I want to breathe
you in I'm not talking about
perfume or even the sweet o-
dour of your skin but of the
air itself I want to share
your air inhaling what you
exhale I'd like to be that
close two of us breathing
each other as one as that
Hutch wrestled another cardboard box from the trunk of his car and tossed it onto the sidewalk next to the three others he'd found behind the grocery store. Rain pelted down on his head and ran in rivulets beneath the collar of his jacket—he shivered, but he was more concerned about the boxes turning into piles of paper mush than the fact that his back was getting soaked. He slammed the trunk door down and grabbed the boxes, gathering them awkwardly to his chest as he ran the last few steps to the base of the stairs leading to his apartment. He paused there long enough to swipe his chin against his shoulder before shifting the boxes and making his way upstairs.
He got inside and tossed the boxes to the floor as he glanced at the clock on his desk. It was almost 10:00 a.m.; Starsky's plane got in at one. He'd be picked up by—Jenny? Janice? Jackie, that was her name—and they'd probably spend the night together before Starsky went in to work the next day at three.
He ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a towel to dry his overlong hair, wincing as he rubbed too vigorously over the lump on the back of his head—that bastard had taken a cheap shot before Hutch had managed to bust one across his jaw. After mopping his face and neck, he tossed the towel back into the bathroom, checking the time once again.
He was going to have to stop doing that. He had nowhere to be.
"I hear you're pretty tight with your partner."
Starsky would call him tonight, of that he was sure. They'd already spoken once that morning but the conversation had centered around Starsky's mom—who was doing better, thank God. Starsk had sounded good—tired, relieved and ready to come home.
Oh yeah, he'd call. They'd have one of their inane conversations because Jackie would be there and Starsky'd have other things on his mind—but he'd call, just the same.
But some time between now and 3:00 tomorrow, Hutch was going to have to tell him what had happened.
Tell him it was finally all too much—it wasn't the first time he'd felt that way, right?
Tell him that he'd failed—but then Starsky always forgave him for his failures.
Tell him he was going to have to break in a new partner—the one thing he'd never said, never even imagined. He knew Starsky wouldn't forgive him for that.
"Been through a lot together, right?"
But until then, with Starsky safely incommunicado thirty thousand feet in the air, Hutch could concentrate on the tasks before him. One thing at a time, he repeated. One damn thing.
He separated the boxes by size, tossing the largest one toward the kitchen with others he'd scrounged earlier from the alley. He figured he'd try and sell most of the dishes and glasses, but he'd keep the blender. Two of the smaller boxes were shoved toward the bedroom and another box was placed on top of the coffee table.
There was nothing left to do but start packing.
It was getting almost too dark to see without turning on a light by the time Hutch stopped. By then he'd managed to sort through his clothes, separating the pieces he'd keep from the ones to give to charity and the ones with too many food and gun oil stains to be anything but rags. The kitchen was barely started—one box wasn't nearly enough, so after fixing a sandwich around one, he'd abandoned it in favor of the smaller things he'd kept around the apartment. Things that he'd loved for so long—things people had given him, gifts from Starsky, even the goofy ones—were wrapped in newspaper and packed away without thinking. Those were the things he wouldn't part with, not ever—but maybe Huggy'd have some storage space he could use for a while.
The rain still beat down in an angry thrum against his windows as he finally switched on the lamp at his desk. So much crap, he mused; bills and notes and odd pieces of paper, like the grocery list Starsky'd jotted down a couple of weeks ago when they'd decided to throw an impromptu party. Beer, of course; salami, a cheese log that was still mutating in his refrigerator; and tofu, just because Hutch wanted some.
He stared at the note—Starsky's writing was indecipherable to just about everyone but his mother and Hutch—and suddenly, he couldn't breathe. It was as though the oppressive air outside had squeezed into his lungs, driving out everything clean and good and leaving thick, black nothingness inside. Rubbing a shaking hand over his face, he slowly counted to ten, trying to find the rhythm that would ease the constriction in his chest.
"I had a partner once..."
He reached up and touched the healed spot on his temple. The bruise and blister had been covered by his hair and no one had seen them, not even the doctor that Dobey had ordered him to see after it was all over. But he swore he could still feel them, small and round and raw from the touch of heated metal.
Lost in his memories, he barely noticed the soft swirl of damp air around his feet before he heard the one sound he'd been dreading.
"So, Hutch—does your mother know you're runnin' away to join the circus?"
Oh, God—not now, it's too soon—he wasn't ready—
He looked up to see Starsky leaning against the doorjamb of his front door, left shoulder pressed against the frame, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. The light from the stairwell behind him picked up the rain droplets in his hair, giving him an odd, bejeweled look. It did nothing to soften the implacable anger on Starsky's face.
"Hey—" Hutch croaked. "What are you doing here?"
Hutch could hear the creak of wet leather as Starsky shrugged. "You tell me. Had some messages on my answering machine when I got home."
"Messages?" Hutch repeated numbly. "From who?"
"Dobey, for one. Said I needed to talk to you right away."
Hutch's eyes drifted closed. "Aw, dammit, Starsk, he shouldn't have—"
"And two from Huggy, telling me pretty much the same thing."
"Huggy? How'd he—" Hutch knew he sounded like an echo, but he couldn't find any words of his own. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Why—you didn't have to come over here. Why didn't you just call me?"
Starsky didn't reply. He pushed away from the door, kicking it closed with his boot heel before walking slowly toward Hutch, pulling a folded newspaper from his back pocket. Wordlessly, he snapped it open and then made three precise folds before slapping it on the desk in front of Hutch's eyes.
It was either look at the paper or look into Starsky's condemning gaze—Hutch chose the paper. Even though he immediately saw what Starsky had intended him to find, a sharply rapped knuckle pointed the way.
It was a small article, maybe four inches of print beneath the fold on the second page. In clear, unbiased language, the reporter outlined the facts of the "scuffle" between Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson and Joseph Mafferty, son of state senator Charles Mafferty, outside the Bay City Courthouse. Joseph Mafferty, arrested earlier by Detective Hutchinson, had just been released from police custody after charges of rape and assault had been dropped due to lack of evidence. An exchange of words occurred between Mr. Mafferty and Detective Hutchinson that escalated into a physical altercation. Mr. Mafferty sustained injuries that sent him to the hospital where he was treated and released; Detective Hutchinson was suspended pending an internal investigation into the matter.
Alongside the article were two pictures. Mafferty's looked like it had been taken from the society page archives—he was wearing a tuxedo, his smile a portrait of moneyed ease. In stark contrast, the picture of Hutch was less flattering—or maybe just more accurate. It was his current ID photo, taken within the last year, and every line and shadow of that year showed in his face. Anyone looking at the two pictures could be forgiven for confusing which one was the bad guy.
"So," Hutch tried on a weak smile, "how'd you find that, hunh? Funnies are always back by the want ads."
"Huggy told me where to look."
"Remind me to thank him some time."
He looked away as Starsky's face hardened. "Least he called me, which is more than I can say for some people."
"Look, Starsk, I was gonna tell you—"
"Yeah? When? Before I left for work tomorrow to find out my partner was on indefinite suspension? Or were you gonna let Dobey tell me?"
Hutch scrubbed a hand over his eyes. He hated it when Starsky was mad at him, really mad, like he was now. When he was this mad, he didn't yell or even raise his voice. Instead, he became cold, still, quiet. Looking up into Starsky's narrowed eyes, he expected to see anger—it was there, but behind it were emotions that made the breath stick in his throat. Hurt, worry—and what he dreaded most, fear.
"Aw, Starsk," he sighed, reaching out his hand, needing the forgiving warmth of Starsky's touch despite the tension between them. It was immediately taken up with a comforting squeeze as the expression on Starsky's face faded to wary affection. "I've really screwed up this time."
Starsky's fingers tightened before his hand was released. "Yeah, I kinda figured that one out for myself." He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. "You got any beer around here?"
"Yeah, help yourself. Grab one for me, too."
As he watched Starsky saunter toward the small refrigerator, Hutch could feel the atmosphere in the room shift. It wasn't all fixed, not by a long shot, but that awful, cold anger was under control.
Starsky slapped an uncapped bottle into his hand and flopped down on the couch, nudging aside a half-filled box on the coffee table so he could put his feet up on the scarred surface. Hutch swiveled around to face him and took a sip—he hadn't wanted the beer but he knew Starsky had needed to move, to do something physical to expend some of the nervous energy.
"So," Starsky asked, "how suspended are you?"
"Very suspended."
"What, a week? Two? What?"
Hutch shook his head. "I don't know, Starsk. Dobey kicked me out and told me he'd call me if Mafferty was going to press charges."
"Geez, that's all we need—IA climbing all over our asses again."
A small smile crossed Hutch's face at the instant assumption that Starsky was a part of this. "Not yours, partner. Just mine."
He twisted around and set the bottle on the desktop, then turned back to face Starsky, squaring his shoulders.
"Besides, it isn't going to matter much in the long run. I'm quitting."
"Hutch—"
"No, I mean it this time. I'm done."
Starsky pulled his legs down and leaned forward. His eyes were fixed on his fingers as he rubbed his thumb across the bottle's label.
"Seems like I've heard that song before—why now? What's different?"
Hutch grabbed the newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table.
"That's what's different."
Starsky's eyes flicked to the paper. "So? We been through this before—you know we don't win 'em all."
Hutch closed his eyes against the telltale pain of old failures. "Win 'em all? Hell, Starsk, I'd like to win just one every once in a while, okay? You know we haven't had a good streak since—"
"Since before I got shot." The words dropped heavily between them and Hutch recoiled. Everything was judged now by that terrible day—there was only before and after.
"I didn't say that," Hutch replied harshly. He wasn't mad at Starsky but Starsky's mention of the shooting came close to breaking a barrier that had been holding back emotions that Hutch had been carrying for months. "Even before then, we'd lost our touch. You know it, I know it—hell, Starsk, it's this town. We give and give and the bad guys just keep coming."
He waved the bottom of the beer bottle toward the newspaper. "Mafferty? He's gonna walk, probably go on to a cushy career in politics like his scum bucket dad, while you and me, we're still down here in the gutter with the rest of the garbage."
"It isn't always like that—"
"Aw, face it, Starsky. Mafferty raped that girl and he's gonna walk and there's not a damn thing you or me or Dobey can do about it. How many times do we have to watch that?"
Starsky set his bottle down with a thump and stood up. "I don't know, okay? All I know is that we gotta keep trying. That's what I believe and I thought that's you believed, too."
"I don't know what I believe anymore," Hutch mumbled. He set his own nearly full bottle aside and watched as Starsky began roaming, looking into the various boxes scattered throughout the room.
"So what's with the boxes, anyway? All this time on your hands, you doing your spring cleaning early?"
Taking the change of subject in stride, Hutch shrugged. "Pretty simple. End of this month, I can't afford this place any longer."
Starsky straightened up from the box he'd been picking through, looking dumbstruck.
"What? How can you not afford this place?"
"No paycheck, no rent check."
"C'mon, you're the cheapest guy I know. What happened to your savings?"
Hutch looked away; if he didn't play it right, Starsky's instincts would kick in and he'd start questioning where the money had gone. "I don't have it anymore."
"Now, wait a minute." Starsky crossed the room and planted himself in front of Hutch. "Every payday like clockwork you and I go to the bank and deposit our checks. Every payday you put fifty dollars into savings and I get a lecture about saving up for a rainy day. You been doing that for years and you're telling me you don't have anything saved up?"
"It's not that I don't have it. I—it's all tied up in a long term investment. I can't touch it."
"What kinda investment is that?"
Hutch couldn't stop from smiling a little—he had a lot of regrets, but spending his savings wasn't one of them. He glanced back at his desk, making sure everything was out of sight.
"The best kind," he said. "The kind that will pay dividends for years."
Starsky shook his head. "You don't need me to tell you that's just plain nuts. But let's get back to this moving thing—where you gonna go?"
Hutch scrubbed his chin with his palm. "I don't know yet. Until I find a cheaper place—and a job—I was kinda hoping I could bunk with you. Unless, of course, you think it will cramp your style too much."
"Well, of course you can—and you let me worry about my style, all right? Besides, maybe you can stay here another month if we pool our money. How short are you?"
"No way." Hutch was firm. He knew Starsky had just spent every spare dollar he had flying back to help his mom after her heart attack. "I got myself into this. I'll figure something out."
"Okay, that's enough of that crap." Starsky squatted down at Hutch's feet, resting one hand on Hutch's knee for balance. "Would you please listen to me?"
His voice was low as he stared up at Hutch, his gaze devoid of accusation. "I didn't spend the last six months putting myself together so that you could quit on me now, okay?"
"I'm not," Hutch protested hoarsely. "Not on you, Starsk—never you."
The fingers on his knee tightened. "Yeah? 'Cause that's what it feels like to me. I come home and find out you're not only quittin' but packin' up—all without one word to your partner? Tell me that doesn't sound like quittin' to you."
Hutch covered Starsky's hand with his own. "Not on you," he repeated. "Or us. But you didn't look into Lee Park's eyes, Starsk. You didn't see that fear I saw when we heard Mafferty was released. I can't face that anymore."
"Okay, I can buy that. But, Hutch," Starsky continued, the hurt plain in his voice, "why not tell me first?"
"Tell you what? That after all that work you put in to getting back on the force, it's your partner who can't handle it anymore? This thing with Mafferty happened so fast—I don't know, maybe if you'd been here, it wouldn't have gotten out of hand like that."
He paused, giving the hand beneath his a squeeze. "I didn't know how to tell you, buddy. You've had so much to deal with lately—I didn't want to add to it."
"That's dumb." Starsky pulled back and sat down on the rug with his elbows propped up on his knees. "What are best friends for, hunh? My couch is your couch, you know that."
Their eyes locked and Hutch felt the comfort of Starsky's honest gaze begin to work on the knots in his stomach. Everything was so wrong when Starsky was gone—and the look in his partner's eyes told him that Starsky was fully aware of that.
Starsky stood up and slapped Hutch's knee, breaking the moment. "So tell me what happened with Mafferty."
"God, Starsk, it was so—what are you doing?"
Starsky had grabbed his beer and returned to the kitchen, where he'd begun pulling out items from the boxes Hutch had packed.
"We got eleven days to figure out a way to make your next rent. Be stupid to live outta boxes 'til then. Now, about Mafferty—talk to me."
Hutch felt tired tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he watched his partner undo the work of the past few hours. He'd been burying himself in activity ever since he'd stormed out of Dobey's office, afraid that if he stopped to think, he'd have to come to terms with losing not only his job, but Starsky as well.
He should've known better and felt ashamed that he'd not given Starsky enough credit. Hutch figured it probably hadn't sunk in for his partner yet, that the next time Starsky hit the streets he'd be with someone else permanently. Starsky lived in the here and now, and right now it was all about making Hutch's world right again.
Hutch knew he couldn't do it, but he loved him for trying.
"Yeah, okay. First thing, Lee couldn't identify him in the lineup."
Starsky paused, his hands filled with a stack of plates. "No way! Her ID was solid from the pictures!"
"I know—but you know how it is when they see them in person. She kept going back to him again and again, but in the end, she said she wasn't sure. And Mafferty had no reason to be in that neighborhood, as his rotten lawyer kept pointing out—let alone anywhere near her uncle's seafood store."
"Man, that's too bad. Hey, I don't remember—where does the cheese grater go?"
"Second drawer on the left of the sink."
"Ah, yeah. So what else? What made you take a swing at him in the parking lot?"
"Remember that blanket I told you about? The one they found in the garbage?"
"Yeah, the one the crime lab guys said had blood traces on it."
"Guess what—it 'disappeared' from their lockup."
"Disappeared?"
"Yeah, disappeared. The prosecuting attorney said without the evidence and the ID, he had nothing to go to trial with. We got the news in Dobey's office and—"
"- and you went tearing over to the courthouse to give Mafferty a piece of your mind, right?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"And let me guess—he rubbed your nose in it."
"Not just him—one of his goons got his licks in, too."
Starsky paused and eyed his partner. "You okay?"
Hutch suppressed the urge to rub at the bump on his head. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Wasn't much of a fight anyway. It's just that—" he paused and swallowed, recalling some of the foul things Mafferty had said about Lee Park.
"Just what?"
"Mafferty's a bastard, Starsk. He's gotta pay for what he did."
"All right. Suppose he does. How you gonna fight the good fight flipping hamburgers or washing cars, hunh?"
"Yeah, well, I wasn't doing such a great job as a cop—maybe it's time to turn it over to someone else."
Starsky shook his head. "No way. I know you, Hutch. You don't really believe that. Hey, what is this thing?"
"Melon baller—same drawer as the cheese grater."
"'Kay. So who took the first shot?"
Hutch shifted on his chair and took a sip of his lukewarm beer. "Well, I guess I did."
"You guess?"
"That's what the witnesses say."
"What witnesses?"
"Police commissioner. Fire chief. Deputy Mayor Castillo. They were just arriving for a meeting at the courthouse."
The teapot in Starsky's hands met the counter with a loud thump. "You gotta be kiddin' me."
"Nope."
"Geez, Hutch, you sure know how to make an impression."
Hutch heard the exasperation in Starsky's voice, but the raw anger he'd arrived with had dissipated. Closing his eyes briefly, Hutch felt the world begin to realign itself, the way it always did when he and Starsky were on the same page.
It hadn't always been like this—these fumbling missteps when it came to their partnership. The almost psychic tether they'd had to each other had been another victim of Gunther's attack and Hutch was just beginning to realize it needed as much healing as Starsky's violated body.
"Yo, Hutch—what's this?"
Starsky's voice came from the other side of the room. Hutch looked up to see him leaning over the box of donations Hutch had set near the door. He rose and joined him, watching in amusement as Starsky went down on one knee and started rummaging through the clothes.
"Stuff to take to the Sisters later. If you have anything too beat up to keep wearing—no, wait, that'd leave you practically naked—"
"Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute." Starsky shoved an arm deep into the box. "Think you got the wrong box here, pal."
Hutch suddenly found himself with an arm full of soft brown leather. He immediately recognized it as one of many jackets he'd decided to give away. He'd shoved them blindly into the box as atonement for making too many bad choices, trying to eradicate some of the guilt that he wore these days like a second skin.
"No, I meant to give those—"
Starsky grabbed his arm and gave it a sharp tug. "Damn it, Hutch, would you slow down? Don't think I don't know what you're tryin' to do here—you're beatin' yourself up over losing Mafferty and God knows what else floatin' around in that blond head of yours."
He reached down and pulled out two more jackets and shoved them into Hutch's arms. "Why you gotta go off the deep end when I'm not around, I'll never know," he muttered as he delved back into the box.
"Need you to keep me in line, I guess." Hutch shifted his armload as another jacket was thrown over his shoulder.
"You just now figuring that out? There, I think I got all of 'em." Starsky gave him a light push on both shoulders. "Now go hang those up where they belong."
"Yes, sir," Hutch replied sarcastically, but he hugged the pile of leather close to his chest. Leave it to Starsky to cut through the mental bullshit.
Starsky reached for his own jacket and yanked it on. "Listen, I'm gonna go get us some Chinese food and then we're gonna sit down and figure this out, okay?"
"Sure, okay, but Starsk?"
Starsky paused at the front door. "Yeah?"
"I'm not changing my mind about quitting."
He watched as Starsky swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, okay. Doesn't mean we don't have a lot to talk about. Right, partner?"
"Right. Hey," Hutch let a small smile escape, "don't forget the spring rolls this time."
A grin lit up Starsky's face, the first genuine smile Hutch had seen that day. "You got it."
Starsky left, another blast of cool, damp air briefly filling the apartment. Hutch stood rooted to the spot where Starsky had left him, arms still full of the jackets that Starsky wouldn't let him sacrifice.
Now Hutch knew why he'd dreaded this first meeting with Starsky after the Mafferty fiasco. It had been as seductive as he'd feared, so easy to wrap himself in the warmth of Starsky's care and friendship, to lose sight of what was really important—making sure Starsky didn't go down with the sinking ship of Hutch's life.
"Tell me about your partner, Ken. Tell me everything."
Starsky almost made it to the bottom of the staircase before his knees buckled. He grabbed the railing and lowered himself onto the step, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.
He hadn't been completely truthful with Hutch. After he'd listened to his messages, he'd sent Jackie on her way and called both Dobey and Huggy. What they had to tell him had chilled him to the bone.
Dobey couldn't be specific and Starsky had a feeling there were other people nearby. He'd confirmed that Hutch was on suspension but beyond that, he'd urged Starsky to call Hutch as soon as possible. Starsky had recognized that tone in his captain's voice, the one that said his partner was in trouble.
After hanging up with Dobey, he'd called Huggy. That conversation had been even shorter, but Starsky had learned two things. One, he needed to get a newspaper and two—Hutch may have finally burned his last bridge.
As he sat on the concrete step with his butt getting numb, he acknowledged that deep down he'd knew this day was coming—he just hadn't expected it to be today. Some day, sure, they'd call it quits—together. Today was for coming home after taking care of his mom, home to his job, his partner, his girlfriend. It was his life, the way he wanted it, all there waiting for him. Just like the blinking light on his answering machine.
On his way over to Hutch's apartment, he'd been angry with Hutch, angrier than he'd been in a long time. Not for feeling what he felt or doing what he'd done—those were tangible things, understandable reactions, true to Hutchinson form. But to not tell him, Starsky, his partner? He could see now that it'd been a familiar kind of mad he'd felt then—annoyance, frustration, affection all mixed up together, the way he usually felt when Hutch did something to really piss him off.
It was only after he'd calmed down in Hutch's apartment and seen what Hutch was doing that he caught on to the fact that Hutch was trying to protect him from whatever demons he was fighting. His casual dismissal of his situation was a sharp contrast to the concerns voiced by Dobey and Huggy and that had shown him more than anything that Hutch wasn't being entirely truthful, either. Starsky's only explanation—and he knew he was right—was that after all these months, Hutch was once more putting himself between Starsky and the rest of the world.
It hadn't been so bad when he'd been recovering from the gunshot wounds; in fact, he'd come to rely on his world being filtered through Hutch. His partner would tell him the news and keep newspapers out of sight; if they were watching TV, it was always a baseball game or pro wrestling or an old Western. If he had a craving for some kind of food, Hutch would get it or prepare it without blinking an eye and if he so much as twitched a finger toward his sore shoulder, Hutch's big, warm hands would beat him to it.
And then one day, still a few weeks away from working a full shift, it'd stopped. He'd asked for something—he didn't remember what—and Hutch had told him to get it himself. At first he'd been shocked, but the watchful look in Hutch's eyes had pulled him up short. It was a test to see if he was ready—and to his surprise, he was.
Going back to work had started the cycle all over, but in a different way. He knew Hutch watched him, making sure he didn't get too tired. That was okay, but he also knew that in their dicier situations, Hutch always tried to take the role of aggressor. It was almost like he was trying to make sure he was the lightning rod if things went south, and as much as Starsky wanted to resent it, he knew better than anyone what Hutch had gone through when Starsky had been shot. They'd been through this before—not this bad, but close—so he gave Hutch the time he needed to adjust.
Things had just started returning to normal when Starsky had received the call from Nick that had sent him back east. His mom's heart attack had been mild and she'd come through surgery without a hitch, leaving Starsky profoundly grateful and ready to get back to his own side of the country; his mom was terrific and he loved being with her, but Nick was another story. Just being around his brother for a little while made Starsky homesick for his real family on the west coast.
But coming back had its own set of problems and in the space of a few hours, Starsky had felt the first rumblings that his world—the one he shared only with Hutch—was forever changed.
That had taken some of the fight out of him and replaced it with the kind of fear that had him trembling in the bottom of a stairwell. There was anger, yeah—but right behind that anger was a new fear, buried deep inside him—a kind of fear that took the already present worry to new heights. A storm of emotion was forming inside him—he could feel its pressure beneath his breastbone and what truly frightened him was he didn't know what to do with it.
Hauling himself to his feet, he tugged his jacket collar up over his neck and ran down the last few steps to the sidewalk. He'd get the Chinese food with the weird spring rolls and a six pack of beer and sit his stubborn partner down for a good, long talk.
"Oh, good, Starsky, you're here. Come in here—I wanna talk to you."
Starsky shoved another potato chip in his mouth as he jumped off his desk and followed Dobey into his office. He'd been waiting impatiently for the Captain to show up; if anyone knew the truth about what was going on with Hutch, it would be Huggy—but Dobey was a close second.
"Close the door behind you and sit down."
He hid a yawn behind his hand as he slouched into the chair across from Dobey. Between jet lag and trying to talk some sense into Hutch the night before, his ass was dragging—and he had a feeling that his day wasn't going to get any better.
Characteristically, Dobey got right to the point. "Since your partner's doing his damnedest to get thrown off the squad, I'm reassigning you to the mayor's task force until he gets his act together."
Starsky let out a groan. "Aw, Cap, not the task force! They're just a bunch of underachieving, no-neck dickwads who kiss up to the mayor! Why you wanna lump me in with those losers?"
"Hey!" Dobey stuck a beefy finger in his direction. "That bunch of losers was good enough for your partner when you were laid up, so I don't want to hear any more grief from you."
"Yeah, well," Starsky mumbled, "where do you think I got that opinion, anyway?"
"They're a man down again—one of their guys pulled a hamstring chasing after a purse snatcher yesterday. Mayor's office called for volunteers and it was this department's turn to give 'em one."
"Great. So I'm the sacrificial lamb." He peered into the bag of potato chips, hoping to find one more. When he didn't, he wadded up the bag and started bouncing it between his palms.
"Yeah. The sooner you get your
partner's head straightened out, the sooner you'll get off the task force."
"Yeah, right. Gotta find his head first." Starsky rose and began to pace, the bag crushed in one hand. "I don't get it, Cap. He could fight this thing, you know? We should be out there together, trying to find more dirt on Mafferty or workin' half a dozen other cases we got right now. Instead he's home looking at the want ads and cleaning out his closets. It's like he doesn't even care anymore."
"Oh, he cares, Starsky. He cares too much. You both do, you always have. That's your problem."
Starsky stopped and stared at Dobey. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Dobey leaned back in his chair and let out a gusty sigh. "Look, you talked to him. You ever see him like that?"
Starsky looked down at his shoes. He'd spent the evening trying to get Hutch to open up, to tell him what exactly had him so spooked, but it was nothing doing. Hutch had stopped packing, but his mood had been introspective. Starsky didn't mind that so much—except that Hutch had been desperately trying to hide it. He'd joked, he'd made Starsky talk about his mom and Nick, he'd given a wry blow by blow of his fight with Mafferty—but any time Starsky had come close to getting to him, he'd turn quiet and gently deflect the conversation.
"Not exactly," he said slowly. "He's—it's like he's on a different plane or something. Talking about movin' and looking for a new job." He looked up and saw his concern mirrored in Dobey's eyes. "He's shutting me out."
Dobey nodded. "Yeah, I was afraid of that."
"Why do you say that?"
Shifting in his chair, looking uncomfortable, Dobey continued. "You haven't been back that long, Starsky. Couple of weeks before you left to go back east, right? You probably haven't heard much about what went on around here while you were recuperating."
"Sure I did! Hutch talked to me every day, told me what was going on. He had some great stories—"
"He told you what he thought you could handle."
The same cold fear Starsky had felt at Hutch's the night before once more clutched at his stomach. During his rehabilitation, Hutch had talked about the job—and that had helped Starsky to feel like he could at least still think like a cop, even if his body wasn't up to it. Some days he'd needed that connection to get through the agonizing repetitiveness of rehab, knowing that Hutch was going to be there that night or the next morning to regale him with stories or ask his advice. He'd been so damn glad to see Hutch, it had never occurred to him that his partner wouldn't be entirely forthcoming.
"What are you saying, that Hutch was in some kinda trouble or something? Why wouldn't he tell me?"
"Think about it, Starsky. You had months of rehabilitation ahead of you and no guarantee you'd make it back on the force at the end of it. What do you think Hutch was going through all those weeks?"
"Going through? I don't know, I—I guess I never thought about it. He seemed fine to me." But even as he said it, he began looking back on those long months, remembering Hutch's bright presence in the darkness of his days.
Maybe that presence had shone too brightly—and Starsky had been too dazzled to notice.
"Yeah, well, think about this. Think about putting yourself in Hutch's shoes. What if it had been Hutch who'd taken three to the chest?"
"Don't say that," Starsky whispered. "Don't even think it."
"Wouldn't you be doing everything in your power to make sure he got through it okay?"
"You know I would. You don't even have to ask—and I know Hutch feels the same way. Look, Cap, just spit it out, okay? If I'm gonna help him—"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Starsky. Maybe helping Hutch doesn't include getting him back on the job."
Dobey's blunt assessment hit Starsky like a blow to the gut. "But—but what would he do if he wasn't a cop?" he stammered.
"Look, I don't have all the answers. But I've been expecting something like this to happen for a while now. He was skating on the edge while you were gone and now he's starting to slip."
"Jesus," Starsky breathed. "That bad, hunh? What the hell happened?"
Dobey spoke reluctantly, increasing Starsky's concern. "Hutch ever talk to you about a guy name of Devereaux?"
"Dev—yeah, he was on that task force with Hutch for a coupla months. Hutch said he washed out, some kind of head case."
"That all Hutchinson tell you?"
"I dunno, Cap—he may have told me more, but he told me a lot of stuff during those months, including the fifty bucks you lost to him on the Super Bowl." Starsky grinned as Dobey scowled at him, but his amusement faded immediately. "So what should I know about this Devereaux character?"
Dobey gathered some papers on his desk and neatened them, avoiding Starsky's gaze.
"He and Hutch—they were involved in an incident."
"An incident? I haven't been gone so long I don't know that's captain talk for a whole lotta bad news."
"It wasn't easy," Dobey agreed, but Starsky heard a odd strain in his voice, as though even months later, the subject made Dobey uncomfortable. "We managed to keep it out of the press, but still—"
"Out of the press?" Starsky forced himself to lower his voice. "What kinda thing happened you gotta keep it out of the papers?"
"Officially? Hutch and Devereaux were working together, interviewing some guys down at the docks about illegal cargo that'd been coming in. According to your partner's report, Devereaux lost it, holed himself up in a warehouse with his weapon and threatened suicide. Took three hours for Hutch to talk him into giving up his gun."
"Jesus," Starsky whispered. He was thinking furiously over the months he'd been gone, sifting through the conversations he'd had with Hutch. Nothing like this had ever come up.
God—what else hadn't Hutch told him?
"From all accounts, Devereaux's a good kid—but I'm gonna tell you something not a lot of people know, so don't go spreading this around."
Starsky glared back at Dobey's stern face. "Hey, c'mon, you know better than that."
Dobey nodded. "Yeah, but this guy's been through enough, so it had to be said. Devereaux was a transfer from Kansas City—that's why he was put on the task force, so he could get a feel for the department. And, well—" Dobey's voice trailed off and Starsky saw an imminent sadness in the dark eyes.
"Yeah?" he urged quietly.
"He needed some time. See, back in K.C.—he lost his partner."
A foreboding chill settled into Starsky's bones. "Lost? How?"
"Shootout with some guys that'd knocked over a liquor store. They chased them into an alley, got trapped themselves. They both got hit but his partner didn't make it. They weren't even on duty—they were just picking up some beer."
Starsky tried to swallow, his throat clicking dryly. "Were they close? Him and his partner?"
"Yeah. Best friends since the academy. Best man at each others' weddings. Godparents—the whole bit."
It was far too easy to imagine the devastation of that kind of loss and Starsky felt the weight of too many close calls press against him. That could have been him and Hutch, any time over the years—and as near as they'd come to that ultimate horror, Starsky still didn't know if he'd have been able to survive what Devereaux had experienced. Compassion for this stranger welled up inside of him but didn't distract Starsky from his one concern.
"So what happened with Hutch?"
"According to his report, Devereaux'd received some bad news that morning, something about his partner's kid. Whatever it was sent him over the edge and Hutch happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Thank God he managed to talk Devereaux out of whatever he was planning."
"Yeah," Starsky agreed absently. Something wasn't right—if that's all that had occurred, Hutch would've told him.
"Damn thing is," Dobey continued, "I don't think that's what really happened. But Hutch isn't talking and Devereaux's been doped to the gills in a mental hospital ever since. But after that day, Hutch was different."
"Okay." Starsky forced air into his lungs, trying to calm himself. "Okay. I get that you think Hutch is in trouble but he's not tellin' why. Question is, what do I do to help him?"
The jowls of Dobey's face settled into deep folds. "I'm not sure. You're gonna have to figure that out on your own. And Starsky?"
"Yeah?"
"You'll have to decide what's best for you, too."
Starsky shrugged and pitched the potato chip bag into the trash can. "C'mon, Cap, you already know the answer to that one."
He paused at the door before turning to face Dobey with a small smile.
"What's best for me is whatever's gonna be best for Hutch. End of story."
"So then he tells me I need to check my attitude at the door or I'm never gonna fit in. You believe this guy? Hey, pass the ketchup."
"Here. Of course I believe him—he gave me the same lecture when I joined up. But he's not the one you have to look out for—he's just a big bag of gas. If Lopez is still on the squad, he'll stab you in the back. Watch out for him."
"Yeah?" Starsky leaned back in his chair until the front legs left the floor. "He give you any problems?"
If Hutch was aware of Starsky watching him, he didn't show it. He took a quick sip of his coffee and shook his head. "Not anything I couldn't handle. Hey, Huggy, can we get some more coffee over here?"
Starsky eased the chair back down and reminded himself to tread lightly. He hadn't been able to get anything more out of Dobey before he'd had to leave for his orientation with the mayor's liaison, but the captain's words were never far from his thoughts. He'd only talked to Hutch by phone the night before—he'd promised Jackie he'd take her to the movies and hadn't wanted to disappoint her.
But as Starsky watched Hutch spread a thin layer of jam on his wheat toast, he realized he couldn't remember the plot of the movie or what he'd had for dinner—his entire focus had been on the man now sitting next to him. His obvious disinterest in his date had earned him some sharp words and an early evening, which only allowed him more time to worry—and remember.
Rehabilitation seemed like a bad dream to him now. The bullets had done a lot of nerve damage and the surgeries to save his life hadn't exactly been a walk in the park. He'd lost strength, endurance, coordination—everything he relied on to keep him and his partner safe every day. The only way to get back had been down the long, hard road of therapy—but it was a road he'd never had to walk alone. Hutch had been with him one way or another the entire time, pushing him when he wanted to dog it, yelling at him when he started feeling sorry for himself. Most importantly, he'd been there to listen, even if all Starsky wanted to was to gripe about the therapist with bad breath or the restriction from beer while he was still taking medication. Whatever it was, Hutch was there—dinner if he worked days, breakfast if he was on the night shift.
Starsky never questioned it—like he'd told Dobey, had the circumstances been reversed, nothing would have been any different.
He was just about to try to get Hutch to talk about the task force when Huggy appeared at the table, a steaming pot of coffee in his hand.
"You gentlemen need anything else, talk to Angie." He freshened their cups and set the pot down on the table. "Gotta take off for a little while."
"Where you off to, Hug?" Starsky asked.
Huggy grasped the lapels of his studded denim jacket and gave them a shake. "My accountant. He says ever since I opened this place up for the breakfast crowd, I'm making too much money and I need to—what did he say? Oh yeah—diversify. That was it."
Starsky looked around The Pits, noting every table was full. "Yeah, guess you do seem to be doing a bang up business here."
"That's right. And Bunny—that's my accountant—he say I need to be looking for other opportunities."
Hutch wiped his mouth with his napkin, stifling his laugh. "Huggy, if anyone is good at finding new opportunities, it's gotta be you."
Huggy bowed. "Thank you, Hutch, I'll take that as the compliment I know you didn't mean it to be. Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Yeah, catch you later, Huggy."
"See you, Hug. Don't forget your umbrella."
Starsky pushed his plate away and turned in his chair. "So, you nervous about going in today?"
Hutch shrugged. "No."
"Hutch, look, I know you're dead set on leaving, but maybe, if Dobey offers you a bone, you should take it."
The gaze Hutch turned on him was weary. "What for? Why prolong this?"
"Because you need a job. You need income. Rent money. Beer money."
"I can get a job some place else, you know."
"Yeah, I know, I know. But right now you have one. Take the suspension, come back—and then walk away on your terms."
"I—I don't know, Starsk. Just seems kinda pointless."
Starsky laid his hand on Hutch's arm. "Okay. Just promise me you'll think about it. Listen to what Dobey has to say, and then decide."
Hutch nodded "Okay."
Forty-five minutes later, it was Starsky who was thinking about quitting when Dobey doled out the punishment for Hutch's altercation with Mafferty. He jumped out of his chair and thumped his fist on Dobey's desk.
"A month? Without pay?" he yelled. "You gotta be kiddin' me!"
Hutch spoke up quietly. "Starsk, it's okay—"
"No, no, it's not okay." He turned back toward Dobey. "That's not right, Cap. You know that's not right."
"Sorry guys, but that's the deal Mafferty and his lawyer insisted on for not filing charges. Charges that at the very least would go in your file and at the worst, land you in jail yourself. Look, I don't like this any more than you do, but it was the best I could do. Under the circumstances, you're lucky the police commissioner stayed out it."
"Since when does a guy like Mafferty get to tell the BCPD what to do?"
"Since his father plays golf with Deputy Mayor Castillo, that's when. C'mon, Starsky, you know how city politics work—Hutch is lucky he got off so lightly."
"Yeah, well, it stinks."
"Starsky—"
"Starsk, let it go." Hutch stood up, unfolding slowly from his chair. "Well, you already have my badge, so I guess we're done here." He held out his hand to Dobey. "Thanks, Captain. I know you tried."
Dobey shook his hand. "Sorry I couldn't do more. Here—" He grabbed a letter off his desk and handed it to Hutch. "This is from Mafferty's lawyers, telling you to stay away from their client."
Hutch gave the pale blue stationery a cursory once over before folding it into three uneven parts and shoving it in his jacket pocket. "That won't be a problem."
"Glad to hear it. And, uh, you're restricted from carrying your service weapon, so keep that .357 locked up at home, okay?"
"Already done."
"Good. Now, IA will still want an interview, but I think they'll stay out of it since there're no charges being filed."
"I'm sure they'll find me if they want me." Hutch jerked a thumb toward the squad room. "I'm gonna go grab some things out of my desk."
As he stepped toward the door, Starsky stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Looking up into Hutch's sad blue eyes, Starsky felt a shift take place inside him, low in his gut, the feeling he got when he knew he was on to a sure thing. He knew there was more going on with his partner than met the eye and he knew he had something to do with it, even though Hutch had been emphatic that he didn't.
"You and me gotta talk."
Hutch's eyes softened and Starsky experienced an odd pulling sensation, like he was at the end of a rope—a rope that was tied to Hutch.
It wasn't the first time he'd felt it—and he was terrified because he was beginning to get an idea of what that feeling meant.
"Now?"
"No. Not now. After I get off. I'll come by your place."
Hutch's gaze drifted briefly to Dobey, then back to Starsky with a smile hidden deep in his eyes. "Okay by me. Bring pizza, I'm unemployed."
The greasy pizza box had been thrown away and empty soda cans sat discarded around the room. It was dark outside, but to Hutch it felt as though the sun had never risen. Dark gray rain clouds had obscured the light and the weathermen all agreed that there was no end in sight. Dire predictions of floods and mudslides dominated the headlines—but Hutch only knew that he hadn't been warm for days.
As promised, Starsky had shown up after work with dinner, swaying across the floor of Hutch's apartment like he was dancing with a beautiful woman instead of a huge pepperoni and onion pizza. Hutch had laughed at him and tossed a towel over his head to mop the worst of the rainwater from his hair, then they'd settled down to eat.
Now Hutch looked at Starsky, sprawled like a big cat in his corner of the couch and felt a rush of affection. They'd already rehashed Starsky's day with the task force ("bunch of idiots") and Hutch had offered half-hearted consolation and a Hershey bar when Starsky confided that he and Jackie had decided to go separate ways.
It wasn't that Hutch had disliked her, exactly—but he wasn't sorry to see her go. He'd always felt, with a few exceptions, that Starsky dated beneath him. One after the other, he played the fool around women and they always fell for that charming dope act, but Hutch knew it was just that—an act. By aiming low, got Starsky companionship and a warm body in his bed for a few weeks or a month; sometimes Hutch barely learned her name before Starsky had found another. They were all good-natured girls and together with Hutch's current squeeze they'd have some laughs, but Hutch always knew they'd never last.
There had been exceptions, of course. Teri, whom Hutch had not only liked but to whom he'd willingly entrusted his best friend, had been good for Starsky, maybe even perfect. Smart and warm and most important of all, she'd been comfortable with Hutch's place in Starsky's life. That had made her as close to perfect as either Hutch or Starsky were ever likely to get.
As he gazed at his partner idly licking melted candy bar chocolate from his fingers, Hutch was close to admitting that his own feelings about his partner were finally changing into something else, something that had him confused. Whatever it was, it sometimes made it too difficult to be around Starsky—and in a world of things he was unsure of, he wasn't ready to question that, either. Nor was he ready to look closer at how his body was reacting to the spectacle of Starsky delicately mouthing the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger, searching out one last smear of chocolate.
But there was one thing Hutch was sure of, something he'd never doubted—devotion had a face. Friendship, loyalty, trust—all of them were embodied by the man currently wiping his fingers on the knee of his faded Levi's.
Despite the recent tension, it was all familiar and comfortable, having Starsky here, sharing a meal. He could almost forget his current troubles and pretend it was just another rainy night, but his eyes remained fixed on Starsky—and suddenly he was too painfully beautiful to watch. Hutch dropped his eyes and stared at his hands, fighting against an unyielding constriction in his chest. Sometimes it hit him like that—the utter improbability that Starsky should be sitting beside him, substituting his clothes for a napkin. The memories of blood and pain and scar tissue were never very far away, but they were slowly being overlaid with the constant and vibrant reality of his living partner.
"Hutch?"
Hutch looked up with a helpless smile, unable to mask his features. "Yeah?"
Starsky blinked at him and smile back tentatively. "What are you grinning at?"
Hutch's smile remained in place as he shook his head. "Nothing. What's on your mind, Starsk?"
Starsky sobered, lowering his voice. "I know this isn't probably what you want to hear me say, but—" he paused, unconsciously rubbing his fingers across his chest
"Go ahead, say it."
Starsky slumped forward and clasped his hands between his knees, avoiding Hutch's eyes. "I don't think I can be a cop without you," he confided with miserable certainty.
Hutch's smile dropped away, along with the bottom of his stomach. "Aw, no, Starsk, that's not true. You're a great cop and you'll always be a great cop."
"Maybe that's not what I meant. Maybe what I meant was that I—" he turned his head to meet Hutch's worried gaze—"I don't want to be a cop without you."
Hutch dug the palms of his hands into his eyes. This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid at all costs. He dropped his hands and sighed.
"Starsky, you can't do that," he said wearily.
"Do what?" Starsky shot back. "Go on like everything's normal except I don't have a hundred and eighty pounds of partner attached to my hip? The only partner I've ever had?"
He stood up and flung his arms wide. "You just gotta explain this to me, okay? Explain to me what I'm supposed to do!"
Hutch rose to his feet, his hand going out as if to touch Starsky. Anger was radiating off his partner, anger he'd expected but had hoped he could defuse. Starsky was going to ask hard questions and Hutch had no answers for him—at least none he wanted to share.
"Look, you and me, we've always been a package deal, right?" He turned his hand and pointed at himself. "But this part of the package—it's damaged, can't you see that?"
"Damaged?" Starsky echoed furiously. "You want to see damaged?"
With swift, jerky movements, Starsky unbuttoned his shirt and spread the fabric wide, revealing puckered flesh and pale scar tissue.
"That's damage, Hutch—that's months of damage fixed the only way I knew how, and that was to keep trying, keep working at it, because coming back was all that mattered to me!"
"Why?" Hutch asked desperately. "Starsk, there are other things in the world besides being a cop—you can do anything you want to!"
Starsky yanked the fabric closed. "Yeah, well, maybe I can—but being a cop is the only thing that I could do with you!"
The moment he said it, Hutch knew it hadn't been planned. The stunned look in Starsky's eyes confirmed it and Hutch knew that Starsky was as shocked by the outburst as he was.
"With—with me?" he stammered.
Starsky's face closed like a book. "You know what I mean. We're partners, that's all I'm sayin'."
"And now, after all that work, I'm quitting on you." Hutch lowered his head, bitterness seeping into his voice. "I get it now. No wonder you're so pissed off at me."
"I'm not—okay, hell, yes I am. Maybe I got no right to be—"
"No, you do." Hutch turned away so that Starsky couldn't see his face. "That was a lousy thing to do to you."
"Look, Hutch—"
"I can't—" Hutch raised his eyes to the ceiling as he fought to find the words that would make Starsky understand. "I can't breathe here anymore, Starsk. I just—I can't breathe."
He flinched a little when Starsky slid his fingers over his biceps. "Then let me breathe for you," Starsky pleaded, his voice cracking. "I'll breathe for us both."
Hutch's eyes drifted shut on a wave of pain. "How long?" he whispered. "I won't drag you down with me—promise me you won't—"
"What the hell are you talking about?" The hand on his arm tightened, demanding he open his eyes to meet Starsky's worried gaze. "C'mon, Hutch, don't pull this crap on me now. You haven't been straight with me since I got back, so maybe it's time you started talkin' instead of hidin'."
Hutch shrugged off his hand but couldn't force himself to take a step away from Starsky's nearness. "What do you mean, not been straight with you?"
He felt the warm breath of Starsky's sigh flow across his cheek as Starsky stepped closer. "I mean you're not tellin' me the whole story about why you're bailing on me, Dobey, the whole shootin' match. And don't tell me it's 'cause of Mafferty—you should be foamin' at the mouth to get him now."
"Yeah, maybe." Hutch turned and wished he hadn't—Starsky was too close and he didn't take a step back. Something held Hutch in place and he closed his eyes for the briefest moment, taking comfort in Starsky's solidity. "Tell you what—I'll think about coming back after my suspension is up."
"Nice dance step, Blondie. You wanna try again?'
"What do you mean?"
Starsky didn't say anything and Hutch forced himself to meet that direct gaze. Whatever anger Starsky had been feeling wasn't showing in his eyes and Hutch was almost sorry it was gone, because in its place was something Hutch didn't recognize—and up until that moment, he thought he knew every expression on the mobile face.
"Starsk?" he whispered. "I don't know what's happening."
Somehow, he knew Starsky realized he wasn't just talking about their current conversation or Hutch's job situation. The soft, damp air of the room was awash with emotions, running down between them like condensation on glass. He wanted so badly to touch his partner, to connect physically with him, something he'd never hesitated to do before—but the words spoken by a man in unspeakable pain stopped him.
"You know what it feels like to watch someone die, Ken? Someone you love?"
There was nothing in Starsky's demeanor to stop him—it was his own memories, his own fears and hopes that stayed his hand. He stared as Starsky moistened his lips, noticing that he looked as frightened as Hutch felt. The thought briefly amused him—even in this, they were together.
But he wasn't prepared for Starsky's next question.
"Tell me about Devereaux."
Hutch felt the blood drain from his face. Starsky saw it too and grabbed his elbow.
"Hutch?" he heard through the ringing in his ears. "Hutch? You okay?"
"Yeah." He tried to swallow and found he couldn't. "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay."
The hold on his elbow tightened and that simple, unsolicited touch pleased him, even through the haze of panic filling his head.
"You sure the hell don't look okay. C'mere, sit down."
Starsky led him over to the sofa and they both sat down heavily, Hutch facing straight ahead, Starsky canted toward him with his knee resting against Hutch's thigh. He'd removed his hand from Hutch's arm and he knew he felt the loss too keenly for something he used to accept so effortlessly.
"So talk to me," Starsky was saying. "What is it about this Devereaux guy that turns you white as a ghost?"
It sounded almost like an obscenity to hear Starsky mention Devereaux's name. Hutch felt a shiver slide down his spine as he grasped for some kind of fib that Starsky wouldn't catch.
Rubbing at the long-healed skin above his hairline, he decided to try and hold Starsky off. "I told you about him, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember what you told me. I just don't remember anything that'd upset you like this."
"I'm not upset," Hutch countered weakly. He looked over at Starsky, seeing exactly what he'd thought he'd see—patent disbelief and a mulish glint in the sharp blue eyes.
Starsky crossed his arms over his chest. "Look, you just about hit the carpet at the mention of his name, so don't go tellin' me there's nothing about this guy or what happened with him that's buggin' you. You know better than that."
It was the blunt admonishment that hurt the most, and Hutch dropped his eyes to the floor. He wasn't ready to tell Starsky about the three hours he'd spent in that warehouse—he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to tell him everything.
"Starsk—" he stopped and shook his head. There wasn't any point in trying to lie—Starsky would sniff it out in a minute. "You're right, okay? You're right, I haven't told you everything that happened that day."
"I knew it—"
"But you gotta let it drop, all right?" Hutch placed his hand on Starsky's knee. "Just—let it be for now. It's not important anymore."
Starsky's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, not important?"
The harshness had faded from Starsky's expression, replaced with concern that tore at Hutch's heart. He didn't want Starsky anywhere near Devereaux and everything he said only made things worse.
"Starsky, I'm asking you—leave it alone. Devereaux's sick—he fell apart that day. I was just the guy who witnessed it." He stood up and offered his hand to Starsky, who allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. "It's late—you'd better take off."
Starsky had gone quiet—he just nodded in agreement as he looked around for his jacket. Hutch felt badly about keeping his partner in ignorance but the alternative was unbearable.
"Hey," Hutch spoke up as Starsky dug in his pockets for his car keys. "I'm gonna go see Lee Park tomorrow—you wanna come?"
"What time?"
Hutch shrugged, dismayed at Starsky's curt tone. "You name it."
Starsky pulled out his keys and shook them in his hand like dice. "I gotta go in at four—we're setting up night details to watch Bumpy Jake's pool hall."
"Bumpy Jake's? Don't tell me he's back to making book again."
"Making book with some girls on the side. Seems he's hooked up with some crowd from back east who's bankrolling him."
A slow curl of excitement unwound in Hutch's belly, a feeling he recognized and swiftly suppressed. He was no longer part of the hunt and it was time he started getting used to it.
"Okay—I'll call and arrange it for eleven. Pick me up at the parking lot on Fourth and we'll go together. After that, you can buy me a hot dog."
The stern lines of Starsky's face relaxed slightly. "Now I get it—as long as you're unemployed, I gotta foot all the food bills."
Hutch smiled, relieved to hear a note of teasing in Starsky's voice. "Okay, you're on to me."
Starsky scowled at him, then snapped his fingers. "Hey, know what? Forget the hot dog—there's that Italian place nearby, corner of Fifth and Cherry. Teo's I think is what its called. They got the best baked rigatoni—"
"Aw, Starsk," Hutch groaned, "not another Italian place. We have really bad luck with Italian joints."
"Hey, I'm buyin', I pick the place. That's the deal, got it?"
"Got it."
Starsky walked to the front door and opened it. Hutch was reaching for one of the discarded soda cans when he noticed Starsky was still standing on the threshold.
"You forget something?"
"No," Starsky said slowly. "No, but you know what, Hutch? I'm beginning to think maybe you did."
He stepped through the door and closed it gently behind him, leaving Hutch staring at the scarred wood and wondering just what the hell Starsky had meant.
"It's not your fault, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
Starsky grabbed one corner of Hutch's knit scarf and pulled him beneath the awning of a vacuum repair shop.
"Hutch, you're not listenin'. You heard what Lee's uncle said—she's trying to put all this behind her, get on with her life—"
"But why wouldn't she see us, Starsk?" Hutch peered through the sheet of water pouring over the awning, his breath showing white against the gray sky. "I just wanted to make sure she
was okay and apologize, you know?"
Starsky grasped the other end of the scarf and yanked both ends at the same time, forcing Hutch to look at him.
"Give her time, all right? Mafferty will get his some day—we just gotta wait for him to screw up."
Hutch nodded reluctantly and Starsky tossed the ends of the scarf over his shoulders.
"C'mon, let's go eat."
They stepped back into the rain, heads bowed against the downpour that soaked their hair and ran down their faces in small rivers. Half a block further down the street, they turned the corner, expecting to see the front door of Teo's.
Instead, they came face to face with a pair of doors, one which was boarded up, the other bearing a large, hand-painted sign that said "Closed" in crooked red letters.
"Perfect," Hutch muttered. "Just perfect."
"Aw, man!" Starsky pressed his nose against the glass in the door. "What the hell happened—hey, there's someone inside. Let's find out."
Hutch grabbed Starsky's arm. "C'mon, I don't care what happened. Let's go somewhere else."
"Hold on—hey!" Starsky rapped on the wooden door frame. "Hey! Yeah, you! C'mere!"
Starsky ignored Hutch's rolling eyes and waited for the door to be unlocked. It opened slowly and a elderly man in a pristine white shirt peered back at him over half-moon glasses.
"Yah?"
Smiling brightly, Starsky grabbed the end of Hutch's scarf to prevent him from walking away. "My friend and I were coming here for lunch but it looks like you're closed. Are you gonna open soon?"
The man wiped his hands on his red-checked apron. "No, no, we closed for good! Me and the missus, we moving to Florida, gonna sell this place."
"Sell it?" Starsky looped the end of the scarf around his hand, hauling an unwilling Hutch into the conversation. "You hear that, Hutch? He's selling this place!"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard." He gave the old man a quick smile. "Good luck in Florida."
"Man, I loved your rigatoni, you know that? That sauce—" he kissed the fingertips of the hand not currently attached to Hutch's makeshift leash—"was the best sauce I ever tasted outside of the old neighborhood."
The old man beamed and held the door open. "Hey, you boys hungry? Mama has some sauce on the stove—we make a last batch for friends before we leave. Plenty to go around—you come in, sì?"
Hutch took a step backward. "We don't want to intrude—"
His words were stopped abruptly as he and his scarf were yanked into the darkened restaurant.
Ignoring his stumbling partner, Starsky strolled into the middle of the room, patting his chest and breathing deeply. The air was thick with oregano and garlic, warming him instantly, but the physical surroundings of the restaurant were less than inviting. A dark, scarred wooden floor showed pale where many years of walking had taken their toll. The chairs, tables and walls were all the same dark color, giving the restaurant the atmosphere of a humid, Italian cave. Only faded posters on the wall gave the place any color, until the door beside the long bar swung open in a flash of fluorescent white. A small, elderly woman dressed in a rusty black dress came out, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Dom, who's these boys?" She smiled tentatively, teetering on thick legs that ended in rolled stockings and sensible black shoes.
Starsky sprang forward, hand extended. "Dave Starsky, ma'am. We—me and my friend, that's Ken over there—came by for lunch." He gestured toward Hutch, who lingered awkwardly inside the doorway, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. The warmth in the room was already drying the pale blond hair, overlong locks curling against the wool scarf. To Starsky's worried eyes he looked tired and too thin, a faded version of the man he knew and cared for beyond anything else. The desire to make things right for Hutch was almost overwhelming, welling up inside and thickening his throat.
Swallowing hard, he turned back to the couple with as wide a grin as he could manufacture, sniffing ostentatiously. "Sure smells good, whatever you got cookin' back there."
"Lottie, I told these boys we had enough food to feed them." Dom placed his arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Don't make a liar outta me, hunh?"
She pushed him away with a tender frown. "Enough food for them and ten of their friends. Come, come, sit down, I go get the lunch." She eyed their damp hair and clothes. "And maybe some towels."
Starsky waved Hutch over to a partially set table. Hutch approached reluctantly but sat down anyway, removing his jacket and draping it across the back of the chair. Starsky did likewise, then teased an annoyed scowl out of his partner by plucking a napkin off the table and placing it in Hutch's lap with his thumb and forefinger, pinky finger carefully extended. Dom set two more places and then sat across from them, sliding his glasses into the breast pocket of his shirt before reaching for a pitcher of water.
"So, you two boys out doin' a little shopping?" He sloshed water into thick plastic glasses made opaque by hundreds of small scratches. "Or just heading home from a big night out?"
When Hutch lifted his glass to drink, avoiding the conversation, Starsky answered for both of them. "We're cops, mister—uh, mister—"
"Rossi, but you call me Dom. Cops, hunh? You walk this beat now? Don't remember seeing you around here."
"No, no, we're detectives. You know, plain clothes—ahh, that looks wonderful." A plate of steaming pasta swimming in olive oil and garlic was placed in front of each of them and Starsky backhanded Hutch's shoulder. "Doesn't that looks wonderful?"
As if belatedly realizing his lack of participation, Hutch nodded and offered his most charming smile to Lottie. Starsky smothered his own amusement as he watched Lottie become flustered. She handed them each a stiff white towel and turn toward the kitchen, murmuring something about bread. They blotted the water from their hair and necks before picking up their forks with appreciative murmurs.
"So why are you selling this place?" Hutch asked just as Starsky's mouth was full.
Dom shrugged as he tucked his napkin into the collar of his shirt. "All the kids and grandkids live on the east coast. Time to retire anyway—too old to work this hard."
Lottie emerged with two more plates of pasta and a basket of bread tucked in her elbow. She placed them on the table and sat down heavily in the remaining chair.
"Too old, he says. Not too old to work—too old to put up with the kinda things we gotta put up with in this neighborhood."
"Shush, Lottie, these boys don't wanna hear—"
She wagged a finger at him. "Hey, I heard them say they were cops, maybe they need to hear this." She picked up a piece of bread and waved it for emphasis. "Everything, you gotta pay. You want laundry service, you gotta pay extra so they use the right bleach. You want the garbage picked up, you gotta pay somebody named Morty to make sure it gets done. Gotten so bad, we can't afford the good produce, gotta buy it at the supermarket instead of the farmer's market." She bit into her bread and chewed furiously, her face flushed. Beside her, Dom stoically ferried pasta to his mouth, his dolorous expression one of obvious longstanding.
Starsky glanced at Hutch, unsurprised to see Hutch looking at him with the same thought.
"That's all illegal, you know that," Hutch said mildly.
Lottie nodded, some of her gray hair coming unpinned and curling onto her shoulder. "Sure, we know, but what are we gonna do. Last time Dom tried to say no—"
"Lottie—" Dom interjected quickly. "That's water under the bridge now, si?"
"What happened?" Starsky kept his tone as unconcerned as Hutch's had been.
Lottie patted Dom's arm. "Don't worry, Dominic. Once we find a buyer for this place, it's not our problem any longer." She turned back to the two detectives. "Dom tried to tell them we were paying too much for laundry service, that we found some other place across town that would do it cheaper."
She faltered and Starsky exchanged another look with Hutch. "What happened, Lottie?"
"They broke my fingers." Dom said the words quietly, covering Lottie's age-spotted hand with his own. "Caught me back in the alley one night. Said next time it'd be Lottie that got hurt—and they'd break more than her fingers."
Starsky laid down his fork, appetite gone. "Did you call the police?"
Lottie shook her head. "That's when we decided to sell. We talked to the police when it first started happening—they tell us, oh, they know about it, they trying to stop it. Bah—they stopped nothing."
Dom nodded. "Sì, we talk to them. They tell us to talk to other people in the neighborhood, try and organize."
Hutch pushed his plate away and Starsky noticed most of his pasta was still there as well. "Organize?"
"Sì. You know, everyone agree not to pay these men." Dom shrugged again. "Everyone's too afraid, police say they try and stop it—nothing happens. They just come back for more money."
"So what's going to happen to this place?" Hutch asked. "You said it's not sold yet?"
"Not yet," Dom confirmed. "We hand it over to the bank on Monday—they do the sale for us."
"Too bad." Hutch looked around the large room, his eyes falling on a raised platform at the far end. "Is that a stage?"
Lottie answered as she began clearing the table. "Sì. Long time ago, back in the 40s, this place was a big nightclub, lotsa famous people sing here, maybe even Sinatra. Big scandals, even a shooting—you look close, you can see the bullet holes in the back of the stage."
"That's quite a history." Starsky stood up and reached back for his jacket. Hutch also rose, his gaze still fixed on the small stage. Starsky started to say something, but the look in Hutch's eyes stopped him. It was equal parts longing and doubt, an expression Starsky associated with Hutch and his love/hate relationship with his music.
The idea came to Starsky so fully realized, he was momentarily disoriented. Instead of the smoky, grime-covered surfaces and dingy furniture, he saw freshly painted walls and comfortable chairs, plants, warm lighting—and Hutch. A smiling Hutch, a relaxed Hutch, working the bar, talking to the patrons, perched on a stool on the small stage, guitar in hand.
The vision was so vivid that he had to blink when Hutch waved his hand in front of his eyes to get his attention.
"C'mon, Starsk—let's leave these folks alone." Hutch turned toward the Rossis as he slid his wallet out of his back pocket. "Thanks for lunch—how much do we owe you?"
Dom raised his hands. "No, no, no pay today. Today you are our last customers. Last customers eat free."
The friendly announcement was followed by handshakes and kisses on the cheek for Lottie, but Starsky's mind was elsewhere. As he and Hutch stepped back onto the street and into a thin, clinging mist, his mind was busy trying to come up with a way to convince Hutch that his idea wasn't completely off the wall.
His opportunity came earlier than he'd hoped; as they settled into the Torino, Hutch sighed and began drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
"You know, Starsk, it's a damn shame about the Rossis. Place like that, all that history—you know it's probably going to end up as a laundromat or a—a hangout for drunks and hookers."
Starsky put the car in reverse. "Doesn't have to," he replied casually. "Someone might buy it, put a lot of work into it. Make it a nice place. That stage? Perfect for some music, maybe a guy and a guitar—"
"Yeah." Hutch's voice drifted away, giving Starsky the opening he'd been hoping for. He waited until they came to a red light before looking over at Hutch and figured his timing might not get any better.
"Why not you?" he asked bluntly. Hutch turned to face him, his expression incredulous.
"Me? Take over that place? I don't know the first thing about running a restaurant. I'm a cop, remember?"
Starsky shrugged. "Yeah, I remember. I also remember a guy who told me he doesn't want to be a cop anymore. A guy who also happens to need a job."
"That's not a job! That's a—that's an investment, and it takes money, money I don't have."
Starsky knew Hutch's voice well enough to detect a thread of interest beneath the typically sharp reply. He clenched his fingers around the bottom curve of the steering wheel and chose his next words carefully.
"That's what banks are for, right?" He kept his tone reasonable, knowing that Hutch would tune him out if he overplayed his hand. "That place has everything you need, you won't need to buy a lot of stuff to get started. They probably had to lay off workers, so you have a ready-made staff."
The light turned green and Starsky cranked the Torino into a left-hand turn that brought them into the parking lot beside Hutch's current eyesore of a car. He left the car idling and shifted in his seat to face his partner, who'd fallen silent as he gazed out the front windshield. Starsky also remained silent, letting the idea sink in. He watched as Hutch brushed a finger over his moustache, his expression contemplative but curiously closed off.
"I don't know, Starsk," Hutch said eventually. "Never saw myself doing something like owning a restaurant. I wish—"
He stopped and Starsky tapped him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.
"What do you wish?"
Hutch rubbed his hands hard against his corduroy-covered thighs as if his hands were cold. He spoke straight ahead, avoiding Starsky's eyes.
"I wish—I just wish there was something we could do together."
It was an echo of Starsky's own declaration from the previous night and hearing Hutch say the words brought a flush of warmth to his chest. It was something they'd always had between them, this ephemeral idea that they'd be together, no matter where life took them. Not even the once welcome prospect of marriage or raising a family had ever altered that view, although they'd never talked about it. It was funny, Starsky thought—it was one thing to think of Hutch not being a cop, but not being his partner? That was unthinkable.
But now other beliefs were becoming unbearable as well—ideas like watching Hutch find someone to spend his life with, or never having the right to touch or hold him the way he wanted to, the way he'd been dreaming about since his shooting. He was just now realizing that the low hum of panic that he'd been experiencing since he'd returned had been his own desires gnawing at him, forcing him to try and find a way to keep Hutch at his side.
Maybe this was his chance.
"Well," Starsky said slowly, "why couldn't we do this together?"
Hutch finally turned toward him with eyes wide and disbelieving and Starsky felt his nerve begin to waver. "Do what?"
"C'mon, Hutch! Think how great this could be! You runnin' the place and me there when I'm off duty—"
"Doing what? Washing dishes?"
"I can wash dishes," Starsky said with a touch of hurt in his voice. "I can also clear tables and pull a pitcher of beer if I gotta."
"Yeah, well, you'd probably need a bartender's license for that—"
"So we'll get 'em. The point is, this is something we can do together—hell, it's probably something we'd have ended up doing eventually anyway. We can't be cops forever."
"No," Hutch murmured, "we sure can't."
"So, will you think about it?"
Hutch looked at him, the glimmer of excitement in his eyes quickly clouded over by doubt. That didn't bother Starsky—it was exactly how Hutch approached new things sometimes.
"Okay, okay. It's crazy, but I'll think about it."
"Dave? Hey, Dave?"
Starsky straightened up from the drinking fountain, rubbing the cuff of his shirt along his mouth before grinning at the young woman approaching him.
"Hey, Emily, how you doin'?" He kissed her on the cheek and led her by the elbow out of the corridor and into the bullpen. "How's Steven?"
Emily tucked a strand of pale red hair behind her ear. "He's—he's having some problems."
Starsky motioned for Emily to sit down before hopping up on the desk beside her.
"Yeah? What kind of problems?"
Emily didn't immediately reply, instead lowering her gaze to watch her hands twist the belt of her raincoat. Starsky kept his own body uncharacteristically still as he waited for Emily to gather herself; he'd been around the spouses of cops too many times to try and rush her.
Steven Leiter, Emily's husband, was a young uniform that Starsky and Hutch had worked with on several occasions. After a few of those cases, they'd met for beer and pizza and gotten to know Emily as well. A few days after Starsky returned following his recovery, Steven had rolled his unit on the way to a robbery in progress. His partner had been thrown clear and had been relatively unhurt, but Steven had broken his back. The injury hadn't been life-threatening, but Steven had suffered through multiple surgeries and had months of rehabilitation ahead of him.
"He's so unhappy," Emily whispered. "So angry."
Starsky rested his hand on her shoulder. "Hey, I know how he feels, but trust me—it passes."
Emily nodded. "I know it will. It's just that—he doesn't think the physical therapy is working."
"Well, Em, it takes a while, you know? You gotta start with baby steps—"
"I know that, I know—but Steven says he wants to stop, to do it on his own."
"Now that's just plain dumb. No way he can do that alone."
"Dave—you know what it's like, right? I was thinking maybe you could tell me who your therapist was, maybe Steven just needs someone else."
"Oh, sure. Hey, I think I have a card around here somewhere. Hold on." He jumped off his desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. He rummaged around and pulled out a white business card. "Here it is. You tell 'em Dave Starsky recommended them."
Emily took the card with a smile that quickly turned to an expression of disappointment. "Oh. No, I'm sorry—we have to use someone supplied by the city insurance. We can't afford a private therapist like Mandelay."
She handed the card back to a bewildered Starsky. "There's gotta be some mistake," he said. "I went to these guys for months and no one said anything about it. I'm sure the city uses them."
Emily shook her head as she stood up. "No, they don't. We checked right after Steven got out of the hospital. The insurance company said we could only use the therapists at the community hospital."
Still confused, Starsky pressed the card back into her hand. "Hey, it doesn't hurt to call 'em, right? Maybe there's something they can work out with the insurance company."
"Okay." Emily slipped the card into her purse. "We'll try again."
"That's the spirit. C'mon, I'll walk you out."
He led her to the elevator with promises to keep in touch, but his mind was working over the puzzle of his own therapy. Hutch had handled all the details and had made sure Starsky kept his appointments; no one had ever said that Starsky was in the wrong place. He'd never questioned where the bills went—Hutch had explained to him that the city was picking up the tab and that was it, no different than all the other times he'd needed help with recovery.
But every other time, he'd been sent to the community hospital, just like Steve Leiter.
Maybe it was just a mix-up and Steve would be able to go to the Mandelay rehab center just like Starsky—but he figured it wouldn't hurt to stop by the city insurance administrator and check it out, maybe ease things along. Steve and Emily were friends and if he could help them out, he would. It was something that would have to wait, though. He was due for a surveillance shift in the alley behind Bumpy Jake's with another squad member—and he had Hutch and their restaurant to think about.
Damn Starsky anyway.
It was a crazy idea but it had gotten stuck in Hutch's head and wouldn't let go. After Starsky had dropped him off at his car he'd driven back past Teo's and parked on the far side of the street with the boarded up front door in view. He'd had to keep the motor running so that the he could use the windshield wipers, but the steady squeak of rubber on glass had only served to punctuate the thoughts chasing through his head.
It was funny, but as soon as Starsky had mentioned the idea of owning a restaurant, he'd wanted it. Knowing it was impossible, knowing he'd never be able to pull it off—he'd loved the idea. He'd run a nice place—good food, healthy stuff, he thought—and a fully stocked bar. And that stage was perfect for a trio; maybe he could get Sue Ann to come back—that would be a great piece of publicity. And maybe, if the time was right and he'd had a lot of practice, he'd try performing again himself.
But as he sat there in his car, the side window rolled down so the front window wouldn't fog up, he knew these were useless dreams. In nine days, he wouldn't be able to afford a place to live, let alone purchase a restaurant, even with Starsky's help.
That last thought made him smile as he pulled away from the curb to head for home. Sure, it was a nice dream, but it was made all the more tempting by the idea of sharing it with his partner. Starsky was born to be a bartender—he had that natural ability to get people to open up to him and always seemed to care. His enthusiasm for people despite the ugliness he saw in his job was a characteristic Hutch didn't share—but he cherished it in his partner just the same.
But there just wasn't any money, and that was the end of it.
Once home, he wandered around the rooms without conscious thought. He knew he should just start packing again, but didn't have the heart after Starsky had spent so much time putting everything back. He thought about calling a girl he'd had a couple of dates with but shot down that idea immediately. He had no money for a date, and worse, no desire—at least not for mindless sex with someone he didn't care about.
Having nothing else to do, he finally settled in with a book he'd found at the bottom of his closet. Accompanied by the patter of rain against his windows, he let his mind sink into the story and lost track of time.
The shrill ring of his phone jerked him out of the doze he'd fallen into. He sat up quickly and groped for the receiver as the paperback slid off his chest to the floor. Ignoring it, he rubbed his free hand over his eyes as he brought the phone to his mouth.
"Yeah, hello."
"Hutch, you need to get down to the hospital."
"Hunh?" Hutch swung his legs to the floor. "Captain? What—"
"Listen to me, Hutchinson. Your partner's been hurt. He—"
Hutch jumped to his feet. "Hurt? God—what? How? Is he okay?"
"He's fine, he's fine, he just needs—"
"Fine? He's in the hospital and he's fine? What the hell—"
"Hutchinson! Shut up and let me explain!"
Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "Okay. Sorry, Captain."
Dobey immediately gentled his tone. "S'alright. Things got outta hand at Bumpy Jake's tonight. I don't have all the details yet, but it sounds like there was some gang trouble and the surveillance teams got caught in the middle of it."
"How bad?"
"Starsky got winged in the firefight. Get down there and get him home."
Twenty minutes later, Hutch stormed into the crowded emergency room, trailing rain water with every step. It was a busy night and he couldn't get close enough to the front desk to ask the whereabouts of his partner, but the admitting nurse saw him and pointed toward one of the emergency rooms. He gave her a wave and trotted into the ward, narrowly avoiding several harried nurses, all of whom seemed to be involved in treating one very large, very noisy family occupying the first six beds in the ward and shouting at each other in broken English.
He spotted Starsky sitting on the bed farthest from the entrance, his curly head bent downward and hands clutching at either side of the gurney he was perched on. As Hutch dodged more of the arguing family members and stressed hospital staff, he could see that the sleeve of Starsky's shirt had been cut off and in its place was a wide white bandage curved around his bicep.
Thank God, he thought as he drew closer. Thank God.
But the look on Starsky's face when Hutch reached his side had him reevaluating the situation. There was barely concealed panic hidden in his eyes, confirmed by the hand that immediately slid past Hutch's jacket to clutch at the shirt beneath.
"'Bout time you got here," Starsky mumbled, but Hutch heard more in the rough voice than annoyance.
"Sorry. Had to finish my crossword puzzle."
"Well, I wouldn't want to rush you or nothin'."
"No problem. Dobey said you needed a ride. Where's your partner—Washburn, right?"
"My partner's standin' right in front of me. If you're talkin' about the guy I shared an unmarked squad car with tonight, he took one in the leg. Last I heard they were taking him into surgery."
"He gonna be okay?"
Starsky shrugged. "That's what they tell me. We were lucky—coulda been a lot worse."
"Not lucky enough in my opinion," Hutch muttered. He jerked his head toward the throng of still-arguing family that seemed to be growing by the minute. "What's all that about?"
"Near as I can tell, that one over there—" he nodded toward a pretty young girl sobbing dramatically in the arms of an elderly woman "—is gonna have the baby of the kid in the first bed. Guess they picked tonight to break the happy news to the families, only it didn't go over so good. Now we got Romeo and Juliet with brass knuckles."
Hutch craned his neck to see a defiant looking teenager with a bandage tied around his head sitting up in one of the beds. The other beds seemed to be occupied by various relatives of the two lovers, all of whom felt the only way an opinion could be heard was by yelling. No one looked critically injured, but the hospital staff had their hands full as they tried to sew up various cuts and keep the families from fighting again.
It was obvious to Hutch that Starsky had fallen through the cracks. As grateful as he was that Starsky wasn't badly injured, he felt a surge of rage that his partner wasn't getting the attention Hutch felt he deserved. Seeing him in a hospital, even for something as minor as this, stirred up a lot of bad feelings—bad for him, worse for Starsky.
The grasp on his shirt tightened. He put his hand on Starsky's uninjured arm and turned his body so that Starsky was shielded as much as possible from the noise and confusion of the ward.
"You're really okay, right?" he asked quietly. Starsky closed his eyes and leaned closer to Hutch, almost resting his head against Hutch's shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm okay—but ya gotta get me outta here."
"I know, I know. I will, as soon as the doctor says you can go."
Starsky's other hand grabbed the hem of Hutch's jacket. "That's just it—they're too busy to sign me out. Jesus, I barely needed stitches—can't you do something?"
"I'll take care of it. Just hang on."
Starsky released him and Hutch turned to look over the ward. He saw a doctor enter and begin talking to one of the nurses, so he gave Starsky a reassuring smile and walked over to join them.
"Excuse me."
The doctor turned an annoyed glance in his direction. "I'm sorry, you'll have to wait your turn—"
"We've been waiting—that is, my partner has. We just need someone to sign him out -"
The doctor's bushy gray eyebrows drew together in frustration. "Do I look like I have time for paperwork? You'll have to—"
"Listen, doctor." Hutch poked his nametag, his voice low and even. "My friend over there spent too many weeks in this damn hospital after getting shot in the line of duty and the last thing he needs is another minute, another second, in this place. Sign him out or don't—either way, we're walking."
"You can't do that," the doctor blustered. "It's against policy to leave without a doctor's permission."
Hutch tapped the nametag once more, adding a toothy smile that made the doctor back up a step. "Watch us."
The cacophony in the room was escalating as Hutch made his way back to his partner. Starsky hadn't moved from the gurney but managed a weak smile as Hutch approached him.
"C'mon." Hutch shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across Starsky's shoulders. "We're done here."
Starsky eased slowly off the bed, wincing a little. "Sounds good. Getting a little too rowdy around here for a quiet guy like me."
The paperwork and a pain prescription were waiting for them at the front desk; Starsky signed the form and stuffed the prescription in the back pocket of his jeans. He didn't want to go home—he didn't even want to pick up the Torino from the precinct lot, pointing out that it would be fine until morning, so Hutch took him back to Venice Place and got him comfortable on the couch. He kept one eye on Starsky as he heated a can of chili and sliced tomatoes for sandwiches; they'd been through so many nights like this that it felt almost comfortably normal. What scared the hell out of Hutch was thinking about the next time or the time after that—when he wouldn't be around or worse, wouldn't be asked to pick up the pieces.
In a flash of admittedly selfish insight, Hutch realized he wanted Starsky to give it all up and walk away with him, like they did once before. He wanted Starsky to look at the badge and look at Hutch—and choose Hutch. But most of all, he wanted to never have to reenact nights like this again. That was asking too much and he knew it, but he acknowledged with fierce pride that he was still what Starsky needed.
How could he ever give that up?
He set their supper on the coffee table and went back for a carton of milk. As he filled their glasses, he glanced at the still mute Starsky.
"You wanna talk about it?"
Starsky picked up a triangle of sandwich and quickly set it down. His mouth quirked in a tired grin, he looked at Hutch with weariness and humor warring in his eyes.
"Do I need to?"
Hutch gave him a mock glare in return. "You know the answer to that."
"Okay, then." Starsky nodded and reached once more for his sandwich. "Maybe later."
They ate in silence, Hutch watching with well-concealed relief as the tension faded from Starsky's body. At one point, noticing the small frown of pain etching the skin between Starsky's eyes, he retrieved some aspirin from the bathroom. Starsky took the bottle and shook out three tablets without saying a word, but Hutch was untroubled. He knew his garrulous partner would talk when he was ready.
After dinner, Starsky called the hospital and checked on Washburn, then called Dobey while Hutch started washing the dishes. He hung up the phone and joined Hutch in the kitchen, leaning his hips against the kitchen counter and watching as Hutch rinsed off their plates.
"Dobey says I gotta go in first thing in the morning and write up my report."
"No problem. I'll get you there. How's Washburn?"
"He's gonna be fine. His wife said he can go home in a few days."
"That's good to hear. How's the arm?"
"Hurts. Want me to dry?"
"No, I want you to sit down and relax. Go find something to watch on TV," he ordered, but
Starsky shook his head.
"Don't wanna," he answered cryptically. Instead of sitting down, he began wandering around Hutch's apartment, rubbing absently at the bandage beneath the sweatshirt Hutch had loaned him in place of his ruined shirt.
"You want coffee?"
"Sure."
Hutch sighed and reached for the coffee pot. Although he knew it was temporary, he hated to see Starsky like this—even more, he hated that he didn't have the guts to do what he wanted to do so badly.
When had it all changed? Hutch couldn't pin it down to a time or a date or even an event. There'd always been love between them but he'd never expected that feeling to change. Not this way—not into this deep and painful emotion that was beginning to tear him apart. What was once so easy now seemed fraught with hidden pitfalls, making Hutch second guess every word, every gesture, every touch. Starsky had looked so lost at the hospital, so defeated. Being there so soon after almost losing his life had to have been traumatic for him and Hutch ached to comfort him—but it was the nature of that yearning that paralyzed him.
He puttered in the kitchen as the coffee brewed. Starsky had stopped roaming and was staring out the rain-glossed window, the sharp patter and the staccato burp of the coffee pot the only sounds in the large room. As soon as the coffee was ready, Hutch poured two cups and fixed Starsky's exactly how he liked it, then added a generous shot of brandy. He left his own cup in the kitchen and approached Starsky, hoping he'd be able to do or say the right thing to make his partner feel better.
He didn't mean to scare Starsky, but he underestimated how lost in thought he was. Unwilling to disturb the quiet, he touched Starsky's arm with his free hand. Starsky jumped and twisted away, knocking the cup in Hutch's hand and splashing hot coffee onto the top of Hutch's right hand and over his wrist.
"Ow! Damn it!"
The cup dropped to the floor as Starsky grabbed Hutch's forearm.
"Oh, jeez, Hutch—I'm sorry! C'mon, let's get some cold water on it."
Hutch tried to pull his arm away. "No, it's not—"
"Don't argue with me, damn it. Move."
Starsky grabbed Hutch's elbow and led him to the kitchen sink. Turning on the faucet, he stuck Hutch's hand beneath the flow and then began working on the button of Hutch's shirt cuff, peeling it away to reveal more reddened skin. The burns throbbed and Hutch tried not to recoil as Starsky tilted his wrist to flush the skin with cold water.
"How's that feel?" Starsky asked, never lifting his eyes from Hutch's hand.
"Better." Starsky supported Hutch's hand between his palms and let the water run. For Hutch it was a different kind of agony—their bodies pressed tightly against each other, their hands entwined in an innocently intimate plait. A slight shift in Starsky's stance and their cheeks almost touched, giving Hutch a glimpse of downturned lashes as Starsky concentrated on Hutch's hand. Hutch imagined his own fingertips drifting across those long lashes, teasing their texture, making them tremble. From there he'd slide the back of his fingers down Starsky's cheek until his thumb rested on that full lower lip, a silent request for entrance. Starsky's eyes would widen—
Hutch's body jerked as he realized where his thoughts had taken him. Starsky took the involuntary movement as a flinch of pain and murmured regretful words of comfort before turning off the water and grabbing a towel to blot the water away.
"It's okay now." Hutch tried to extract his hand but Starsky held him firmly.
"Hold still and lemme look."
Hutch closed his eyes as Starsky began stroking the uninjured areas around the burns. The careful probe was too much like a caress and Hutch struggled to deaden himself against the touch. His eyes flew open again when Starsky turned his hand over and continued the featherlike tracings along his palm and fingers where no coffee had spilled.
"What—what are you doing?"
"I didn't know you had scars," Starsky whispered. "I can't see 'em, but I can feel 'em."
"Scars?" Hutch echoed.
"Yeah." Starsky's voice remained hushed. "Can't you feel them? Here." He gathered Hutch's free hand and tangled their fingers. With Hutch's injured hand cupped close to his body, he guided Hutch to feel the barely discernible bumps and ridges of scar tissue, souvenirs from that booby-trapped trunk a few years earlier. Hutch had long ago stopped noticing the small irregularities but the horrified look on Starsky's face told him that his partner was reliving the incident again.
Hutch didn't remember too much about the explosion; he vividly remembered the doctors saying how lucky he was that he hadn't lost his fingers. Then there had been the possibility that he'd lose the use of his hand, mobility he needed for his job. He'd plowed on through the case—one of the worst they'd ever had—not knowing if it was his last, if he'd be told his career was over.
It was one of the few times he hadn't told Starsky everything—he'd been so afraid that it had been impossible to face Starsky's fear, too. Now it seemed as though he'd only been avoiding the inevitable—he'd failed Starsky anyway.
Weariness began to drag at his muscles and he gave into the temptation of leaning his head against the curly one beside him. He heard an answering sigh and smiled, wondering what was going through Starsky's mind, knowing he could probably figure it out if he tried hard enough. For a brief moment they rested against each other, seeking and finding wordless consolation for all the old wounds they couldn't bear to remember.
Eventually, Hutch disentangled their hands and stepped back, wincing as the now-tight skin of his hand contracted. He started to reach for the towel when a splotch of bright color on Starsky's sleeve caught his eye.
"Ah, damn it, Starsky," he said with a ragged chuckle, "now you're bleeding."
Starsky looked at his arm in surprise. "Well, look at that." Hutch was heartened to see an impish grin on Starsky's face. "We make quite a pair, don't we?"
"Yeah," Hutch nodded. "Yeah, we do." Forgoing the towel, he wiped his hands on the front of Starsky's sweatshirt, then took a handful of it and gave it a tug. "C'mon, let's go get you cleaned up."
Despite the pain in his arm, despite the earlier adrenaline rush at Bumpy Jake's, Starsky couldn't sleep. He was stretched out on Hutch's couch, his uninjured arm curved over his head onto the pillow and a crocheted afghan tossed over his legs. It was unofficially his afghan—Hutch gave it to him every time he crashed on his couch, along with one of the pillows from Hutch's own bed. A pillow that smelled like Hutch.
The rain had subsided and the apartment was quiet—not even street noise penetrated the silence as Starsky stared up toward a ceiling lost in shadows. Every time he closed his eyes, instead of hearing the sound of gunfire or reliving the brief shootout, he saw Hutch at the hospital. Hutch, with his face so worried, so serious—Starsky's own white knight coming to take him out of the antiseptic purgatory that he'd come to know only too well.
How many times had he seen that expression on his partner's face? How many times had the same look of terror been in his own eyes?
That was the real thing that had been bothering him all night—not being back in the hospital, like he knew Hutch believed. Yeah, it'd been unsettling and his arm hurt like hell, but it went with the job. After all, Washburn had taken the brunt of it, zigging when Starsky expected him to zag. If it'd been Hutch, with their unique form of silent communication, this never would've happened -
—and just like that, the thoughts that had been chasing around his head all night came to a crashing halt.
He sat up and rubbed at his stinging eyes. He couldn't sleep but that didn't mean he wasn't achingly tired. He thought about his own bed and how much more comfortable he'd be if he was actually in it, but that meant being somewhere he didn't really want to be.
A soft sound from Hutch's bedroom broke through his muddled thoughts. He rose from the couch and drew the afghan around his shoulders like a cape, a scratchy-soft barrier against the thick, cool air. The door to Hutch's bedroom was open and Starsky found himself standing on the threshold and peering inside—there was just enough light to see the form of his partner curled in on itself, wrapped in a blanket from head to toe.
Starsky leaned his head against the door frame. That sleeping posture was so unlike Hutch—he usually slept on his back or his side, not cocooned like he was trying to shut out the world. To Starsky, it was just further evidence that he was losing Hutch, losing him in tiny, heartbreaking increments that were inexorably wearing away the man he knew.
There was another muffled noise from the bed and Starsky stepped inside the room. Hutch was talking in his sleep, nothing discernible or even alarming, giving Starsky no reason to think Hutch was having a nightmare. Still, whatever he was dreaming, Starsky felt strange about turning around and leaving him alone. Pulling the afghan tighter around his shoulders, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed and looked down at the tousled blond head.
It would be nice, sharing a bed with Hutch, he thought. Intimate, comfortable, even natural. Hutch would stretch out the way he used to, the long line of his body open and welcoming, not wound up in a knot like it was now. He'd smell good, too—he always did. The scent that Hutch carried on his skin filled the room and Starsky breathed deeply, pulling it into his lungs and letting it settle inside, familiar and calming.
One of Hutch's feet poked out from beneath the blanket as he shifted on the bed. Starsky automatically began to tug at loose fabric, intent on re-covering the pale foot, but something stopped him. The vulnerability of that one uncovered part of Hutch bothered him and before he could think twice, he wrapped Hutch's cold foot in his own warm hands.
He knew Hutch would wake up and he also knew that was exactly what he wanted. It was too lonely to be awake without him—he'd even be happy to put up with the flack Hutch was sure to give him for disturbing his sleep. The foot in his hand was slender and highly arched, twitching slightly as he chafed it between his palms.
First his hand, now his foot, Starsky mused. Maybe some day I'll get all of him at the same time.
As he watched Hutch slowly pull the blanket down away from his face, he struggled not to grin. Courtship was an old-fashioned word that somehow felt right when he thought about what he wanted from Hutch now. It was past time to admit that there was more between them, more than friendship and partnership, even though Hutch was doing his best to pull away. Starsky just had to find the key to making Hutch stick around long enough to get with the program.
"Starsk?" Hutch's voice was sleep-husky and sexy as hell as far as Starsky was concerned. "What's wrong—your arm hurting?"
Starsky gave the foot in his hand a firm squeeze before tucking it beneath the blanket. "Nah, it's okay."
In fact, his arm was hot and sore and he wanted to grab some aspirin to try and calm it down, but right now it was just a nuisance.
Hutch struggled to sit up and Starsky watched as his worried expression changed into one of expected grumpiness.
"Okay, then do you want to explain what you're doing waking me up?"
As the blanket slid down over Hutch's bare chest to pool around his flat belly, Starsky thought of one reason but voiced another.
"Yeah. Been thinkin'."
"Great. Leave it to you pick the middle of the night to start something new." He laid back down and pulled the blanket over his head. "Thanks for the warning—now go back to bed."
"Not so fast, sleeping beauty." Starsky yanked at the blanket. "I wanna tell you something."
He heard a loud sigh and waited. Hutch propped his head on his hand and yawned widely.
"Okay, so what do you want to tell me?"
"I wanna do it."
"Do what?"
"Teo's. I think we should do it."
"Starsky, I don't—"
"No, no, listen to me. Don't think—feel. Tell me how it would feel for us to have a place like that, some place where we can work together without having people shootin' at us all the time." Starsky shifted back further onto the bed and curled his legs beneath him. As he spoke, he could feel his own excitement building. "Some place where people are actually glad to see you instead of afraid you're delivering bad news. You can't tell me that doesn't sound good."
Hutch's expression was muted by the room's darkness, but there was a thread of warmth in his voice as he replied. "Yeah, sure it sounds good. But there's more to it than that—there's money and time and the fact that you and I know nothing about running a restaurant."
"Okay, that's true—but time is something you got a lot of right now, and you said yourself you have to make a living somehow. And maybe we don't know how to run a restaurant—but we know how to eat, right? We know what we like and we hire people to do the rest. How hard can it be?"
"A lot harder than we think, I'm sure." Despite the sour tone, the fact that Hutch wasn't shooting down the idea out of hand was encouraging. Starsky was about to continue his attempt at persuasion when he felt Hutch's heel nudge his butt.
"You really think we can do it, Starsk?"
Starsky swallowed—with those tentatively spoken words, Hutch had just given him the answer he both wanted and dreaded. All he had to do was say yes and their lives would change irrevocably and maybe not for the better—this was something they could fail at so easily.
But the alternative scared him more than the thought of failure. If this was what was needed to keep their lives bound together, then he was ready to take the risk.
"Yeah. I really do. You in?"
"What about money? I don't have—"
"Hutch." Starsky grabbed his foot again and gave it a gentle shake. "Let it go. We'll find the money somehow, even if I gotta sell my car. Somehow we'll make it work. Okay?"
Whether it was the offer to sell his beloved Torino or the firm conviction in his voice, Starsky would never know. He watched as Hutch sat up again to lean forward, hand extended.
"Then let's do it."
Starsky took Hutch's hand in his own, keeping the pressure light in deference to the heat-sensitized skin.
"You sure?"
Hutch laughed, a soft, lilting sound unlike the heaviness that seemed to instill every part of him lately. "Hell, no. But let's do it anyway."
Starsky waved at Hutch as he drove away, then took the stairs of the precinct building with a light step. All he had to do was write his report, get together with the task force and check in with the doctor, then he'd be free to meet with Hutch at the bank. They'd already called the Rossis and received an enthusiastic, tearful endorsement to their plan. With his injury, he was released from duty for a week, which suited him perfectly. He wanted to shut down Bumpy Jake's as much as the next guy, but for once his personal life was going to take precedence. He had a future to plan and a shot at something he'd barely dared to dream about, something that meant more to him than anything else ever had.
He was beginning to believe that there really was life beyond police work, life that included Hutch at his side—and Starsky felt intoxicated with the possibilities.
They'd talked almost until dawn, hashing out their fears and ideas. Whether or not Hutch went back after his suspension was a decision they decided to postpone—that gave them almost four weeks to get their place up and running before turning it over to someone else to run it for them.
As they exited the bank a few hours later, he wasn't feeling quite so cheerful.
"Now what?" Hutch grumbled as they walked through the parking lot. "The bank won't loan us money until we have money—what kind of crazy policy is that?"
The loan officer had been understanding but firm. There was a minimum amount of money they had to come up with on their own before the bank would consider lending them the rest. Starsky, keenly aware of his partner's increasingly slumping posture, tried every means of persuasion he could, but in the end, it still came down to money neither of them had.
A watery sun followed them as they walked in silence. All of Starsky's earlier good spirits were gone as the rosy future he'd been so busy envisioning began to evaporate before his eyes. He feared that Hutch would take this setback as a sign that the project was doomed and he was frantically thinking of counter arguments when they came to a stop at the hood of the Torino.
Starsky ran a loving hand over the sloping metal, a sick feeling in his stomach. He'd do it if he had to—
"Forget it." Hutch's long fingers clasped his wrist and pulled him away. "We do this our way or not at all."
"But, Hutch, where we gonna find that kinda dough? Even Huggy has more money than we do—ow! Watch it, that's my sore arm!"
"Sorry." Hutch grabbed the shoulder he'd just slapped. "But Starsk, that's it!"
Rubbing his shoulder more for show than anything else, Starsky frowned in bewilderment. "What's it?"
"Money! We know Huggy had extra cash, right? Why not bring him in as a partner?"
"Well—I don't know, I mean—Huggy?"
"Sure, why not? You've seen how busy The Pits is—he's got the cash and he's got the know how to run a restaurant. C'mon, what do you think?"
Starsky searched Hutch's face as a slow smile broke over his face. Hutch's eyes, vividly blue against the pale yellow sky, were suffused with unforced enthusiasm—and the doubts that Starsky had been holding at bay disappeared. "What do I think? I think you're smarter than ya look. Let's go find a phone."
"Hutch? Hutch, you in here?"
"Yeah. I'm in the dining room."
Starsky pounded through the swinging kitchen door and glanced around the dining room, his gaze filling with exasperated affection as he caught sight of his partner. Hutch was stretched out full length on the floor, painting a hard to reach stretch of baseboard that adjoined the stage. It was one o'clock in the morning and Starsky had just gotten off shift, but he'd known exactly where Hutch would be.
They were two days away from the grand reopening of Teo's. They'd decided to keep the name both in deference to the Rossi's and the fact that the three partners couldn't agree on anything else. Hutch had been working eighteen hour days trying to get the place ready—between hiring staff, bartending school, ordering supplies and completely renovating the restaurant, he'd had his hands full. Starsky was there almost every hour he wasn't working, but even with the help that Huggy sent over from The Pits, they were pushing hard to make their self-appointed deadline.
Starsky set the bag of tacos on the bar and looked around the room with a feeling of deep contentment. It almost looked exactly like his vision from their first visit—gone were the smoke-stained walls and dark furniture, the tacked-up posters of Rome and the dusty plastic grape clusters strung from the ceiling. All the furniture had been repainted in a cheery Mediterranean blue that contrasted brightly with the crisp white walls. The floor, stage and bar had been sanded and refinished to their original blond oak, and everywhere there were real plants and accents of red and green. The lighting had been replaced but kept intentionally intimate since they'd at least agreed that they didn't want the new Teo's to resemble a pizza parlor.
Starsky walked over to crouch at Hutch's side. "I brought food."
"Yeah, I know, I can smell it." Hutch straightened up slowly, pressing a hand to his back. "You go ahead. Lottie had me tasting pasta dishes all day to test the new cooks."
"What's the matter, your back hurt?"
Hutch winced and nodded. "Yeah, a little. I think painting those damn beams last night was a little more than I could handle."
"Told you to wait for me. Here, turn around."
"Why?"
Starsky nudged his shoulder. "Will you just turn around already?"
Hutch shot him a suspicious look but shifted his legs until his back was to Starsky. Starsky cracked his knuckles and started on a slow, deep massage of Hutch's tight shoulder muscles.
The contentment inside him grew as he bent to his task, soaking in Hutch's moans of relief. The days following the approval of their loan and the official start of their new venture had been nothing short of miraculous as far as he was concerned. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Hutch so at ease, so invested in something and it lifted Starsky's own spirits to see it happen. The work had been hard, a whole different kind of hard than police work, but they'd both taken to it with enthusiasm that Starsky also knew was part relief.
They'd found a way—they were still together.
"How's that?" he murmured as he worked on a large knot in Hutch's lower back.
Hutch arched his back away from the touch and then stilled. "Feels good," he replied, but his voice remained strained.
"Liar. C'mon, let's get up off the floor. My tacos are getting cold."
He rose to his feet and extended his hand. Hutch grabbed it and allowed himself to be pulled upward before Starsky released him to reclaim his dinner.
"You get your rent all squared away?" he asked, keeping his voice casual. He dumped the contents of the bag on the bar and hauled himself up on to one of the freshly reupholstered stools.
"Yeah." Hutch joined him from the other side of the bar, pulling two bottles of beer out from the small refrigerator next to the sink. He popped the tops and set one next to Starsky's elbow. "Huggy really came through with that advance idea. Otherwise I'd be on your couch by now."
Starsky washed down a bite of taco with a large swallow of beer. Hutch on his couch wasn't exactly an unwelcome circumstance as far as he was concerned, especially if he didn't mind a little company.
That was the price Starsky was gladly paying for being a part of this crazy scheme—being closer to Hutch without actually being closer. Where they were once together six days out of seven and twelve hours out of twenty-four, now the only thing that separated them were Starsky's shifts with the almost defunct mayor's task force. After the debacle at Bumpy Jake's, the entire squad was being reevaluated, which meant Starsky had spent most of his week back at work answering questions and dodging IA. The only place he really wanted to be was Teo's, where he knew Hutch was putting everything he had into this new aspect of their partnership. Huggy, after some initial attempts at telling them how to do things the patented Huggy Bear way, had subsided into being exactly what Starsky and Hutch had wanted—a mostly silent partner. With cash in the bank and dozens of ideas scribbled on any available scrap of paper, they were like two kids at Christmas that absolutely knew that Santa was bringing them everything they'd asked for.
Almost everything, Starsky thought sadly. Almost—but not quite. As he unwrapped another taco from its greasy paper cover, he stole a look at Hutch. He looked damn tired and there was a deep crease between his eyes, a sure sign that it was time to call it a night—but there was something Starsky had to get off his chest.
Hutch was doodling another note on a paper napkin and sipping his beer as Starsky cleared off the remainder of his suddenly unappealing dinner. He drained his own bottle and threw it away before positioning himself directly across from an oblivious Hutch, leaning on his elbows until their faces were only inches away.
"Hey."
Hutch didn't look up from his list. "Hey what."
"Hey, look at me."
"Starsk, I just realized we didn't order enough parmesan—"
Starsky grabbed Hutch's pen and set it aside. "Don't worry, we'll order more. I need to ask you something."
Hutch looked up, obviously startled to see Starsky so close, but he stood his ground. "All right. Shoot."
Starsky swallowed, wishing now he'd let it alone. But he'd just confirmed that day that there'd been a secret between them and although he loved Hutch all the more for keeping it, it was no good—not anymore.
Hutch was watching him closely, concerned but not alarmed.
"Talked to Emily again today. She says the new therapist at the community hospital's working out okay."
"That's good," Hutch answered, obviously puzzled.
"Hutch, why didn't I do my rehab at Bay City Community?"
Hutch dropped his eyes. "Hell, I don't know, Starsk. Why don't you ask the insurance company?"
"I did. They said there weren't any claims for therapy made on my behalf after the shooting."
Hutch started to take a backward step but Starsky was ready for him. He reached across the bar and gathered a fistful of Hutch's sweater.
"But I did go to rehab, didn't I. Months of it, out at that fancy place, top of the line stuff all the way."
"Starsk—"
Starsky tightened his hold, pulling himself forward until their noses almost touched.
"You said I'd never see a bill, that the city would pick up the tab." He lowered his voice to a tender whisper. "But they didn't, did they?"
Hutch's eyes were still fixed on the polished surface of the bar. A single, negative shake of his head was Starsky's only reply.
He dropped his voice even lower, leaning forward the last few inches until his lips were practically on Hutch's ear. "You paid. That's why you didn't have any savings, ya big dumb cluck."
The gentle pejorative brought Hutch's head up and around and although Starsky hadn't planned it that way, the nearness of Hutch's mouth was irresistible and before he could think it through, he pressed their mouths together in a warm, firm kiss. There was a surprised murmur from Hutch but he didn't back off and Starsky, whose eyes were still open, was shocked to see the long blond lashes flutter in obvious pleasure as the kiss deepened. They moved hesitantly against each other until the retreating brush of Hutch's lips against the corner of his mouth broke the contact.
Starsky lifted his head slowly, noticing with a faint shiver that Hutch's fingertips were resting lightly against his throat, just above the collar of Starsky's denim shirt. Hutch opened his eyes and Starsky tensed, afraid to see condemnation or something worse—but Hutch only looked back serenely, a small smile barely visible around the corners of his mouth as he dropped his hands to the bar.
"What was that for?" Hutch's husky voice elicited another tiny shiver. Starsky let go of Hutch's sweater but remained where he was; still only inches away from Hutch, the proximity had an oddly disorienting feeling of familiarity.
"Thank you, I think," he replied with confused candor. He raised his eyebrows and fought against a smile of his own. "Never kissed anybody with a moustache before."
Hutch's smile widened. "Sure you have. Every Christmas Eve when we go see your Aunt Rosie."
Starsky licked his lips, his gaze falling involuntarily to Hutch's mouth. "Yeah, well, trust me on this—it ain't the same, not by a long shot."
Hutch's grin faded and Starsky felt the breath catch in his chest. A lock of hair fell across Hutch's forehead, drawing Starsky's gaze upward. Hutch seemed frozen where he stood, as if waiting for Starsky to say or do something that would send them back to safe territory. Starsky was still reeling from the intimacy they'd just accidentally shared and although he wouldn't dare another kiss, he allowed himself the luxury of smoothing away the pale drift of hair.
It was a simple caress that eased them out of the moment. Hutch jerked his head in mock annoyance but there was only affection in his eyes. They shared a quick grin before each of them found something to do—Hutch gathered up his pen and note while Starsky searched around for a towel to wipe down the bar.
As Starsky lay in his bed later that night, he relived the kiss again and again. There had been no passion in the touch—it had been more complicated than that. For one thing, there had been acceptance, as if it were the most natural act for the two of them to share. There had also been pleasure, although Starsky had been too shocked at the time to notice. Hutch had a beautiful mouth, mobile and strong, and Starsky wanted to feel it against his own again—as soon as possible.
Wanting Hutch that way was something Starsky had been slow to accept, but like everything he did, once he was in he was in all the way. Not that he'd given up his appreciation for women, not at all. But the whole mess with Kira had opened his eyes to something he'd never fully contemplated before and had a hard time admitting—the fact that he'd resented every woman that Hutch had ever loved.
Every single one.
At that point, he'd had to be honest with himself and admit that wasn't the normal reaction of a guy to his buddy's girlfriends. Starsky had become an expert at discerning which ones were just around to pass the time and which ones were a real threat. The casual relationships were easy to handle—all he had to do was wait them out. The serious ones he'd come to think of as white-knucklers—would this be the one that finally hooked his Hutch for good? He knew firsthand that love can make a man do dumb things, like skip a baseball game to mow the lawn, or move to another city—or forget his best friend. So he'd watch and wait and read the signs and hope that Hutch wouldn't get hurt too bad—and then be sure he was there to pick up the pieces. And in the meantime, Starsky had his Karens and his Sandys and his Jackies, always making it clear that they shouldn't expect too much because he was saving his heart for the real deal. He even thought some of them caught on to his reasons for staying a little detached—some women were just keener about that stuff than others. Even Gillian—poor, doomed Gillian—even she'd known the score about him and Hutch, long before Starsky'd had the guts to admit it to himself.
But all that was in the past and now here they were together, neither of them having found a relationship with someone else that approached the intimacy they shared with each other. After tonight, Starsky was beginning to wonder if the one thing missing from their lives was about to be found—Hutch wasn't shy about his body or his love of sex and if he'd been repulsed by Starsky's less than platonic kiss, he'd have been damn vocal about it.
Aside from some color in his cheeks, Hutch hadn't seemed uncomfortable at all.
Starsky rolled onto his side and tucked his pillow tighter beneath his cheek. Two weeks ago, if someone told him he'd be contemplating leaving law enforcement and running an Italian restaurant instead, he would've told them they were crazy.
But thinking about the shine in Hutch's eyes since they'd signed the papers, Starsky knew that there was nothing he needed or wanted more than this time, this purpose with Hutch. Day by day, they were proving that there was more for them than the endless grind of the streets and Starsky had even stopped asking Hutch to come back, now that he knew for sure they'd be together beyond the badge.
He traced his upper lip with his finger and smiled as he began to lose the battle to
stay awake. He'd kissed Hutch tonight and it'd been sweet, exactly the way a first kiss should be.
Now all he had to do was make sure it wasn't their last.
Across town, Hutch lay wide awake in his own bed. His body was achingly tired, sore in places too numerous to count, but it didn't matter because inside, he was soaring.
Two weeks ago, he'd been about as low as he'd ever been—he could think of very few times when the world had seemed darker. He'd failed at his job, he'd let his partner down—everything had seemed too bleak to bear. Maybe it all started with those three horrific hours he'd spent with Devereaux, but he knew that if that hadn't started this downward turn, something else would have done it eventually.
Nothing in his life had been right since Starsky got shot. Even with his partner's full recovery, Hutch felt splayed open every day, vulnerable to a kind of pain he didn't think he could handle again. Those hours spent watching Starsky behind a blurry pane of glass had etched scars into his soul so deep he once doubted anything could heal them.
But now—God, now everything was different. He'd found a purpose but more importantly, he'd found his way back to the one person who made it all work.
Hutch couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, so worthwhile. Working side by side with Starsky over the past two weeks had been like a dream—a crazy patchwork of laughter, arguments, teasing and hard work—and every night Hutch had gone to bed excited for the morning to come. Starsky was as fully invested as he was, working long into the night after his shift had ended without complaining—well, except for the minor things that Hutch knew was just Starsky's way of saying he was having fun.
What had happened in the restaurant played over and over in his head and he made no attempts to avoid reliving it. There had never been anything like that between them—sure, they'd joked around plenty of times, but this kiss had been no joke. If Starsky had been a girl, Hutch would've taken the kiss farther, as far as he could—but Starsky was no girl and there was nothing in Hutch's experience to guide him to the next step—whatever that next step was going to be.
Still, that had been as real a kiss as any Hutch had experienced—no, even better, because it told him something about his partner that he'd only dreamed about in the privacy of this very bed. And if he'd once told himself he'd be happy without that last barrier between them coming down, he knew now it was a lie he couldn't live with.
The day before the reopening was a blur to Hutch, but a happy blur nonetheless. Starsky had three days off, so they divided up the remaining details with Huggy over breakfast at The Pits and planned to meet up again at Teo's for a private goodbye dinner for the Rossis as a run-through for the staff. They'd also invited the Dobeys and a small group of friends, although Starsky had grumbled—only half-joking—that Dobey could eat the first weeks' profits all by himself.
Things between him and Starsky hadn't changed, and for the fact Hutch was grateful. He'd been afraid that a night of reflection would've made Starsky feel awkward around him, but that wasn't the case—Starsky was as loose as ever. He'd slung his arm around Hutch's shoulder when they'd met up outside Huggy's and ruffled his hair when Hutch had complained about some minor trouble he'd had with the beer delivery.
And Hutch soaked it up—his entire body was aware of Starsky, as though a low-grade hum of electricity flowed between them. But for the first time in his life, he had no idea how to proceed. One kiss wasn't enough, but unless he figured out a way to approach Starsky, one was all he'd ever get.
Even the voice of Philip Devereaux had been quieted, coming now only when Hutch lingered on the edge of sleep. It was the voice that made him question if such happiness could really be his, the sound that rocked him unexpectedly at times. Those times had become less frequent as work on Teo's progressed, giving Hutch the hope that it would fade away altogether beneath the healing balm of his future.
With that in mind, he did have one surprise for his partner. They'd come up with the idea to wear tuxedos for their party to start their new venture on the right foot—well, he and Starsky had. Huggy'd said he'd dress "appropriately" and God only knew what that meant. It was when Hutch had seen himself in the mirror at the tux rental place that he'd decided on another change, and he'd barely had time to drop off the newly printed menus before making one last stop on his way home to grab a shower and change.
Walking in the front door of Teo's that afternoon was something Hutch knew he'd never forget. The restaurant was empty, although there was a lot of noise coming from the kitchen, along with some enticing aromas that made his mouth water. The tables were already set for the party, covered with crisply starched linen cloths delivered that morning with a shy smile from Tito, the owner of the laundry himself. Starsky had collected all the candles he could find and Hutch grinned as he saw them gathered in groups on each table, mismatched and perfect.
Aside from donating his sweat equity, Starsky had taken a lot of interest in the atmosphere of the place. It'd fallen naturally to Huggy to hire the staff and he'd also hooked them up with Bunny, the four-hundred pound ex-linebacker turned accountant, to run their bookkeeping. Hutch had taken on the remodeling of the restaurant itself, doing most of the hard labor and general grunt work. Starsky, with his full work schedule, had felt bad about his lack of participation and tried to make up for it with some cockeyed creativity. Some of his ideas had been a little out there—like the stuffed horse he'd wanted to dress in Roman armor and stick in the corner—but other times his instincts had been right on.
It was a lot of Starsky's touches that Hutch saw as he looked around the room. His partner had taken great pride in choosing colors and textures that gave the new Teo's a warm, inviting atmosphere and neither Hutch nor Huggy could find fault with his choices. Even the candles looked exactly right on the round tables—all different sizes and colors, they added a cheerful randomness that Hutch knew he'd never have dreamed up on his own.
As he stepped down past the hostess stand, he thought about calling Starsky to remind him to bring more film for the camera. They'd taken pictures of the renovation in all its stages and he wanted to make sure they captured the night's festivities as well. Hutch was still scared—a small voice in the back of his head kept telling him he was a cop and good for nothing else. But that voice was overpowered out by the memory of Starsky's face the night they'd decided to go on this crazy adventure, and that was all Hutch needed.
Hell, it was all he'd ever needed—and wanted—forever.
He was straightening a pile of menus when the kitchen door swung open and Laurie came bustling through with an armful of plates. She'd been Huggy's best waitress at The Pits and they'd promoted her to manager of Teo's with his blessing; long-legged and green-eyed, she turned heads wherever she went but, more importantly, she had a great head for business. She saw Hutch and gave him a quick nod before doing an exaggerated double-take as she got a good look at his face.
"My, my," she said with a toss of curly red hair. "Don't you clean up nice."
Hutch dug his fists into the pockets of his trousers. "Not a man alive who doesn't look good in a penguin suit," he said with a shrug.
"Uh, hunh." She put down her load and tilted her head, slanting her eyes up at him. She'd flirted with both Hutch and Starsky for years, but none of them had ever taken it seriously. Hutch tried not to blush as he realized that this time, her gaze held more than just passing appreciation. "We should just prop you up outside with a sign that says 'Ladies Night'—that'll bring 'em in in droves."
Hutch laughed self-consciously and dropped his gaze to the floor. "Uh, thanks, Laurie, but let's hope we don't have to resort to that any time soon."
She came toward him, her hand outstretched to touch his arm. Hutch felt a twinge of panic—he liked flirting with a beautiful woman as much as the next guy, but that's not what this night was about. This night was about his future, one he hoped to share with—
"Starsky, there you are." Laurie took Hutch's arm and spun him around. "Get a load of your new partner."
Hutch's mouth dropped open. He hadn't heard Starsky come in the door and the first thing that came to his mind was that he hoped his conversation with Laurie hadn't been misunderstood. He felt Laurie's hands on his elbows from behind, nudging him forward.
"You may wanna keep an eye on this guy," she said to Starsky over his shoulder. "He's gonna break some hearts."
Hutch barely registered the clicking sound of Laurie's retreating heels as he stared at Starsky, who was staring right back, just as open-mouthed and shocked as Hutch had hoped.
"Hutch?" Starsky whispered. Hutch had expected a reaction, but not one like this. Starsky stood three feet away from him, blindingly resplendent in his jet black tux and partially unbuttoned shirt of deep maroon. The ends of his bow tie hung loose around his neck, framing the shadowed vee of his throat. "Is that you?"
Hutch pulled his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yep, same old me."
Starsky immediately shook his head. "Nah, not the same old you." He stepped forward until their shoes almost touched, and Hutch prayed that no one would choose that moment to join them. There was an intimacy to the room's semi-darkness and he clung to it, hoping it concealed the flush rising in his cheeks. Starsky's reaction was all that he could've hoped for, but he hadn't counted on his own reaction to his partner. The dark clothing and open shirt were aggressively masculine and 100% Starsky, right down to the teasing twinkle of gold on his chest and the clinging trousers that made Hutch swallow hard. Maybe all guys did look good in a tux, but what it did for Starsky was damn near illegal.
He watched warily as Starsky reached toward him, extending the fingers of his right hand in a slow sweep. Hutch held still, suppressing his instinct to back off or bat away the approaching hand. The expression on Starsky's face was enough to keep him motionless—rapt blue eyes fixed on his as Starsky gently brushed the smooth skin of Hutch's newly bare upper lip. At the first touch, Hutch did flinch a little, then lowered his eyes as Starsky continued his delicate examination.
"Wow," Starsky murmured. "Look at you. You're—" He stopped with a minute shake of his head. Up and over the curve of his mouth, the pads of Starsky's fingers lightly stroked the sensitized flesh before gliding up to the temple revealed by Hutch's closely shorn hair. He hadn't worn it this short in a couple of years and the nape of his neck felt cold and scratchy—until Starsky brushed his fingertips through the neatly trimmed edge of Hutch's hairline. Hutch shivered, inclining his head slightly as warm, rough fingers danced forward over his exposed ear and down his cheek before being removed. He raised his eyes and sought out Starsky's face, now strangely unafraid of what he'd find.
Even though it had come from Starsky, Hutch had recognized that touch instantly—he'd felt it many times before. This wasn't the touch of a buddy about to crack a joke about lowered ears or blind barbers. This was the caress of a new lover—exploratory, wondering, hesitant and pure.
He'd expected Starsky to laugh at him or make fun of him for making such an extreme change, but one look told him Starsky wasn't inclined to do either. Though his hands now hung loosely at his side, Starsky was still so near that Hutch would only have to lean forward a few inches for their mouths to touch—and the surprisingly calm look in Starsky's eyes told him he wouldn't be rejected if he tried.
God, he wanted to—everything inside him felt drawn forward and their surroundings faded away until Hutch only saw Starsky, standing there as if he'd been waiting forever for Hutch to see what had been right before him all along. For an exquisitely brief time they stared at each other, Hutch's lips still tingling with the traces of Starsky's tender inspection.
A crash came from the kitchen followed by a string of excited Italian and Hutch felt his stomach drop. He didn't know how many opportunities he was going to get before he lost his nerve and retreated from Starsky altogether. He tried reminding himself that it was Starsky who'd initiated the kiss the night before, but Starsky had always been affectionate. That kiss could've been nothing more than a fluke, a natural by-product of a relationship that expressed itself physically all the time.
But despite the clamor from the kitchen and the shared realization that they really weren't alone at all, Starsky hadn't backed away.
"Do me a favor—try not to break any hearts, okay?" he murmured, his eyes falling on Hutch's mouth.
"Wasn't planning on it," Hutch whispered back. Other words caught in his throat and stayed there—nothing in his head sounded like the right thing to say out loud. Or, he thought helplessly, maybe the words just didn't exist.
As he searched for something more to say, the front door of the restaurant opened and Huggy strolled in, brushing raindrops off his purple crushed velvet suit and matching fedora. Starsky followed Hutch's gaze and turned, letting out an appreciative whistle.
"Very nice, Hug—you almost look respectable." Starsky glanced over his shoulder to share an amused look with Hutch who grinned back. Huggy's arrival seemed to be the cue for things to get started as suddenly the room was flooded with people and noise. Hutch managed to share one more glance with Starsky before they were both swept up in the evening. Nothing more than a quick, intimate connection, it carried the shared realization that the quintessential foundation of their relationship was changing. It was communication as they'd always experienced it, only now it was on a different and deeper level, promise and acceptance conveyed with nothing more that the meeting of two pairs of warm blue eyes.
The night that followed was the happiest that Hutch could remember and certainly the best since Starsky had been shot. Laughter flowed like wine and wine like water as their many friends showed up to sample the food and wish them well. Dobey and Edith arrived with a big, flowering plant that made Starsky sneeze, but it meant a lot to both partners to have their captain's support. Old friends from the squad and new friends from the neighborhood were also invited, filling the restaurant to the rafters with laughter and the happy cacophony of several languages. When Lee Park and her family showed up with baskets of traditional Korean food, Hutch didn't think his heart could get any fuller.
And throughout the night, there was Starsky—touching his shoulder when he passed his chair, smiling at him when their glances met across the table, his face literally aglow with pleasure. The bow tie had never been tied nor the shirt completely buttoned, and Hutch didn't know whether to be glad or annoyed. It was the one blemish on an otherwise perfect evening—Starsky looked like Starsky, sexy and comfortable with it. Hutch wasn't the only who'd noticed—there always seemed to be a girl or two near him, hanging on his every word. Hutch hardly noticed he was receiving the same kind of attention because it no longer held any meaning for him—but he couldn't help but wonder if Starsky would hook up with any one from a handful of willing females.
The party broke up near midnight and the last of stragglers had been sent home, leaving the three partners alone except for the clean-up crew. They commandeered a table as the others were being cleared and Huggy brought out the bottle of champagne they'd been saving for this night.
"Well, gentlemen," he began after popping the cork, "or should I say partners, I'd like to propose a toast."
Starsky pulled out a chair and swung it around to straddle the seat. He'd lost the coat and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbows. Hutch tossed his own jacket across the bar and grabbed three clear beer mugs, the only clean glasses he could find. He passed them over to Starsky and sat down as Huggy poured all three glasses to the top, draining the bottle.
Huggy remained standing and lifted his glass. "Here's to the craziest idea I've been a part of since the rat races."
Starsky started to lift his mug, then lowered it. "Hug, you made a fortune with those races."
Huggy arched an eyebrow at him. "I said it was a crazy idea. I didn't say it wasn't a good idea. Huggy Bear does not invest in losers, despite years of hangin' around with you two cats."
He lifted his arm over the table and the three mugs met with a dull clink. Hutch looked over his glass at Starsky, unsurprised to see Starsky waiting for their eyes to meet. Starsky tilted his mug toward Hutch in a silent salute, then drained half his glass before stopping with a grimace.
"Think I'd settle for a good cup of coffee at this point," he groused. Hutch, who'd only sipped at his champagne, nodded in agreement.
"I'll see if I can find any." He rose to his feet. "Huggy, you want some?"
Huggy shook his head and reached for his hat. "None for me. I got two restaurants to run now, so I'm gonna go home and get me some sleep, like a responsible businessman."
Starsky leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Responsible, hunh? What's her name?"
Huggy opened his mouth and raised his finger in objection, then shrugged. "Marigold. Least that's her stage name."
"Aw, Hug, you should've brought her," Hutch said.
Huggy pulled his hat low over one eye. "She doesn't get off until eleven. Takes a while to wash off all that mud. But I will be here tomorrow, bright and early, to make sure things are okay."
"Sounds good," Hutch said. He turned his attention to filling a carafe of water from the bar faucet, a little ashamed at how glad he was that Huggy had decided to take off.
Soon it was just the two of them after the cleanup was over, lingering over coffee and reliving the night. Hutch noticed that Starsky kept sneaking glances at his mouth and so he talked a lot, more out of nervousness than anything else. Starsky didn't seem to mind—the bright glow of his expression hadn't diminished once during the course of the evening, and Hutch knew that even if they fell on their faces and the place closed in a month, it would've all been worth it, just for the smile in Starsky's eyes tonight.
It was after one when they finally began to talk about leaving. Hutch didn't want to—he wanted this night to last forever, but the morning brought a whole new set of challenges as they opened up for a far more fickle public. Starsky too seemed to want to linger, making tiny adjustments to chairs and tables or straightening a picture barely askew. The unfulfilled promise of the night fell between them, but Hutch didn't have the guts to offer to take them to the next step—if he could figure out what that was.
As he rinsed out the coffee cups at the bar sink, he watched Starsky roam around the room. Starsky had a way of moving that no one else had, an almost backward grace that you didn't see until you watched him from afar. Hutch had taken notice of Starsky from day one at the Academy and had never fooled himself that he didn't appreciate Starsky physically—Hutch once had a lot of illusions, but his own sexuality was never one of them. To him, beauty was beauty no matter the package, but despite all they had between them, he'd never thought to be able to touch that part of Starsky.
He tossed the damp towel into the hamper and came around the end of the bar. He was tired and yet still felt the high from the excitement of the night and his encounter with Starsky before it began. But since he couldn't figure out a way to recapture that moment, he resigned himself to going home and maybe a run on the beach, just to work off the buzz.
Starsky apparently had other ideas.
While Hutch had been tidying the bar, Starsky had locked up the kitchen and turned off all the lights until only the few that were left on overnight remained. The restaurant was awash in shadows broken by small spotlights over the bar and foyer. They moved together toward the door and Hutch tossed Starsky's jacket to him before putting his own back on. They paused as one to look back into the depths of the darkened room.
"So tomorrow we do this for real," Hutch muttered.
Starsky nodded. "Let's hope our friends in blue pass on what a great place this is—cops start comin' in, we'll make a mint." He touched Hutch's elbow. "Know what?" he continued, his lips upturned in soft grin.
"What?"
"You smell like garlic."
"Yeah, probably taste like it, too," Hutch replied without thinking. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd said, but Starsky's smile only turned more intimate.
"Yeah?" Starsky reached out and circled Hutch's wrist with his fingers. "Let's find out."
Hutch's heart began to pound as Starsky slipped his thumb beneath the cuff of his jacket to stroke the pulsing skin above his palm. He and Starsky had touched in almost every way possible for two people who weren't intimate, but Hutch wasn't prepared for the eroticism of that simple contact. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, feeling clumsy and a little shamefaced that Starsky was taking the lead so effortlessly. He'd kidded Starsky for years about his caveman tactics with women, yet here he was, smooth and warm and making everything feel exactly right.
His eyes flew open when he felt Starsky's blunt fingers curve around his ribs beneath his jacket, just above his belt. Starsky had moved no closer and his eyes were downcast, but a sweet half-smile remained.
"Hey, Hutch?" he murmured.
Hutch's voice came out in a croak. "Yeah?"
"You plannin' on joinin' this party any time soon? Or you gonna let me make a total idiot outta myself?"
Starsky raised his chin and Hutch watched the pale light gild his lashes from above. His reticence fell away beneath the look in Starsky's eyes, and he lifted his hand to cup Starsky's slightly roughened cheek.
"Sorry," he said softly. "This is all just kind of crazy, you know?"
Starsky shook his head as his fingers slid across the top of Hutch's belt. "Crazy good? Or crazy like we need a rubber room?"
Hutch's smile came and went on a teasing sigh. "Hate to break this to you, but we've always needed one of those. But as long as it's a room for two—"
They heard it at the same time—the shrill, piercing, unmistakable sound of a terrified woman. They stared at each other, their private moment forgotten as the screaming stopped and then restarted. Starsky pivoted, unlocking the door and yanking it open, spilling them both onto the sidewalk as they sought out the source of the cry.
Hutch was the first to spot the glow from the end of the street. He slapped Starsky on the chest and pointed before taking off in a sprint. Starsky was right on his heels as they ran toward the end of the block and as they drew closer, Hutch could see flames shooting out of a storefront window.
"Over there!" he yelled, pointing toward a woman running in the street in front of the fire, alternately crying into her hands and pointing toward the burning store. Starsky peeled off toward her as Hutch approached the building, one arm flung over his head as inadequate protection against the heat. Through the outpouring of billowing smoke, he could see a figure crumpled in the recessed doorway amidst the remains of the glass door already blown outward by the force of the fire.
"Hutch!" Starsky yelled from the woman's side. "Watch it!"
Hutch didn't bother to acknowledge the warning, although he heard it and understood. It was Tito's laundry engulfed in flames, and the chemicals he used were both flammable and toxic.
A muffled boom resounded inside the building and Hutch dropped to his knees ten feet away from the doorway. Shards of glass ground into his hands as he scrabbled forward until he reached the downed man's side. It was Tito, a large gash across his temple and his arm twisted in an odd angle, but Hutch didn't dare stop to see if he was breathing.
The smoke and heat were oppressive—Hutch had to pause and cough several times into his sleeve as he began to maneuver Tito away from the fire. He was marginally aware of wailing sirens and other voices raised in alarm as he bent low to pull Tito onto his shoulder. A wave of black smoke drove him flat to the ground and he began to feel lightheaded—and then Starsky was there beside him, grabbing Tito's leg and helping Hutch pull the unconscious man away. Together they dragged him into the street before Hutch was overcome with coughing. Through the sooty tears clogging his eyes he could see Starsky, his arm around the woman's shoulders as she knelt by Tito's side. Starsky was saying something to her but his worried eyes were on Hutch, so he managed a thumbs up as he worked to control his breathing.
A squad car and fire engine showed up almost simultaneously. The medics began to attend to Tito and a uniformed policeman led the woman away, allowing Starsky to finally join Hutch across the street where he sat on the curb, wiping at his streaming eyes.
"You doin' okay?" Starsky sat close beside him and curled his arm around Hutch's back, rubbing soothing circles into tightened neck muscles.
"Yeah," Hutch gasped, his voice still rough. "You?"
"Yeah."
Hutch jerked his chin toward the ambulance as Tito was being loaded inside. "Who's the girl?"
"Tito's daughter. Seems they were on their way home from the airport after putting mama on a plane to the Philippines—s'why they're out so late. They live nearby, shop's on the way home."
Hutch nodded, still too spent to talk. He started picking glass and gravel out of his hands when a thought occurred to him.
"So how'd he get that whack on his head?"
"I dunno—let me go find out." He rose from the curb and brushed off the seat of his pants. "You okay here?"
Hutch scowled up at him and put out his hand. "Help me up."
The ambulance with Tito and his daughter inside was pulling away as they neared the chaotic scene. The laundry was emitting clouds of hissing steam, putting on a show for the gathered crowd. They picked out the uniformed officer who'd been with Tito's daughter and joined him behind the fire truck.
"What happened here?" Hutch asked.
The officer looked at them warily and Hutch couldn't blame him—two guys on the street in the middle of the night wearing rented tuxes wasn't exactly common in this part of town. "Who's asking?"
They shared a glance and silently pulled out their badges. The officer swallowed and pulled out his notebook.
"Uh, yeah, okay. Store owner on his way home saw somebody toss a Molotov through his store window. He confronted the guy, there was a scuffle, old guy got hurt."
"What did his daughter see?" Starsky asked.
"She stayed in the car until she saw her dad go down. I don't know if she can ID the perp—she was pretty shook up and her English wasn't so good."
"Okay." Hutch nodded at the officer, dismissing him. "Thanks."
He turned to Starsky. "Doesn't sound like a random thing—that place can't make enough money for someone to just break in for the cash."
Starsky nodded. "Or use a homemade grenade to do it, either. Tito must have some enemies out there."
"Yeah." Hutch pulled at his bottom lip. "We'd better talk to Huggy."
"First thing in the morning," Starsky agreed. He looked at Hutch and shrugged. "Guess we'd better call it a night, then, hunh?"
The disappointment in his partner's voice perfectly matched Hutch's own feelings, but everything was beginning to ache and his chest still felt uncomfortably tight. He nodded and they turned together toward Teo's, weariness making their steps drag. They locked the front door and parted at their cars in the lot across from the restaurant, one last, wry look between them acknowledging the lost opportunity—but the fierce light in Starsky's eyes told Hutch everything he needed to know.
Their time was coming.
"Okay, Margaret, take your time." Starsky set another book of mug shots onto the table. "You want some coffee?"
Margaret Ferrer, Tito's daughter, shook her head and gave Starsky a timid smile. He smiled back and sat down across from her, his own mug cradled in his palms. This was always a long process—if a witness did happen to recognize someone in the mugs, it was inevitably found in the last book they tried. With only half his attention needed to watch over Margaret, Starsky let his mind wander.
Hutch. Just the name was enough to cause a flock of butterflies to perch in Starsky's belly—he felt like a giddy kid after his first prom date. Aside from the way it'd ended, the previous night had been everything he'd hoped it could be, a good start for their business and more importantly, a new start for him and Hutch. If he'd been uncertain that this was the path they were destined to take, one look at Hutch's face before the party started blew away his doubts.
To Starsky, Hutch had always been beautiful. It was the kind of beauty that ignored gender—but even Starsky could see that the years and the job had taken their toll. Not that it mattered to him—looking in the mirror every morning confirmed he was no prize and never had been. But even when Hutch tried to hide behind the mustache and the long hair, in Starsky's eyes, he was still beautiful.
So it'd been with the stunning sensation of being hit by lightning that Starsky had looked at Hutch last night, a bolt that shot through him and nailed his too-tight patent leathers to the floor. Despite the lines that bracketed the blue eyes and pensive mouth, Hutch looked ten years younger without the moustache, and the silvery blond hair cut short added back the boyishness that Hutch had lost along the way.
Starsky looked at his watch—9:30. Teo's was due to open its doors to the lunch crowd in less than two hours, but he'd volunteered to come in and help Margaret look through the mug shots anyway. Tito was going to be fine, but he wasn't up to talking at length to the detectives assigned to his case, a couple of new guys Starsky hardly knew. He knew they'd call him as soon as they knew anything, but Starsky's money—as always—was on Huggy.
Margaret was on her third book when Starsky heard her sharply indrawn breath. He pushed aside his empty cup and leaned forward.
"Did you find something?"
Margaret looked up. "I—I think so. I think maybe this is the man."
She turned the book toward Starsky and pointed to a photo of a thin-faced man on the bottom row.
"Sammy Dowd, aka Sammy Crouse, aka Sammy Kerosene," he muttered. "Don't know this one." He glanced up at Margaret. "How sure are you?"
Margaret clasped her hands beneath her chin. "I see his face in the window. He—he hit my father and he look inside at the fire. That's when I see him—but then he run away." Her eyes filled with tears and Starsky rose to come around the table.
"That's great, Margaret, you did great." He patted her on
the shoulder and guided her to her feet. "Now I'm gonna get an officer to take you over to the hospital to see your dad, all right?"
Half an hour later, he strode through the back door at Teo's and into controlled chaos. He waved at Laurie and she waved back before jerking her thumb toward the dining room, knowing he'd be looking for Hutch. Here the confusion was even more apparent as the staff raced to finish readying the room, but Hutch was easy to find as he stood conferring with Huggy in the middle of the floor.
Starsky paused for a moment, a big grin spreading across his face. He felt like the luckiest guy in the whole damn world standing there—he was in business with his best friends and no one was shooting at him. He never imagined such simple things could bring him so much satisfaction.
Hutch and Huggy were bickering about something and Starsky figured it was time to make his presence known. He slapped his hands together as loud as he could and sauntered forward.
"Good morning, gentlemen—ready to make restaurant history?"
"'Bout time you got here," Hutch grumbled, but there was only warmth in his gaze. "How'd it go with Margaret?"
"She picked a guy out, guy I didn't recognize. Huggy, you heard of a guy named Sammy Dowd, did a nickel in Arizona for arson couple years ago?"
"Yeah, maybe." Huggy tucked his thumbs beneath his zebra skin suspenders, stretching them out as he considered the question. "Ol' Sammy Kerosene—thought he'd stayed up near Vegas after he got out. No one I know using a torch 'round here lately."
"Great." Starsky stepped out of the way of a busboy loaded down with two armfuls of stacked glasses. "Looks like he's back—but why Tito's?"
"Maybe we'll know more when Tito gives his statement," Hutch said. "In the meantime, let's get this restaurant open."
"Amen, brother." Huggy started to move away but was quickly restrained when Starsky and Hutch each took one of his suspender straps and pulled it taut.
"What?"
"You know what," Starsky said with a grin. "We need to find Sammy."
"And," Hutch added, his tone silky, "we don't need to tell anyone we've found him until we're really, really sure it's him. We, uh, don't want to waste the police department's time, now do we."
"Now, let me get this straight." Huggy held up his hands, eyes wide with ill-feigned shock. "You two want me to do an end run around Bay City's finest, minus two?"
"Yes," they said simultaneously.
Huggy shrugged. "Well, if you insist—ow!"
"Sorry, Huggy."
Starsky patted his shoulder. "Yeah, sorry."
"How did it come to this," Huggy muttered as he rubbed his chest where the straps had snapped back. "The great Huggy Bear, in business with a couple of juvenile delinquents."
It was a hard, busy day, but Starsky was having the time of his life. He greeted every customer that walked in like an old friend until Laurie lost her patience and banished him from the front door. From there, he tried bussing tables but after his fourth dropped glass, Hutch parked him at the end of the bar and had him folding towels. He didn't care—to him, it was perfect—until one man walked in the door and changed everything.
They'd done a respectable lunch service and were in the middle of a shift change. Hutch had left for the bank with their first deposit and Starsky was behind the bar, chatting with Renee, their evening bartender. He'd yet to have time to take the state-required bartending course, but he was eager to learn as much as possible along the way. Renee was in the process of showing him how to peel lemons for the perfect twist when he heard his name called.
"Excuse me—are you Dave Starsky?"
Starsky looked up to see a man standing at the end of the bar. He was tall, about Hutch's height, with sandy blond hair cut military-short.
"Yeah, that's me," he answered, hand extended. It was taken in a firm grip before the stranger stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"Nice to meet you. I'm, uh—I'm Phil Devereaux."
Starsky took a step backward. In his head, Devereaux had taken on the shape of a raving lunatic, out to harm to his partner. Instead, here was this average guy who was looking a little uncomfortable, his eyes darting around the room.
He's looking for Hutch, Starsky realized. His shoulders immediately hunched forward protectively, even though he knew his partner was two blocks away at the bank.
"Is Ken here?" Devereaux asked, confirming Starsky's suspicions.
"No," he replied bluntly. "Besides, you asked for me. What can I do for you?"
Devereaux's pale green eyes shifted to him.
"Is there a place we can talk?"
Starsky jerked his thumb toward a door located next to the stage. "Yeah, office is back there. Follow me."
He led Devereaux into the back office and closed the door behind them, taking position in front of it, arms crossed. He knew this guy's story and for the most part he felt sorry for him—but he also knew that this man had hurt Hutch somehow, and that made him an enemy in Starsky's eyes.
"What can I do for you, Devereaux?"
"I, uh, wanted to see if Ken was okay." Devereaux lifted his hand to his mouth and bit at cuticle of his right index finger.
"He's fine." Starsky shifted his feet, spreading his legs for a more comfortable stance. "What's it to you?"
Starsky's almost surly tone finally seemed to register with Devereaux. He shoved his hands behind his back and met Starsky's gaze head on for the first time.
"Well, you know he was the guy who I—who was there when—"
"Yeah, I know some of it. Can't say I'm real thrilled about you being here, but if you want to talk to Hutch, you're welcome to wait outside. Have a beer on the house."
Devereaux shook his head. "What—what did Ken tell you?"
Starsky shrugged. "Not much. Whatever secrets you got, he's keeping them. I do know you held my partner hostage for three hours while you threatened to shoot yourself."
Devereaux ducked his head. "Yeah, I know that's how they made it sound, anyway. They told me later that Ken stuck to that, even after I told them what really happened. I—I should thank him for that but I—I can't face him yet."
Starsky stared at him. "You knew he wasn't here, didn't you?"
Devereaux nodded, his eyes still downcast. "Yeah. But I just needed to see him. They told me he was okay—"
"What, you waited outside and watched the place?"
Another miserable nod. "Yeah. I saw Ken leave, figured it was a good time to come in and see—"
"See what?" Starsky was becoming alarmed. Devereaux didn't seem to be playing with a full deck and Hutch was due back from the bank any minute. He wanted this guy long gone before that happened.
"You."
That caught Starsky off guard. "Me?"
"I just wanted to meet Ken's partner, the guy he said he'd—"
Starsky reached behind him and grabbed the door handle. "Well, you met him. Now I think it's time you were—"
"Starsk? Starsk, you in here?"
The door pushed open and Hutch walked in with a paper bag in his hand and a big smile on his face that faded when he saw Devereaux.
"Phil—what are you doing here?" Hutch's voice was devoid of emotion but Starsky saw the tremor in his hand as he set the bag on the desk.
"He's just leaving." He stepped to Hutch's side, placing himself between his partner and Devereaux.
"Yeah, yeah, I, uh, just stopped by to wish you luck on the new place, you know?"
Hutch shot a quick glance at Starsky, who responded with a minute shrug. "Thanks," he said quietly. "I didn't know that you'd gotten out of the hospital."
Devereaux's hand crept up to his mouth again. "Yeah, couple days ago. I'm an outpatient now."
"How's your wife—Lisa, right?"
Devereaux's gaze jerked around the room and Starsky felt his tension level rise. He looked at Hutch but Hutch was watching Devereaux closely, almost clinically.
"She's fine. She, uh, she's waiting for me so I'd better get going." Devereaux held out his hand for Hutch to shake and after a moment's hesitation, Hutch took it. To Starsky, the meeting of their hands looked off somehow but he couldn't pin down the cause.
"Thanks for seeing me, Ken."
"No problem. Glad to see you're doing okay."
That's when Starsky saw it, the minute movement of Hutch's elbow. Hutch was trying to remove his hand—and Devereaux wasn't letting go. He stepped up and shoved out his own hand, forcing Devereaux to break off and take it.
"Nice to meet you, Phil. Let me walk you out." He reached around Hutch and pulled the door open, ushering Devereaux out with a wave of his hand.
Hutch remained behind as Starsky followed Devereaux to the door, watching him through the glass to make sure he kept walking. As soon as he was satisfied, he rushed back to the office to find Hutch standing exactly as he'd left him, staring at the floor.
"Hutch?" Starsky placed his hand on Hutch's shoulder. "You okay?"
"What did he want?"
"Hunh?"
Hutch looked up and Starsky's stomach clenched at the desolation he saw there.
"Tell me what he said."
"It was weird," he admitted. "First he said he wanted to make sure you were okay, then he said he wanted to meet me."
The blue eyes sharpened. "Meet you? Why?"
"I'm not sure. I tell ya, Hutch, he didn't seem like he was all there, you know?"
Hutch picked up the paper sack from the desk. "He must be better if they let him out of the hospital. Here."
He handed the bag to Starsky before moving behind the desk and sitting down heavily in the chair, resting his forehead in his hands. Starsky hunted for the right thing to say—he could see Hutch shutting down in front of his eyes. A creeping moistness in the palm of his hand where the bag rested caught his attention.
"What's this?"
Hutch looked up. "Hunh? Oh, that. It's calamari. Lottie told me to get it from Lee's uncle when he got it in fresh. Said it was the best in town."
"Squid? You got me holding a bag of squid?" Starsky pinched the top of the bag between his fingers and held it away from his body, screwing up his face in distaste. He didn't really mind that it was leaking squid stuff onto his hands—he just wanted to get some kind of reaction out of Hutch.
He relaxed a little when Hutch grunted and stood up, amused irritation lighting up his eyes.
"Don't be such a baby, Starsk. You should try it sometime." He snatched the bag from Starsky and headed toward the door.
"No way," Starsky grumbled, following his partner into the dining room. "I ain't eating anything looks like fried spiders."
Hutch stopped and turned so abruptly that Starsky almost ran into him. He stumbled back and Hutch grabbed his arm to steady him.
"Listen to me." Hutch's grip on his arm tightened. "If you ever see Devereaux again, I want you to avoid him, okay? Promise me?"
"Hutch, why—"
Hutch shook his arm. "Just promise me, Starsk. Promise me if he comes in again and I'm not here, you won't be alone with him."
Starsky yanked his arm from Hutch's grasp. He didn't know how he could keep such a promise when it was something that affected Hutch so deeply.
"Make you a deal," he said carefully. "You tell me why this guy gets to you like this and I promise to stay out of his way. Deal?"
Hutch shook his head. "No, you don't need—"
"That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
Hutch rubbed at his upper lip and Starsky could tell he was hiding a unwilling grin. He began to smile in return but quickly smothered it when Hutch scowled at him.
"Jesus, you can be stubborn," he muttered. "Okay, deal." Then all humor left his expression. "But when I'm ready, okay?"
Starsky thought about that, then shook his head. "From what I can tell, that may be never. No, I think maybe you and me need to work this out, the sooner the better."
Hutch's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Starsky stepped closer to Hutch and dropped his voice. "Cause you and me gotta go forward now. Looney tune Devereaux's in the past—the quicker we deal with it, the quicker we can move on. And Hutch—" he placed his hand on Hutch's shoulder—"I really want to move on."
That took the fight out Hutch—Starsky could see it in the softening expression, the loosening of the broad shoulder beneath his hand.
"You're right," Hutch murmured. "Damn it, you're right. You know how much I hate it when that happens?"
Starsky started to reply but found the increasingly soggy bag of squid shoved back in his hands.
"Aw, yuck," he whined to Hutch's retreating back.
Starsky kept an eye on Hutch as best he could for the rest of the night, but it was a Friday and it quickly became obvious the word had gotten out that Teo's had reopened. Hutch worked the bar with Renee while Starsky found himself doing everything from refilling water glasses to taking out the garbage. The few times he did connect with Hutch, he was relieved to see that he'd rebounded and was obviously enjoying himself. That made the night easier on Starsky, who was able to relax and have fun, too.
At least until he realized that Hutch had given him the slip and gone home without saying goodnight.
He should've seen it coming—Hutch had capitulated far too easily on the subject of Devereaux. And asking Renee to pass on the message that Hutch had taken off for the night showed a commitment to avoidance that Starsky recognized instantly.
However, just because he understood it, that didn't mean he had to accept it. He turned everything over to Laurie and ten minutes later pulled up in front of Venice Place. There were no lights on but he banged on the door anyway, then used his spare key to get inside. There were no signs that Hutch had been home yet and Starsky wasn't surprised—he'd know his partner was looking for him. After locking back up, he got back in the Torino and sat there for a few minutes, imagining he was Hutch trying to avoid Starsky.
He rolled down the window and propped his elbow on the edge, absently thankful it wasn't raining. There were a couple of options open to him—he could go home and bust Hutch's chops in the morning or he could stay outside his place until he came home. Or maybe Hutch just found a place to spend some time and wait Starsky out, knowing he'd be looking for him. But deep in his heart, Starsky knew he had to make Hutch talk.
With that in mind, he found a side street to ditch the Torino and let himself back into Hutch's darkened apartment to wait.
One step in the door and he knew Starsky was waiting for him. The room was dark, the light from the stairwell barely venturing beyond a few feet into his apartment. He didn't need to see him—the air was indelibly touched by his presence, a spicy radiance that Hutch would recognize anywhere.
He closed the door and blinked into the darkness, letting his eyes adjust. Within a few seconds he could make out the top of a curly head just above the sofa; a few more blinks and he saw Starsky's sneakered feet propped on his coffee table. This was an ambush, pure and simple—Hutch had looked for the Torino and not finding it, thought he'd won a night's reprieve. He should've known better.
"You comin' in or you just gonna stand there?"
Hutch jumped a little—hearing Starsky's voice in the dark brought home the fact that his partner was here for a reason. He leaned his shoulders against the door and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his head lowered as he contemplated his options. Deep down he always knew that Starsky wouldn't let this alone—now all he had to decide was how much he was going to reveal.
"Sorry about cutting out on you earlier," he said quietly.
Starsky didn't move. "Yeah, that was a crummy thing to do. Never knew you to be a coward."
"Me neither," Hutch muttered. He stared at his shoes, wondering where to begin. Seeing Devereaux tonight, so close to Starsky—it'd brought back the horror of those three hours and the things Devereaux had forced him to admit.
"Okay, if you're not comin' in, then I guess I'll just come to you."
Hutch looked up in time to see Starsky rise from the couch and approach him. He wasn't much more than a dark shadow that momentarily blotted out the light from the streetlamp before he was standing in front of Hutch, hands on his hips.
"You ready to talk?"
"No."
"Talk anyway. And just in case you don't get what's goin' on here, let me spell it out."
When Starsky clutched at his arm, Hutch figured he was just making sure Hutch wouldn't move away. He was totally unprepared for Starsky's other hand to slide around his neck and ease him forward. He opened his mouth to protest—and then Starsky's lips were on his.
There was nothing about the kiss that wasn't inherently Starsky—strong, heated, full of energy and suffused with love, Hutch could feel Starsky's force all the way down to his toes—his entire body pressed up against Hutch's, melding itself plane by plane as they strained together. The firm mouth on his was angrily tender, not so much asking for a response as oblivious to any reason not to give in.
And Hutch knew, as he'd always known, that if they'd ever made it this far, his surrender would be complete. He yanked his hands out of his pockets and grabbed at Starsky's shirt, pulling him closer as he opened to the pressure of Starsky's mouth. But instead of a hard probing brought on by Starsky's anger and impatience, the kiss instantly gentled. Starsky's tongue touched lightly against his, a brief caress that coaxed a groan from deep within Hutch's chest.
Starsky pulled back, breathing heavily. Hutch couldn't see the expression in his eyes and waited anxiously for something else to tell him what Starsky was thinking. Salvation came in the form of Starsky's raspy tone.
"This is it," the well-loved voice was saying. "No more messin' around with me, Hutch."
"I don't want—" Once again, his mouth was covered, the aggressive kiss a dizzying counterpoint to the featherlight brush of Starsky's fingers across his jaw and neck. Hutch felt himself gladly slipping beneath the wave of Starsky's emotions, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in the tide of love that was being poured upon him. When it seemed as though Starsky would break off, Hutch took his face between his hands and kissed him hard, letting his lips convey everything that his words could not.
All of Starsky surrounded him, the scent of his skin, the warm taste of him in his mouth—it seemed like Hutch had lived for this moment forever, through all the pain and heartache and blood and misunderstandings, finding love for this man remained true even in the face of death. He clutched at Starsky now, moving his lips across the stubbled jaw, tangling his fingers in the tight curls at the base of Starsky's neck. In turn he felt his jacket being roughly stripped from his shoulders as Starsky pushed him harder, driving him higher with his hands and mouth. He did the same, wondering incoherently if he was going to survive when he felt Starsky's skin against his.
But not for a second did he forget that there was an edge of anger to Starsky's touch and he regretted that, regretted that he'd tried once more to circumvent the trust that existed between them. Shame made him relinquish the mouth beneath his and when Starsky protested inarticulately, he wrapped his arms around him and held him close.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"I know ya are," was Starsky's affectionate reply, a loving acknowledgment of Hutch's misguided attempt to avoid him. He took Hutch's head between his hands and gave it a gentle, side to side shake. "Haven't you figured out yet that I love you no matter what dumbass thing you do?"
"Love me?" Hutch asked shakily. He felt his cheekbones flush with heat—even the proof of Starsky willingly in his arms wasn't quite enough to convince him.
Starsky's mouth settled once again on his, open and soothing, more of a balm to Hutch's worries than a furthering of the passion that had been temporarily banked down.
"'Course I love ya," Starsky murmured against his mouth. "Gonna show you how much, too—but first things first." A broad hand came up and ruffled Hutch's hair before he found himself being tugged toward the couch by the simple method of Starsky latching onto his belt.
Starsky paused long enough to turn on the lamp on the desk before carefully shoving Hutch onto the couch and then joining him, sitting as close as he could. Wordlessly, they toed off their shoes, both of them getting settled deep into the cushions. It wasn't far different from other nights they'd crashed on a convenient couch, except this time, Starsky took Hutch's hands and twined their fingers together, offering the support Hutch needed.
"Okay," Starsky said with a solid squeeze of Hutch's captive hands. "Spill it."
Hutch cleared his throat. "What did Dobey tell you?"
"Not much. Just that Devereaux lost his partner back in Kansas City, came out here to make a new start—and you got caught in a bad place with the guy."
"Yeah, a bad place," Hutch repeated dully. The sweeping exhilaration of the previous moments began to fade but Hutch knew he had to get through this before they could go on. With Starsky's hands firmly in his, he began to tell Starsky what happened that day by asking the one question that had haunted him ever since.
"Starsk—you ever wonder what you'd do if I died?"
The stark question caught Starsky off guard—Hutch could feel it in the tremor that ran through his hands, could hear it in the sharply indrawn breath.
"Jesus, Hutch—what kinda question is that?"
"Same question I've been asking myself for months. Same question Devereaux's had to face every day since he saw his partner gunned down in an alley."
"Hutch—I don't get it."
Hutch pulled one hand loose and scrubbed it over his eyes. "Maybe I'd better start at the beginning. We'd finished talking to the guys we'd been sent to question and were talking about getting lunch. I mentioned something about you liking that place down on the waterfront—you know, the place with the fried clams? Anyway, Devereaux starts asking me stuff about you, why we weren't together. So I told him about—about Gunther."
"Must've been rough," Starsky said, but Hutch didn't know if he was referring to Devereaux or himself.
"I knew his story—some of it, anyway—so I tried to downplay it, you know?"
"Why?"
Hutch gave the hand in his a squeeze. "Starsk—my partner lived."
"Oh. Yeah."
"So we're walking to the car and the next thing I know, I've got Devereaux's piece stuck in my back. He takes my weapon, hustles us to a warehouse, gets us inside and handcuffs me to a wall."
Hutch paused. It'd been a while since he'd walked through the incident verbally and the feelings he'd been trying to repress over the months were beginning to push forward, tightening the muscles across his shoulders. Starsky must've sensed something—he shifted the hand he held until he could brush soothing patterns across Hutch's knuckles with his thumb.
"Then what happened? What did he want?"
"He wanted me to talk. He wanted me to talk about you, about us. He asked me—he asked me if I'd ever had to kill for you."
"Aw, Hutch—"
Hutch turned haunted eyes to his partner. "He made me relive every time. Every damn time. Hour after hour. And when I couldn't—I didn't—sometimes it was hard, you know? He'd fire off a round and press the barrel to my forehead, telling me you'd learn what it's like to live without a partner if I didn't tell him what he wanted to hear."
In the dim light, Hutch saw Starsky's features harden. "Did he hurt you?"
Hutch sighed and leaned his head against the back of the couch as his left hand crept up to the healed spot on his head. "No, he didn't hurt me. I think—I think this was more about hurting himself. See, I did what he couldn't do—and he hated himself for it."
"What? What did you do?"
Hutch's eyes closed. "I took the shot. Whatever it took to save you, I did it. Devereaux didn't take the shot—and his partner died."
Starsky's fingers clenched convulsively around Hutch's hand and he bit his lip—he knew what his partner was thinking. The bad memories never really went away, but they faded enough to get through another day. Put them all together and they added up to almost too much heartbreak to bear.
"They had what we have," Hutch continued softly. "You should've heard him, Starsk. They were closer than brothers—and he watched him die. His partner—Vincent, I think his name was—he held on for two days in the hospital. Devereaux never left his side. In the end, the damage was too much and he—he—"
"It's okay, Hutch, you can stop now—"
"No, you gotta listen to me."
Hutch shifted until he was facing Starsky, who'd gone cold and still in the wake of his own terrible memories. Hutch reached out with his free hand and laid his palm on Starsky's cool cheek, determined to tell the entire truth.
"It was me. Don't you get it? Devereaux was me. Me, waiting for you to come out of surgery—did I ever tell you? They told me to 'prepare for the worst'. My God, how do you prepare for the loss of the most important thing in your life?"
Starsky pressed his cheek into Hutch's hand and brought up his own to cover it.
"You're asking the wrong guy," he said with a humorless smile. "They told me the same thing when you had the—when you were sick. I went and threw up so hard I thought my heart was gonna explode—what was left of it, anyway."
Hutch acknowledged Starsky's admission with a fleeting smile. Starsky's cheek was simultaneously silky and rough beneath his hand, like fine sandpaper. He wondered briefly how it would feel against skin more vulnerable than his palm.
"And the hell of it is—" He stopped again to smooth out the breaks in his voice. "I didn't save you this last time. That's what I told Devereaux—one time, I didn't take the shot. And I almost lost you."
Turning Hutch's hand, Starsky pressed a kiss to his wrist. "But you didn't—I'm here, right?"
Hutch answered as though he hadn't heard. "Starsk—you know how many times I've killed someone to save your life?"
"Yeah, I got a fair idea. As many as I've done for you, I guess." Starsky clutched Hutch's shoulder and gave it a light shake. "And I'd do it again—every single time, 'cause you know what?"
A shiver raced across Hutch's skin as the sharp blue eyes narrowed. There was something dark in Starsky's tone, a hint of the primal protectiveness that guarded Hutch's life beyond any call of duty.
His tongue came out to moisten a dry lower lip. "What?"
The hand on his shoulder slid to cover the pulse pounding in his neck. "Because sometimes—I swear to God, Hutch—sometimes I couldn't kill 'em dead enough."
"I know." He did know—it was a dark shadow on his own soul that he'd accepted long ago. Hutch lowered his head briefly in acceptance of what was now their shared truth. "Me too. I told Devereaux—and then he asked me—he asked me what I'd do if you had died."
"What'd you say?"
What had he said? He knew then—as he knew now—that there were no words to describe what losing Starsky would've done to him. "I said I couldn't see a life without you. Then I—I told him things, Starsk—things I should've told you a long time ago. I think that's what saved my life."
Hutch hung his head on the murmured words as the guilt welled up inside him. He'd known when Starsky was fighting to live that he meant everything to Hutch—more than any previous relationship or love—more than the life they'd made together. But he'd kept the secret to himself, afraid that Starsky would run if he knew, admitting it only to Devereaux in an effort to save both their lives as a SWAT team gathered outside, alerted by a dockworker who'd reported the sound of gunfire.
"Hutch."
Hutch raised his head but not his eyes—not even knowing that Starsky loved him in return could stem the pain of what he could only look upon as betrayal.
"What?"
"C'mere."
Starsky's hands were pulling at him, guiding him sideways until his head rested on a broad shoulder. Hutch breathed in deeply and shut his eyes as Starsky wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.
"Can you tell me now?"
"Tell you?"
Starsky's fingers stroked the soft space behind his ear. "Tell me what you told Devereaux."
Hutch stiffened but when he moved to pull away, Starsky held tight.
"Not so fast, blue eyes, now that I got ya where I want ya."
"Is this really where you want me?" Hutch licked his bottom lip and carefully placed his hand high on Starsky's jean-clad thigh. Leg muscles flinched slightly, accompanied by jerk of Starsky's body as he sucked in a quick breath. Hutch knew that Starsky would never reject him, but not even someone as physically demonstrative as Starsky could entice a response out of a body that wasn't interested.
The chest beneath his began rising and falling in a swift pattern as Hutch slid his thumb into the crease of fabric that delineated the top of Starsky's leg. He ran the edge of his thumb outward toward Starsky's hip, giving him fair warning before reversing the motion and scoring the fold with the edge of his nail toward the inside of Starsky's thigh.
"Wait." Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist and halted his progress. Heartsick, Hutch tried to retract his hand, afraid he'd gambled everything and lost. The arm around his shoulder loosened and he leaned away—until the grip that held his wrist captive shifted, bringing his palm flush against the heat and hardness of Starsky's groin.
"Starsk?" The name came out as a mere breath, hardly discernible above the wild beating of his heart. Starsky must've seen the panic in his eyes as his own expression turned infinitely tender.
"Easy now—I ain't going nowhere and neither are you." He pressed Hutch's imprisoned hand more firmly against the buttons of his jeans. "Feel that? That's all because of you, partner. I been waiting for this a long time and I don't want you thinkin' that there's not a part of me that doesn't want you. We can hug and kiss all you want but I'm tellin' you straight—I wanna make love to every blond inch of you and once ain't gonna cut it. You got second thoughts on that, tell me now, 'cause it's the last chance you're gonna get."
Starsky's prosaic statement of his intent did more to assure Hutch than any flowery words of seduction—that and the insistent warmth pressing into his palm. The physical aspect of their relationship wasn't going to be a problem—his own body was responding sharply to the feel of Starsky's wiry form pressed against him and he shifted closer, enjoying the expression of restrained desire that passed through Starsky's darkened eyes.
Starsky loved him—he knew that. Starsky also wanted him and the contemplation of making love to him was lighting fires all over Hutch's body. But he knew he couldn't go forward until Starsky understood the depth of Hutch's feelings for him—the heartache of rejection at this point was nothing compared to the damage he'd sustain down the road if one day Starsky decided that
Hutch alone wasn't enough.
Still, he couldn't stop from disentangling his hand and rewarding himself with one fulfilled fantasy, even if all else turned to dust in the next seconds. With Starsky's eyes locked on his, he rubbed his forefinger gently against a bottom lip that was soft and moist, incredibly pliant to his seeking touch. It was somehow more intimate than a kiss—they were a foot apart, no nuance of expression could be missed—until Starsky drew Hutch's finger into his mouth, holding it captive as his tongue brushed back and forth across its tip. Hutch's eyes widened and then drifted shut for only a moment as a feeling of overwhelming joy concentrated and then exploded outward, leaving him shaking with desire—and a growing fear of great loss if he didn't come clean.
Starsky had released him and was waiting for his reply, looking remarkably at ease for a man who'd just committed one of the sexiest acts Hutch had ever experienced.
"No, not second thoughts," he managed against a dry throat. "But—"
"But?" Starsky's brows drew together in an exaggerated frown. "Why you gotta come up with a but now?"
"Because you need to know—guess I should tell you—"
"What? You got a social disease or something?"
"No," Hutch grinned, appreciating Starsky's humor, but he quickly sobered. Seeing a note of worry creep into Starsky's eyes, he took a deep breath and pushed out the words as quickly as possible.
"I can't do this if it's not for keeps."
Starsky stared at him for a few seconds, then threw back his head and laughed, rocking them both. "Aw, jeez, Hutch, you gotta be kiddin' me."
Hutch smiled back tentatively, trying not to look like a man whose entire future would be decided by the next few words. On the street he could read Starsky perfectly, would know his moves almost before he made them himself, but here, he was lost.
His heart in his throat, he watched as Starsky's laughter devolved into a rough chuckle, then faded altogether as he got a good look at Hutch's face. The expression in his eyes shifted to almost sorrowful affection as he reached out to stroke the space between Hutch's brows.
"Didn't you hear me, ya big dope? I said I been waiting for this for a long time, right? I wasn't talkin' about you and me gettin' horizontal between the sheets. I was talking about you finally gettin' wise to the fact that now that I got you, there's nothin' else I'll ever need, not in this world—or the next."
With that bluntly worded vow of fidelity, Hutch saw his entire world fall into place. It was the most sacred moment he'd ever experienced—not even when he'd married Van had he believed he was capable of so much happiness. He began to smile, a smile that rapidly turned into a grin that paused only for a second before he started to laugh. Starsky was watching him with an indulgent smile of his own, telling Hutch more than words how much his partner knew how his mind worked.
"Yeah," he said finally, still smiling because he didn't know how to stop. "Yeah."
"So." Starsky crossed his arms over his chest and fixed him with a stern look. "Now that we got that straightened out, let's talk about that horizontal part of the deal—you game?"
"Oh yeah," Hutch murmured, his smile turning decidedly predatory. "More than game."
Taking a fistful of Starsky's shirt, he eased the compliant body forward until their noses nearly touched. A slight tilt of his head and he was brushing his mouth across Starsky's, light, flowing strokes that had no weight behind them. Starsky's hands came up to grasp his arms, trying to intensify the kiss, but Hutch had other plans.
"Not so fast." He gathered Starsky's hands and rose to his feet, pulling Starsky with him. "Let's find a surface where we can do this the right way."
It wasn't odd when Starsky reversed his grip to take him into his own bedroom—relinquishing the lead seemed like an extension of how they worked every day. To try and maintain the upper hand in this new aspect of their partnership was something that never occurred to him.
All his life, Hutch had been aware of his body—what he needed from it to do his job, how it felt when he was catching a cold, what stimulated him with a sexual partner. All of that meant exactly nothing as Starsky stopped him just inside the doorway and gently shoved him against the wall. He hit it bonelessly, sliding his arms around Starsky's hips as they pressed together for a heated kiss. Starsky's blunt fingers scrabbled at the hem of his henley and burrowed beneath as Starsky's tongue filled his mouth, his stomach muscles fluttering helplessly as Starsky caressed his rib cage before the henley was stripped off over his head.
The bedroom was awash in gunmetal shadows but Hutch could see the look of intense concentration on Starsky's face as his shirt flew across the room. Hutch unbuttoned Starsky's denim shirt with passion-awkward hands and slid it off his shoulders, unsurprised when he was taken into a tight embrace before the shirt hit the floor. He stroked his hands down over strong back muscles, acknowledging without pause the scars that dotted the smooth skin.
Chest to chest, they spent long moments kissing, muttering encouragement or laughing softly just for the hell of it when loving mouths went wandering onto new territory. Hutch loved the sounds Starsky was making, little groans and hums that clearly spoke of the pleasure he was taking in Hutch's body. It was exquisitely arousing—he'd always been the seducer, the one that set the pace, and the only thing more important than his own satisfaction had been the pleasure of whoever he'd been with. He had patented moves he relied on when he made love—after all, a woman's curves were always in the same place and chances were good what turned on one woman would work with another.
But Starsky was no woman—and that reality was turning Hutch on with a vengeance. His body—the body he thought he knew so well—was reacting more strongly than he'd ever imagined, changing him from experienced lover to eager novice with each caress of Starsky's imaginative mouth.
And Starsky wasn't exactly waiting around to be seduced, either. He'd broken off a ravaging kiss and headed south, mouthing the skin of Hutch's neck and shoulders as he imprisoned Hutch's wrists against the wall. For less than a second, his body wanted to protest the playful dominance—and then Starsky began kissing his nipples, laving them with firm strokes of his tongue.
"Starsk," he gasped, "flat surface, remember?"
Starsky straightened with a gleam in his eye. "Problem there, partner?"
Hutch bucked his hips forward, colliding with a matching heat that fed the sweet ache his abdomen. "Yeah. A big one. Gonna help me?"
"Oh, yeah," Starsky breathed. "Gonna help you right out of your ever lovin' mind."
They stumbled toward the bed, each of them reaching for the buckle of their own belts. Hutch's dates usually did a coy disappearance into the bathroom at this point, but with Starsky it seemed perfectly natural to strip off jeans and shorts simultaneously, both of them too anxious to be close again to worry about modesty neither of them possessed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bedspread tossed to the foot of the bed and he barely had time to unstrap his ankle holster and slide it off with his socks before he was embraced from behind. The evidence of Starsky's desire scorched his lower back and he closed his eyes to revel in the unrestrained gift of Starsky's affection.
No, not affection, not any more. He could feel it in the strength of the arms that held him, in the power of the legs that pressed against him, urging him down onto the cotton sheets. Affection was a thin and useless description for the emotion gathering between them and Hutch surrendered to it without hesitation.
Starsky laid him flat on the bed and curled around him, engaging his mouth with generous kisses as his hands explored the planes and textures of Hutch's body. Nimble fingers skimmed over the flat surface of his belly and across his hips, down to the inside of his thighs to caress the soft skin there. His own hands were occupied, one buried in Starsky's hair, the other cupped around the sharp angle of his pelvis to keep him close. He moaned a little when Starsky released his mouth and he reached to pull him back, only to have his hands gently deflected.
"Gotta do this right," Starsky murmured. "Hang on."
The bed dipped as Starsky carefully straddled Hutch's body, a knee bracing either side of his waist. Hutch held up his palms and let Starsky lean into them as he bent down for a wrenching kiss. Hard muscles covered by soft hair proved almost too much and his hips began to thrust upward, craving more of Starsky against him, but Starsky held off, torturing him with kisses that seized each breath from his body until he was panting helplessly.
"Starsk—" he pleaded, "c'mon, please—"
"You ready for this?" Starsky's voice was thready, barely recognizable, a lustful rumble pitched just loud enough for Hutch to hear. He nodded frantically then let out a harsh groan as Starsky dipped his lower body, finally bringing the intimate contact they craved. Sweat slickened their bodies as Starsky began stroking against him with long, strong thrusts that brought dark edges to Hutch's vision. It was rough and uncoordinated and wonderful—Starsky's hands digging into his shoulders, his own fingers curved around the top of Starsky's thighs, pulling him tighter as he tried to guide them into some kind of rhythm.
It wasn't at all what Hutch had imagined—but as Starsky growled words of love in his ear, he knew those dreams were immature fantasies compared to the truth. Starsky was a substantial weight pressing him to the mattress, broad shoulders blotting out the insubstantial light until his entire world was nothing but Starsky, his rich scent, his fevered voice, his unmistakable feel. Starsky was making love to him with all the skill and enthusiasm that Hutch expected and all the love that he'd ever hope to know.
Starsky shifted to the side, bringing a moan to Hutch's throat that Starsky quickly muffled with his own hot mouth. A sharp, coiling sensation, familiar and yet entirely new, began to develop deep in Hutch's belly. He needed Starsky, needed his strength to finish what they'd started, and reached for him to maneuver him back into his arms. Starsky kissed him hard but twisted away and trailed the back of his fingers down Hutch's chest.
"Can't wait," Starsky muttered against his lips. "Gotta touch you now, okay?"
"God—yes—"
And what had been exciting became mind-blowing—Starsky's touch was sure and intuitive, moving over Hutch's heated flesh and driving him skyward with each stroke. Starsky was kissing every part of Hutch he could reach—until Hutch insinuated his hand between them to take Starsky in a trembling grip. Only then did he falter, his sweat-beaded forehead burrowing into the damp haven of Hutch's neck.
"So good," he mumbled. "Makin' me crazy—love you so much."
Hutch gently tightened his fingers. "Show me."
Starsky didn't answer but Hutch felt the shudder that flew through the body he clutched so tightly. The ungainly cadence of their lovemaking quickened, a relentless drive to bring each other pleasure; Hutch had never had a lover equal to him in power and found Starsky's unyielding sensual attack the most erotic experience he could remember.
The intense pleasure sharpened, becoming almost unbearable. Hutch's mind was lost somewhere in the consuming search for relief and the raging need to give Starsky whatever he needed, to show him in the most fundamental way how much he was loved. They grappled together, mindful of each others' vulnerability but unable to stop the furious meshing of their bodies and the unrelenting ferocity of their kisses.
Bursting in between a heartbeat and a ragged breath, a shattering climax raged through Hutch. His back arched as he cried out, hearing Starsky's answering howl seconds later through the roaring in his ears. Wet heat blossomed across his abdomen and thighs, anointing his fingers and palms as Starsky continued to writhe against him, wringing out every last response from them both until he collapsed on Hutch's chest with a stifled groan.
Slow waves of residual desire flowed through Hutch's body, tiny frissons of ecstasy he could feel all the way to the arches of his feet. He struggled to regain his breath as Starsky nestled closer into his arms, murmuring something unintelligible. Unexpectedly, Hutch began to laugh, a rollicking, breathless sound that jiggled Starsky enough so that he raised his head and pinned him with a stern look.
"What's so funny?"
"Did we just do what I think we did?"
Starsky blew a soft raspberry against his shoulder. "Depends on what you think we did."
"I think we just made love."
"I think you're right. You okay with that?"
"More than okay. But just okay enough until we do it again." Hutch's eyes fluttered shut. "Hope I didn't taste like garlic."
"Nah." Starsky yawned and pressed closer. "You taste just the way I imagined you'd taste."
"Yeah? How's that?"
"I dunno—Hutch flavor, I guess." His arm drifted across Hutch's chest to wrap possessively around his ribs. "Best flavor in the world."
Quiet descended on the room until Hutch realized the flesh he was stroking was becoming cool. With a murmured warning, he wriggled out from beneath Starsky's hold and gathered up the bedspread. When he turned to throw it across their bodies he saw Starsky leaning over the edge of the bed.
"What're you doing?"
Starsky straightened with a grin, Hutch's shirt in his hand. "Get over here so I can clean you up."
"But that's my shirt!"
"Yeah, and in case you hadn't noticed, this is your apartment, too. I eventually gotta wear my shirt home, right? 'Sides, yours was closer."
An impatient yank on his arm convinced him that ruining his shirt was inevitable. With a loud sigh that Starsky ignored, he laid down and succumbed to Starsky's ministrations. When he was done, Starsky tucked the shirt beneath their hips and grabbed a corner of the bedspread, arranging it so they were both covered. Hutch popped up once to reach for the alarm but was quickly shoved down so a curly head could use his chest for a pillow. They squirmed together for a few minutes, unused to angles where there used to be curves, but undaunted by the difference.
In fact, Hutch mused sleepily, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to lay there with Starsky snuffling quietly into his neck. Pledges of love had been exchanged, not just verbally but physically—he'd held Starsky in his arms countless times before but now every touch would be infused with new meaning, a loving echo of what they'd shared tonight.
But as some of those previous times replayed in his mind, a faint sense of disquiet began to invade his thoughts and his eyes opened to stare blindly into the dark. Tonight, he'd touched his partner with desire and found a matching passion that still astounded him. But when Starsky went out on the street again—especially if he went without Hutch—how long would it be before their luck ran out?
He jumped when a hand landed on his nose.
"Knock it off," came a drowsy voice. "Go to sleep."
The hand removed itself after a clumsy pat to his cheek. He knew Starsky was right—but sleep was still a long time coming.
Starsky awoke slowly, his body stretching even before he was fully aware of where he was. He felt a multitude of sensations—vaguely sore in spots, a little stiff in others—but all over, he was experiencing the languorous awareness of having been well-loved. Eyes still closed, he grinned at the memory of the night before. It had been rough and graceless, all need and no finesse—and Starsky couldn't wait to do it again.
No, not just again, he thought as he rolled into the middle of the empty bed. He wanted to do more, he wanted to do it all. Coming to terms with being in love with Hutch had meant coming to terms with what his body would enjoy—and now Starsky knew for sure that his body was ready to enjoy Hutch every chance they got.
He'd been peripherally aware of Hutch getting up earlier and taking a shower, but he'd been too comfortable to follow him. Part of him was eager to get up and see Hutch, talk to him, share the sweet emotion of the morning after. Another part of him was content to stay abed and relive the night and even as he realized it was time to get up, his body began to thrum in cadence to his memories.
"So, you're finally awake."
Starsky rolled back to the edge of the bed and opened his eyes to see a robe-clad Hutch leaning against the doorjamb, a mug in either hand.
"Barely," he agreed with a smile. Hutch looked relaxed as he grinned back—relaxed and, to Starsky's infatuated gaze, absolutely gorgeous. The short blond hair was tousled and damp, the long legs exposed by the robe that hung loosely from a carelessly tied belt. "Barely, but I'm getting there. That coffee for me?"
Hutch pushed away from the wall and shook his head. "No, coffee's for me. Got something else for you."
He sat down on the bed as Starsky plumped up the pillows and leaned against the headboard.
"What do ya mean, something else?" he asked with a scowl.
Hutch took a deep sniff from one of the mugs. "For you—ginseng tea, honey and a shot of wheat grass. Good for your stamina."
Starsky was outraged. "You gotta be jokin'—c'mon, Hutch, you wouldn't deprive a man of a cup of coffee, wouldja?"
"Just try it—you might actually like it."
Glaring suspiciously, Starsky took the proffered mug. Determined to try it like Hutch asked, he sniffed at the contents—and then rolled his eyes.
"Very funny," he mumbled before taking a deep sip of coffee fixed exactly how he liked it.
Hutch grinned unrepentantly before his eyes softened as he held out his cup. "Morning, partner."
His insides tumbling at Hutch's tender expression, Starsky tipped his mug to Hutch's. "Mornin'."
They drank quietly for a few minutes. Starsky was aware of a fragile kind of contentment, shadowed only by the awareness that it could all be taken away in a heartbeat. He was due back at work the next day and the thought of continuing his career without Hutch at his side still scared the hell out of him.
Something else was bothering him and even though he was reluctant to break the mood, his curiosity got the better of him.
"Hutch—I got a question."
"All right."
"How did you know—I mean—did you ever, you know—how'd you know you could make it with a guy?"
Hutch looked down at the mug cradled in his hands. "You sure you wanna know?"
Starsky set aside his cup and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Considering what we spent the night doin' and the plans I got for you later, yeah, I wanna know."
"Okay." Hutch kept his head lowered, eyes intent on a thin crack edging the rim of his coffee mug. "There was a guy I knew once."
"A guy?" Instant hurt tightened Starsky's chest. "What guy? Was it Phillips from Vice, the guy you ran track with a couple a years ago? No, wait—it's DiGarmo from the motor pool, right? I always thought he looked at you funny—"
"Starsk—" Hutch held up his hand to stem the flow of Starsky's indignant speculations. "It's not anyone you know. It happened before we met—right after I met Van, as a matter of fact."
"Hunh. And you still married her."
"Starsky—" Hutch warned. It was an old argument.
"So what happened with this guy?"
Hutch shrugged. "We were young and curious, I guess. But we went into it with our eyes wide open—it's not like we got drunk one night or anything like that."
"How long were you two, uh, together?"
"About five months, I guess."
Starsky looked down as his fingers pleated the thin bedspread. "Did you care about him?"
Hutch covered his hand, stilling his nervous movements and waiting to continue until Starsky met his gaze. "Starsky, I've cared—no, I've loved—a lot of people in my life. So have you. Nothing is going to change that and I don't think either of us would want to. What matters now is us—and the future."
He released Starsky's hand and scooted closer. "I'm not gonna lie to you. I had feelings for him—but I was falling in love with Vanessa and so we had to break up, but there were no hard feelings. Even if I'd wanted to, I knew that I couldn't do anything like that again if I wanted to be a cop."
"So, not since then, you never—"
"Not 'til last night."
"Okay." Starsky nodded, satisfied with Hutch's reply. It was out of line for him to be jealous of any of Hutch's past relationships and gender shouldn't make a difference. He started to rise but was prevented when Hutch's hand landed heavily on his shoulder.
"Not so fast." Starsky swallowed—he knew that tone of voice and now it was his turn. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
Hutch lifted one eyebrow, telling Starsky exactly what he thought of that tactic.
"Yeah, okay. See, here's the thing—I kinda started wonderin' about you and me, right? So I started kinda, you know, scoping out other guys."
"That must've felt weird."
Starsky shrugged. "A little."
"Did you think about John?"
"Nah. I thought about what I said about two guys gettin' together, about it not being a casual thing. Knew that wasn't how it was with you, so I kept lookin'."
He stole a glance at Hutch and was instantly reassured—the blue eyes were amused, but instead of laughing at him, they were bright with affection.
"Yeah? So what happened?"
Starsky leaned forward and took Hutch's mug and set it beside his on the nightstand. Then he wrapped his fingers around Hutch's neck, guiding him forward.
"I'll tell you what happened. Every guy I looked at had blond hair, legs that went on forever and reminded me of you. Turned me on every time."
He ended his declaration by taking Hutch's mouth in a deep kiss. They started slipping sideways, Starsky reaching for the tie of Hutch's robe as Hutch grabbed a handful of bedspread and yanking it out of the way.
"So tell me—what kind of plans and how much later?" Hutch murmured against his mouth. In response, Starsky slid his hands up the smooth chest and over Hutch's shoulders, taking the robe with him as he went. He welcomed Hutch's tongue into his mouth with a throaty moan—Hutch was a master at this, conveying passion and care with every cherishing kiss. No wonder all the women fell for him, Starsky thought feverishly as Hutch's hands began to roam down his body—but they couldn't have him. Not anymore—not ever again.
His own hands were busy pulling the sleeves of Hutch's robe off of his arms. Hutch had asked him a question and he had every intention of answering. When the robe lay in a puddle around Hutch's hips, he pulled Hutch on top of him and tenderly ravished his mouth. He rediscovered the silky planes of Hutch's back with his fingertips and palms, delineating the firm muscles down to the trim waist. Hutch was sucking gently on his throat, his entire body undulating like a cat against Starsky's caresses. Starsky allowed his touch to drift lower, exploring the still softer textures he found there. Hutch pushed impatiently against his hands and Starsky gladly obliged, one finger delving deeper than the others.
Hutch went still and Starsky withdrew his hands, settling them lightly on Hutch's hips. He held his breath as Hutch maneuvered up onto his elbows to look down into his eyes. To his vast relief, Hutch's eyes were still dark with passion as an unsteady smile played around his mouth.
"That's what you have in mind?" Hutch whispered.
"If that's okay with you," he whispered back.
"Oh, yeah." Hutch's smile widened. "It's very okay." He thumbed back a curl from Starsky's forehead. "What about you—how do you feel about that?"
Starsky lifted a hand to Hutch's face, outlining the strong jaw. "I—I dunno, Hutch. I mean, I trust you and all, but—"
"Hey, hey, it's okay." He captured Starsky's hand and pressed it to his lips. "We have the rest of our lives to work this stuff out, right?"
Starsky's eyes widened. "You'd let me—you know—without wanting it in return?"
"Well," Hutch whispered with a teasing smile, "I didn't say I didn't want it. But I'll never, ever ask you for more than you're willing to give."
Jesus, Starsky thought as he stared into Hutch's eyes—so this is what they're talking about in all those dopey songs. He felt as though he was coming out of freefall, Hutch's love surrounding him like a safety net. He cradled Hutch's face between his hands and drew him down for a brief kiss.
"I think I can handle that."
"Yeah, me too. Now, let's get back—"
They both groaned as the phone on the nightstand began to ring. Hutch rolled away from Starsky and reached for it as Starsky rubbed his face in frustration. It wasn't the first time he'd been interrupted in the middle of a tender moment and he figured he'd better get used it, given their current careers.
"Hello?" Hutch was saying into the receiver. He glanced over his shoulder and Starsky grinned at him, noticing for the first time the pale pink abrasions on the fair skin of Hutch's cheek. He touched his own face in remorse; he always made sure to shave before a date because of his heavy beard. He doubted Hutch would care but it might be noticeable to someone else.
"Yeah, Huggy, what's up—you do? Okay, give it to me—310 Mercy, apartment A, got it. Yeah—I'll fill Starsky in. You okay at Teo's this morning? Great—tell Laurie we'll be there as soon as we can. Yeah—bye."
Hutch hung up and turned back to Starsky. "We got a lead on Sammy Kerosene. Take a shower and grab one of my shirts—I'll make breakfast."
"Should be coming up on the left—there, that's it."
"Got it." Starsky snapped a U-turn and pulled up in front of 310 Mercy. The address Huggy had supplied was a ramshackle Craftsman split into two apartments, one of them occupied by Sammy Dowd's ex-wife. They ran up a buckled concrete walkway through an icy downpour and up sagging steps to a pair of doors—Starsky rapped on the left one as Hutch tried unsuccessfully to peer beyond the curtains covering the front window.
After a few minutes, Starsky pressed the doorbell, hearing it ring somewhere inside. They waited silently, both of them with their hands shoved deep in the pockets of their jackets. To Starsky, being back on the street with Hutch felt wonderful, but it was a two-edged sword—with or without the blessing of the department, he knew Hutch was the only partner he'd ever want. There was no comparison—Washburn was an okay guy, but if Hutch wasn't coming back, he'd have to face working with someone else.
He shared a glance with Hutch and pressed the doorbell again. Before the last chime died, the door opened as much as a cheap security chain would allow.
"Yeah?" The voice was rough but definitely feminine.
Starsky held up his badge to the peephole. "Trudie Archer?"
"Yeah, that's me." A thin hand with pink fingernails curled around the door's edge. "What do you want?"
"Just wanna ask a few questions. Can we come in?"
There was a pause before the chain was removed and the door swung open. Starsky followed Hutch into a neat but spare front room. He took in the sagging couch in one corner, covered with a brightly patterned bedspread and beside it, a TV tray served as an end table. Another TV tray held a small television near an archway that led to an empty dining room and the kitchen beyond.
Trudie herself was a lot like her apartment, small, neat and well worn. Starsky estimated her age around fifty, but with her bleached hair and drab housecoat, it was hard to tell. As Hutch surreptitiously checked out the hallway to the bedrooms, Starsky smiled at her and led her to sit on the couch.
"Sorry to bother you, but we're wondering if you know where—"
"You're here about Sammy, aren't you."
The blunt statement surprised them. They shared another look before Starsky sat next to Trudie on the couch.
"Yeah, we are. You know where we can find him?"
Trudie shook her head and took a pack of cigarettes and lighter from her pocket. "Nah. I just know anytime cops come around here, it's gotta be about Sammy."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Starsky asked, keeping her attention as Hutch checked out the kitchen.
Trudie lit her cigarette with shaking fingers and blew out a blue stream of smoke. "Couple months ago."
"What did he want?"
"What else? Money."
"You give him any?"
She laughed nervously and waved her cigarette at the room at large. "You kiddin' me? I got a kid and a minimum wage job—I ain't got no money to spare for no ex-con."
"Right. You got any idea where Sammy might be hanging out these days?"
She picked a piece of tobacco from her lips and shook her head. "Told me he was on his way to Bakersfield—got himself a job on the rigs. I ain't heard from him since." She stubbed out her cigarette and rose to her feet. "I gotta get ready for work—shift boss'll dock my pay if I'm late. Anything else?"
Starsky stood up, his glance falling on a framed photo of a teenager perched on the TV tray. He picked it up and held it out toward Trudie.
"This your kid?"
Trudie's thin arms wound around her waist as her eyes darted toward the door. "Yeah. Name's Billy. That's an old picture."
"Nice lookin' kid." Starsky replaced the picture and joined Hutch at the front door. "If you hear from Sammy—" he pulled a card out of his pocket "—let us know, okay?"
Trudie took the card and stuffed it in her pocket. "Yeah. Sure. Look, you gotta go—I'm gonna be late."
They thanked her and left, waiting until they were back in the Torino to compare notes.
As Starsky pulled out, Hutch pulled out his notebook. "I didn't see any sign of a man in the house—not even a teenaged kid."
Starsky nodded. "Yeah, and tell me how a guy sent up for arson gets a job on an oil rig. Either Sammy was lying or he was hired off the books."
"Either way, we know he's back in town and back at his old job."
"Know what else? That kid had to be at least eighteen in that picture—if he's twenty-three now, is she supporting him or what?"
"Good question. You think he's Sammy's kid?"
"Could be. I'll check on both last names tomorrow—maybe Huggy can get some information on him, too. In the meantime, you and me got a restaurant to run—and I think Laurie put you on potato peeling duty."
He could feel the heat of Hutch's glare and suppressed a smile.
"Me?" Hutch spluttered. "What about you?"
"Oh, you know," Starsky said airily, "she's got me workin' the front of the house on account of my dazzling personality."
"Yeah, sure. What's she got you doing—sweeping the front walk?"
Starsky hunched his shoulders in a weak shrug. "Nah. Washing windows."
"Starsk—this is crazy. We own the place. We should be able to do what we want, when we wanna do it."
Starsky slapped the steering wheel. "Hutch, you're right. You're absolutely right."
"Sure I'm right. And you're
gonna tell her I'm right, just as soon as we get back."
"Aw, c'mon, Hutch..."
"Starsky! Telephone!"
Laurie set the receiver on the bar and Starsky grabbed it. "Hello, Dave Starsk—"
"Starsky!"
Starsky winced and held the phone away from his ear. "Hey, Captain," he said in its general direction. "You looking for a dinner reservation? Got your favorite table all set—"
"Damn it, Starsky—what the hell are you and Hutchinson doing, working a case that isn't yours?"
Realizing they were busted, Starsky moved the phone down to the end of the bar and took a seat. "Look, Cap, it's not like that. We were just—"
"Listen, I don't care what you two were doin'—you don't horn in on somebody else's case. Now I want you to turn over your notes to the detectives in charge and leave this alone!"
"Okay, okay—but I got one question. How'd they find out we were working their case?"
"Despite what you may think, you and your partner aren't the only two detectives in Bay City. They found his ex-wife, same as you did. And she wasn't real thrilled to find out she'd talked to you, either. So lay off, you got me?"
Starsky rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. We'll back off."
"Damn right you'll back off. Now, you got any of the manicotti you had the other night?"
"For you, Captain, we'll make some fresh."
"Starsky—you trying to kiss ass?"
"Yes, sir. Is it working?"
"It's gettin' there. Don't forget to turn in those notes."
"So tell me again—how mad was he?"
"On the Dobey scale? Let's see, not as mad as the time we impersonated internal affairs to test that new squad car, but madder than when we got caught running the betting pool on his belt size."
"Okay. Not so bad. Is that the last tub?"
"Nah. We got two more after this."
"Two?" Hutch groaned. "That's it—no more hiring brothers as dishwashers, especially ones with pregnant sisters who go into labor during the dinner rush."
"You got that right."
It was after midnight and Starsky could've sworn they'd been washing dishes since sundown. Huggy had been less than sympathetic, pointing out that this was a consequence of business ownership. While Starsky couldn't argue with that, he'd had other plans for the night, plans that involved the man standing next to him up to his elbows in suds. But it didn't look like it was going to happen—they were both tired and still had at least an hour's work left.
"Starsk—think you'd better take off." Hutch gave him a tired smile and reached for the next tub of dishes.
"What? Why?"
"You gotta work tomorrow, remember?"
"Yeah? So?"
"So, you're gonna be a zombie if you don't get some sleep."
"I don't care," he mumbled stubbornly. "I can't leave you with all this."
Hutch grabbed a towel and wiped off his hands. Starsky could see it in his eyes—he knew Starsky wasn't talking about the dishes. They'd had to maintain the façade that nothing had changed between them all day, and so soon after having coming to terms with it themselves, the intervening hours had left them feeling bruised. A touch once in a while—nothing more than they'd shared before—or a warm glance during a lull in the rush weren't enough to compensate for the need they both felt for each other. With the dishwashers gone, they'd lost any chance at some kind of intimacy for the rest of the night.
Or so Starsky had thought.
"C'mon." Hutch snatched the towel from his hands and tossed it aside before taking Starsky's wrist and leading him into the darkened restaurant. Unresisting, Starsky let himself be dragged near the stage where the shadows were the deepest.
"What are we—" He was cut off when Hutch enfolded him in his arms and set his mouth gently on his with a kiss that brought a sting to Starsky's eyes. Passion may have lurked around the edges, but Starsky recognized the kiss for what it was—both promise and reminder, it lingered between them, ebbing and flowing as they let down their guard and communicated on a strictly tactile level.
Just as Starsky was beginning to wonder if they could have their second night together right there on the dance floor, Hutch switched gears again. Winding his fingers into Starsky's hair, Hutch tipped his head forward and smacked a sloppy kiss on his forehead. Almost in the same movement, he grasped Starsky's shoulders and spun him around, emphasizing his point with a quick slap to Starsky's butt.
"Get outta here."
Starsky hung his head. He knew Hutch was right, but he also believed there were some things more important in life than showing up for work on time. His back still to Hutch, he scratched his nose and thought about what he wanted most in the world.
It was an easy choice.
"Okay." He turned around and folded his arms to prevent himself from reaching out. "I'll go—but I want you to come to my place when you're done."
Golden light from across the foyer glinted on pale hair as Hutch shook his head. "Starsk, I don't think I'm up—"
"No, not for that," he reassured him quickly. "It's just—you know, it just seems funny not to be together. Like last night never happened."
The sigh he heard was one of agreement, not exasperation. "I know. But it did happen—and it'll happen again."
"Right. I know that. But tonight, I just wanna know that you're there. That we're together. So come over when the dishes are finished and crawl into bed with me. Chances are I'll be dead to the world, so try and be quiet, okay?"
They both knew the odds of Starsky being asleep were practically non-existent, but it was a compromise they could live with. Hutch agreed and Starsky left, both of them knowing that some boundary had been crossed. Maybe not as big as the one they'd traversed the night before, but in Hutch's capitulation was a tacit accord that their nights would not be spent apart.
Once in his apartment, Starsky found it almost unbearably lonely. He was tired, but he puttered around for a while, his mind on other things. He didn't want Hutch to come home to find him still awake—that would negate Hutch's good deed of staying behind so Starsky could get some rest. Restless and distracted, he eventually stripped down to his shorts and crawled into bed, mindful to stay on the side the farthest away from the door.
Despite his expectations, he fell into an uneasy slumber. He half-woke at every sound and had to turn away from the bedside clock so he wouldn't stare at it when he opened his eyes.
A backfiring car awakened him from his deepest sleep and his body jerked sideways. He rolled over to check the time and swore loudly before throwing back the covers and reaching for the phone.
It was 4:00 a.m.—and no sign of Hutch.
He tried the restaurant first and wasn't surprised that there was no answer. His heart pounded as he next tried Hutch's place, reasoning desperately that Hutch had gone home instead. When he still didn't get an answer, he slammed down the phone and then instantly picked up to call dispatch. They patched him through to the radio in Hutch's car without question—and still no answer.
Within three minutes, Starsky was dressed and sliding a windbreaker on over his shoulder holster as he ran toward the door. The sixth sense that he'd always had about Hutch and trouble was humming through his veins and he'd learned long ago to listen to it—and right now it was telling him that Hutch had never left Teo's.
He skipped the main street in front of the restaurant and pulled directly into the alley. The first thing he noticed was that the bright floodlight they'd recently installed by the back door was out. He hit the brakes and jumped out of the Torino, running the last few steps to the door, his steps crunching on broken glass from the smashed light bulb. As he reached the partially open door, the smell hit him—he couldn't see the smoke in the dark, but the acrid odor was immediately identifiable.
Teo's was on fire.
"Hutch!" He shoved the door aside with his shoulder, gun drawn with the barrel pointed upward. A wave of heat assailed him as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, thrusting him against the inner brick wall near the sinks. He could see flames beginning to crawl up the wall behind the large stove on the far side of the room and he looked around the room for a fire alarm. He spotted one by the walk-in and leaped for it, bruising his fingers as he clawed to pull it down. Immediately the air filled with the grinding dissonance of the alarm and Starsky forced himself to shout above the noise.
"Hutch! Hutch, where are you?"
A large fire extinguisher sat at the end of one of the steel counters. He wrestled it into his arms, pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle at the fire shooting up through the stove onto the wall. The flames were stubborn, continuing to pop up in places after he'd thought he'd fought them back. Foam, steam and smoke thickened inside his nose and mouth and he had to turn away several times to cough and spit—and all the while his thoughts were consumed with the well-being—and whereabouts—of his partner.
The extinguisher was sputtering as the last of the flames died away. He tossed it aside and fled the kitchen to the cooler dining room beyond, frantically searching for any sign of his partner. Skidding along the length of the bar, he continued to yell Hutch's name, knocking chairs and tables out of the way. Viscous air was leaking into the room and panic began to clog his throat as he rushed toward the office. Flinging the door open, it hit something and bounced back into his face. He intuitively dropped to his knees and pushed the door open again to reach inside, his hand connecting immediately with something he knew well—the baby-fine hair of his partner.
"Hutch! Oh, God—c'mon, Hutch—"
With shaking fingers, he holstered his weapon and maneuvered the unresponsive body out of the door's way, struggling blindly in the dark. He ran his hands quickly over Hutch's body, discovering that his hands had been tied behind his back and his ankles bound as well. There was nothing to tell him whether Hutch was dead or alive.
The air was growing more stagnant as Starsky hoisted Hutch across his shoulder and staggered toward the entrance—he didn't dare go back through the kitchen. He cautiously shifted his burden to unlock the front door and then they were out into the clean, cold air. His eyes watering, his lungs straining to expel the crap he'd inhaled, he got as far away from the restaurant as he could before he went down on one knee and gently laid Hutch on the sidewalk.
A nearby streetlamp provided enough light for Starsky to see the streaks of blood that stained the left side of Hutch's pale face and matted the hair to his temple. He placed two trembling fingers against Hutch's neck, dizzy with relief when he found a strong pulse. Only partially reassured, he carefully peeled away strands of hair that had stuck to the gash on his forehead—it was going to need stitches but it didn't look too deep.
He couldn't think about what the alternative could've been—he just kept moving. He dug his pocket knife out of his jeans and applied it to the thin twine strapping Hutch's wrists and ankles. Like snipping the strings on a marionette, Hutch slumped forward—Starsky threw the knife aside and slipped his arms around Hutch's body, pulling him off the dirty concrete and into his arms.
"I gotcha, it's okay, I gotcha," he crooned, hardly aware of what he was saying. He looked back over his shoulder to see dirty air pouring out of Teo's front door just as a fire engine's wail broke through the quiet night. His mind was curiously blank, his entire existence focused on the unconscious man he held, pouring all his will into Hutch being okay.
His prayers were answered when Hutch twisted slightly, emitting a low moan.
"Hey, hey, partner," Starsky murmured. "Take it easy, Hutch, take it easy, I gotcha."
"Starsk?" Hutch raised a shaking hand toward his forehead and Starsky intercepted it, gathering it close to his chest.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm here. Take it easy, ambulance will be here soon, okay?"
"Starsk..." Hutch's eyes fluttered open. "You're here..."
Starsky dredged up a ragged smile. "'Course I'm here—where else am I gonna be? But you're gonna be okay." He shifted Hutch closer, his eyes squeezing shut. "You'll be okay."
"Starsky—" He felt a slight pressure on his arm and looked down to see Hutch's fingers wrapped around it in a weak grip. He covered them with his own and leaned closer.
"Yeah?"
"Why—why do I hear—sirens?"
"Well—" Starsky glanced toward Teo's. Fire trucks were filling the street and onlookers were gathering, just like the night of the laundry fire. He looked back down into Hutch's eyes and swallowed hard. "Seems we got a little problem with our stove."
Hutch stared at him. "Our stove—oh, God—" Starsky watched helplessly as understanding flowed into Hutch's reddened eyes. "There was a guy—he—"
"Shhh, hey, take it easy." Starsky cupped Hutch's face with his free hand. He'd just seen an ambulance turn the corner and he knew Hutch was about to be taken away from him. "You can tell me all about it after we get you fixed up, okay?"
Hutch blinked up at him, the path of a thin tear streaking the drying blood on his temple. "Starsk—I—sorry...my fault..."
Starsky felt his heart crack but forced himself to hold on to his smile. "Hey, none of that, okay? Nothing happened here that can't be fixed—s'why we got insurance, right?"
He was rewarded with a faint smile just as the ambulance pulled up beside them. He didn't let go of Hutch until they had the gurney ready, and even then, he made sure he touched Hutch somewhere and stayed in his line of sight. He didn't even bother to try and convince himself it was for Hutch's sake and when the back doors were slammed shut, the separation was physically and mentally wrenching.
He watched until the ambulance was out of sight before turning back to the chaos in the street—and the near destruction of a dream.
Hutch awoke with the unsettling urge to vomit and the overwhelming knowledge of failure.
They'd parked him in a hospital room, although the doctor had advised him the jury was still out regarding admittance. He could've told them he wasn't staying—his head had been knocked around too many times for him not to know the difference between a headache and a concussion. The fact that he wanted to throw up was more emotional than physical but either way, he lay still and swallowed carefully, knowing the nurses would take it as a bad sign.
And damn it, his head hurt—whatever he'd been hit with had possessed a sharp edge and he'd needed stitches. Again, nothing new, but it made it tough for a guy to take a shower. At least they hadn't needed to shave his head.
These were the little worries he used to occupy his mind—otherwise, he was afraid he was going to lose it. He fingered the bandage on his forehead before returning to the task he'd started before he'd dozed off—counting the holes in the ceiling tile. Anything to pass the time until Starsky came back.
He glanced at his watch—it was almost noon and Starsky said he'd return no later than that to spring him after going back to Teo's. Then he'd come back to pick up Hutch, if the doctors said it was okay. Hutch was going to make damn sure they did because he had a lot of work to do—he had a restaurant to reopen and he had to find the people responsible for almost burning it down.
Forget it—he wasn't going to wait for the doctor's decision. Starsky had brought clean clothes earlier and left them folded on the small table next to the bed. Moving slowly, he pushed the thin blanket away and sat up, pleased when the room only spun a little. He paused for a few seconds to assess various bruises and aches—he'd tried to put up a fight but had been knocked out early in the game by the man he was trying to help.
The next step was to swing his legs off the bed—he accomplished that with only a slight dizziness that he assigned to the contrast of cold air blowing against his bare legs. Damn, he hated hospital gowns.
The floor was farther away than he remembered. He stretched out one leg and let it dangle for a moment before pushing off the edge of the mattress. The shock of clammy linoleum on his bare feet caught him off guard and his right knee buckled. He flung out his hand to grab something to steady himself and only came up with a handful of loose blanket—it wasn't enough and he saw that same speckled linoleum rushing up to meet him as the world turned gray.
Strong arms wrapped around him, easing him back to lean against the bed.
"Hold on there, cowboy—it ain't time for the round-up yet."
Starsky. It took every ounce of Hutch's will not to turn into Starsky's embrace and lay down his aching head on the broad, beloved shoulder. Instead, he straightened and backed away a little, knowing he needed to rely on Hutchinson stubbornness to get through the next few hours—there'd be time to fall apart later.
"'Bout time you got here," he complained. To cover the fact that his knees were still shaking, he sat down on the bed and assumed an only partially faked expression of irritation.
Starsky wasn't fazed. He responded with a sly grin and sat down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to rub together.
"Hey, any more talk like that and I'm leaving you here for lunch. I understand the menu includes creamed corn and stewed prunes."
"That's cruel," Hutch protested, but it was token. He knew Starsky would never leave him behind.
"So, the doc give you the all clear to get out of here?"
Hutch bit his lip. "Not really, but I'm sure—"
"Nope, don't say it. You don't get the okay from the doctor, you're parking your butt back into bed until you do."
"Aw, Starsky—"
"Save it. Lemme go find somebody, see if we can get you sprung."
It was a lot like the night Starsky had been winged at Bumpy Jake's—and a lot like they way they worked—they just did for each other.
Regardless of what anyone said, Hutch was determined to leave. While Starsky was gone he got dressed, able to do everything but tie his shoes. When Starsky returned with a doctor in tow, Hutch was subjected to a stern but silent lecture from his partner while his wound was examined. After the usual litany of side effects to watch for, he was finally pronounced fit enough to be released.
Hutch wanted to go back to the restaurant but Starsky was hard to convince, stating flatly that he was tired and he wanted Hutch where he could keep an eye on him. Hutch kept on arguing as an unresponsive Starsky knelt on the floor to tie his shoes. He'd given his statement to the detectives assigned to the case earlier that morning, the same ones investigating Tito's assault and the laundry arson. Starsky had stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, head down, but Hutch knew he heard everything that was said and some things that weren't. It galled him to be a victim and as much as he wanted to cooperate, he was sure that he and Starsky needed to be on the streets as soon as possible.
One shared glance and they'd both agreed—there'd been something wrong about the two detectives, Wagner and Cross. New to the department, they had no reputation, either good or bad—not even Dobey knew much about them. They'd treated Hutch like a common victim of a crime and had already seemed to reach the conclusion that Teo's had been the scene of a burglary gone bad and Hutch's assault the unfortunate by-product of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Wagner was a gaunt, balding redhead with a port wine birthmark staining his right cheek and he'd made it crystal clear that he and his partner hadn't appreciated Starsky and Hutch working their case on the side. The animosity in the room had been thick, leaving Starsky looking mutinous and Hutch feeling extremely uneasy.
After they'd left, the sketch artist had arrived and Hutch had done the best he could, but even with Starsky trying to jog his memory, the drawing was useless. All Hutch could remember was someone in a hooded sweatshirt —there'd been no way for him to make an ID. Disgusted with himself and his inability to deliver a decent sketch, Hutch was determined that he and Starsky needed to handle this their way—and that started with returning to the scene of the crime.
Starsky finally caved when Hutch stopped cajoling and told him the truth—that he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd seen the damage himself.
But as they drove toward Teo's, Hutch began to ache, his head, his body—and his heart. Due to his carelessness, he'd almost lost everything they'd worked toward, the most important thing they had next to each other, their promise for a brighter future.
Huggy was still there and to Hutch's pleased surprise, Dobey was there, too. Pleased until Dobey laid into him about taking stupid chances in the middle of the night and didn't he know better than to turn his back on a stranger? Hutch took the admonishment with surly grace, knowing it was Dobey's way of telling him he cared.
And he needed that reminder, as much as he needed Starsky and Huggy beside him as they surveyed the damage in the kitchen. In the cold light of morning, it was overwhelming, although of the three, Huggy seemed the least bothered.
"Not much more than a grease fire," he said with a shrug. "Seen a few of those in my day. Still—" he turned to his partners with a warning frown "—we're looking at couple weeks, maybe a month before we're back in business."
"Damn it," Hutch muttered. Along with the fire damage, foam from the extinguisher was everywhere, leaving everything coated with a thick sludge that smelled of chemicals and burnt oil. The stove and exhaust fan above it were a complete loss, and Huggy figured the back wall would have be to be partially reconstructed as well.
There wasn't anything else to do until they could meet with the insurance adjuster on Monday. When Huggy suggested gathering back at The Pits, Starsky answered yes for both of them and bundled Hutch into the Torino over his protest. Starsky had switched into a gear Hutch recognized, the one that said he'd better just shut up and let Starsky drive.
Starsky's mood continued and Hutch let him order food that he didn't want. With visions of Starsky force-feeding him, he ate without enthusiasm, downing half a bowl of soup before pushing everything away and reaching for his coffee mug.
"There's no way this was a burglary, Starsk. You know it, I know it—everyone knows it except Wagner and Cross. Somebody doing a B and E doesn't ask to use the phone and then lets me see his face, even in the shadows."
"Yeah." In the harsh light of The Pits, Starsky looked gray and tired, like a man who'd had no sleep—or had almost lost his best friend. "He tried to cover up attempted murder with a fire—that ain't Sammy's M.O. at all. Even with the cash drawers being emptied, this doesn't play like a burglary."
Their eyes met across the table. "Think it has something to do with our visit to Trudie?" Hutch asked quietly.
"Yeah." Hutch watched as Starsky scrubbed his face with both hands. They were both wrung out, the emotions of the past few days draining them dry. Starsky sighed through his fingers before dropping them into his lap, turning his weary gaze toward Hutch. "Maybe somebody thought we'd both still be at the restaurant. Maybe—"
"Huggy?" Angie stepped to the table with an apologetic smile. "There's a guy at the back door, says he wants to talk to you. Seemed kinda nervous."
Huggy excused himself and they remained silent while he was gone, lost in their thoughts and fighting the exhaustion they could see mirrored in each others' eyes.
They both straightened hurriedly when Huggy returned with a rush of energy, planting his fists on the table and leaning in. "That was my friend Rocco. He's a bouncer at one of the strip clubs over on Carson. He says he knows your boy Billy Archer and dig this—Billy likes the ponies. A lot. He also likes basketball and the dog races."
"A real renaissance man," Hutch murmured.
Starsky nodded. "A renaissance man who needs a lot of money."
"More than a lot," Huggy agreed as he sat down. "'Cause he owed about ten grand to his bookie."
Hutch let out a low whistle. "That's some serious change. Unless you got a bankroll, bookies don't generally let a guy run up that much debt."
"'Specially this bookie." Huggy tipped his chair back and folded his fingers behind his head, his eyes shining with that special gleam they got just before he delivered important news. "Name you might be interested in—Bumpy Jake."
Hutch felt as though he'd been gut-punched. Things were spiraling out of control and the floor was dropping beneath his feet. His eyes squeezed shut and he rubbed at his head beneath the gauze bandage.
"Wait a minute, hold on," he said. He looked over at Huggy, who was watching him expectantly. "You said owed, not owes—why?"
Huggy threw back his shoulders. "According to Rocco, debt's been cancelled."
"How?" Starsky's tone was sharp with fatigue.
"Dunno. Rocco said kid's in the clear, that's all he knew. And by the way, you two dudes owe me fifty bucks for that information."
Starsky stood up. "Put it on our tab." He walked around the table and placed his hand on Hutch's neck, sliding his thumb beneath Hutch's hairline in a hidden caress. "I'm taking this walking bruise home."
"Bedroom," Starsky commanded him with a jerk of his head. Too tired and dispirited to protest, Hutch did as he was bid as Starsky made his way into his kitchen. When undressing seemed too much of a challenge he sat down on the bed and stared blindly at the carpet, trying to come up with the right combination of words to tell Starsky how sorry he was.
A calloused hand appeared in front of his scratchy eyes—Starsky's palm with a pair of aspirin resting in it. In Starsky's other hand was a small glass of grapefruit juice.
"Thanks," he muttered. Like Starsky, he refused to take prescribed painkillers unless he absolutely had to. Starsky didn't like them because they disagreed with his stomach, but for Hutch, to take anything even slightly addicting renewed painful memories. Starsky watched him swallow the pills with a stern expression, then retrieved the empty glass before helping Hutch to his feet to undress him. Hutch let him, then stood and watched as Starsky also stripped down to bare skin. It was quick, clinical, nothing arousing about it.
"What are you doing?" he asked dully. Starsky didn't answer, pulling off the quilted bedspread and leaving it in a heap on the floor. He yanked back the covers and fluffed both pillows before turning off the light and plunging the room into the semi-darkness of late afternoon.
"Starsk?" Hutch whispered, at a loss at how to proceed. He still had words of apology stuck in his mouth, words he needed to say to the only person he wanted to hear them.
Broad hands curved around his arms and guided him down onto the bed. He laid down automatically, turned slightly away from the middle and clutching at the covers as they were tenderly drawn to his neck. He felt the bed dip and closed his eyes, afraid that Starsky would expect him to simply go to sleep without a word.
And then—warmth. Forgiving, enveloping heat flowed around him as a gentle kiss was dropped on his shoulder. In easy stages, Starsky pulled and tugged at him until the uninjured side of his head lay pillowed on Starsky's chest. Starsky's arms curled around him, soothing him with long, slow, strokes down his back and along his cheek and jaw.
"Didn't like finding you like that," Starsky murmured after a while. "Scared the hell outta me, so I'm just gonna hold on to you for a while, okay?"
"That why you've been bossing me around all day?"
"You better believe it."
As Starsky's comforting touch lulled him toward sleep, Hutch found it easier to talk.
"I screwed up," he said with sleepy sigh. "Stopped thinking like a cop."
"Yeah, you did and no, you didn't."
Hutch found enough energy to chuckle at Starsky's blunt assessment. He liked the rough feel of Starsky's skin against his cheek, the comforting planes that fit against him so well, supporting him in ways a woman's body never could.
"You wanna explain that?"
Starsky's fingers crept into his hair above his temple to start a firm massage. "Sure. You screwed up because you let down your guard and got whacked on the head for your trouble. You didn't stop thinkin' like a cop 'cause helping people is what cops do. Guy says his car broke down, wants to use your phone, 'course you're gonna let him do it."
Hutch's eyelashes fluttered. "You make it sound so simple."
"Simple it ain't, but that's the best I can do for now. So shut up and let a guy get some sleep, all right?"
Starsky's tough words were belied by the delicate brush of his lips to the top of Hutch's head and the tightening of his arms around his body. Encased in the safety of Starsky's arms, Hutch slept.
"This doesn't look good."
"Nope." Hutch was already down on one knee, pulling up his pant leg and unstrapping his backup weapon. It was eight a.m.—raining again—and they were at Trudie's, trying to find some answers.
They'd figured to catch Trudie early; they'd learned she worked swing at a twenty-four hour truck stop just off of the 405 interchange. But when Starsky had rapped on the door it'd swung open, revealing a room that no longer resembled the neat home that Trudie kept.
"I'll go around back." Starsky leaped over the railing at the end of the porch and disappeared as Hutch took a defensive position beside the door. The smaller gun felt unfamiliar in his hands, almost ineffectually light, and he made a mental note to spend some time at the range with it before too long.
In the meantime, he knocked again on the partially opened door, sinking to half-crouch by the door frame.
"Trudie?" he called out. "Trudie Archer? It's Sergeant Hutchinson, Bay City Police!"
There was no reply and Hutch cautiously set one foot inside the door, giving it a little push with his toe to open it further. The living room that had once been so orderly was a mess—but not the kind of mess that told him the place had been tossed. No, this looked more like someone had packed and left in a hurry—the furniture was intact, even the TV was still plugged in, but anything of a personal nature was gone, including the picture of Billy.
He turned clockwise toward the hallway as he heard Starsky come in the back door and call out an all clear. A quick examination of the rooms confirmed his suspicion when he saw that the closets had been emptied of most the clothes. He was standing in Trudie's bedroom when Starsky joined him, gazing at the dresser where a few mismatched trinkets lay scattered on a stained fragment of lace.
"She's split." Starsky swept the room with a glance as he holstered his gun.
"Wonder what spooked her." Hutch picked up a small tin charm in the shape of an anchor. "Or who paid her."
He set the charm down and was about to follow Starsky out of the room when a scrap of blue paper tucked under the
edge of a small jewelry box caught his eye. Something about it struck him as familiar, so he nudged the box aside to get a better look.
It was a business card, turned upside down. He picked it up and flipped it over, the feeling of familiarity growing despite being unable to recognize the name on the front.
He took it with him into the living room where Starsky was waiting.
"Hey, Starsk—the name Robert Caldwell mean anything to you?"
"No—why?"
He held out the card. "Found this in Trudie's room. Guy's a lawyer, name of his firm is on the card. I didn't recognize the name either, but there's something bugging me about it."
Starsky shrugged. "We run across a lot of attorneys in our line of work—maybe that's it."
"Yeah, maybe." Hutch tucked the card in his breast pocket and gave Starsky a gentle, backhanded slap on the chest. "C'mon, let's get out of here before Wagner and Cross show up."
He had taken two steps toward the front door before realizing that Starsky hadn't moved. He turned back to see Starsky staring at him, the same bemused, awestruck look he'd been wearing off and on since Hutch had awakened him in the middle of the night.
"You comin'?" Hutch inquired with an evil grin.
Starsky glared at him, his mouth twitching as he tried to suppress an answering smile. "With you around? Sure is lookin' that way."
Hutch threw back his head and laughed, then winced as his head throbbed in protest. God, it felt good to laugh after the past twenty-four hours—even better to know that he was the one that had brought the shine of a well-loved man to Starsky's eyes.
"Let's go," he said more kindly. "Dobey said nine and he sounded like he meant it." Starsky shook his head and gave him a warning grunt as he proceeded him out the door. Hutch just smiled harder, because he knew Starsky was planning his revenge—and Hutch could hardly wait.
It had been a dry mouth that had roused Hutch in the middle of the night—that and a full bladder. They'd both been so tired that they'd slept through the evening and Hutch still wasn't feeling hungry as he'd carefully rolled out of bed. He knew Starsky's kitchen as well as his own and helped himself to a glass and the jug of water Starsky kept in his refrigerator. The aspirin bottle sat on the counter and he swallowed a couple before heading to the bathroom, anxious to feel Starsky pressed against him again.
As he made his way back to bed, a split in the curtains allowed a streak of light to cut sideways across sheet covering Starsky. Between the two of them, they'd generated enough body heat to forego anything heavier and now the pale light rested softly on the sheet that limned Starsky's body, revealing it to Hutch's eager eyes.
Pausing at the edge of the mattress, Hutch soaked in the sight of his partner—his lover—as he slept. Starsky had shifted toward the center of the bed, one arm outstretched, palm up on Hutch's pillow. A faint frown creased the sleeping man's forehead and Hutch longed to soothe it away, the same way Starsky had eased him into sleep hours earlier.
But it wasn't just comfort Hutch wanted to offer Starsky—they'd had one night together and Hutch felt an irresistible need to touch him, to strengthen the newborn intimacy between them. As much as he believed that what they'd found together was meant to be, Hutch knew how ephemeral emotions were unless supported by the constant practice of love.
The hell with it, he thought. This was real, this was where he wanted to be for the rest of his life—it always came back to Starsky and now Starsky would always be there.
He reached down and gathered a small handful of sheet, giving it a slow tug. The sheet slid down Starsky's torso, revealing broad, firm chest muscles lightly shadowed with hair. He smiled as Starsky scratched at his ribs in his sleep and murmured something too low for Hutch to hear. Waiting until Starsky was still, he gave the sheet another careful pull. The fabric slipped to Starsky's hips, just below his belly button, drifting across the sharp jut of his pelvis.
A sweet tingling bubbled up low in Hutch's gut as he gazed down at the man in the bed, his skin washed by moonlight yet a dusky contrast to the pale sheets. He watched in fascination as Starsky shifted onto his back, one hand curled above his head, the other falling to rest on his flat belly. The sheet dipped lower on one side, angling from the top of his hipbone down the curve of his thigh. Hutch's mouth went dry—Starsky was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, a pornographic angel sprawled on a cloud of cheap cotton.
The hand on Starsky's belly began to move again, only this time with an apparent destination. His fingers skimmed lower and lower, eventually sliding beneath the sheet, and Hutch swallowed a groan as he followed the tantalizing—and recognizable—rise and fall of the fabric. Even in his sleep, Starsky was turning him on so much he was afraid to move—or afraid he couldn´t—but then he stole a glance at Starsky's face.
Eyes still closed, Starsky was grinning, obviously enjoying Hutch's discomfort. Before Hutch could express his outrage, Starsky peeled open one eye and gave Hutch an outrageous wink before apparently abandoning his partner for his solo pursuit of pleasure.
No way, Hutch thought with evil delight, he's not getting away with that—not while I'm around.
The sheet was swept away and before it had fluttered to the floor, Hutch was kneeling between Starsky's spread legs, his hands sliding up the bare skin toward the apex of his thighs. Starsky's smug expression disappeared to be replaced by stunned ecstasy as Hutch followed his hands with his mouth. The first time had been so rushed, so full of untutored passion, for all that it had been perfect—but now Hutch wanted nothing more than to begin to learn Starsky's body, to make it respond to his touch alone.
And so Hutch had loved Starsky, unselfishly and with meticulous attention to detail. He'd taught Starsky about places on his body that only Hutch knew about through some improbable lover's instinct—and Hutch used that knowledge ruthlessly as he brought Starsky to the edge again and again. With single-minded selfishness, he'd relished the sensation of Starsky writhing against him, reveling in the curses and praise rained down on him in the same husky breath. From that same mysterious lover's wisdom came the warning that Starsky was rarely such a pliant lover, but for this one night, this one act of profound intimacy, he'd allowed Hutch free reign. And Hutch was no slouch—he'd taken every advantage of that freedom until he'd fallen exhausted into Starsky's arms, threats of tender retribution mumbled against in his ear.
Maybe Hutch was imagining things, but even hours later as they drove to the station through another crashing downpour, Starsky seemed to vibrate with the remnants of the passion that had been lavished on him. Hutch's body thrummed in time to Starsky's vitality, the memory of his taste lingering on Hutch's tongue.
Jesus, how Starsky had howled when Hutch had finally shown mercy enough to use his mouth where the need was greatest. Hutch understood that it wasn't so much the act itself—no doubt something Starsky had experienced many times over—but the fact that it was Hutch who was using his lips and tongue to such devastating effect. Hutch knew how good it could be between two men and while Starsky was an eager participant, Hutch wanted to make sure that at no point was Starsky put off or uncomfortable.
So far, so very damn good.
Afterward, as Starsky lay panting and oblivious on the bed, Hutch had quickly used his hand to take care of himself before falling into Starsky's wobbly embrace. Starsky had expressed incoherent but sincere disappointment when he'd reached down to find Hutch's groin soft and damp, but Hutch had hushed him with a deep kiss. After all, he'd whispered, this is what the rest of their life was all about.
That's when Starsky had muttered something about revenge and Hutch's tired heart had leapt—after all, his Starsky was one hell of an imaginative guy.
Starsky ducked as he crossed the threshold into Dobey's office as something brown and flat flew past his head. He turned in time to see Hutch cradling whatever it was to his chest, a look of surprise on his face. Only when Hutch showed him the billfold that Starsky understood—it was Hutch's badge.
"Get in here, you two," Dobey ordered. "And shut the door."
Starsky had the feeling he and Hutch were about to get their asses chewed, an occurrence so routine he was almost looking forward to it. He slouched into one of the chairs facing Dobey and stretched out his legs, settling in for the duration.
A tap on his arm brought his attention to Hutch, who jerked his head toward the corner of the office. Standing there was a man in a plaid suit and an impressive comb-over, a man Starsky didn't recognize. He shared a glance with Hutch as his partner sat beside him, then turned his attention to Dobey.
"Hutchinson, you're off suspension." Dobey gave them both a quick half-smile, the one that acknowledged his own satisfaction in saying the words.
"Thanks, Captain," Hutch replied. "I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why early?"
"That was at my request, Sergeant." The suit in the corner stepped forward. "And Captain Dobey was happy to oblige."
"Starsky, Hutchinson—this is Special Agent Mel Travers. He's with the local office of the California Bureau of Investigation."
Starsky didn't have to look at Hutch to know what he was thinking—something big was going down if the CBI was involved.
"I asked Agent Travers here to fill you in on an ongoing investigation."
A trickle of anger skimmed down Starsky's spine. "Ongoing, Cap? Are you saying me and Hutch are under investigation—"
"Not you two," Dobey broke in quickly. "The BCPD generally—and the mayor's task force, specifically."
Anger turned to apprehension and Starsky straightened in his chair. Beside him, he could feel tension roll off Hutch in waves as they waited for an explanation. Dobey turned to Travers and gave him a nod, signaling him to begin.
"For the past six months, we've suspected the task force of being populated with ringers, bad cops bought off with money from organized crime. Oh, they added a few clean cops—the two of you, Washburn, Phillip Devereaux—but most of the task force members have been, at the very least, disciplinary problems in their departments from all over the country."
"What does the mayor say about all this?" Hutch asked quietly.
Travers folded his arms over his chest, looking more like a mathematics professor than a highly trained agent. "We know the mayor is uninvolved. In fact, he's been aware of our investigation for some time and fully supports it. You see, although the task force carries his seal, the actual day to day running of it falls to someone else."
He paused expectantly. Starsky shook his head in disbelief as Hutch leaned forward, his knuckles white where they grasped the chair's arms.
"The deputy mayor," he said with complete conviction. He swiveled slowly toward Starsky, his blue eyes flinty with a look Starsky knew well. "It's Castillo."
"That's right." Dobey's chair creaked as he leaned back. "When the surveillance got blown at Bumpy Jake's, the State Bureau contacted me, along with some other commanders they'd already cleared, to let us know what was going on."
"Exactly so," Travers intoned. "What we've found so far is an extensive network of dirty cops, corrupt politicians and east coast money. It's a very crowded field."
"Where do we fit in?" Starsky asked.
"Tangentially, but significantly," Travers replied. "Your restaurant, for example—it's located in a neighborhood where half the businesses pay protection money to stay open. You weren't approached because everyone knew you were cops—but when that laundry burned down, it was a clear sign to everyone else that they'd better pay up."
Starsky rose abruptly, needing to move in order to take it all in. "That night at Bumpy Jake's—"
"Was a set up—we don't believe that either you or your partner that night were supposed to survive."
The prosaically spoken words hit Starsky hard and he stopped in his tracks to find Hutch's understanding gaze waiting for him. He took a deep breath and gave his partner a quick nod before squaring his shoulders and turning back to Travers.
"So what good would that have done?"
"Well—" For the first time, Travers looked uncomfortable. "We believe they had your replacements lined up." He pulled out a sheet of paper from his jacket and squinted down at it. "Their names are—"
"Wagner and Cross."
Travers looked up at Hutch's bitter proclamation. "Yes, exactly."
"Wait a minute." Dobey pinned Hutch with a sharp look. "How'd the hell you know that?"
"Wasn't hard to guess—they've been assigned to the fire at Teo's and don't seem terribly concerned about solving it."
Starsky leaned against the window sill, arms folded tightly over his chest. "Yeah, and the attempted murder of a police officer doesn't seem to be high on their list, either."
"So now what?" Hutch asked.
"For now, the fact that Hutchinson is back on the squad is only known by the men in this room and the mayor. Captains in other departments are being briefed this morning as well and soon as that happens—"
"You're gonna form another task force." Starsky's voice was thick with disgust.
Travers scratched at the part in his hair, then combed through the thin strands with his fingers. "Er, in a way. You see, although we know the identities of the corrupt officers, it's the men pulling their strings that we want—we can't find how the money is getting in for the payoffs. That's why Internal Affairs isn't being placed in charge of this new squad."
"Yeah?" Starsky asked. "Who'd you sucker into that job?"
A roughly cleared throat brought their attention to Dobey. "So they got me in a weak moment, okay?"
Starsky glared at Hutch, who was muffling a laugh in the palm of his hand. "Yeah, well, couldn't ask for a better guy," he said.
"Save it, Starsky. The real question here is about you two—are you in or out?"
Dobey hadn't asked them individually—he knew them better than that. Starsky looked over at Hutch and saw the same response he was ready to give. He nodded slightly and saw the answering gleam in Hutch's eyes.
"We're in," he said simply.
Dobey scowled, a sure sign of his approval. "Good. Now listen up—until further notice, nothing's changed. Hutch is still on suspension and Starsky's a member of the mayor's task force. I want you two to give every consideration to Cross and Wagner and stay out of their way—"
"Uh, Captain?"
"What is it, Hutchinson?"
"Well, we made a stop on the way here this morning, checking out something that could technically be called part of their case."
Dobey leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his chin in one palm, a perfect picture of resignation. "Where?"
"Trudie Archer's place."
"Find anything?"
"She'd flown the coop—took everything, including the picture of her kid, Billy."
"You wanna explain the significance of that?"
Despite Dobey's annoyed tone, Starsky knew he was intrigued and picked up the story. "Yeah. Billy Archer owed ten grand to Bumpy Jake—a debt that was cancelled right after Tito's laundry got torched."
"So you think the laundry arson was payback for the gambling debts, is that it?"
"It fits, Captain. Bumpy Jake, Sammy and his kid, extortion, the dirty cops. It's one big damn circle." Hutch rose and Starsky could see restlessness in the way the lanky body unfolded from the chair. He pushed away from the window and joined his partner, standing shoulder to shoulder as they looked down at Dobey.
"What do you want us to do, Captain?" Starsky asked.
"For now? You can take today to care of your restaurant. Starsky, you're scheduled to report to the task force at ten a.m. tomorrow morning, but I want both of you here at eight a.m. sharp. We'll let you know then how we're gonna play this out."
A pair of "yes sirs" and they were out the door. The controlled energy Starsky could feel in Hutch was exhilarating, like old times—and he hadn't failed to notice that Hutch hadn't blinked an eye when Dobey had given him back his badge. Hutch was a cop through and through—and their town was rotting with the kind of corruption they'd fought for years.
Yeah, Hutch's blood was up—it showed in the length in his stride, the set of his jaw. But what Starsky could also see were lines of pain furrowing the broad forehead. He wanted to kick himself—Hutch wasn't that far away from almost dying and his head had to be giving him hell. Hutch wouldn't complain, especially with the information they'd been handed that morning, but Starsky knew that as sure as Hutch's heart had just recently been given into his safekeeping, watching Hutch's back had always been his responsibility.
What he wanted to do was get Hutch back home, fuss over him a little—Hutch would grumble but enjoy every minute of it—and then take him to bed and love him into a little well-earned oblivion.
Instead, they had a meeting with Huggy and the insurance adjuster and maybe a run-in with Cross and Wagner if they decided to show up at Teo's. Starsky was almost hoping they would, knowing it was a bad idea, but the idea of blowing off some steam with a couple of crooked cops had its appeal.
As Starsky drove toward Teo's, he glanced at Hutch's stony profile. It wasn't hard for Starsky to believe that the tough man sitting beside him was the incredible lover from the night before; somehow Starsky had always known that Hutch would be good in bed. Sensuality was as natural to Hutch as breathing. But to be the recipient of that attention, that extraordinary generosity—it'd humbled Starsky in a way he'd never experienced before. He longed to reciprocate, to show Hutch that he was in this all the way. He'd tried to convey that to Hutch last night, but since most of his brain had been turned to pudding, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd said.
That gave him an idea. As they came to a red light, Starsky cleared his throat.
"Orange grove."
Hutch looked at him. "What?"
"Orange grove."
"What about it?"
"Wanna make love to you in an orange grove." He turned to see Hutch staring at him and he grinned back, amused by the pink stain in Hutch's cheeks.
"Starsky," Hutch mumbled with a shake of his head.
"Hey, I'm not done yet." The light changed and he accelerated. "Wanna tell you all about it. Big, soft blanket, bottle of good wine, orange blossoms everywhere—nice, hunh?"
"Starsk, you don't need—"
"And you lettin' me unbutton your shirt, nice and slow, exposing that lily white skin to the warm sun. 'Course I gotta kiss that beautiful chest of yours as I go, so it may take a while, but—"
Hutch's hand covered his on the steering wheel. "Look, I don't need all that romantic stuff with you, all right? You don't have to—"
Starsky twisted his hand and grasped Hutch's, bringing their entwined fingers down onto his thigh. "Yeah, but you'd like it, right?"
The hand in his tightened. Before Hutch could answer, Starsky pushed on.
"Yeah, thought so. Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, me taking your shirt off. You got nice skin, you know that? Always thought so, even before I got to know it up close and personal. Speaking of buttons, there's one at the top of your jeans—"
"Starsky!" Hutch pulled his hand away, his protest full of amused indignation.
Starsky was unrepentant. "What, you don't wanna hear about the orange grove? Okay, what about the one where I got you up against the wall in the office at Teo's? Yeah, not a lot of clothes involved in that one—"
"Enough!" Hutch roared. Starsky shot him a sideways glance and grinned—Hutch had covered his eyes with his hand and was one breath away from laughing out loud. As he pulled into the alley behind Teo's, Starsky figured his work was done. Hutch, though still pink around the tips of his ears, had lost the harsh lines around his mouth.
Yeah, Starsky thought as they got out of the Torino, mission accomplished—at least until he confessed to Hutch that he hadn't been joking at all.
"Look, will you quit arguing with me?" Starsky was tired and exasperation with his partner made his tone sharper than he'd intended.
"I'm not arguing," Hutch replied, exhaustion thinning his voice. "You just shouldn't have to do this alone."
"Do what? I drop you off at home, meet Huggy at the hardware store, bring the stuff back here and then head to your place for some kind of rabbit food dinner and the Lakers game. There's not a whole lotta 'alone' in there that I can see. Besides, I know your head hurts, even though you're too pigheaded to mention it."
Hutch sat back on his heels, the hammer in his hand dangling loosely between his knees. They'd started tearing down some of the damaged interior of the kitchen and cleaning the dining room after meeting with the insurance adjuster, determined to save as much money as they could by doing part of the renovation themselves. Some of the crew had shown up and helped as well and they'd fed everyone lunch from the cold foods that wouldn't last during the repairs.
It had touched them both deeply, to have Laurie and the other employees help them get back on their feet. The atmosphere had been almost festive as they'd started the massive clean-up, but eventually Huggy had sent them all home, promising paychecks and a target date for reopening by the end of the week.
Starsky and Hutch pushed on alone for a few more hours until silence had fallen between them and their progress had slowed. Starsky looked down at Hutch from his perch on the ladder as he gazed up at the partially destroyed wall—he had streaks of dirt and sweat on his face and there was a ragged tear where in his shirt. Even the once white gauze bandage had gone muddy gray and was now as dark as the mottled bruise beneath it.
"C'mon," he wheedled. "Hardware store closes in an hour. I can get the stuff and be at your place in time for the tip off."
Hutch tossed the hammer aside and scrubbed an equally dirty hand over his face.
"Yeah, you're right." He stood up slowly, stretching as he went. Starsky put aside his scraper and started to climb down, not noticing that Hutch had come up behind him. When he reached the floor, he found himself trapped by Hutch's arms as they grasped the metal frame on either side of his shoulders.
He turned with a smile on his face that was quickly consumed by Hutch's warm mouth. Succumbing to it readily, he wound his arms around Hutch's waist as he opened his mouth to let Hutch's tongue slip inside.
It was a playful caress, shared as if they'd been lovers for years instead of hours. They teased each other with tired kisses until Hutch leaned away, his nose wrinkled.
"Stop by your place and pick up a change of clothes, okay?"
Starsky cocked his head to one side. "You tryin' to tell me something? Because you're not the freshest rose in the bouquet either, pal."
Hutch leaned forward and brushed his nose against Starsky's. "Let's just say if you're looking to get lucky tonight, you can shower at my place before dinner."
An uncomplicated grin of pure happiness creased the grime on Starsky's face. "Now that's what I call incentive."
Hutch stole one more quick kiss before releasing Starsky and reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. Starsky folded the ladder and set it aside, noticing his shoe was untied. As he started to sink down on one knee to tie it, he glanced over at Hutch.
Something was wrong—Hutch had gone completely still and as Starsky watched, the rag fell from his fingers. He followed Hutch's gaze to the kitchen door and instinctively grabbed for the weapon he wasn't wearing.
Phil Devereaux was leaning heavily against the doorjamb, his clothing stuck to him in water-slickened folds and his hair plastered to his head as moisture ran down chalk-colored cheeks. They'd left the back door ajar to keep fresh air circulating as they worked—the night was cool and wet but not uncomfortable. Under cover of the rain, Devereaux had been able to approach them without being seen or heard.
His reason for being there was unknown—Starsky saw that in the quick glance Hutch threw him. However, Starsky understood one thing clearly- the .45 Smith and Wesson aimed at Hutch's heart proclaimed Devereaux's intent.
"Phil," Hutch said calmly. "What are you doing here?"
"Had to come." The gun wavered fractionally. "I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry about?" Hutch looked deceptively loose, his voice soothingly even. Starsky took a half step toward where his shoulder harness sat beneath his jacket on top of the freezer, but stopped as soon as the barrel swung in his direction.
"Don't move." Devereaux's tone was oddly pleading for someone holding a gun on two unarmed men. "Please don't move."
"He won't," Hutch promised. "Just tell me what this is about, okay? What are you sorry for?"
Devereaux's wild-eyed attention flew back to Hutch. "I'm—I want—Lisa's gone."
"Gone?" Hutch repeated the word carefully. Starsky tensed but held still, hating the inability to move but trusting Hutch to take the lead in the situation.
Devereaux nodded, a quick up-and-down jerk of his head. "I sent her away, home to Missouri. I didn't want her here when I—when I—"
He wavered, the gun drooping in his hand. Hutch ventured forward slightly, angling toward Devereaux's right side to get Starsky out of his line of sight. Starsky understood the move but didn't like Hutch facing down the .45. He moved toward his gun when Hutch made another step, stopping when he did.
"Phil, let me help you," Hutch was saying. "You can work it out with Lisa, these things—"
"No!" Devereaux lifted the gun shoulder high, turning the weapon in his hand until it was parallel to the floor. Both Hutch and Starsky had frozen at the outburst but it was in Starsky's direction that the gun was pointed.
"You—down on your knees, hands behind your head."
"No, wait—" Hutch moved, once more putting himself between Starsky and the gun. "Phil—I don't know what's going on here, but leave Starsky out of it, okay? You and me, we can talk—"
Starsky shifted again but he was still too far away to get to his holster. It was obvious that something had sent Devereaux over the edge and although Starsky felt some compassion for the distraught man, right now he had a gun on his partner and the situation was escalating.
"No," Devereaux was saying, "you don't understand. It's too late for talking, Ken. You gotta help me."
Devereaux kicked the door closed, shutting out the clatter of rain coming from outside. The movement brought him between Hutch and Starsky again and the gun once more swung toward Starsky.
"On your knees, Starsky."
"No." Hutch's tone was firm. "He's not doing anything. You wanna talk, you want me to help? I'm right here. Leave Starsky out of this."
"I can't," Devereaux sighed, and pulled the trigger. It plucked at Hutch's shirt as it flew past and Hutch jumped back, clamping his hand to the ruptured fabric near his ribs. Before Starsky could react, the .45 was pointed at him again.
"Don't, Starsky. Next time I don't miss. On your knees."
"Okay, okay." Starsky held up his hands and went down on one knee. "Just take it easy with that thing, okay?" He glanced at Hutch. "You all right?"
"Fine." Hutch dropped his hand, his fingers lightly smeared with blood. "Just a scratch."
Devereaux laughed, a high-pitched, bitter sound. "Do you understand now, Ken? Do you see? I can make you do anything I want, either one of you."
"We get it," Hutch said. "You got the gun, we do what you want."
"No!" Devereaux ran a shaking hand over his hair. "No, you don't understand!"
"Okay, help me understand, Phil. I just wanna help you."
"I get it." Starsky looked up at Hutch. "It's not because of the gun. It's because of us—that's why we'll do anything he says. Whatever it takes, he knows we'll do it to protect each other."
Starsky watched Hutch's eyes widen, his cheeks whitening beneath the smudges of dirt.
"That true, Phil?" he said quietly. "Are you going to make us do something we don't want to do?"
Devereaux ignored him to focus on Starsky. "You do understand—I knew you would. Ken said you were smart."
Starsky smiled, a sickly version of his usual grin. "Hutch said I was smart? Must've caught him on an off day." He started to get up. "Now, can we ditch the hardware and talk about this—"
Devereaux let off another shot over Starsky's head, driving him to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky saw Hutch make an aborted move toward Devereaux before the barrel swerved his way again. Starsky scrabbled to his knees, using the movement as cover to slide closer to the freezer.
Devereaux was becoming more agitated and Starsky felt fear gathering in the cold sweat that prickled between his shoulder blades. He couldn't think of anything he'd rather face less than a man who'd lost everything, who saw sharing his pain as the only way to alleviate it.
Shaking his head as if to clear it, Devereaux addressed Hutch.
"No more talking. Ken—where's your gun?"
Hutch shrugged, an abbreviated twitch of his shoulders. "I'm on suspension—not allowed to carry one." Starsky knew he wasn't about to admit to the ankle holster he still wore—it was an ace in the hole they made need.
Devereaux looked confused. "But—you have to have a gun. It doesn't work if you don't have a gun."
"Why?" Starsky asked on a hard swallow. Devereaux had sounded like he was repeating a well-learned lesson. "What doesn't work?"
"I know." Hutch turned bleak eyes toward Starsky. "Without a gun, I can't take the shot."
"What shot?"
"The shot that saves my partner."
This was all his fault. Starsky on his knees, both of them unarmed, facing a man pushed over the edge by anguish—Hutch knew he should have seen this coming. He knew it because he could see himself in Devereaux's too-bright, red-tinged eyes, in the tremors of the hand that held the gun on his partner.
Devereaux had lost the most important thing in the world to him, more important that his career, his family—even his life. The pain wouldn't stop and Hutch understood that—he could feel Devereaux's depthless grief like a sheen of sweat against his own skin. As he watched Devereaux struggle to keep focused on them both, Hutch searched frantically for an answer to Devereaux's pain—and a way to keep his partner alive.
"Listen, Phil," he said slowly, "I don't have a weapon. Whatever you wanted to do here—it isn't gonna happen. So why don't you just put down your gun and you and I can work this out. Let my partner take off—guy's got a hot date and he really needs a shower."
Devereaux wavered—Hutch could see it and he knew Starsky could, too. Even from his vulnerable position on the floor, Starsky would be looking for any opening, any opportunity to defuse the
situation. Neither of them wanted this to end badly, but there was one truth they all recognized, the truth that had brought Devereaux to Teo's that night: a man would give his life—or take one—to save his partner.
He prayed it wouldn't come to that.
"What do you say?" he pressed. "Got some cold beer in the dining room. We could—"
"NO!" Tears formed in Devereaux's eyes, thickening along his lower lashes. "This is all wrong—you can't let me go on like this! The pain—it doesn't stop, it never ends. Remember what you said, that day in the warehouse? You said you wished you'd taken the bullets, that you wanted to die—"
"I know what I said," Hutch broke in sharply. "Wanting to die and dying are two different things, damn it! The last thing Starsky would've wanted me to do was stop living, to—to just give up!"
He took a deliberate step forward. "What about Lisa, Phil? You told me you wanted to start a family—Vincent was gonna be a godfather, just like you are to his son. Can you honestly tell me that this is what Vincent wanted for you? That you're honoring his life by throwing away your own?"
Devereaux's face twisted and Hutch's heart sank. There was no reasoning with a man whose heartache was unquenchable—a man he could so easily be.
"It's so easy for you, isn't it?" Devereaux sneered through his tears. "Your partner—he lived! He's right there, he made it! You think you can know how I feel? You think you can stand there and—and talk to me about Vincent? You wanna know how I feel? I can take you there right now."
Hutch watched in horror as Devereaux aimed the gun at Starsky, this time with obvious intent.
"Wait!" he pleaded. "Taking my partner from me—that won't help you, Phil—it won't ease your pain."
"I know," Devereaux replied softly, his eyes fixed on Starsky's in sorrowful acceptance. "But at least I won't be alone."
"No!" Heedless of the gun that turned his way, Hutch charged Devereaux. Before he could make contact, Starsky leaped forward, striking Devereaux in the knees and driving him down hard onto the floor. Devereaux's gun arm flew back, firing as it went and puncturing the ceiling. As Starsky struggled to contain Devereaux, Hutch grabbed for the gun and wrestled it from Devereaux's grasp.
Despite losing control of the gun, Devereaux continued to fight. Hutch had to toss the .45 out of reach and help Starsky subdue him—Devereaux had the strength of desperation and both partners were hindered by wanting to keep damage to Devereaux and their kitchen to a minimum. The battle waged across the unforgiving concrete floor until all three of them crashed into the stainless steel door of the walk-in, Starsky taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulders. That finally took the fight out of Devereaux as he went limp, turning in on himself, convulsed with silent sobs. Panting and sore, Hutch rolled to his knees and shot a look at Starsky, assuring himself that he was unharmed. Unsurprisingly, he saw the same look of concern waiting for him when he met the dark blue eyes. Their gaze held for a fraction of a moment, then Starsky bent down and manhandled the weeping Devereaux into his arms.
"Hey, now," he crooned between big gulps for breath. "S'okay, man, it's okay. We know how it is."
Devereaux folded into Starsky's grip, grabbing at handfuls of his shirt. Hutch leaned back against the metal frame of the sink and watched as Starsky began to rock Devereaux, crooning more soothing words. But although his words were for Devereaux, Starsky was looking directly at Hutch.
Hutch understood. The words Starsky muttered were almost inaudible but the look in his eyes was fierce—Devereaux may have planned to do a terrible thing by coming to Teo's, but he was still among friends.
They made love that night in slow motion.
The Lakers game was missed and dinner was a shared burrito combo over the work they had to do to get Phillip Devereaux institutionalized. That included a call back to Kansas City and an emotional conversation with Devereaux's wife, who promised to fly back immediately to be at her husband's side. After hanging up, Hutch had excused himself and left the squad room. Starsky had given him ten minutes before tracking him down on the roof where they'd silently looked up at the stars through ragged breaks in the threatening clouds.
Hardly any words were spoken as Starsky drove to his place for clothes, then to Hutch's apartment. First Hutch and then Starsk showered; Hutch turned down the bed, locked the doors and gave his plants a quick drink. By the time he'd turned off the lights, he knew Starsky was beneath the covers of Hutch's bed.
The violence of the night was quickly forgotten in the heat of Starsky's kisses, kisses that soothed Hutch with encompassing tenderness and unshakeable strength. They were caught up in the need to cherish each other, to breathe in each other's air, to celebrate what they'd found together. A look into the dark vision of what might have been made them ravenous for each other—they made love for hours, exploring and caressing, whispering and laughing, shouting in glorious exultation, sighing with barely sated pleasure.
Hutch learned many more things that night, like how neatly the narrow breadth of Starsky's waist fit into his own large hands when Starsky lay between his legs. Then there was the skin of his lean inner thighs, sensitive and soft to Hutch's questing touch. He learned how Starsky loved to sink his fingers into Hutch's hair to control a deep kiss, and how fascinated Starsky was with the smooth texture of Hutch's chest. Aching from wrestling with Devereaux and mindful of Hutch's bruised head, they chose to be gentle, but even in the shadowed and cool room, Hutch could see a warm gleam of promise in Starsky's eyes.
It was still new to them both, but they could see the future from where they finally lay tangled together in an exhausted, contented knot. As Hutch drifted to sleep, he tightened his hold on an already slumbering Starsky and vowed to remember the haunted look in Devereaux's eyes—and to never gaze in the mirror and see it reflected in his own.
"Hutch! Hey, Hutch!"
"I'm right here, Starsk, you don't need to yell." Hutch was pulling his shoulder holster on over his shirt as he walked out of the bedroom, settling his shoulders into its familiar grooves with a satisfied sigh. He checked the safety of the .357 and slid it into the holster as he joined Starsky in the kitchen, giving his partner a sharp swat on the butt as he passed by. "What do you need?"
"Besides you and about a week in Hawaii? Orange juice. You're all out. In fact, you're out of a lot of stuff."
Hutch leaned past him to grab an apple, giving him an intimate smile. "So make a list."
He started to turn away but was stopped as Starsky threaded his fingers through the leather strap of the holster to haul him in for a heated kiss.
"Nice to see you back in uniform," Starsky whispered. "Never knew a shoulder rig could make a guy look so hot."
Hutch slid his palm along the tight denim covering Starsky's hips. "As long as you're only looking at this shoulder rig, that's okay by me."
"Speaking of okay—you really okay with this?" Starsky gave the strap a gentle tug.
"With going back, you mean?"
"Yeah, 'cause I remember a guy not too long ago said he was gonna walk away and never look back."
Hutch shifted until his back was against the kitchen counter, taking Starsky with him and guiding him between his outstretched legs as he set the apple aside.
"Oh yeah, that guy. Let me tell you about that guy. See, Starsk, he thought he'd done something that was going to hurt the most important person in his life and drive him away."
"Yeah? What'd he do?"
Hutch slid his arms around Starsky and held him close. When he spoke, his voice was choppy with emotions he couldn't begin to tame.
"He fell in love with his partner."
Starsky's arms wound around him and Hutch let himself be held, understanding that Starsky was answering in the most elementary way, with his hands and his heart. Nothing was said for a moment until Starsky placed his lips against Hutch's ear.
"I hate to tell you this, but I think that guy was kinda thick."
Hutch chuckled as Starsky gave his ear a smacking kiss. "Yeah, I gotta agree with you on that one, buddy. Good thing I'm a lot smarter than he was, hunh?"
"Well, you had help," Starsky reminded him with a smile. Hutch returned it before turning serious once more.
"We have unfinished business in this town, Starsk. Not just our town, our neighborhood. I want Teo's and Tito's laundry and the Parks' seafood store to be safe places to work, and the people who go there, I want them to feel safe, too. Time for us to step up and stop the bad guys."
"I hear ya," Starsky said, his face darkening. "And the only thing I hate worse than bad guys are bad guys who call themselves cops."
"Exactly. Maybe someday, you and me will retire and play pinochle at the bar all day but until then, we got work to do."
"Damn right we do." Starsky's expression cleared as he released Hutch to stride purposefully over to the desk. "Okay, gonna make a list right now so we're not late and Dobey staples our privates to the desk. You got paper around here somewhere?"
Hutch spoke around a mouthful of apple. "Yeah, try the top drawer."
He watched as Starsky pulled the drawer open and rummaged around, searching for something suitable for his list. He was just turning away to pour more coffee when Starsky called out to him.
"Hey, Hutch?"
"Yeah?" He watched as Starsky held up a vaguely familiar sheet of paper. "What's up?"
"Where's that business card you took from Trudie's?"
"I don't know—probably still in my shirt pocket. Why?"
"Go get it."
Hutch tossed the apple away and hurried to comply. He brought back the card and handed it to a grim-faced Starsky.
"Look at this. You seein' what I'm seein'?"
Hutch's stomach tightened. In Starsky's right hand was the letter Dobey had given him from Mafferty's lawyers—the one written on pale blue paper, now creased and wrinkled. Hutch remembered yanking it out of his jacket and stuffing it in the drawer without a second thought. Resting in the palm of Starsky's left hand was the business card he'd retrieved from Trudie Archer's.
Both were imprinted with the name of the same law firm.
"Son of a bitch." Hutch scrubbed a hand over his face. "This is just getting crazier, you know that? What's Trudie got to do with Mafferty's lawyers?"
"Nah, not Trudie," Starsky said slowly. "Billy."
Hutch stared at him. "Yeah—Billy who suddenly doesn't need to pay off his bookie. Makes you wonder how Sammy Kerosene got wind of a way to pay off his kid's marker."
"Yeah. And it ain't much of a stretch from Mafferty's lawyers to Mafferty, since you gotta figure his daddy is probably responsible for half their revenue. Maybe Mafferty junior did have a reason to be in that neighborhood the night of Lee's rape after all."
"Doing what?"
Starsky shrugged and carefully folded the card inside the letter. "Family business, maybe? After all, isn't his dad—"
"—Deputy Mayor Castillo's favorite golf partner."
They stared at each other, thoughts flying between them—questions, guesses, theories, all communicated in a handful of heartbeats, all culminating in the need to move.
"C'mon, partner." Hutch snatched Starsky's jacket and thrust it at him with a hunter's grin. "Let's get to work."
Glasses of all shapes and sizes, filled with a variety of liquids, were hoisted high over the newly polished bar at Teo's. Starsky was perched on the bar itself with his legs dangling merrily, looking around the raucous crowd with a soppy grin.
"Here's to the grand re-reopening of the world famous Teo's," he bellowed, lifting his beer mug over his head.
"And here's hoping we don't have to do this again!" was Huggy's heart-felt plea in return.
Cries of agreement, the dissonant clinking of cheap glass and a few calls for more free beer greeted their toast. Laughter filled the room as Starsky lifted his legs and swiveled on his butt to the other side of the bar where Huggy was busy distributing full pitchers to the appreciative gathering.
Teo's second reopening was a less formal affair than the first, a thank you to the staff and friends that had helped them get so quickly back on their feet. Everything was set to reopen to the public the next day—which was also the day they turned over all the responsibilities of running their restaurant to Laurie. They'd known it was inevitable that they'd have to give up those responsibilities the day Hutch took back his badge and Laurie had been the obvious choice.
Starsky glanced toward the end of the bar to see Hutch opening a bottle of wine and refilling Edith Dobey's glass, telling her something outrageous enough to make her giggle like a debutante. Starsky watched as she pushed playfully at Hutch's shoulder, a patently false glower from her husband in Hutch's direction only making her laugh harder.
That's my Hutch, he thought affectionately. Always charming the ladies.
But charm was all the ladies got from Hutch nowadays.
Starsky was deeply, contagiously happy. He thought he'd been happy before, with girlfriends or women he'd loved and even wanted to marry. All that now seemed distant and fuzzy, like a badly tuned radio station. Only Hutch mattered, Hutch and the life they were building, the work they were doing, the love they were making.
That's where Starsky's thoughts turned as he watched Hutch make the rounds with the wine. In between their new assignment and the work on Teo's, when they weren't sleeping, eating or driving, they were making love. To Starsky it was all new, an erotic Disneyland with Hutch happily acting as his guide. Starsky had never been a prude and had lost his virginity as soon as he possibly could—but he now admitted that he'd never really known his own body, at least not until he'd entrusted it to Hutch.
A lot of it was just plain, old-fashioned love, Starsky mused as he ran back to the kitchen for more bread. Sex with someone you loved was the best thing in the world, more precious than gold. And with that love came boundless trust—and trust made all things possible.
Not that it'd been one-sided. Hutch was a master of sensuality but he had nothing on Starsky when it came to ingenuity.
Starsky paused in the empty kitchen to get a drink of water before heading back into the warm and stuffy dining room. He looked around the kitchen as he drank—the bullet holes had been patched and their almost-but-not-quite new stove seemed able to pull its weight. A shout of laughter from the dining room caught his attention and he grinned, but it faded as he realized that all he really wanted to do was go home. Time alone with Hutch was treasured and Starsky had something special in mind for that night, something that needed time and privacy.
In the weeks that they'd been together, they'd learned so much and done almost everything—almost everywhere. Starsky finally had admitted to Hutch that his fantasy of having sex in the orange grove hadn't just been an idle tease. When Hutch had asked if against the wall in the restaurant office had also been a real desire, Starsky had nodded reluctantly but planned his assault after seeing the intrigued glint in Hutch's eyes.
He'd had his opportunity sooner than expected and he'd been damn sure to make it incredible. As Starsky set his glass aside, he felt the welcome but untimely response of his body as he thought back to a few nights ago. Hutch had been cranky after learning they couldn't afford the state of the art stove they'd chosen and Starsky had decided to use the new dimension of their relationship to ease him out of it.
It had worked beyond his wildest dreams.
He didn't even try to ignore the memory of Hutch pressed against the wall, his shirt open and pulled off his shoulders, exposing the velvety skin Starsky loved so much. He recalled how the blond head had thrashed from side to side as Starsky had unbuttoned his jeans, peeling away the denim and the cotton fabric beneath to mouth the sweet, concave expanse of Hutch's abdomen. The feel of Hutch's fingers in his hair as he'd knelt before him, the sound of Hutch's bitten-off whimpers—and the shout that had made Starsky glad the restaurant was empty—were remembered in vivid detail, and Starsky had to take a deep, head-clearing breath.
Not now, he told his body firmly, you got a roomful of people ten feet away that are gonna wonder why garlic bread makes you horny.
Going back into the dining room didn't help—Hutch was in front of him with his back to the kitchen door, leaning over to fill someone's glass and giving Starsky a perfect view of—well, exactly what Starsky had begun to dream about more and more.
Hutch knew it, too. In fact, he made sure Starsky understood that he was all for it. He'd encouraged Starsky's hesitant explorations but had never pushed him, letting his curiosity take him wherever it led. But Starsky knew Hutch was waiting for him—he'd started teasing him at odd times, dropping broad hints and laughing when Starsky turned red.
And Starsky had finally admitted to himself that it drove him crazy that another man had touched Hutch the way he did, that another man had made Hutch—his Hutch—boneless with spent passion. Hutch's body belonged to him as surely as his belonged to Hutch, a new and passionate complement to their abiding friendship. Starsky wanted to experience every intimacy between them, to rewrite their pasts with enough love to obliterate the hurts and soothe the memories of others who'd gone before.
Hutch was unaware that there was something special about this night beyond the culmination of all the hard work to reopen Teo's. They made it back to Venice Place a few hours later and Starsky watched Hutch move around his apartment, so different from when Starsky had arrived home after visiting his mom. Only a few weeks ago, Hutch's posture had been slumped in defeat, his movements those of a heavily burdened man, sloppy and slow.
"You want something to drink?" Hutch called from the kitchen.
"Nah, I'm good."
From his perch on the arm of the couch, Starsky waited as Hutch scooped up their jackets and shoulder holsters to hang them on two newly installed brass hooks. Since watching Hutch had become one of Starsky's favorite pastimes, he could readily appreciate the easy smile and firm step that had come back to Hutch since the purchase of Teo's and the gritty job they'd taken on to expose the corrupted task force.
All of which was great and important and exciting, but Starsky knew it was the change between them that had put the life back in the sky blue eyes he'd always loved. Those eyes were smiling at him now as Hutch approached the couch, hands reaching to take Starsky into his arms.
Starsky intercepted those hands and stood up, pulling an unresisting Hutch toward him.
"I love you, you know that?" he stated quietly. There was no teasing in his voice, no wink to leaven the moment, no smartass grin. Hutch chewed on his lower lip and lowered his gaze, obviously unsure how to react to Starsky's uncharacteristically serious mood.
"Hey, I lo—" he began, cut off when Starsky leaned forward to gently suck his flushed bottom lip into his mouth.
"Yeah, I know," he said, his voice roughening and slowing further as he sought the right words. He knew he didn't have convince Hutch of anything, not his desire and certainly not his love, but Starsky had learned the hard lesson of never taking anything for granted.
"Is there something wrong?" Hutch's voice had lowered as well and Starsky closed his eyes as he felt Hutch beginning to tense beneath his hands.
"No," he shook his head swiftly. "Just don't wanna screw this up."
He opened his eyes to see Hutch looking at him with a concerned smile. "Starsk, c'mon, what is it? You can tell me."
Starsky inhaled deeply. "Wanna make love to you," he said simply.
The crease between Hutch's brows appeared. "Okay, but I don't—" he stopped, eyes widening as his mouth curved into a heartstopping smile. "Ah, okay."
He slid his hands around Starsky's waist and tucked his fingers inside the band of his jeans. "You sure? 'Cause I'm tellin' you, you gotta do all the work. All I have to do is enjoy the ride."
"I'm sure," Starsky whispered. He pulled Hutch closer and bent his head to press his tongue to the vulnerable pulse in Hutch's throat. "Make that damn sure."
He could feel the tremble of Hutch's laugh against his lips and he grinned, uncertainty forgotten in the growing throb of heat between them.
"All right, partner," Hutch murmured against Starsky's ear. "Show me what you got."
Hours later, Starsky lay folded around a sleeping Hutch, his nose buried in the damp hair that curled beneath Hutch's ear. His bones were liquefied, his hand where it lay against Hutch's belly too heavy for his wrist. Even so, he couldn't prevent his fingertips from describing tiny circles on the taut, moist surface.
It hadn't been exactly as Hutch had explained—far from being passive, Hutch had been a fully involved, passionate participant. Starsky knew the basics of the intimacy but every stroke, every kiss they shared was infused with such tenderness that his touch became more assured as the night went on. Even the necessity of preparation took on the weight of worship, with Hutch providing loving, breathless guidance along the way. When eventually Hutch turned for him, Starsky's heart took flight on the amount of trust he'd been given—trust they'd always shared, now taken to a level beyond anything they'd ever known but maybe somehow, beneath the years of friendship, they'd known it was there all along.
And when he was finally cradled deep inside Hutch's body, Starsky forgot about everything except this ultimate connection. No memories of past lovers, no comparisons, no regrets—the strength and safety, the fevered passion and ultimately the commitment he felt in Hutch were unequaled by anything in Starsky's past. The pleasure they found in each other was magnified by their physical joining; when completion came it was shatteringly powerful, wringing cries from them as they shuddered and clawed at each other through waves of passion that crashed through them on a jubilant tide of exquisite, drowning sensation. As the rush receded, they were left panting and dazed, clinging to each other like survivors of a storm and exchanging enervated kisses as Hutch rolled back into the welcoming curve of Starsky's shaking embrace.
Hutch's breathing deepened and Starsky pressed closer, aligning his own breaths until their inhalations and exhalations were impossible to tell apart. The scent of Hutch's love-warmed skin brushed against his nose and he smiled sleepily, imagining years and years of carrying that scent on his own body.
Starsky wasn't far removed from being deprived of any kind of future, let alone a life with Hutch. Now he saw a future filled with hope and work and most importantly, an unconventional yet unassailable love.
Love that came as naturally as breathing.
Seriously—what's not to love about Starsky and Hutch? They're hotshot detectives, best friends, and completely devoted to each other.
And that's just the canon stuff.
I began this story in the fall of 2004, thinking I'd have it done by Thanksgiving at the latest. Little did I realize that it would be spring of 2005 before I'd see the last word typed on this saga—but it sure was a fun trip. I had the chance to revisit the grimy streets of Bay City and relive the questionable fashion choices of the 70s—but most of all, I had the joy of rediscovering my love for these two guys. It was a privilege to write for them; for me, this isn't just a story, but a continuation and a resolution of their relationship as I believe it was meant to be.
Many thanks to Aithine for encouragement, patience and help in the eternal search for the difference between "buck naked" and "butt naked." As always, Snudge, I couldn't have done it without you.