefront with Starsky at his back. It wasn’t a random robbery, after all. The owner of the bakery had called in to report that the gunman was a former employee who had now holed himself up in the kitchen and was threatening to shoot anyone who came near him.
The owner, identifiable by the large apron barely covering his round belly, hurried over to them babbling a little hysterically, his bald head shiny with sweat.
“Mr. Heintz, please calm down and tell us what you can about the situation,” Hutch said, keeping his pistol unholstered. Starsky was making a quick survey of the entrance to the back room, peeking through the small window.
“It’s Jorge. He’s always been good baker, but a little funny in the head, you know?” Heintz made a circle near his temple. “Lately, though, he’s been really losing his pieces, how you say...?”
“His marbles?” Starsky said, coming back over. He said low, to Hutch, “Can’t see him from here, but it’s a big room, lots of obstructions.”
“Yes, his marbles. He think everyone want to get him all the time, everyone evil after him. Keep acting crazier and crazier, so sure he was. Finally, I tell him he can’t work here anymore, and today he come back with a gun.”
“A paranoid?” Hutch gave Starsky a glance.
“Yes, that, I think,” Heintz said.
“Nifty,” Starsky muttered.
“Okay, Mr. Heintz. I want you to go outside where it’s safe. There are more officers on the way, and I want you to tell them what you told me.” Hutch checked his gun again, and Starsky nodded at him. Together they approached the door, each taking a look through the window before pushing in.
It was dark.
Hutch immediately found cover behind a large bin, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. As soon as he could see well enough, he took a peek around the corner.
What he saw froze him momentarily, and he stifled a gasp. He waved his hand to Starsky, who was huddled on the other side of the door next to a freezer. Starsky took a quick look around the edge of it and then scuttled over to meet him.
“What?” he asked, so low Hutch could barely hear him.
“Sign, up on the wall. ‘No smoking: Propane’,” Hutch whispered tensely. “We can’t fire in here.”
Starsky gave a low groan.
Hutch raised his voice. “Jorge? Are you in here, Jorge?”
He heard a clang and a muffled curse.
“Who’s that? Who’s there?” The voice was coming from the far corner, next to a big oven.
“We’re friends, Jorge. We’re the police, here to help you,” Hutch said.
He heard a low, crazed laugh.
“Cops? Help me? That’s a laugh.”
“We will, Jorge.”
“You can’t help me,” Jorge shouted. “No one can help me. I knew they were out to get me, and then old man Heintz made it official. I got nothing now.”
Starsky made a disgusted sound, and Hutch shushed him.
“You’re making things worse, Jorge. If you’d just come along easy, we can fix things."
More semi-hysterical laughter followed his pronouncement. It rippled on, rising higher and higher, sounding louder.
Starsky tapped Hutch on the shoulder and then moved, slipping back to his previous location. He took another peek and then shook his head, showing he still didn’t have a shot. Hutch thought it was just as well. They weren’t going to get the man out of here by force, at least not without risking blowing themselves to kingdom come.
The crazed laughter was starting to get to him. Hutch moved around the far side of the storage bin, hoping to make eye contact with the flake. “Jorge, talk to me, amigo. I know we can work this out-”
“Snake tongue!” Jorge yelled. “Telling me nothing but lies!”
That’s when it went bad. There was no warning, only a muffled bang and then a larger WHUMPH, and Hutch found himself flying backward through the air, arms outstretched like wings.
Starsky!
ooOoo
Starsky was shielded from most of the explosion, but when the fridge jolted he was thrown to the ground, his forehead taking a nasty knock on the hinge of the door along the way. He clutched his head, coughing through the smoke. With his Beretta still in hand, he took the corner, gun at the ready.
He needn’t have bothered. Jorge was down for the count, and about an eternity longer. The blast had knocked over the freezer he was hiding behind, and all that was visible were his white pants and black shoes. Ding dong, the witch is dead, Starsky thought, still reeling in shock.
“Hutch? Hutch!” he called out, and was instantly filled with dread when he heard a weak, “Starsk?” in response.
No no no, pal. Where are you?
A very small fire was blazing near the far oven, but the blast hadn’t been that large, and fortunately the walls of the room appeared to be fireproof. Starsky stared up at the fire sprinklers, which apparently were taking the day off. The lingering smoke made it almost impossible to breathe, to see, but Starsky finally found Hutch on the far side of the room, crumpled against the wall.
“Hutch!” Starsky bent over him.
“Hey,” Hutch said, coughing weakly. He lifted a hand, gesturing toward Starsky’s head. “You’re bleeding.” His voice was filled with concern.
“It’s nothing,” Starsky said impatiently. “What’re you still doing on the floor, huh, buddy?” The low light was making it difficult to see if Hutch was injured.
“I’m not sure,” Hutch said vaguely, looking down, and Starsky followed his gaze to his stomach. There, implanted in his side, straight through the plaid shirt, was a piece of something where no something should have been.
“Hutch...” Starsky started weakly.
“Guess it was my turn, huh?” Hutch said, still looking down, his voice a whisper. “It’s funny-it doesn’t hurt at all,” he said wonderingly, moving his hand.
Starsky stopped him. “Don’t touch it! Jesus, I gotta get a medic. Promise me you’ll keep your hands off.”
Hutch nodded and Starsky rushed out, his shoes barely hitting the floor. He had just enough presence of mind to pull his badge and hold it up as he pushed through the doors.
“I need a paramedic!” Starsky shouted at the startled uniform before turning and pounding back the way he came.
He fell to his knees beside Hutch, who was trying to shift himself away from the wall.
“Don’t move, Hutch, please!”
Hutch nodded. “Here’s what I’ve been thinking, Starsk,” he said, almost conversationally, as Starsky leaned low and tried to assess the damage.
“Yeah? What’re you thinkin’?” Does it go all the way through? Looking at it made him queasy. The jagged shard of white metal, possibly from the propane tank itself, was protruding obscenely from Hutch’s side. Not too much blood, yet. We gotta keep him still until they can get it out of there.
“Well, it just occurred to me that Jorge and I have a lot in common,” Hutch continued, sounding dreamy.
Oh, God, don’t say that. Jorge is for the fishes, buddy. “How’s that?” Starsky yanked off his jacket and bunched it up, lifting Hutch’s head to tuck it underneath.
Hutch smiled at him in thanks. “See, Jorge was so scared he would get fired, that he went and got himself fired.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Starsky said, still not really tracking. Hutch grimaced and moved a little, and Starsky put his hands on Hutch’s hips, holding him down. “Keep still,” Starsky hissed.
“Okay,” Hutch gasped. A shudder took him, and Starsky winced, clutching at his hand, trying to ease him through it.
When it passed, Hutch relaxed back. His eyes met Starsky’s, hand still grabbing on.
“We just gotta hang on, babe. Medic will be here soon,” Starsky said. “What were you talking about?” Keep him talking. Keep him conscious.
Hutch sighed. “Well, what I’m thinking is...that even if...I mean I’m sure to mess this up eventually, but at least I can try not to, for a while. Give it my best shot. If-if you’ll have me, I mean.”
Starsky finally heard what his partner was saying. “Lemme get this straight. You were worried you were gonna fuck us up, so that’s why you fucked us up? That’s what was going on this morning?”
Hutch made a harsh sound in his throat, almost a laugh. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Don’t you know I wouldn’t let you screw things up?” Starsky asked, patting Hutch’s arm. “I mean, what’re partners for, anyway?”
Hutch shook his head and smiled at him. “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe I was thinking of the others...but you’re so different.” His eyes rolled a little, and his voice became weaker. “With them, their colors were all faded...browns instead of blues, or grays instead of greens...” Hutch was starting to drift, Starsky realized. He squeezed the hand in his, trying to keep him there.
Hutch startled a little, then stared at him. “But not you, Starsk. It’s like from the first moment I met you, pure Technicolor....”
“Like Dorothy when she hit Oz,” Starsky whispered, his heart tangled up in his throat.
“I guess,” Hutch agreed, looking confused. His face twisted suddenly, and Starsky knew the shock was wearing off, and he was starting to feel the pain.
Where is that fucking medic?
“Hey, you know how I think of you?” Starsky said, talking fast, trying to distract.
Hutch shook his head, his face still contorted.
Starsky babbled on. “My mom had this Japanese puzzle box once, when I was a kid, you know? So pretty-tan and red, lacquered all shiny with this star design. I was fascinated with it. I kept at it whenever she wasn’t home, trying to get it open. But there was always some other step, some new mystery to it. That’s you, Hutch.”
Hutch’s eyes were only half-open, but locked on his face. “What happened with the box?”
Starsky shrugged. “Finally, one day I found the sequence that got me into the center of it, into the most secret compartment-”
“And it was empty,” Hutch said softly.
Starsky nodded. “But-”
“See, that’s what I’m afraid of, Starsk,” Hutch whispered, his eyes closing.
He was still out like a light when the paramedics finally arrived.
ooOoo
Starsky was urging him to keep the shrapnel.
“We can put it on our desk,” he said with glee. His grin was so bright it rivaled the white hospital walls.
Do you have any idea what you do to me when you smile like that?
“Hutch?” Starsky said, sounding uncertain when Hutch didn’t respond. The surgery had been quick and pretty painless-for him, at least-and the painkillers were working fine, although they were doing a number on his head. But there were some things that hardly needed thought.
“Starsk, I’m not going to keep the damned thing,” he said with an effort, sticking to his role.
Starsky’s grin widened impossibly. “Aw, c’mon, babe. Think how cool it would be. Everyone’ll be asking what it is, and we can give ’em a different story every time. Like it’s part of an alien spacecraft, or it’s from the Berlin Wall....”
Starsky kept talking and Hutch just soaked it in, letting his partner distract him from his irritation at being laid up. At least he was going home today. A short stay this time, nothing like last time.
No, this is nothing like last time. Hutch suppressed a shudder. With an effort, he shoved aside his memories of those hours spent in the ICU waiting for Starsky to die.
“...to my place.”
“What was that?” Hutch said. He’d obviously missed something.
“I said,” Starsky repeated patiently, “when they spring you loose, I’ll take you straight to my place.”
“How come your place?”
“So I can keep an eye on you after work,” Starsky said. The grin was gone, the long face growing grave.
“I’m fine,” Hutch said, responding to the look. “You know that. Barely even bled, the thing was wedged in so tight. Missed all the important parts, too.” He’d been damned lucky.
“But they’re still worried about infection. And I can do stuff for you, get you things to eat, like that.”
Hutch had a hazy memory of some things he’d said back at the scene that made him a little uncomfortable with the idea of close quarters with his partner. Why is it so hard? To take what he offers? Show him how badly I need it?
But he already knew the answer to that.
Still, he had promised to try not to fuck it up. And Starsky was giving him that shy smile, one hand on Hutch’s blanketed leg, squeezing a little.
“Okay,” Hutch said softly, and the smile brightened once again.
Hoo boy. Am I in trouble.
ooOoo
“What’re those?” Hutch asked, his expression a cross between dismay and horror.
“Hair-cuttin’ shears, as if you didn’t know, Mr. Marlene.”
“Starsk...” Hutch began.
“Be reasonable, Hutch. Your hair is all singed from the blast. It looks ridiculous.” He got busy wrapping a towel around Hutch’s neck, ignoring the heavy sighs.
Starsky worked quickly, trying not to get distracted by the feel of the silky hair between his fingers. Blondie, he thought affectionately. He snipped fast, thinking Hutch would be losing his patience soon, and also that the faster he cut, the less likely he’d mess it up. But it came out pretty okay. A little long in the back, but Hutch kept grunting whenever he snipped too high, so he let it be.
“Voila!” he said, pulling the towel from Hutch’s neck and making a big show of brushing the stray hairs from his shirt.
“Mirror?” Hutch said dryly. Starsky hurried to the bathroom and came back with a piece of mirror he used sometimes to see the back of his own head.
“Is that a spare from the Torino?” Hutch said, grinning.
Starsky nodded and grinned back, handing it over.
Hutch looked in the mirror and made an approving noise. “Not bad, buddy. Maybe you should rethink your career options.”
Starsky gave him a punch in the shoulder for that one. “C’mon, get settled on the couch and I’ll bring you some grub.”
Hutch obeyed with only minor grumbling, which surprised Starsky. Actually, he was surprised all to heck with how agreeable Hutch was being about everything ever since the accident.
Starsky didn’t trust it.
He threw a pot on the fire and boiled up some macaroni and cheese, bringing it with a big glass of milk to Hutch, who was drowsing on the sofa. Hutch eyed the concoction and raised an eyebrow but started in. Starsky put the Dodger game on and joined him on the couch to eat a bowlful himself.
“Sutcliffe again,” Hutch said, making a disgusted noise.
“Oh, hey,” Starsky said. “I almost forgot. Huggy dropped something off for you, said you asked for it.” He bounded up and located the brown package he’d dumped on the table by the door. When he returned to his seat, he found Hutch had turned an interesting shade of red.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Hutch muttered. He took the package.
“What’s in there?” Starsky asked, intrigued.
Hutch looked tongue-tied.
“It looks bigger than a breadbox,” Starsky said, shifting closer on the couch. He wasn’t sure what the source of Hutch’s embarrassment was, but something in his eyes was pulling at Starsky, and he leaned over and, for the first time since Hutch had disappeared on him that night, gave his partner a kiss.
He kept it slow and easy, relishing the feel of Hutch’s lips beneath his, the soft stubble of the cheeks under his palms. His partner didn’t seem to be holding anything back. Starsky’s heart thudded like a jackhammer when Hutch’s hand crept up the back of his neck to sink into his hair.
“Oh, man,” Starsky murmured, and he broke the kiss, not wanting them to get too heated up. Hutch wasn’t ready for any fun and games. But before Starsky pulled back, he couldn’t resist dropping a soft kiss on the tip of Hutch’s nose.
Hutch stared up at him, a smile quirking his broad mouth.
“Did you just kiss me on the nose?” he asked, sounding incredulous.
Starsky felt himself blush.
“You did! You kissed me on the nose. No, wait, I’m glad,” Hutch said, grabbing his arm when Starsky tried to pull away. “It makes it easier. To give it to you.”
“What is it?” Starsky grumbled. This better not be another one of his stupid practical jokes.
“Open it and see.” Hutch tentatively offered him the package.
Starsky took it, still suspecting a trick of some kind. The package was wrapped in brown paper and twine. It didn’t really look like a present. He edged the twine over the corners and shredded the paper, anxious to get the thing open.
Inside was a tan-and-red lacquered puzzle box, with a geometric star pattern inlaid on the top. Starsky’s mouth dropped open.
Hutch’s voice interrupted his surprise. “Is it? I mean it’s probably not the same....”
“No! I mean, it’s close; it’s damned close, Hutch. Geez, I can’t believe you got me this.” Starsky slid open the first compartment on the side, grinning with delight when it moved easily. “Oh, wow.” He leaned back against the couch and happily started sliding the pieces, backtracking sometimes when he realized he’d stepped wrong. After a while he tilted sideways, planting himself against Hutch, and he felt Hutch’s hand slide up into his hair again, thumb rubbing the back of his neck.
He’d never been happier in his life.
“You’re real good at that,” Hutch said softly.
Starsky nodded absently, still puzzling through the sequence. He was getting close. He felt a tickle of anticipation wondering what might be in the innermost compartment.
Tongue pressed to his upper lip, he completed the sequence with a soft thunk and pulled open the top.
Inside, there was...nothing.
Starsky ignored the momentary stab of disappointment. After all, the box was the important thing. That, and what it meant. He smiled and raised his head.
“I couldn't put it in there,” Hutch whispered, his voice rough.
Starsky frowned into the warm blue of his eyes. “What, Hutch?”
“What I...what I really wanted to put inside,” Hutch said, barely audible.
Starsky tilted his head, his confusion easing when Hutch took his hand and tugged, holding it to the left side of his chest. He felt the deep rhythm of Hutch’s heart beating against his palm.
Starsky smiled, his own heart going crazy to beat the band.
“You’re right, Blintz. It’d never fit.”
Finis.
San Francisco, CA
February 15, 2006