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~~~
The LTD was in his rear-view almost all the way home, and his mind was swimming with feelings he couldn't catalog, could barely recognize, except the one that was strangling in his pants, rasped by the seam every time he moved his foot on the pedals. At home, he parked on the street and Hutch pulled up behind him. They both got out, met at the bottom of the stairs, and looked at each other until Starsky got a flat sentence out. "I'm half dead, I feel like that dust got inside my skin, and I'm horny as hell. If you stay, we won't talk. Not till tomorrow."
"Actually," Hutch said, "I was thinking more of fucking you into next week."
"We'll see. We'll see about that." Neither man smiled.
They went up the stairs together, Starsky about half a step ahead. At the turn in the stairs, he caught a sluggish foot under the little lip at the edge of the riser, and toppled forward—Hutch caught him, his grip hard, and hauled him up to the landing, over the tree-branch stretched across it, right to the lintel—even took the keys right out of his pocket, opened the door, and got both of them inside. And Starsky didn't object until after he'd let himself be stripped of his suede jacket; then he wrenched away from Hutch's grip. "Fuck off," he said, forcing his voice into a growl.
"Fuck you," Hutch said, glaring back. There should have been a joke there somewhere but Starsky didn't hear it in the tones of their voices. The blond head turned—Hutch seemed a little at a loss, as if he'd expected to see something that wasn't there; he dumped Starsky's good jacket in a heap near the door and pulled off his own coat, then his shoulder holster.
"What are you doing?"
Another evil look as Hutch pulled up on his white knit vest. "You're not the only one covered with dust," he said, then paused to tug the vest over his head, drop it on the pile. "You want to track it everywhere? Strip off. We can bag the clothes later, take 'em to the cleaner's."
"Who died and left you king?"
"Are you gonna stand there and bitch or are you gonna take a shower before you fall on your face?"
Starsky set his jaw but realized there were other things he wanted to do than argue right now. Stiffly, he began prying open the buttons on his outer shirt. What had happened to the buttonholes anyway? Shrunk? They'd been normal sizes when he put the shirt on. By the time he got it off and started on the next one, Hutch was down to boxers. His hands settled on top of Starsky's, and for all their venomous talk the touch was warm, firm—too good. Starsky didn't raise his eyes, registering instead the bare forearms, stomach, thighs in his line of sight. Gray shorts loose over the heavy cock.
Starsky's hands were pulled to the sides, his red shirt swiftly and silently unbuttoned. He reached for Hutch's arms, cupped his elbows, looked at last at the tired, dusty face and sighed, seeing how even Hutch's eyelashes were clogged and tangled. And so was the short hair in the newly-trimmed mustache. Hutch's mouth moved a little, took a new and uneven line, and Starsky wished he knew what either of them was thinking.
Hutch put his hands inside the shirt to push it off Starsky's shoulders, down his arms, and the palms on his skin felt right—Starsky clutched handfuls of pale skin and solid flesh under it, somewhere near the ribs but not careful of where he was grabbing or how hard. Hutch made a kind of "oof" sound under his breath and his hands stopped. He raised his eyes to Starsky's face. Shadowed, uncertain, distant, evaluating, their expression grew harder rather than softer, and it was painful to watch. Starsky hauled their bodies together and kissed him.
Tasted funny, dusty and bitter, but Hutch was in there somewhere so Starsky just went deeper. Hutch made a sound in his throat and suddenly they were eating each other alive, pushing and shoving, chewing and sucking—Starsky's nose was crushed to one side and he twisted his head but Hutch just pressed harder. His hands were in Starsky's jeans, grabbing his ass with fingers like steel, and there was way too much cloth tangled around the arms and legs Starsky wanted to move. "Uph," he said but Hutch wasn't listening at all, just pulling him in so tight that the buttons and zipper and belt must be hurting him, too. There wasn't room for a thought between them now. No room for their cocks to grow, though they did anyway. Hutch's mouth was fierce on jaw and throat and earlobe, slurping wet and toothy; Starsky jumped at each nip on his skin and held on harder until, dimly, he began to feel too ravished and pushed at the body covering him. Again, harder, almost punching, and that moved Hutch away but not far.
Hands on Starsky's waist, Hutch looked down and back up, and the expression on his face was extraordinary: brows together, eyes dilated, mouth wet and smiling tightly. He shook his head. Starsky pushed again, suddenly, throwing Hutch back a step, and tore the shirt off, hooked his thumbs in the jeans and slid them down, almost afraid to look away lest Hutch should pounce again. Stepping out of the jeans and shoes made him stumble, and Hutch steadied him, then stepped back again.
In the little pause that followed, Starsky rubbed his forearm absently, pulled his watch off and felt the grit on his skin. "You ever taking off those damn trunks?"
Hutch did, smoothly, tossing them onto the pile; he took the last bundle of cloth and leather from the floor and tossed it, too. And then, as casually as that, grasped Starsky's cock and held it, squeezed and rubbed just a little.
Starsky peeled his hand off. "You are not running this," he said. "Not. Anyway I need that shower." He started for the bathroom and glared over his shoulder at his blond shadow.
"What am I supposed to do, read a magazine? Don't be stingy. It's a big tub."
Shaking his head, Starsky kept going. In the bathroom, he dropped watch and necklace next to the sink, slid open the shower door and got in, turning to watch Hutch as he stepped in and closed the door behind them.
"Normally, you turn on the water at this point," Hutch said.
The truth was, Starsky didn't want to turn his back.
After a moment, Hutch said, "Or get out of the way and I'll do it."
Starsky moved to the side and they changed places in silence, Hutch fiddling with the knobs, his own back muscles jumping a little, his buttocks clenched together. Starsky stepped into the edge of the spray and took the hard biceps in his hands, and Hutch stood very still.
Starsky wanted to nail that big smooth-skinned body to the wall, but couldn't while it was this tense. Instead he leaned forward and rubbed his open mouth against Hutch, lips and tongue dragging, not really a kiss. He ran his teeth around the edge of Hutch's shoulder blade, but it was hard bending his head to that angle so he stepped back and bent farther to nibble down the long spine. Hutch grunted and put both hands against the tile, then moved one to the shower knob and held on.
Danger made them both horny, but if it were only straightforward hunger that they felt, jerking off or finding a woman would do. Sometimes they did one or both of those. But when Hutch was the one who'd almost bought it, or both of them, when Starsky had been forced to really imagine their bodies dead or maimed, he never felt right again until he could touch and taste and affirm his partner's reality in the most intimate way. When he needed that kind of sex and didn't get it, he'd have nightmares for days, weeks .... He couldn't handle that now, with everything else going on in his head, so even though he thought the make-up sex was premature, he couldn't, wouldn't stop.
Hutch grabbed his wrist and pulled until they were tight against each other and the captured hand was flat over Hutch's heart. Between Starsky's palm and chest, his partner's heartbeat thundered; he pressed his ear against Hutch's back to hear it even more. Strong and fast. The bare smooth stomach was under his other palm and he rubbed circles there, then as he felt the big body give a little, he grinned and held out his hand—"Soap," he said, tilting his face down out of the water that spilled around Hutch's head.
"What?"
"Soap, come on," and he waggled his fingers.
The bar slapped into his palm. "Aggravating son of a bitch," said Hutch, voice unsteady though Starsky couldn't tell whether that was because of the shower spray, emotion, or Starsky's leisurely scrubbing over his chest and belly, thighs and sides, up to his collar bone, down nearly to his knee, never touching his cock or lingering over his nipples. Hutch pushed back against Starsky, arched his neck and bumped their skulls together.
"That's right," Starsky told him.
Hutch turned contrary, stood up straight and bent his head forward.
"Ah, no," and Starsky rubbed against him, up and down with his whole body, feeling the slow wet rasp of skin and hair and the way his cock dragged along between the cheeks of Hutch's ass. "Blondie, blintz, you gorgeous jerk," Starsky had his chin on Hutch's shoulder, knew Hutch could feel the vibrations of this lowered voice all down his back, "Oh, yes, asshole, I want it, you want it, don'tcha? I don't even have to touch you to know, don't have to see the rod you've got on you now, my eyes are closed, Hutch, but I know exactly how you look. You're losin' it. I could do nothing but talk, here, rub on you and talk to you until you scream." The soap slipped away and Starsky forgot it, grasping and massaging, feeling Hutch gasp for air. Both hands slid down Hutch's thighs. "Look down now." Hands moving slowly, almost more than Starsky could stand either, slowly into warmth and wet tangled hair, and Hutch jumped as Starsky touched his cock and balls at last.
Starsky thrust against the warm flesh, though his cock was angled up and just slid back and forth. "So help me, I want to poke you so hard you won't walk right for a week."
Hutch shifted his weight, moved his foot and took his hand off the knob—
—and slipped, twisting helplessly, and Starsky had nothing to hold on to but the body in his arms, turned so his back was to the frosted glass and had just enough time for the startled fear to rush through him before Hutch caught at the nozzle and the handle of the soap dish—his own calf was pushed hard against the wall and he was squashed into the door but not hard enough to break it or pop it out of its track.
"God damn it!" they both said, and Hutch added, "You dropped the soap, moron."
"Get off me." Starsky pushed and, when they were both upright, slapped irritably at the nearer shoulder; hung on to his partner's hip as he crouched for the soap and got up again; then he moved Hutch against the rear of the stall, back against tile. Pushed the tube of shampoo into his hand. "Wash." He used the soap on Hutch again, much more efficiently, moving down his arms and legs. "Such a clumsy oaf sometimes—most times—when you're just moving around or, god help us, dancing, and then—" his hand faltered. "Then you do something like that kick—" and instead of going on he concentrated on washing knees and calves, kneeling now but he didn't care at the moment. Two whole, healthy, now-clean legs in front of him. Hutch's ankles and feet in his hands. He stroked the left one, the one Hutch had kicked with, once more, and looked up.
Hutch was pushing foamy hair back from his face and staring down. Then he stretched out one hand, his right, and Starsky put his own left in it, standing as Hutch pulled up, until his hand, the one he'd thrown with, was at Hutch's mouth, being lightly kissed.
This time he had the presence of mind to drop the soap in the dish before he buried his other hand in Hutch's half-finished shampoo job and kissed him, soapy water on his lips and the smell of the shampoo in his nose. Hutch's teeth, edge and flat and smooth curve against his tongue. Hutch pulling him in again and sort of rippling, moving against him as if to show off moves nobody in the dance hall had seen.
Except Kira. The thought chilled him and he broke the seal of their mouths.
Hutch looked surprised, then irritated as they just stood there. "Let me rinse, turkey, you're blocking the water," he said and they changed places again. Starsky soaped his hair while Hutch scrubbed under the spray.
He'd closed his eyes against the soap and was working his fingers hard against the scalp, concentrating so he wouldn't remember all the reasons to be angry, and then was jolted by the touch of Hutch's hands, washing his raised arms, his armpits, his chest. He wiped his eyes and looked. Hutch grinned at him, with an edge to it as if he'd played a much bigger practical joke than just making Starsky jump. His hands were not particularly gentle, but they were thorough, and Starsky went back to working through the wet thatch of his hair. Then Hutch moved him like a child, got him under the water and rinsed him. Almost before he knew it, the shower was stopping and Hutch was backing out of the stall, letting in a cold breeze that instantly covered Starsky with goosebumps and brought his nipples up hard.
Hutch's head appeared around the edge of the shower door—and then he closed his mouth, whatever words he'd intended to say unspoken, and just looked, the still attentiveness much more expressive than his features. And then Starsky could move. He paced forward like a cat, holding Hutch's eyes with his own, and brushed past him, out of the shower, ducking around to the towel rack—got a towel and dried busily, wondering if Hutch had turned to salt or something.
But there was Hutch's hand, cupping his ass, dragging his fingers over it lightly, up and down, nail and fingertip, just the faintest of touches, calculated to make Starsky completely crazy. He could feel Hutch come closer, the palm turn on his skin, and then the fingers tickled in between his cheeks, searching, and he wasn't frozen any more—he threw the towel off his head and twisted, catching Hutch's wrist. "No," he said.
"Why not?" Hutch's voice seemed reasonable enough but his eyes were wide and not reasonable at all. He moved in still closer. Starsky ended up against the wall, his neck against the towel rack. "What was that you said, gorgeous jerk, asshole, I want it, you want it?" Up and down his sides went those hands, and back to his ass, rubbing it, and above it, while Hutch kept talking. The fingers dived again, circled, and Hutch's head crowded in, shut out the light—"Asshole," he breathed, touching it.
Starsky felt like every muscle in his body had clamped down, his eyes screwed shut, and his breath wheezed. "No," he rasped.
Hutch's hands retreated to his ribs. "Fuck you. You're still—you're—s-s-" —then there was the faint sound of teeth grinding, and Starsky's hands went to his partner's shoulders, knowing how he hated to stutter. "What made her so different?" Hutch cried out, much louder than necessary.
Starsky shoved him. "No! No we are fucking not! Not now!" While Hutch was still getting his balance, Starsky got out of the bathroom, but then he found himself almost tackled and turned, gripping and wrestling, not really to hurt but in a grim silence.
It was no surprise to find himself in the bedroom though he wasn't sure who had hauled whom in here. They were both barely dry, hair dripping and tangled, skin patched with water, but if either man's erection had faltered in the chill, their close contact had brought it back. Starsky felt almost light-headed, wild with the ache in his balls and cock, and he was on top when they fell onto the mattress. He thrust down onto Hutch, who rolled them over and did the same. They fought for the top position, rods clashing and rubbing, thrusting without even getting between each other's legs. But after being so worked up for so long, Starsky didn't need anything too complicated anyway, and he clutched Hutch harder, feeling the rush build. Hutch's mouth came down, fastened to his as if for breath, and the man was all around, nothing but Hutch everywhere—Starsky shuddered, the gush of fluid hot between them, and Hutch groaned and buried his face in Starsky's neck, working for only a few more seconds before he came, too.
They held on even tighter while they drifted down, breathing hard. Then, suddenly, Hutch rolled off to one side, onto his back. They didn't talk. Starsky slowly raised one hand to his eyes, rubbed them, then put his forearm across them and just waited.
The bed shifted. Fingertips touched his arm, ran to his wrist, lifted away. "You're cold, get under the covers," Hutch said. Touched his hair. Then shifted his weight again, and the bed lifted.
Starsky said, still not looking, "What about you? Where you going?"
"The couch." Hutch took a slightly whistling breath, then sighed it out. "Don't worry, I couldn't go far. I'm done."
Starsky forced his arm down, his eyelids open, and got up on his elbows. Their semen slid down his chest, pooled in his stomach, and a drip made its slow way down one side. Hutch was staring, looking as empty as he had when Starsky had said he and Kira were in love.
Annoyed by the ooze, Starsky reached for a tissue and mopped at himself. Then looked up, and Hutch hadn't moved an inch. "C'm'on," he said, "stay. If you use the couch, I'll have to get up and help you make it up—"
"I know where everything is."
"You act like a guest, I have to act like a host. Get in bed here, Hutchinson. We can be mad again in the morning, when we've got the energy for it." Starsky got up and pulled the covers out. Hutch did the same on the other side, and then reached for Starsky's hair again as they both got in.
"Hey. That'll look like a rat's nest in the morning if you don't do something."
"Nah, I'll get it wet again and blow-dry it."
Hutch snorted. "Never thought I'd hear you admit that." They lay down, not touching.
"Now tell me about your bald spot."
Hutch cuffed his shoulder. Then turned on his side, facing away. Starsky, on his back, looked at the wide pale shoulders in silence for a while, and slipped into sleep without ever deliberately closing his eyes.
~~~
The next morning, Hutch woke first, and found they'd both hardly stirred—which made it easy for him to slip out of the bed without disturbing Starsky.
He took a quick shower, combed his hair—it was all in knots—and rubbed some toothpaste into his mouth with one finger. Starsky was still dead to the world.
Hutch remembered some old cut-off sweatpants that his partner wore to wash the Torino, which ought to fit, and an equally ratty, stretched-out t-shirt. He looked quietly through Starsky's dresser drawers until he found the clothes and put them on. It was a little chilly for them, and Hutch wasn't looking forward to putting on his boots. That would give Starsky a laugh. But for now, stocking feet would do.
Wanting caffeine to get his brain jump-started, he found the remains in the Mr. Coffee and grimaced. Just how long did Starsky let the stuff age? He washed out the pot and got a new filter packet out of the generic-brand package in the cupboard.
There was about a quarter-inch of new coffee, and Hutch was sitting staring at the drip, when Starsky said from behind him, "Wasn't there any left?"
Hutch turned. Starsky was nude, scratching his stomach reflectively, and his hair really did look like an old nest, the kind that fell out of the tree in a high wind.
"Nothing I wanted to put in my mouth. That green scum on the top put me off."
"Pretty crappy even when it's fresh."
"Then why—"
Starsky waved one hand dismissively. "I get good stuff at home, how do I keep drinking that junk at work?"
This was such typical Starsky logic that Hutch had no reply.
"Found my fancy clothes, I see," with a grin.
Hutch glanced down at the fraying edges of the cut-offs against his skin. "Yeah, well, your tux doesn't fit me."
"With that big split down the back? Sure it would."
"Arms 're too short." Hutch wondered how long the banter would go on before they got back to what they had so vehemently not discussed earlier. "You planning to just stay like that?"
"I thought I'd make a fashion statement at work. When do we have to be in, anyway?"
"Dobey didn't take us off second shift, and nobody's called, so ...." he didn't bother to finish the sentence.
"Time enough. I'll go wash, though." He padded off to the bathroom.
Hutch watched appreciatively, but felt like he'd fallen into some sort of science fiction thing, a time machine, and gone back a year or so, to some other morning after. Except that Starsky used to buy better coffee. And for a while Hutch had kept a pair of jeans and a shirt here.
It felt like a long time ago.
In the bathroom, the noise of the water hadn't lasted long, but the dryer seemed to be going on forever. Hutch got the newspaper from the doormat, then went back to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of the fresh brew. It was hot, strong, and nearly as bitter as the stuff he'd refused to drink the other morning. He took a second sip as he walked back to the stool he'd been sitting on, beside the calendar—then he changed his mind, picked up the newspaper, and went out on the deck.
'Deck' was an exaggeration, really. It was more a large bare-wood balcony, with a huge acanthus plant sprawling its broad leaves over one end and a narrow picnic table taking up most of the space. Hutch straddled the bench next to the rail, put his elbow on the table and set the coffee cup there too, while he opened the newspaper with his other hand. The sun was bright and made everything look extra sharp. It was strange, but when he thought back he could barely remember any of these days on second shift, except for the time he spent with Kira. All his other memories seemed to be the dance hall, the dark nights, the squad room—and the morning he'd come here to work things out with Starsky, who fed him bad coffee and worse news.
There was nothing good in the paper. He folded it and got up, leaned on the railing, resting one knee on the bench and looking down the long slow curve of the road. He swirled the coffee in the cup and thought it was probably not the only bitter thing he'd have to swallow soon.
As if on cue, Starsky's voice said, "Hey."
Hutch started, and the coffee splashed, a gobbet of brown falling into the bushy landscaping below.
"Not expectin' me?"
Hutch shrugged, turning. Starsky was in shorts too, denim cutoffs, and a blue short-sleeved shirt with the placket open. He sat on the other side of the table, then shifted and pulled one foot onto the bench, folding an arm around the raised knee. Hutch imagined how, under the table, the shorts gaped and pulled around Starsky's thighs, across his genitals. It wasn't fair to tease without even teasing, for god's sake. A light wind stirred sun-sparks in the dark, ordered curls.
"Talk out here, or go in?" Starsky asked.
Hutch sat, put the cup next to the folded paper, and rubbed his face with both hands, elbows braced on the table. "I hate trying to do this in cold blood like this," he blurted.
Starsky smirked a little, obviously trying to contain his amusement. "We can throw a few punches first if you want," he said.
Hutch folded his arms and looked across at his partner.
"Last night you knew what you wanted to talk about," Starsky prompted.
"No. Last night ... last night I was just so frustrated that I couldn't stand it." But after a pause he changed his mind. "All right, yeah, start there. What makes Kira different, Starsky?"
"Can't believe you're asking. I couldn't believe it then either, I just didn't want to get into it." The leg dropped and Starsky sat up straight; the smooth composure he'd shown all morning seemed to crack then, and some passion was in his voice: "I told you, y'big blond moron, I said I loved her! That made her different. Of course it did! What're you trying to pull?"
Hutch shook his head.
Starsky stood up and the bench scraped on the deck floor. "What are you trying to pretend?" he repeated, leaning on the table. "You've never been this slow before, Hutchinson."
"I've never," said Hutch, "been quick at accepting claims that are so completely unsupported by facts." He looked up, squinting, at the face now bent in shadow over him.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Starsky slapped the tabletop with one hand.
"You dated her a month. I dated her, what, three weeks? When I started, did you warn me off? No, you backed off. Then you were back in the running, and I thought it was the game. Like Allison. Like Melinda. Like C.D. and Sally and Wendy Perkowitz." Hutch reached, grabbed Starsky's wrist tightly. "Come on, Starsky, we haven't been saving ourselves for marriage! We fucked Kathy Marshall together, or don't you remember that now?"
"Perky, too. 'Course I remember." Starsky pulled away, then walked over to the rail and looked over it. Hutch stood up too. "We're getting too damn old for that shit. We gotta grow up, Hutch."
Hutch felt very cold, all of a sudden, and would have grabbed the coffee but knew it was cold too. Gotta grow up. It was a denial of the Springsteen concert, the other wild play they'd shared—and last night?
He lashed out, "So you were being grown up, those nights you prowled around the dance hall sulking and scowling? Jesus, the pout on you, I could've left my beer can there. You're gonna tell me about maturity? That's a laugh." He wanted to laugh but knew he couldn't manage it, and frowned instead.
"Oh, here we are." Starsky turned on him, as swiftly as if he really had expected this; his voice was low and deadly. "Now it's time for you to tell me how childish I am, or undisciplined, or hostile, or impatient—use some ten dollar words, Hutch, don't forget to let me know I'm not as educated as you are."
The attack took Hutch's breath away. His eyes dropped.
"Come on." The low voice was closer. "Don't tell me you don't have something all ready."
Hutch felt the blush flood his face, the blood pound hard in his throat. Starsky knew, of course, about the times Hutch practiced what he was going to say in court or before an inquiry board, or even to Dobey or a girlfriend, occasionally. To avoid the stutter, or minimize it, anyway. "S-s-" He clamped his jaw shut and did not look up. Starsky knew. In another second he would say it, in that vicious bad-cop tone, and that would break something. They'd never fix it. Hutch waited.
The silence seemed to last forever.
When Starsky spoke at last, it was in another voice, softer, shaken. "No. No, Hutch, I didn't mean that. Don't—" he took a sudden breath, as if he'd forgotten to before. Hutch took a deeper breath, too. Starsky's cool fingers touched his cheek, quivering slightly.
Hutch owed his partner something for the respite. He raised his eyes, met the gentler gaze, and said, "I shouldn't have gone there. I knew, really. But she hadn't changed to me at all, Starsk, I just didn't get it. I wanted her to tell me, and then I was going to go. But," he swallowed, "that wasn't what she told me."
"No," said Starsky evenly, "she said she wanted to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony."
Hutch stared. A joke? Starsky'd told a joke now?
"Well? Essentially?"
A smile tugged at Hutch's mouth, surprising him completely. "Well. Actually."
Starsky raised his brows, turned his head slightly, waiting.
"She said she wanted to buy the world a Coke."
Starsky leaned back, his mouth stretching too. "Yeah." It wasn't really a smile on his face, but he looked resigned. "I realized after the grenade. The woman, well, the woman I wanted to be in love with. She wasn't there at all. So ... actually I'm sorry too." Then after a pause, "I'm still mad as hell that you wouldn't take my word for it," he said firmly. "You were a bastard about that."
"Yeah, well, I'm pissed off that you got us all into this with your midlife crisis and then blamed it all on me."
"Oh, that's back to normal then." Starsky took a step, picked up the newspaper and the cup. "Complete with your natural desire to mess up any space you're in." He left the porch while Hutch was still absorbing what had happened.
It was like being emotionally sideswiped. Dangled off a cliff and then saved, like a cartoon character. Hutch scratched his eyebrow and rubbed his mustache, but everything seemed to be there, just like always. Like normal.
Maybe they were.
Through the French doors he could see the sunlight falling on the armchair, edging the coffee table, almost reaching the couch; the smaller kitchen window to his left showed a dim movement of blue and dark brown, drawing his eyes. Starsky rinsing the cup. Hutch went in, pausing at the end of the counter, and Starsky was watering the spindly young plants on the sill, touching their leaves, picking off a dead one. His face was smooth in the sun and his hands moved fluidly. The line down the back of his bare legs would make an artist weep.
"I can't imagine why you think you're at midlife," Hutch said.
Starsky smiled a little but didn't reply, and didn't turn as Hutch came up behind him. Wrapping both arms around his waist, Hutch leaned his chin on the convenient shoulder in front of him and murmured, looking at the plants, "Don't you talk to them any more?"
Starsky's body was neither rigid nor particularly giving in the embrace, hands resting easily on the edge of the counter. Hutch moved one leg closer, to touch the furry skin of Starsky's, and his stockinged foot met the harder tennis shoe. "Not when anybody's here," Starsky said. "They understand that."
Hutch moved back, his own hands sliding along Starsky's arms, ruffling the hair, then cupping the elbows, a rough knob in each palm. He swallowed, suddenly wanting very much just to bend his head and kiss that spot between tendons at the back of Starsky's neck, the little hollow where his hair was short and soft. But that would ask for sex, and going back to bed right now would be a bad idea. No longer strung out on adrenaline and anger, Hutch could see that, and could draw back.
"Have you got anything to eat that isn't sugar-coated?" he asked, letting go.
"Eggs?"
"Okay." Hutch went to the refrigerator, and there were eggs, tidily placed in the little pockets that just collected grime in Hutch's refrigerator. "Should I scramble 'em?"
"Sure. Reach me the bread, I'll make toast."
When breakfast was ready, Hutch took his plate to the couch, put it on the coffee table and bent over it. Starsky stayed near the counter, holding the plate in his hands as he ate a forkful of egg, then fumbling awkwardly with the toast and the fork and the plate.
Hutch swallowed what was in his mouth and said, "I won't bite." He nodded at the chair.
Starsky put his plate on the end of the coffee table, moved the armchair forward, sat on the edge of it, elbows on his knees. Looking, apparently, at the plate.
"Starsky," Hutch began, with no clear idea what he wanted to say.
The dark eyes met his calmly. After a moment, Starsky said, "What?"
"Tell me," and Hutch hoped he didn't sound condescending now, "about the growing up thing. What did you mean? What do you want?"
Eyebrows up, Starsky looked back at his plate, then dug his fork into the eggs again. "You know."
"No, I really don't. I, I don't have a problem with how we are now."
Starsky's head came up fast this time, and his stare was incredulous.
"No, not just now, I mean not this mess, but the rest of it, the way we live normally."
"Oh." Starsky crunched his toast thoughtfully, spoke with his mouth still full and crumbs on his lips. "It's just, Hutch," he swallowed, "you know we can't just go on forever this way—we can't sleep around and do the bars and all, until we've got our own canes and the young things just laugh at us. I'm trying to think ahead. We're so good now," with a half-smile, "that it looks like we'll live long enough to worry about it." He ate some egg. "I want someone to come home to."
And Hutch knew exactly how he wanted to answer, but there was a cold lump in his throat, and in his gut too: fear. "Someone," he got out, "new?" and waited. It was the best he could do.
Starsky eyed him sidelong. "Not necessarily."
Hutch wasn't ready, and the opportunity and danger and desire swirled in his head.
"Tell me what you're thinkin', Blondie."
"I'm—" he took a breath— "I'm gonna blow this, Starsky."
Starsky shook his head, pushed the plate farther onto the table. Wiped his mouth. Put the napkin down. "I know you are."
Hutch was startled.
"I know exactly how you'll screw up. Better than I know how I'll screw up, and that'll happen, too. But I also know," and his voice had roughened; he cleared his throat and said, "you're not gonna turn out to be somebody else." He held out one hand. Hutch didn't move, and Starsky waggled his fingers as he had for the soap. "Give it here."
Hutch grasped the warm, lean hand he knew as well as his own.
"Nothing has to happen this second," said Starsky.
"Yes," said Hutch, getting to his feet, "one thing has to," pulling Starsky up, bending to his lips.
As if he'd been living backwards, Hutch felt that of all the times they'd kissed, this was the first. He couldn't remember the real first, anyway. He couldn't remember much of anything with Starsky's sandalwood aftershave and deodorant soap and buttered toast and natural musk in his nose and mouth. He kissed lightly, deeply, lightly again, and Starsky's mouth was wet and pliant, then hard and hungry, then fierce and nipping, as if all the man's moods were here in this single kiss. Starsky's hand squeezed his hard, then let go; Hutch felt his lover's grip on arms and shoulders and in his hair. He was aware, in a way he'd rarely been before, of Starsky's whole body pressed against him, and kept passing his hands over shirt and shorts and upper thighs—Starsky made a stifled sound—back up to the nape Hutch had thought of kissing. He held the short hair between his knuckles and dug his other hand into the waistband of the shorts, finding the other tiny curls of hair that felt so good under rubbing fingertips. The flex of Starsky's ass trapped his middle finger. Between their bodies, tighter together every second, their cocks moved. Starsky let Hutch's mouth go only to latch onto his neck, and he found himself arched backward, held in mid-air above the armchair, one hand flailing a little as it fell free of the stiff denim band. Starsky pulled him up tighter, so Hutch got his weight above his feet again and his arm around the now-tense body.
"Time for the real make-up sex now?" he asked, feeling Starsky's panting breaths against his throat.
"Jesus, Hutch," Starsky said. "'S crazy, I'm goin' up like a rocket."
"You are, aren't you?" Hutch felt calmer, more centered rather than more frantic. "Here," he reached for the shorts' fly but Starsky batted his hands away.
"I'll do it." And he did open snap and zipper, but then paused. "Right here?"
"In the chair."
Starsky got his shorts and briefs off and Hutch pushed the chair away from the coffee table, into the sunshine. "Shirt too?" he asked. "Please? Everything."
So Starsky lay back in the armchair, naked in the sunlight, and Hutch knelt on the floor and bent over him, mouth and hands busy over the long torso, lifting his head from time to time for the sight of Starsky's head tossing, neck arching, arms stretched and bent over the sides of the chair and all his muscles working. Hutch took the brass coins between his lips and tugged on them lightly, then worked his way down the heaving ribs, stroking all the time back and forth on Starsky's thighs, knowing it made him crazy. And at last he held down those writhing hips and ran his tongue from balls to cockhead, a long hot curve, veins like strings under his tongue, the skin with that taut softness unlike any other. He did it again, curving his tongue carefully so every possible taste bud met skin. Starsky grunted, bucked in Hutch's hands, and a few drops from the tip splashed on his skin. Terrible waste, Hutch thought and took the berry-bright head into his mouth, swirling the flat of his tongue against it, pressing and sucking, pulling the ridge with his lips.
"Hutch, Hutch!"
Must be doing something right.
Starsky's enjoyment was like a gift to Hutch, a bonus, because he couldn't get enough, himself. As long as he'd been having sex, he'd liked doing this, and Starsky was reaching new heights of abandon now but had always responded beautifully to it. Hutch took the bottom of the shaft in his hand, moved to ruffle the crisp dark hair, stirring it with his little finger, then tilting to get his thumb around to the tight balls. Starsky was close, gasping, hardly able to say his lover's name though "H-" and "-ch," could still be heard. Hutch moved his lips back and forth, sucking in the length and letting it slip almost away, every inch of skin vivid and dear to him. He felt the tension rush through thigh muscles and balls and closed his eyes, sucking, wanting this, needing the bitter jets on his palate, his tongue, bathing his molars, sliding down his throat. He felt the press of strong legs locked around his body, heels digging into his back, and then Starsky cried out thinly without words and collapsed into the chair cushions as if every bit of strength had just come out of him into Hutch's mouth.
Hutch opened that mouth and covered the wet, shrinking cock with his hand, leaning forward to kiss below the navel, then lay his head on Starsky's belly. Feeling as relaxed as if he'd come himself, Hutch closed his eyes again and savored Starsky's hands playing lazily with his hair.
Some time passed. Hutch's head lifted on a deeper breath of Starsky's, and he raised it so they could look at each other.
"I owe you one, don't I?" Starsky asked.
"We'll work it out."
Starsky's fingers traced over Hutch's face, around his mouth, back onto his cheek. "I'm beginning to think we will."
"I can't do without you, Starsky." There, he'd finally said it, though he buried his face in Starsky's skin right afterward. Then kissed there, as if that were what he'd intended all along.
"Then we'll have to work it out." Starsky didn't sound worried. He went on petting Hutch's hair.
~~~
When they went in to Metro, they found two little folded notes, one on each side of the desk, placed unobtrusively to the side. Hutch picked his up and tilted it so Starsky could see 'K.H.' written on it in Kira's handwriting; his own was labeled 'D.S.' It might have been possible not to share them, if they'd really still been at outs with each other. As it was, when Starsky had read his, he reached automatically for Hutch's. They were virtually identical. Dear whoever was asked to meet Kira at The Pits bar at lunchtime tomorrow, so they could talk through their issues and get some closure. Love, Kira.
"We're being dumped, partner," Hutch said.
The public place, the simultaneous invitation, the mention of closure—Starsky agreed, but said out of old habit, "You are. A lady doesn't give up all this—" gesturing down his body— "that easily."
"Did you give her that old jacket?" Hutch asked with a wide-eyed show of innocence. "I didn't know." Then an equally spurious look of confusion. "Why would she want it?"
They were standing fairly close together as Hutch had been comparing the notes over Starsky's shoulder. So it was simple to pull the dark-brown leather collar up and out a bit, lean back, and be nearly in Hutch's face to murmur, "She likes the smell, she said. How about you?"
Hutch made a face, but his eyes had already dilated. Starsky felt he had won that round on points.
After they finished the last of the dance-hall case paperwork, Dobey sent them out on patrol. Almost immediately, they got a call which turned out to be a group of rowdy teenage shoplifters, middle-class kids with the kind of attitude that sent Hutch sky-high with irritation, so that was an hour or two of Hutchinson ranting—felt that long, anyway. Starsky was irritated. Think of coming home to that. Not so easy, is it?
He glanced over at a small sound, to see that Hutch was rolling down the window to hang his arm out, or his elbow, anyway. The afternoon sun made him squint and fired up his hair.
Liar, Starsky told himself. Loving Hutch had always been too easy. "Hey, didn't your mother ever tell you not to do that?"
"Uh-huh. Said a truck would come along and cut it off." Hutch's snit seemed to be over.
Starsky snorted. "That's a good one. She tell you about watermelon seeds?"
"That if I swallowed 'em, they'd grow in my stomach?"
"Yeah. Always liked that one myself."
It was a normal shift. No reason it shouldn't be—plenty of times they'd gotten out of bed to share the bathroom and go to work—but it had been long enough to feel special even without ... Starsky tried not to think of Hutch's voice gone shaky and hoarse, his face hot on Starsky's skin. Couldn't help it, or the flush that ran through him when he did. I can't do without you, Starsky.
He reached out along the seat back, found the nape of Hutch's neck and gripped it, then fanned his fingers through the fine hair. By the time the light was green, his hand was back on the wheel, no harm done.
"What was that for?" Hutch asked.
Starsky had a left turn to do, so he couldn't look, could he? "'Cause I can't do without you either." His voice was light.
A rich silence fell inside the car.
"Good," Hutch said at last. Then, after another pause, "Starsk—?"
But the radio interrupted. "Zebra Three, Zebra Three, come in."
Hutch was on it. "Go ahead, this is Zebra Three."
"See the man called Marty at the hot-dog stand."
Marty was a snitch they'd used before, and they knew which hot-dog stand he meant. Starsky bought a Chicago-style chilidog for himself, a plain one for Hutch, and barbecue chips for Marty while Hutch talked to the painfully thin, jittery young man.
The little bags of food wanted to slip out of Starsky's fingers, so his eyes were on them as he went back to the table.
"Thanks," Hutch said absently as he took the hot dog. Starsky put down his own stuff and held out the bag of chips to Marty, really looking at him for the first time since they'd gotten there. The pale gray eyes were huge in the cadaverous face, and seemed full of tears.
"Hey, you okay?" Starsky asked, and Marty grimaced.
"He's fine." Hutch was uncharacteristically brusque. "Now, Marty, have you really got anything for us?"
Not much, and it was more for the beat cops than for them anyway. There was a guy who'd been exposing himself and trying to get kids alone at the park where Marty spent a lot of his time. Marty had probably had more experience with that kind of thing himself than he wanted to say, but it was obvious enough why he'd called.
"I don't wanna go to Metro," Marty said.
Starsky answered. "That's where the mug books are, Marty. C'm'on, kid, you wanted to ID this guy."
"Will you be there?" the boy asked Hutch. Licked powdered barbecue flavoring off his fingers.
Starsky had to look away. It was that or laugh.
"You oughta be nicer to that kid," he said when they were back in the car. "He'd identify anybody we wanted if you held his hand."
"Shut up," Hutch said. But he began to smile a little. "'Least he doesn't shoplift expensive lighters like Joey did when we first met her."
"Just don't go buyin' him Springsteen tickets."
"No. Honestly, Starsk, every time I see that kid I want to check inside his elbows."
Starsky thought about it. "Naw, I think it's just living on the street. Doesn't have a lot to eat, isn't very healthy altogether."
"Sells his ass."
"Maybe." After a minute or so, Starsky looked over and saw Hutch gazing out the window, rubbing his mustache and looking morose. "Hey. Don't dwell."
Hutch's mouth widened, curved, and his eyes were alight when he turned them to Starsky. In fact, he looked so happy that Starsky asked, "What?"
"It's been a long time since you did that. Got me out of a mood."
"Hutchinson, the last year's been one long mood for you."
"Well, what d'you expect, mushbrain, if you don't do anything about it?" Hutch smirked out the windshield.
So that round was his.
Later, as they drove down Porn Row, where nothing at all unusual was happening, Hutch said suddenly, "Starsk, how do you want to play it? With Kira?"
He thought about it. "I know what I don't wanna do. Talk it through and resolve all the issues."
Hutch made a soft, half-laughing sound that Starsky took as agreement. He didn't seem to have any suggestions, though.
After a minute or so of silence, Starsky said, "I liked her, you know. Really liked her. She was funny and warm. And really paid attention to you. I mean me. Oh, you know—"
Hutch smiled at the last part, but he looked sort of wistful anyway. "Yeah. I liked her, too."
Starsky gripped his partner's arm, firmly, driving with one hand. "I'm not havin' regrets. That's not what I mean. I'm just ... trying to think of something that means she won't be hurt and I won't have to talk."
"We've set up enough scenes in our time," Hutch said. "We'll figure something out."
They did, in the end, screwing around a bit with Huggy's mind, too, though it wasn't easy to fool him. Starsky moved away from Hutch and wouldn't look at him, told Huggy, "Ask him what he's doing here," and still Hug asked if it were Hutch who was the 'beautiful blond' Starsky was meeting.
Well, Huggy had known them forever.
Still, the matching outfits might have been too much. Anyway he hated having stuff so snug around his neck. No more turtlenecks.
Starsky felt a surge of affection and amusement when Kira played up to them as if they'd all rehearsed it. She might yet be worth something undercover, if she could learn when to stop the role. And it was great to get the thing over with in a few words—
"No?" said Hutch, his face not six inches from hers.
"No." She looked sure. Then turned to Starsky, who leaned in as well, not to be outdone.
"No?"
"No."
He almost kissed her, he felt so euphoric. Right answer, babe! But he flung his arm around Hutch instead, and they made a fancy exit, leaving two beers on the tab and Kira—no, Starsky could hear her step on the sidewalk behind them.
"Hey," she called. "Just a minute." They turned back, arms falling away. "Wait," and she raised one finger the way Hutch did sometimes. Starsky glanced at him, but the dent between his eyebrows said he didn't know what it was about either.
Kira went past them to her car, opened the passenger door, and got something out. When she turned, Starsky recognized the gift he'd brought her, wrapping and bow and everything still intact. She held it in front of her with both hands, head bent rather shyly, and when she was close, she held it out between them. "I think," she said, "maybe Hutch should have this."
Hutch didn't look eager to take it.
So Starsky did, before the moment could get too awkward, and said "Okay," though he wasn't sure at all. And then he really registered what she'd said, and looked up sharply. She just smiled back, perhaps a little uncertain, but then they'd been playing with her brain and she might just be calling them on it.
"Thanks," Hutch said, as if on time-delay.
"Well, okay," she said, "um, see you around, guys," and backed off.
"Yes, 'bye, Kira," Hutch said, and Starsky echoed somehow, not really listening to himself.
She went back to her car and they both watched her drive off.
"So is it lingerie?" Hutch asked.
"No," said Starsky. The box was surprisingly light; he remembered thinking that before. The gold-patterned paper looked a little scuffed, and there was a tiny tear at one corner.
"What now?" Hutch's voice sounded unusually gentle, which probably meant he was a little freaked. Starsky looked up to check, and sure enough, the sky-colored eyes were rimmed with white across the top.
"Your place?" Maybe that would help.
Hutch nodded, and walked away to his car.
At Venice Place, Starsky parked behind the LTD and got out; Hutch had already gone in. The door with the carved tree on it was never locked, though; Starsky touched the rough stained wood before turning the knob.
At the top of the stairs, Hutch was just unlocking his apartment door, his own hand flat against the plywood branches that echoed the tree on the street door. Starsky, box in hand, bounded up the stairs and ended up right behind Hutch as he went in. Walking straight through the living-room area, Hutch said, "Want a beer?"
"Sure," and Starsky hung his jacket on one of the wooden chairs at the table, setting the box to one side—plopped down into the seat.
Hutch came back, handed him an open bottle, sat down himself, and took a swig from his own drink. Then he got up and took off his jacket, pulled Starsky's off the chair, and took both of them to the hooks next to the door. When he sat down again, his eyes were on the box.
"I was at Kira's," Starsky began, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer. "She was—well, I thought she was trying to get me to say I loved her. She said," and it had moved him, so it was a little hard to repeat now, "she said I had so much love inside, it lit up the room."
Hutch's eyes flicked up. Then down. "Does," he muttered. Cleared his throat. "Sometimes."
Starsky grinned. He couldn't help it—he just beamed, and Hutch looked up again at last and smiled back. "Like now," he said.
It was a moment to savor, and they did. But after a while, Starsky tapped the box and went on with the story. "I'd seen this in a shop, down near your place, actually. One of those little places with half-a-dozen artists, macram� and pottery and wirework and all. This I noticed 'cause I thought Ma might like it. But after that talk with Kira, and thinking I might step it up with her, you know, I went back and got it."
"So what is it?"
Starsky pushed the box at him. "Open it and see."
Looking suspicious, Hutch untaped the ribbon from the bottom and took the bow off, undid the edges and unfolded the paper, turned the white cardstock box over again. Glanced at Starsky. Lifted the top, which stuck about halfway off, and Hutch had to pull on the bottom. Inside lay a roll of loose tissue paper. Hutch picked it up and unrolled it. Looking a little startled, he set the bright delicate thing down on the table, then turned it with careful fingers to examine the other side.
It looked fragile, but it was actually plexiglass, curving pieces melted together to make a pleasingly irregular arch, about four inches at its highest, about ten from end to end. Some parts were colored a glassy blue, like both Hutch's and Kira's eyes; other pieces were clear. Small silvery cups were set over it at intervals, four sloping up on one side, one in the middle, four on the downslope of the other side.
Hutch touched the middle candle-holder, his fingertip large against its small bright edge. "A menorah," he said.
"Yup."
Hutch withdrew his hand. "You were really serious."
He wasn't panicking now, and that was good, but he did look pensive, even melancholy. Half a dozen more or less true and reassuring replies went through Starsky's head. None of them were true enough, complete enough, reassuring enough. So in the end he just held out his hand. "Hutch."
It seemed easier for him this time; Starsky didn't have to ask again before Hutch's hand was in his. But that wasn't enough either, and the menorah loomed between them. "Let's go sit on the couch."
So they stood, hands separating. When they sat again, Starsky faced Hutch, one leg bent under him and one arm on the back of the couch. He reached again and Hutch wove their fingers together.
"Have we ever done this before?" Hutch was looking at their clasped hands. Starsky just shrugged. The blue eyes met his—"I'm not converting to Judaism," Hutch said solemnly.
"Ma'll be disappointed."
Hutch snorted. "I'm sure that will be what she's worried about." Then he sobered. "Would you really tell her?"
Starsky sighed. "I don't know. Yeah, after a while. I guess. It's only yesterday we said we didn't have to rush it, Hutch. Now you're, like, making out a guest list for the reception."
Pulling his hand away, Hutch ran it through his hair, then put it down half on his thigh. He looked toward the windows. "I'm, I don't know what I'm," he said and stopped.
"Me either." But Starsky slid nearer, put his arm around his beautiful blond. "Hey."
"What?" Hutch, relaxed in his hold, still sounded a little irritated.
"If two men are together about ninety-five percent of the time, would you say they had certain tendencies?"
Hutch's mouth twitched. "Well, I don't know, Starsk," he said in his lecturing voice. "How well do they kiss?"
"Mm," and Starsky leaned closer, "remind me."
He started at the very corner of Hutch's mouth, nibbling at the point of his mustache, right where it had moved when he was trying not to smile. Licked back at the place where the laugh-line creased, then forward onto the pad of the lower lip, bare and soft, and gave it several slow, sucking kisses as Hutch returned the favor to his upper lip and held him. Then they switched, and Starsky amused himself with the short bristles, like a child's brush, harsher than Hutch's other hair but still softer than Starsky's beard ever was. They traded shallow, smacking kisses like the ones Starsky had always seduced his women with, teasing and playing until they were the ones to demand more. And Hutch knew that—he knew everything.
One hand on his face, around his chin, the other on the side of his head, pulled Starsky back, and he found himself on his side between couch-cushions and Hutch, whose expression was far too skeptical for someone who'd just been kissing him nearly into oblivion. "David Michael Starsky," Hutch said, as if he were reacquainting himself with his partner from scratch, "you're such a seducer."
"I'm not the only one," Starsky said with a languid smile.
"No," Hutch admitted, but sat up. He rubbed his mouth with his fingers.
"What?" asked Starsky.
For a while Hutch didn't answer, not in words, confining himself to tracing the lines of Starsky's mouth, his eyebrows, the edges of his bones. Then, irrelevantly, he said, "You won't darn my socks either, will you?"
Either? For a moment, Starsky didn't get it, but he remembered that Hutch's ex-wife had made that her benchmark of excessive domesticity. But then, Vanessa thought sexual fidelity was a sign of excessive domesticity.
"You kissed me like a stewardess you took to dinner and danced with until she was ready to put out." Hutch's tone wasn't accusatory—it hardly could be that—but Starsky realized what he was being asked.
"I want to kiss you every way my mouth works. Can't be too many ways we haven't done it already anyway."
"I would have thought so. But there always seems to be something new." Hutch's thumb was back on Starsky's lips, brushing back and forth.
"That's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Oh," said Hutch, absently, "yeah, sure."
Starsky swallowed. "Come back here," he said, and Hutch put his head into the upholstered corner, over Starsky's shoulder, not quite on it.
"Couch is too small if this gets to be a habit." A soft brush of lips on his temple, and then another in his hair, and fingertips dipping into the snug turtleneck.
It was strange to be so familiar, to know the things he did about Hutch and still find the mystery in those blue eyes that Starsky always found with women he'd been in love with. "It never seemed strange to make love with you," speaking out of his thoughts, and Hutch just made a little sound, not quite a grunt, that might have been agreement. But to be in love with you ... yeah, that is strange.
"Love's weird," said Hutch, lightly; then less lightly, "You always fall fast. Hard."
"So do you." And most of the time they both got over it fairly quickly, though not as quickly as this, with Kira.
"Time will tell, I guess."
A Hutchinson philosophy moment. Starsky held tighter. "We're gonna have time."
"Still," said Hutch, "there's none to waste." He got up on his elbows and looked down. "You look good in black."
"You said that this morning."
"Still true. Think I'll revamp your wardrobe. Redecorate you. Like Metro."
"They're painting Metro black?" A little squeaky at the end, when Hutch pulled up the turtleneck and kissed his stomach.
Hutch laughed against the now-wet skin. Starsky wrapped a leg around his back. They had the night off, and tomorrow, first shift again, all their cases, the repainting at Metro, all seemed a long way away.
~~~
... the greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return.
—"Nature Boy," Eden Ahbez
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