Title: Out of Sight
Author: jat sapphire
Feedback email: [email protected]
Author's Note: This is set right after the end of the tag of "Blindfold," so it does contain spoilers for that ep...or, more exactly, assumes the reader knows who Emily is and so forth.
Obligatory Semi-Legal Disclaimer & Warning Thing: I don't own either Starsky or Hutch, I just write down what I think up and I don't make money for it. If this is archived somewhere that you underage-reader stumbled across it, please go away now. Guys having sex here.
Out of Sight
At first Starsky had stood there, back to the closed door, appreciating the joke, as he heard the clatter-bang of falling down the stairs.� Then he realized it couldn't be Hutch, didn't sound right at all.� It sounded like several objects, at least one of them metal.� Oh, right, he'd had the little trash can out there, the one with the pedal, and a couple bags of junk.
Hutch had either kicked or pushed them.
Actually, that was good;� there was the big blintz's back to think of.� But it wasn't as funny.
Thinking fast, he cried out, "Huu-uutch!" making his voice as desperate as he could.� "My god, Hutch, what'd you do?"
And pulled the door open so hard that Hutch, who as he'd suspected was standing right outside with one hand on the doorknob, stumbled in, the blindfold even more canted to one side than before.� One eye was actually showing now.
They looked at each other.� Mouths twitching.
"You," said Starsky, "are such a bastard."
"I am!"� Hutch pulled off the dustrag with one hand, shoved Starsky with the other.
"Yeah," Starsky shoved back, "you are such a cheat."
"You're the one who moved the chair!"
Starsky couldn't stop grinning.� Felt so good.� Emily could see.� He could sit at his desk, at Metro, without feeling like a leper, and do his own files.� Hutch was here and they were shouting at each other and shoving with more warmth than they'd had in the quieter conversations of the past week.� "You never had that blindfold all the way on, jerk.� Next time, I'll tie it tighter."� He grabbed Hutch's wrists as his partner pushed him again.
Hutch let his hands be pulled up and leaned forward in that grip, opened his mouth as if to make some crack and then closed it.� Looked hard at Starsky, who braced himself to hold Hutch's considerable weight and looked back.
"Yeah," he said eventually.� "You're all right.� You are back to your real, aggravating, normal childish practical joking self."
And Hutch was back to his call-Starsky-names self, which was also only normal.� Starsky didn't bother to say so.� "You can tell that by looking?" he asked instead.� "Some extra sensory perception.� You had'a come here and stare at me, had'a lose a bet before you knew I was all right."
He let Hutch's wrists go and the blond stepped back, bent down, picked up the dustrag and handed it back to Starsky, who untied the knot and slung it back over his shoulder.� "My ESP doesn't have a long range," said Hutch.
"Well," said Starsky, turning away, "sit yourself and your ESP down on the couch�" gesturing to the end nearest the kitchen�"and turn on the game while I finish vacuuming."
"It's the news.� And anyway what's the use when I won't be able to hear it over the noise you're gonna make?"
"ESP, huh?"� And Starsky flicked the vacuum-cleaner switch before Hutch could reply.
He'd been nearly done when Hutch arrived, actually.� A few more sweeps in the high-traffic areas in the front room�and, incidentally, between Hutch and the TV�and that was it.� He stood nonchalantly in the center of the room coiling the cord from the base to the handle of the vacuum.� Hutch, leaning back into the couch, had given up trying to watch the news, at least for the time being.� He just looked at Starsky instead, with a set to his mouth and a look in his eyes that Starsky hadn't seen for a while.
Hadn't looked, to be honest.� But now, except for the ruined clay bust in the corner, Emily was out of�well, 'out of sight, out of mind' was the saying that came into Starsky's head, and it wasn't completely inaccurate.
He'd been so wrapped up in her, he thought as he put the machine away.� Had spent hours every day with her.� And she was sweet, sexy, intelligent, pretty and all those things, but once they'd broken from the long hug when she told him she had gotten her sight back, even while her grateful tears were still on his cheeks and his own standing in his eyes, he knew it really wasn't going to be the same for them again.
And Hutch was.� Always the same again.
He came back behind the couch, where Hutch really was watching TV now and undoubtedly thinking many of the same things Starsky was.� Just to check, Starsky pushed the tips of his fingers in through his partner's hair and brushed the back of his neck, and Hutch shuddered once.� Kept looking straight forward.� Not fooling anybody.
Starsky thought of saying so, but instead he took the dustcloth off his shoulder again and twisted it more carefully than he had before, then slipped the loop of it over Hutch's head and around his eyes, swift and tight, a double-knot behind.� Leaned over and breathed into an ear half-covered by cloth, "Close your eyes, this time," letting the tone of his voice tell Hutch what 'this time' meant.
And Starsky knew, by Hutch's stillness, that he was playing along;� by the tension of his shoulders that he hadn't yet grasped the game, didn't quite trust it.
"Can you make it to the bedroom?� I'll be putting mine on."
The shoulders relaxed.� "Sure," said Hutch.
Starsky stopped in the kitchen for a second cloth while Hutch got himself up off the sofa, a lot more carefully now that the blindfold really worked.� They both paused:� Hutch to get his bearings and Starsky to see that the big blintz was going to be okay before his own blindfold went on. Hutch took a tentative step in the right direction and Starsky closed his eyes, tying the cloth around his face because he'd said he would, so Hutch could feel it and know the game was fair.
Starsky had spent much more than an hour blindfolded by now, had made love to Emily with nothing but his eyelids shutting out what she couldn't share, and he knew exactly where the bed was from here, how to tell Hutch's location, how good this was going to be even without his partner's blond beauty filling up his eyes.
In fact, the small sounds of Hutch moving made Starsky pause at the openwork shelves and save them a collision.� He felt Hutch pull back, knew he was half-aware of their positions and probably clutching at the wall for balance.� "Starsk?"
"Right here," Starsky told him; this was no longer about making Hutch doubt the senses he had left.� "Go on in."
And following made it extra easy for Starsky.� He just took a few longer steps, caught up just as Hutch stopped, and reached around his waist.� Held him tight for a moment and then let go to step around and face him.� Funny how that mattered even when neither of them could see.� Though, of course, it made undressing easier too.
Starsky unzipped the bomber jacket, the thin metallic plastic crisp in his hands as he felt the zipper come apart at the bottom, peeled the front up and apart.� Hutch reached out and caught one hand in Starsky's hanging sleeve, the other at his waist.� "That's right," Starsky said, "take it off."� His fingers were on the strap of Hutch's holster, but he let go and lifted his arms so Hutch could pull the thick cotton over them.
Hutch paused as the shirt was bunched around Starsky's head, wrists against the blindfold, and took a long relieved breath.
"Ah, babe," Starsky said, but then stopped.� He'd known Hutch would wonder and he knew why.
Then the shirt was gone and Hutch was there, moving in, pressing close, opening Starsky's mouth and saying without words how hard the week had been.� Starsky responded, slipping his tongue in, twisting it, petting with it, feeding Hutch explanations there were no words for, even in the dark.
Hutch, unerring now, turned them both and took the last step to the bed, pushed Starsky down onto it and undid the belt and fly of his jeans, then stood up�stripping, by the sounds�while Starsky wriggled on his back to get his own jeans off, feeling the knot of the blindfold hard as a fist at the back of his head.� "I wanted to undress you," he complained.� "Whose game is this?"
"Ours, now," Hutch said, and the way his voice dipped in the air made Starsky, sitting up to take off his shoes, flinch back just in time.� "Jeezus, Starsk," Hutch said, so he must have pulled away too.� "Where are you?"
"Here," he said as he had so often to Emily.� And just as she had, Hutch reached for his face, felt it lightly with his fingers, rubbed with his palm.� The difference was that Hutch had done that all along, whether he could see or not.
One of Hutch's hands was already on Starsky's ankle.� Now the other joined in and Hutch took off the Adidas and pulled the jeans and briefs completely off, then felt up Starsky's hairy shins slowly.� His fingers worked as Emily's had on the clay bust, back and forth and around, pushing the harsh texture of the hair into Starsky's skin.� "Why are we doing this?" asked Hutch, but not as if he minded. "With the blindfolds?"
"Feels good," Starsky said, and took in a breath as Hutch's fingers moved behind his knees.� "Feels good, keep it up, do the tendons, oh," and Hutch did, probing deep in the soft flesh and running lightly along the ridges of the tendons, somewhere between tickling and massaging up to the backs of Starsky's thighs.
There was movement in the air and then the touch of Hutch's face against his leg, the edge of the blindfold, the sideburn and mustache, cheek and jaw and then mouth.� Hutch kissed above the knee on the inside and then took his head away and said, "Always feels good, so why ...?"
And Starsky sat up again, carefully, braced on one arm while the other hand reached for silken hair the dustcloth held down.� Dug in and pulled out and did it again as Hutch leaned into the caress.� "I learned this," and didn't say 'from Emily.'� "It's more...more concentrated.� More intense."� Sitting straight up now, he reached with his other hand for Hutch's face, stroked his neck and one side of his collar bone and back up to tease below the blindfold, back and forth.� "I see you with my hands, Hutch," he said, and the features between his palms shifted, smiled, opened up again, as they had years ago when the two of them had first made love, as they would now in the depths of the night.� "Oh, yes," and Starsky pulled the face toward him and kissed his partner's nose and lower lip and chin, and Hutch was really smiling by the time Starsky took his whole mouth.
Starsky's fingers saw the pattern in the dustcloth, woven in thicker thread.� His palms saw the damp gathering in the crease of Hutch's arched neck, the muscles working in the strong shoulders.� Hutch was handling his back, squeezing the muscles and stroking up and down, then circling, while Hutch's tongue circled inside the arch of Starsky's teeth.� They saw each other everywhere, eyes tight shut.
They lay on their sides.� Starsky reached down with his free arm to the top of Hutch's thigh, up to his ass.� He loved searching for the light hair his eyes could not discover, fingering it, tugging it a little.� Hutch grunted and moved restlessly, his big cock sliding against Starsky's, searching for a place to pump harder while Hutch rubbed the side of his head and his blindfold against Starsky's.� The padding of cloth was odd and Starsky pushed into it.� Lifted his leg and Hutch thrust under, reaching for Starsky's erection and then palming it against the long muscle of his upper thigh.� "Oh, yes."� Starsky said it but it didn't really matter which of them spoke:� they both knew that flesh hardening, growing, getting slicker and warmer.� Hutch's erection dragged along the underside of Starsky's sac, pushed back into the space behind, growing too.� Nudging farther.� Hutch's hand pulled on Starsky's upper leg, and then was the jouncing feeling of Hutch changing his position on the mattress, drawing his shoulders back and moving his legs.� He was going to turn them, get up on his knees, Starsky was certain.
And, suddenly, he was in the dark, and he rolled onto his back.� The blindfold knot was uncomfortable.� The bed moved and he didn't know exactly where Hutch was.� Starsky reached, found an upper arm, felt Hutch's hand on him.� By the angle, Hutch was propped on one elbow, head bent over the spot where Starsky had been.
After a few breaths, Hutch said, "Tell me."
"I don't know," Starsky answered.� "Are you, did you think about fucking?"
"What else are we doing, here?"
"No, dummy, I meant were you planning to push that big nightstick of yours into my asshole."
"Ah.� Well, the thought did cross my mind, but now that you bring it up it doesn't seem like a good idea when we can't see."� After a pause, Hutch said, "I'm not even sure where your lube is."
There could not have been two feet of distance between them, but in the dark it seemed a long way.� That wasn't good, Starsky thought, and moved his hand back and forth on Hutch's biceps.
"Hey," said Hutch, and his voice had softened again.� "'M not gonna take you dry, babe, like you wouldn't take me.� So get back over here."
"No, I know," Starsky decided, "let's sixty-nine."� He pulled on Hutch's arm.� "Come on, sit up, turn around."
Hutch got up, detaching himself from Starsky's grasp, and the bed shifted, but not quite right.� "Hey, where are you goin'?"� Starsky sat up and still couldn't find his partner.�� Swung his arm in an arc and finally connected, felt the shoulder and realized why it seemed wrong:� Hutch was facing away.
Was he just going to leave?� But he wasn't moving.� "Hutch?"
"ESP, huh?" Hutch quoted, and he was smiling.
"Oh, Hutch, for Chrissake."� Starsky was relieved.� Scooted along the mattress, twisted so that he would have seen the headboard if he could see.� "I wasn't the one who claimed to have ESP."� He reached for where he knew Hutch was, skidded down and leaned so his own head was nearly in Hutch's lap.� "Now lie down."� He moved one leg where Hutch would need it.� "'M all ready for you."
"Betcha."� Weight settled on the inside of Starsky's thigh.� He laid his own head on Hutch's leg.� Rubbed back and forth, the stubble on his cheek catching just that tiny bit against the grain of Hutch's fine hair.� The cool of the long lax muscle.� The warmth on his face from the aroused flesh so near.� Hutch's scent.� Starsky's hand played along the lower torso, around Hutch's navel, into thicker hair.� Stopped there while Hutch's hips moved, his ass tightened and then deliberately relaxed.� He had been nuzzling and planting little kisses behind and on Starsky's balls, and now with a throaty sound he mouthed and then sucked in, capturing one of them.
Starsky's neck involuntarily arched and he moaned at the pulling, the lips' pressure, the taunting tongue.� Then remembering what he was doing, he pushed forward again, moved his hand to Hutch's erection and held on while he also played the ball-sucking game.� Squeezed his hand a little, two or three times, and then all but let go, stroked base to tip and fingered around it before stroking back, and Hutch's cock almost glowed in his imagination, it was so hot and taut-skinned.� Starsky put his mouth where his mind was, let his tongue see the throbbing vein that ran its crooked path from head to balls.� Hutch squirmed and let go the testicle he'd been sucking, gulped in air and then the top of Starsky's cock.
Oh, his mouth was wet and warm, and his velvet-rough tongue moved against Starsky's tender skin so sweetly, almost tentatively, and his hand was spread around Starsky's hip onto his ass, fingers working.� The back of Hutch's other hand was stroking Starsky's belly, tangling the hair and toying with the navel.� Starsky, not usually very alert to the sounds they made during sex, heard the smacking, the whiffling breath and their little grunts and hums of pleasure, and found the noise did turn the heat up even higher.
Hutch wriggled again, his cock-head swelling, and Starsky knew he was just about done.� He pressed in harder, inhaled, took more of the fevered erection into his mouth, felt Hutch fill and then block his throat.� A muffled shout pushed against his own eagerly humping cock, and Hutch pulled his mouth away while he came�the muscles of legs and buttocks jumping�Starsky unable to breathe, gulping�Starsky's wet skin chilling, nudging at some part of Hutch, maybe his chin.� Then surrounded again by soft wet heat and coaxed, hummed to, stroked until all Starsky's nerve endings seemed to be there.� His muscles tightened, he was higher, higher, off the bed altogether, and then dropped down again in spasms that were like popping fireworks behind the lids of his eyes.
The mattress actually bounced.� Hutch was making an odd rhythmic sound with Starsky still in his mouth; and then drew off slowly, covering the wet flesh with his hand, and Starsky heard him laughing.� Hutch's cock was lying on Starsky's cheek and he turned his face into Hutch's thigh and chuckled a little too.� Hutch lowered his other leg and trapped Starsky's head, squeezed once and let go.� "Damn, that knot is hard," said Hutch.� He sat up.� "Come on."
He hoisted Starsky up and pulled off both their blindfolds.� A little dazed still�he'd come as hard as if he hadn't had sex for weeks�Starsky just looked.� Hutch's hair was wildly disheveled and one cheek was red from pressing against Starsky's leg, but his expression was smug.
Smug.� Starsky was aggravated.�
"May not be able to see what I'm doing, but I can still do it, can't I, buddy?" asked Hutch.
Starsky shook his head.� Then pulled Hutch into a kiss so deep that he'd have sworn he'd catch his own come still in Hutch's throat.� Hutch didn't appear to mind a bit, went right along with it, apparently trying to get his own back too.� "Can't believe you," Starsky growled against Hutch's mouth.� "Cannot fucking believe you."
Hutch withdrew just enough to cup Starsky's face in his hands, grinned widely, so happy that Starsky couldn't stay irritated.� "Unbelievable ... so are you."� Hutch leaned in until their foreheads touched and then sat back again.� "We're out of sight."
Starsky groaned.� Bad jokes were his job�Hutch's were so much worse.� Starsky looked around for a pillow to hit the maddening blond with, but the one that should have been there was gone�maybe on the floor.� So there was nothing to do but launch himself at Hutch.� They fell back into the mattress, where Starsky shook his partner up and down by the shoulders.
And Hutch was laughing again.
So Starsky joined in.� It felt good.
**End**