UNTITLED STARSKY AND HUTCH

by Sarah

Fandom: Starsky And Hutch

Pairing: Starsky/Hutch

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Starsky asks for a transfer

UNTITLED STARSKY AND HUTCH

by Sarah

The rain shot out of the sky like tiny bullets, hard enough to sting the skin. Bouncing off the sidewalks and streaming from shop-front awnings the deluge collected to form grimy pools of water and litter. An ugly day in an ugly city - and Detective Sergeant David Starsky was in an ugly mood.

New York Police Department's newest recruit to its Internal Affairs division was slowly making his way to work. Although the office was a block from the subway and in spite of the unrelenting rain, he was in no hurry. He pulled his lightweight cotton jacket more securely around him, and thrust his hands deeper into the pockets to ward off the chill, realizing that he was only delaying the inevitable. He hated his new job, hated the claustrophobic, dirty city and its ruthless rain. He missed his car on days like this when the weather was harsh and the sidewalks were crowded. He missed the more temperate climate of California, missed the familiarity of his job, missed the solitude of his apartment, but more than anything he missed his partner. Over and above his self-pity, Starsky was painfully aware that he had no-one to blame for his current predicament but himself.

Over the past month, since he'd come back east, Starsky had constantly reminded himself that he'd made the right decision. James Gunther's attempt on his life had changed a lot of things: how he felt about the job that he did; the risks that he took on a daily basis; the risks his partner took on his behalf. He had had time, during the long days of recuperation, to reflect on many things and he'd come to realize that he had changed.

A brush with death could make a man reconsider the things that were important about life, make him take stock of situations that previously he took for granted. Starsky had been able to accept most of the changes within himself, except one, and it was a big one. He hadn't been prepared for it and, running scared, he'd come home to his mother.

Trailing dejectedly up the steps of the gray building that served as Internal Affairs' headquarters, Starsky mentally braced himself for another day at the office, another day of working alongside somebody who wasn't Hutch. The building itself, dismal enough from the outside, was utterly depressing on the inside. He made his way down the narrow, poorly lit corridors, ignoring the peeling paint and age-old notices and posters advertising events long since past, until he reached the office he shared with his colleague, Glen Macowski.

Under no circumstances, and not even to himself, did he ever refer to Macowski as his partner - that accolade would always be reserved for someone else. No, Macowski was always "colleague" or "associate" or just "Mac". The last title was specifically designed to irritate the older man, something that gave Starsky a perverse if limited pleasure.

Macowski was not a difficult man to work with: he managed his caseload methodically and predictably, waiting out his time in IA until his approaching retirement. The older man did not try and press Starsky into socializing outside work hours, didn't believe in idle chatter and any form of banter was completely out of his jurisdiction. Macowski never brought him donuts just because he knew he liked them, or fixed him coffee laden with sugar and cream, much against his better judgement. Neither did he needle him about the movies he watched, or his sense of dress, or compete with him over pretty secretaries. Macowski was no fun at all. In ordinary circumstances, Starsky was sure that he would like the man just fine, not that there was much to like or dislike, but these were no ordinary circumstances.

Glen Macowski, a run-of-the-mill good guy working systematically, if not enthusiastically, to solve a barely adequate amount of cases. Neither he nor Starsky were ever sufficiently motivated to remain at work past 5 o'clock. They restricted their conversations to matters pertaining to the case they were working on and left everything else alone. Starsky found himself tolerating the other man's presence in much the same way that he tolerated the job.

Chasing down cops gone bad, cops on the make, cops with bad habits or in some cases cops who were just too old and tired to play by the rules anymore, was by no means an ideal job. It was not even close to an ideal job, but it kept him off the streets and had allowed Starsky to remove himself quickly and cleanly to the other side of the country, away from Hutch.

The now familiar pain of missing his partner reasserted itself as Starsky opened the door to the cramped and gloomy office he shared with Macowski. Over the past few weeks the agony of his loneliness had never diminished, he'd just gotten used to feeling it. He had to remind himself constantly that what he had done was the best for both of them, but telling himself that on a regular basis did nothing to ease the ache in his heart. The decision had been made and now he had to live with it.

"Mornin' Dave." Macowski was already seated at his desk, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him.

Starsky winced inwardly. He'd lost count of the times he'd asked the older man to call him Starsky, but then he reasoned that he'd also lost count of the times that he'd called the older man "Hutch" by mistake.

"Hey, Mac," Starsky returned the greeting as he sat in his chair and surveyed the stack of manila files on the desk.

"Watcha get up to this weekend?"

Starsky eyed Macowski suspiciously; it wasn't like him to show any interest in life outside of the office. Macowski looked back at him expectantly, his gray suit clean and pressed as it did at the beginning of every week, his pale blue eyes showing slightly more animation than usual. Starsky shrugged in a noncommittal gesture.

"Nothin' much." Starsky's reply was nothing if not honest. The truth was that he'd spent the entire two days walking the streets of the city trying to escape from his own thoughts, his own regrets and his own longings. It hadn't worked and on Sunday evening he returned to his mothers house, where he was staying until he could find his own place. She had taken matters into her own hands.

He was soaking wet when he eventually came home, the rain still running off his clothing in tiny rivulets, puddling around his feet. He wore an expression of such misery, such hopelessness, that Rachel Starsky could take it no more. She waited patiently whilst her elder son showered and changed his clothes. She fixed a cup of coffee for him, lacing it with some nondescript alcohol left over from who-knows-when, and tried to figure out why a normally rational person such as her son would voluntarily put himself through this torment.

"Davey, honey," his mom handed him the coffee and placed herself directly opposite him, "why are you doing this to yourself?"

Starsky sipped the warm drink gratefully and sank into the fireside chair, wrapping his hands around the warm cup. It was a good question, but unfortunately it wasn't rhetorical and demanded an answer. For a moment he thought of stalling her by asking "Doing what",' but it was obvious to both of them that it wasn't a tactic that would work. Instead Starsky shrugged and studied the floor in front of him intently. He could feel his mother's penetrating gaze and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, knowing she would continue.

"Honey, whatever has happened back in LA, surely you and Ken can work it out?"

His mother's intuition caused Starsky a moment of surprise. But he reasoned that for years, whenever he'd spoken to his mother it was always "me and Hutch" or "Hutch said this" or "we're doing that". Since he'd turned up on her doorstep over a month ago he'd barely mentioned his partner and she was bound to think that was odd. Especially after the shooting, when Hutch had spent every moment with him, ensuring his safety, his recovery. His mother had commented then that there was no-one she would rather entrust her beloved son's well-being to than his partner, a man whom she'd come to love as family.

"Is it over a girl?" Rachel pushed gently, knowing that this had been an issue just before the attempt on Starsky's life.

Starsky shook his head mournfully, wishing it could be that simple, that straightforward, his focus never leaving the stretch of floor immediately in front of his feet.

He wasn't sure whether he could discuss this with his mother, or whether he should, but he fervently hoped that she wouldn't press the issue. Silence settled in the warmth of the kitchen. Starsky sipped his coffee, relishing the slightly bitter taste as it slid down his throat. But if he had hoped that his mother would let the subject rest, he hoped in vain.

When she spoke again, it was with a quiet intensity that unnerved her son. "Don't you love him any more?"

The words seemed to reverberate around the kitchen walls, bouncing off the surfaces and getting louder as they did so. Starsky looked up for the first time, eyes shadowed with alarm, and something else, something that looked, at least to a mother who knew her son so well, like guilt. As quickly as they'd looked up, the blue eyes lowered again returning their focus to the floor.

"Davey, do you still love Ken?" Starsky realized from her tone that she fully understood. And he knew from a life-time's experence that she wouldn't now be deflected. Her son met her gaze slowly and nodded. "Yes" he said quietly, "yes, I still love him." He paused, wondering whether to go on and admit to everything, he felt overwhelmed by the burden he was carrying - maybe talking about it would help, make some of the pain go away. Starsky sucked in a deep breath. "But maybe...maybe I love him too much" he said quietly without looking up.

His mother leaned forward placing one hand gently on his knee. "Honey, I don't think you can love anyone too much." Rachel took her son's trembling hand and squeezed gently, urging him to continue.

She wasn't getting it, wasn't making the connection he needed her to make. Starsky tried again. "Maybe I love him...in the wrong way." His voice was so low it was barely a whisper and his eyes held a guarded look as he tried to gauge her response.

"What way is the wrong way?"

Rachel was met with more silence, but when her son's eyes met hers in the briefest glance, she understood what it was he was saying. She pondered the situation before speaking again. "Davey," Rachel said slowly, "you haven't told Ken why you left, have you?" There was a slight accusation in her tone, one that Starsky didn't miss.

"How could I?" His tone was more defensive than his posture, which remained hunched over in his chair, toying with the now empty cup.

"You have to," his mother said firmly. "You owe him that much, yourself too."

Starsky knew in his heart that his mother was right. He'd treated Hutch appallingly by leaving without a word of explanation, and he owed him so much. Right now though, he couldn't think of any way that he could face his friend and reveal his innermost thoughts.

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Hutch would remain his friend after hearing such a revelation, but he also knew that it would change the dynamic of their relationship forever. It just couldn't work, the two of them, together on the streets, relaxing in each other's house, drinking in Huggy's bar - those occasions would be fine. But when Hutch met a woman and fell in love, as he inevitably would, Starsky wasn't sure that he would be able to take that. Better to sever the relationship totally, give Hutch the freedom to do what he wanted.

Starsky sighed heavily. Somehow it had all made so much sense when he'd left LA. Now, in the warmth of his mother's kitchen, seeing her look of concern and feeling his own misery, he couldn't help thinking that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life.

"You know, son," his mother said firmly as she rose from her seat, "love doesn't go away, just because you do."

Starsky had known that his mother would have given the situation serious thought. She had to be thinking about the repercussions of his confession, but he was pleasantly surprised that she hadn't judged him on it.

"...So, Marjorie ended up shopping for the entire weekend!" Macowski finished triumphantly, looking expectantly at Starsky for his comment.

With a jolt of surprise Starsky became aware that Macowski had just related the story of his own weekend and that he had missed all of it.

"That's nice," Starsky replied weakly, hoping that Macowski hadn't just told him that he and his wife had driven down the coast on a murder and robbery spree. It was unlikely, he reflected, as from what he could tell, the older man's weekends usually involved shopping interspersed with arguing, but he hoped his comment was appropriate none the less.

"So," Starsky motioned towards the stack of files on his desk, "what have we got?" He wanted to focus on work and not let his mind replay the conversation with his mother again. It was becoming too confusing and he wanted something simple to fix his attention on.

Before the older man could reply, the phone on Starsky's desk rang and he picked it up on the first ring. "Starsky."

"My man!" It was a familiar voice and a welcome one.

For an instant Starsky was transported back to happier times, he half expected Huggy to impart some useful tip about his next case, but a glance across the desk at Macowski, scowling into a manila file, dispelled that notion immediately.

"Hey, Huggy, what's up?"

"You sure are a hard dude to find, I musta conversed with the entire New York Police Department before I tracked you down!"

Huggy was his usual irrepressible self, but Starsky could detect an underlying wariness in his friend's voice. He felt a wave of worry rising within him. Why would Huggy be so desperate to locate him at work, he could have left a message with his mother - he knew he was staying there.

"Huggy, is everything alright?"

"Depends on what you mean by `alright'," his friend replied carefully.

The worry that had been playing gently with Starsky's nerve endings transposed into fear and slammed through him, sending him abruptly to his feet. "Is it Hutch?" he demanded. "What's wrong with him? Where is he? Is he alright?" Starsky fired off questions without giving the other a chance to respond.

"Whoa there, calm down man." Huggy was stalling, so he figured it must be bad.

"I am calm," Starsky barked into the phone, "just tell me how my partner is." There was a definite pause on the other end and an intake of breath. "Seems Hutch has got himself into a bit of trouble in your absence." The thinly veiled accusation was there but Starsky chose to ignore it, waiting for Huggy to continue. "Seems he went in on a bust, with some real heavy dudes, got himself worked over pretty good."

"Tell me where he is," Starsky said with more patience than he actually felt, "and how badly he's hurt."

"The Memorial Hospital, he's in ICU." There was a pause and Starsky heard his friend draw a deep breath, "Starsky, Hutch has been shot." Huggy let the information out in a rush, glad to have delivered it, but clearly fearing Starsky's reaction.

For a moment Starsky thought he was going to faint. His knees gave way and he slumped back into the chair, trying to make sense of the information. He made an enormous effort to control the emotions that were now flooding him. The fear that Hutch might be dead or dying was matched by the guilt he felt at not having been there for him. The emotions threatened to engulf him.

"How bad is he hurt?" he managed to whisper. "Is he going to live?"

"Well, he's in ICU, so he's alive at the moment, but I can't get in to see him. Dobey is keeping everyone away," Huggy told him. "He should pull through though."

"I'm on my way." Starsky replaced the receiver only to pick it up immediately to ask the operator to put him through to JFK airport, sales desk.

Starsky was nearly out of the door before he remembered the presence of his colleague, who was looking at him with his mouth hanging open. Macowski had just witnessed him book the next available flight to LA without a second thought for the case that lay before him, neatly wrapped up in a standard issue file.

"Just tell the boss man that I'm sick." Starsky had never referred to their superior as "Captain", preferring instead to find various euphemisms for the rank in question.

Macowski's mouth dropped open a little wider. "I can't Dave," he spluttered helplessly "you're not sick." Always a man to play by the book, it was inconceivable for him to lie to his superior so blatantly.

Starsky's temper was rising by the minute, fuelled by worry over his partner, his real partner.

"Well, make something up. I'm going to LA, I'll...I'll be back in a few days." He wasn't sure of the truth of this statement but standing here arguing the toss with this man was not getting him any closer to that plane - and to Hutch.

"What do you want me to say?" the older man whined. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

The thin cord of patience finally broke. "Tell him I quit," Starsky snapped abruptly, "and I don't give a fuck what you do in the meantime."

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, Starsky left the office at a run. Halfway up the corridor he skidded to a halt and retraced his steps at the same speed. He stuck his head around the office door.

"Er, sorry Mac, but this is an emergency," he said breathlessly. "See you around."

Starsky knew he wouldn't be back.

Before boarding the plane at JFK, Starsky placed one more call, this time to his mother. Telling her swiftly that he was flying back to LA to be with Hutch, he wondered if that was the truth - or whether it was already too late.

"He'll be fine, honey." Rachel assured him, "your Hutch is strong, he'll pull through, you'll see."

"I hope so, mom."

Rachel replaced the receiver gently and offered up a quick prayer for her son's friend. It wasn't in her nature to appeal to unseen deities, but this time she felt the occassion called for it. Her thoughts then turned to the revealing conversation she'd shared with David, just the night before.

That night Rachel had gone to bed early, her son's revelation turning over in her mind. On balance, she decided, it hadn't been such a revelation at all. she'd been around too long to be shocked by anything and it hurt her that her son carried this big secret so close to him, hardly daring to share it with her. She slid into bed, letting the idea settle, considering the implications fully. Rachel was mildly surprised to find that it didn't bother her. Casting her mind back to when she'd first been introduced to Kenneth Hutchinson, Rachel recalled a time perhaps two years ago when the two men had come east for a visit.

It was the first time she'd met her son's partner in person, but David had spoken of him so often and in such great detail that she felt she had known him for years. She remembered thinking how beautiful he was, all blond and golden, a perfect contrast to her darker son. Ken had been polite and warm and friendly, a perfect houseguest, and it was apparent that he shared a special bond with her son. The bond was absolutely impenetrable at times and she'd sat back and watched as they'd teased and laughed and flirted. Yes. Flirted. It had made her enormously happy watching David, who had had such a hard time fitting in as a child, wrapped in love and cherished by the shy blond.

One night she'd left them on the couch arguing about what to watch on the TV. Ken had wanted to see a documentary, she couldn't recall the subject, and David, predictably enough, opted for the Saturday Night Horror. Leaving them squabbling like children she'd made her way to bed. Sometime later, Rachel had gotten up to fetch a glass of milk. It was a hot night and sleep was proving evasive. As she neared the kitchen, she'd looked into the lounge room to check that the pair had remembered to switch everything off before heading upstairs. The TV was still on, the final scenes of some awful movie flickering across the screen. All the lights were out, but she could make out the shape of the two of them on the couch. Ken lay back on the armrest, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one arm propping him up, the other resting protectively around the shoulder of her son. David lay sprawled along the length of the couch, his head nestled comfortably on the blond's lap, snoring gently. Rachel Starsky surveyed the scene from the doorway, not wishing to intrude. Just as she was leaving she'd seen the blond head lifting as the movie drew to a close. Ken had shifted slowly, taking into account the still sleeping form of his partner. With the utmost care he'd stroked the dark curls back from David's forehead before lowering his head to the somnolent figure on his lap. For a second Rachel thought that he was going to kiss him but he was merely whispered softly into the exposed ear, gently pulling his partner from sleep.

It had touched her that Ken was so kind to her son, even on occasions such as this when David had enforced his will, only to doze off throughout the film of his choice. She watched in silence as the blond gently, but firmly guided her sleepy son from the couch.

Chapter Two

The flight was long, uncomfortable, and Starsky had nothing to do other than worry about his partner. He knew that Hutch was alive, but Huggy had no way of assessing how badly he had been hurt. The image of Hutch, lying alone and in pain in some featureless hospital ward was becoming more real by the minute. Starsky imagined the monitors and tubes that were a necessary part of recovery but so intrusive, thought of the blond hair fanned out on the pillow like a golden halo, Hutch weak and unresponsive. His heart ached and the frustration of being so far away only added to his guilt.

Starsky's mind replayed all the other times that his partner had been injured. In the course of their career he had been shot, stabbed, forcibly addicted to heroin, not to mention getting the plague - Hutch had pulled through those times alright, he had to pull through again, he had to. If he were in ICU then it was serious; the doctors were obviously concerned at his condition.

Starsky carefully considered all the possible eventualities but kept returning to a single thought - what if he didn't make it? What if it had all been for nothing? What if his leaving had simply meant that Hutch died, alone in a sterile hospital room without his best friend? Without ever having known why his best friend had seen fit to leave him, so abruptly and with no explanation.

His mother was right, Hutch deserved to know the truth: he deserved so much and had received so little. Right then and there, Starsky made a pact with God. If he makes it through this - and he has to make it - because I'm not sure I can survive without him, I swear I'll tell him, I'll make it up to him somehow, I'll do whatever it is that he wants me to do. Just, please God, let him be OK.

Somewhere over the Midwest Starsky's mind returned to the months before his departure. Those months had been some of the hardest of his life. He'd come to see convalescence and recuperation as no more than a fancy way of saying hard work and pain.

Hutch had been beside him the whole way, encouraging him, cajoling him, sometimes outright bribing him to complete the recuperaton program. Without Hutch there would have been no recovery, of that he was certain. And you repay him with this. The voice of his conscience was loud and constant.

Hutch had gone beyond being a supportive friend and partner; he had experienced every bit of Starsky's ordeal, from the initial hospital stay, through physiotherapy, through dietary restrictions and through his requalification for the force.

Starsky recalled his partner's endless patience and generosity throughout that time, a time when his own usually sunny disposition had been overshadowed by continual tiredness and irritability. In the beginning Hutch had had to help him with even the most basic of functions: getting dressed, washing, even going to the bathroom. Hutch had never complained, not once, never even hinted that Starsky might be a burden or a drain on his physical and emotional resources, and Starsky knew that he had been.

Hutch had helped him heal, tended his wounds with soothing aloe and gentle hands, restored his confidence with words and gestures of encouragement every step of the way. He'd known intuitively when Starsky had needed his own space and had been there, unfailingly, when he needed comfort.

There had been so many nightmares during that time, especially in the weeks immediately after Starsky's release from hospital. Those nightmares were like no others he'd ever experienced. He would dream that he was lying wounded and bleeding on a hospital gurney, surrounded by doctors and nurses who unanimously and solemnly pronounced him dead. No-one could help him now. But in his dream he knew he wasn't dead, he was waiting for Hutch. It was always the same - he would wake up screaming, crying for Hutch to help him, confused and desperate.

It was at that time that Hutch had suggested that they share a bed, reasoning that they were both more likely to get some sleep. Starsky suspected that the blond was looking for some measure of comfort for himself, lying close to him in the dark, able to know that he was safe. He had agreed to the arrangement, at first merely allowing it, then welcoming it and at last anticipating it. It had been so easy, so straightforward, an ideal solution to a problem. And it had been so good to feel the strength of that long body pressed against him, warm and solid, reminding him that they were both alive. Starsky had slept better during those nights than he could ever remember.

Starsky's treacherous mind sieved through memories, looking for one in particular, one that it had not been allowed to revisit since he'd moved east.

It was a hot night, too close to get comfortable, too sultry for sleep. He was restless, turning over and over searching for a better position in which to lie and wait. Hutch fetched him a glass of water and lay perfectly still, lulling him into sleep with the comfort of his presence.

Starsky tried to give in, to yield to his body's need for rest, but tonight it was proving impossible. Something intangible hummed through him, skirting the edge of his consciousness, never revealing itself. It was the heat, he told himself, the stickiness of the night that prevented sleep from coming. As much as he wanted it, it eluded him. He tried moving away from the heat of Hutch's body, so that he lay on the very edge of the bed, but he found that he needed the nearness of the other body in order to relax. Shifting back to the center of the bed, he started to count sheep, an old method, but one that was usually reliable.

And then it happened again. Starsky was dying, he felt it like slipping into a warm bath, he felt his life ebb away. He could do nothing to stop it and mostly he didn't want to. He was almost gone, but not quite.

The images were so real - the bright lights of a hospital, the low, muted tones of the staff, doctors and nurses regretfully giving up on his prone, lifeless body. They sighed, murmuring to one another that it was time to quit, pronounce the patient dead. Starsky lay on the gurney dressed in a white gown, only half listening to the drone of voices, when it occurred to him that they were talking about him. Saying that he was dead, there was nothing more they could do. But he couldn't be, not yet, he still had things to do.

His first thought was for Hutch, what would Hutch do if he were dead? Blame himself, that's what and Starsky couldn't allow that. He opened his mouth to explain that they needed to find his partner, let him know that it wasn't his fault, say goodbye for him.

And another thought came to him; he wasn't dead at all, he could still think, hear and feel. The only thing he couldn't do was move. Frantic to communicate he tried again, but his limbs felt like lead weights, trapping him on the narrow mattress. The doctors and nurses started to move away, fading into the light that surrounded him. He began to panic. They had to find Hutch, Hutch wouldn't leave him like this, Hutch would know that he was still alive. Forcing his mouth to form the word, he drew in the deepest breath imaginable and screamed.

Disorientation followed. The light had gone, replaced by darkness. The cold, clinical feel of the hospital room had turned into warmth and he could feel the heat of another body.

"Hutch!" Starsky called in desperation, "Hutch, tell them, tell them I'm not dead." He had regained the use of his limbs and was sitting up in the darkness, groping wildly for something, anything, to hold onto.

"Hutch, please!" he felt a sob rise in his throat, he didn't want it to happen this way.

His vision cleared enough for him to focus on the face in front of him, a familiar and much loved face surrounded by a halo of gold. He felt two arms come around his shoulders and pull him towards a smooth, strong chest, where he could feel the other's heartbeat.

"Tell them I'm not dead."

The last vestiges of his nightmare still had to be dispelled and Hutch complied, telling the darkness of the bedroom that Starsky was alive and well and safe with him. Starsky relished the solace of those arms around him, listened intently to the whispered words of consolation and felt the soothing palms on his sweat-soaked back. He knew that he was loved, cherished and protected.

"C'mon buddy," Hutch said eventually, "let's get you more comfortable." He repositioned Starsky for sleep, laying him on his side and curling his own body around his back. Hutch tucked one arm beneath his partner securing Starsky tight against his chest and wrappes the other over the still shaking form.

"It was just a nightmare, buddy, it's over now," Hutch told him running his hand over Starsky's shoulder to massage the tightly bunched muscles.

"I dreamt I was dead, they thought I was dead, they were leaving and...and you weren't there." Starsky's voice was little more than a whisper.

"You're not dead, babe." Hutch placed his hand in the middle of his partner's heaving chest. "There, I can feel your heart beating."

"Don't go anywhere, Hutch." Starsky was still caught up in the fear that had ripped him from sleep, "please."

Hutch responded to the plaintive sound by rubbing tiny comforting circles over the spot where his hand rested. "Not going anywhere, Starsk, I promise."

Starsky relaxed slightly under the soothing touch and pressed back into the welcoming warmth, wanting it to surround him, reassure him. The hands on his body continued their slow movements, providing the much-needed relief. Starsky felt their motion over his skin, over the light sprinkling of hair, occasionally brushing over his nipples. As his fear subsided, he felt new emotions awaken within his exhausted body but he found he couldn't put a name to them.

Sighing with pleasure at the human contact, he tried to remember the last time someone had touched him with anything other than clinical interest, and couldn't. For months doctors had poked and prodded at his body, measuring his heart rate, checking his pulse, his reflexes, cataloguing each change, each tiny improvement in mobility, until he had never wanted anyone to lay a hand on him again.

Hutch had been there throughout his recovery process, assisting him with daily necessities such as shaving and bathing, and each task had been performed with the utmost care and consideration. But it had been so long since he had been touched like this and his body responded.

He felt the heat of his partner's breath on his neck as he continued to whisper meaningless reassuring phrases into his ear. He felt the action of those gentle, loving hands over his chest and his belly. He could smell Hutch's distinct, masculine scent, the clean, pure fragrance that he knew so well. He heard the love and compassion in that voice and suddenly he was fully awake, experiencing all the sensations at once. The unknown emotions, the ones that he didn't want to put names to, curled deep inside him, threatening to erupt. Starsky shivered again, though this time it wasn't through fear.

"It's okay, I'm here, you're with me now."

"Don't let me go, Hutch," Starsky murmured, shifting his position slightly to allow Hutch's hands freedom to roam over his body. "Please, don't let me go."

"Won't let you go, buddy," Hutch replied in that soft, soothing voice, "not ever."

The slender fingers carded gently through Starsky's chest hair, connecting momentarily with the hardened peak of his nipple. Starsky felt a tremor run the length of his body and arched into the touch, silently begging for more. At last he recognized the emotion.

Hutch's fingertips returned to the tiny bud and flicked over the sensitized skin, earning a deep sigh from his partner. The rigid terror had left him now but it was replaced with a different kind of tension. Hutch pinched the erect bud of flesh gently before removing his hand completely. Starsky was about to voice his disappointment, but the fingers were back seconds later, wet with saliva. They surrounded the flesh as Hutch's mouth made contact with his shoulder, kissing and biting the soft skin there.

It was so sweet, so incredible, so right. Starsky wanted more. He made soft, inarticulate sounds of pleasure as Hutch once again, left off toying with his nipple, then moved his hand further down to explore his navel. Starsky rolled over onto his back, wanting Hutch to touch him everywhere. His eyes remained completely closed as his hips began to rock slowly back and forth.

Starsky lay back, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped tightly round Hutch's back effectively preventing him from pulling away. Even in the dim light, Starsky's excitement was obvious, as his cock was straining upwards against the thin cotton of his pajama pants. Slipping his hand further over Starsky's hip, Hutch pushed the material away, exposing his beautifully erect phallus..

"Whatever you want, Starsk."

The voice was so tender, so full of love, that Starsky drew in a sharp breath unable to respond immediately. The fire that raged within him was burning out of control under Hutch's touch. Starsky thought he could bear no more of this delicious torture. His groin was on fire, his cock ached to be handled. He pulled Hutch further towards him.

"Touch me," he ground out, his voice husky with lust.

Immediately a large hand encircled him and at the same time Hutch buried his face in his partner's neck, inhaling deeply.

"Jeesus!" It felt so good. Hutch held him just right, moving his hand in long, slow strokes. Starsky fought the urge to thrust his hips upwards, to demand that the pace should quicken. He wanted to enjoy this, savor the feeling of Hutch's hand on him, not just get off. When he turned to seek Hutch's eyes he saw that they were liquid with love. This was indeed a perfect moment.

Hutch for his part controlled Starsky's flood of desire with an able hand, and when he found those indigo blue eyes searching for his, he did the only thing possible - he lowered his head and kissed his partner.

The kiss was a sensuous exploration of Starsky's mouth. Hutch's lips met his, moving over them in the sweetest caress Starsky had ever known then a hot tongue slid out and demanded entry. Permission was willingly given and before he knew it, Starsky found his mouth being thoroughly fucked in a slow, steady rhythm that exactly matched the hand on his cock. His hips moved of their own volition, pushing his hardness into the warm sheath. He pulled out of the kiss, needing air, needing to see the person who was giving him so much pleasure.

"I'm so close...please...please..." Starsky's voice was hoarse with an edge of desperation.

Hutch kissed him again, silently promising him whatever he needed. Then nipped at his exposed throat, licking the tiny droplets of sweat that collected at the base of his neck. The rhythm quickened slightly and Starsky felt all remnants of control slipping away. He grabbed a handful of blond hair and brought Hutch's head close to his own, fixing his blue eyes onto his partner's.

"I'm gonna come now." It was spoken like a vow.

Starsky released his partner's head as he felt his orgasm build and then shatter, rendering him almost unconscious. Distantly he heard himself emit a low moan as he came.

Time stopped in that moment. Starsky felt his orgasm in every atom of his body, exploding and reuniting in perfect synchronicity. He wanted to speak but was unable to. Instead he reached for his partner, wanting to bury himself in Hutch.

Gently, Hutch cleaned him up, using a tissue to remove the flood of semen from his belly, before enfolding him in his arms, chest to chest, holding him close and letting him drift off into the best sleep he'd had in ages.

Starsky woke early that morning. It was still dark and he was still wrapped around Hutch exactly as they'd fallen asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake his partner, he disengaged himself from the blond's tenacious grip and searched for his clothes. He left the apartment as quietly as he could and went home to think.

Starsky knew somewhere inside that when he made decisions in the early hours of the morning, all alone and with a maelstrom of emotions playing on his mind, they weren't always very sound. But in the quiet of his own apartment, without Hutch to bounce ideas off, he panicked. Sure, he could write the whole thing off as just an experiment, an experiment between two friends who loved each other deeply and for a long time. But he knew it would never ring true, at least not for him.

It hadn't been just an experiment. It was the culmination of years of wanting, thrown into relief by his recent near-death experience. He had wanted to be touched, to be held, to be loved, not just by anyone - by Hutch. And now he had to face the consequences.

Deep inside, Starsky knew that Hutch would never hold what happened against him, never bring it up again, if that's what he wanted. But he also knew that Hutch would never be able to give him what he most desired. And he desired Hutch, all of him, forever.

The love that he held for this man knew no boundaries, either physical or emotional, and an incident like this could change the balance of their friendship forever, no matter how hard each of them tried to prevent that from happening. How could he go on, facing death on the streets on a daily basis, knowing that one error from him could result in the death of the person he held so dear? For Starsky, the burden was too great.

And what would happen when Hutch met someone, someone like Gillian, that made him go all gooey-eyed and think of the future: a house, some kids, settling down? A future that didn't have room for Starsky, didn't include him in the way he needed.

The self-analysis was painful, but by six o'clock that morning Starsky had made an agonizing decision. Rather than risk anything going wrong between them, he would leave, leave Hutch to get on with his life. Starsky wanted to jump before he was pushed.

At nine o'clock he made a phone call that would change both their lives. He phoned Captain Dobey and requested a transfer, out of state, preferably back to New York.

Of course Dobey had been surprised, certainly worried, but Starsky had convinced him that he'd spent many days, weeks, months even, considering all his options and this was the one he was happy with. Dobey had asked about Hutch. Starsky had swallowed hard and lied, saying that Hutch understood his reasons and regretfully agreed with his decision. Maybe Captain Dobey had believed him. Maybe he understood that one of his finest detectives needed a break from the hard street life. Maybe Starsky had sounded so sure of his decision. Whatever Dobey believed, he'd respected the younger man's resolve and found him a six-month position in Internal Affairs, New York City. It had all been remarkably easy. Too easy, as if someone, somewhere, had known Starsky needed to get out of LA and fast.

Within a week Starsky had relocated to the East Coast and was already bitterly regretting the move. It was partly pride that kept him from changing his mind, but mostly it was feeling that he'd done the right thing by Hutch. However hard it was to be apart from the man that he'd come to rely on in so many ways, Starsky truly believed that Hutch was better off without the additional burden of a partner who had somehow, somewhere along the line, fallen in love with him.

Besides, what good was a partner too scared to sleep alone at night, a partner who didn't want to work the streets anymore, a partner whose lung capacity was never going to regain its full potential. What good was a partner who wanted nothing more than to curl up beside his big blond love and keep them both safe from harm? No good at all, Starsky decided, not to someone like Hutch, the White Knight, the protector of innocents, the person who declined all offers of promotion because he wanted to keep working his beat.

A pinging noise above his head snapped Starsky sharply out of his reverie. The passengers were advised to fasten their seatbelts now as they were approaching LAX, the local time was 7.15pm and the captain sure wished they'd had a good flight and that they would fly with him again soon.

Chapter three

Touchdown was only the first part of the journey's end. Next there was all that waiting - waiting to disembark with hundreds of other passengers who were oblivious to Starsky's near desperate panic and who exhibited absolutely no sense of urgency. Then there were the flight attendants to contend with beautifully presented, shallow-eyed girls who hoped with insincere smiles that his flight had been enjoyable.

Yes, I enjoyed the flight. I've spent six hours trying to avoid conversation with a suited bureaucrat on my left and a gin-soaked lush on my right, worrying myself sick that my partner is lying in pain, alone in a hospital bed. Of course I enjoyed the fucking flight.

Starsky surveyed the crowded concourse, mentally plotting his path through the tightly knitted groups of travelers who stood between him and the door. Bodies were everywhere, moving aimlessly, getting in the way, inhibiting a speedy exit. With supreme effort, Starsky reined in the temptation to wave his gun around and clear the seething mass in front of him. A burning need to move fast, to reach his destination sooner rather than later, was severely hampered by the sheer volume of people. His frustration levels racked up another notch. Cursing aloud, he shoved his way through the swarm, not caring whom he knocked out of the way in his exigency. Thankfully his lack of luggage meant he did not have to wait for the airplane hold to be emptied before he could proceed to the exit.

The sight of a long line of bright yellow cabs, standing in a seemingly endless row outside the building, engines purring, ready and willing to assist him, did nothing to alleviate the tension that continued to swell within him. Sliding into the first available vehicle, Starsky settled into the seat.

"Memorial Hospital," Starsky told the driver sharply, "and make it fast." He hoped that the cab driver would not attempt any form of conversation, he was not in the mood. Adrenaline ran through his veins as if he were on his way to a bust. Trying to obtain some mental focus he told himself that soon he would be able to assess, firsthand, the shape his partner was in.

Only he's not my partner anymore. I ended the partnership and probably the friendship when I left without any explanation. You dumb jerk.

Starsky wished his inner voice would shut the fuck up and let him concentrate, but wishing was having very little effect.

Maybe it's too late, maybe Hutch is dead already, maybe those bastards shot him up real bad and it's all too late. You dumb jerk.

"Traffic is pretty bad uptown, you want me to take a back route?" The driver at least was relatively non-communicative, speaking only when necessary.

"Yeah, sure, just make it fast." Starsky glanced at his watch; it was 8 o'clock already. Why did time slip away so fast when each second counted?

Eventually the cab pulled up outside the familiar gray hospital building and before it came to a standstill, Starsky was in motion, pulling dollar bills out of his pocket and reaching for the door. He handed a bundle of notes to the driver, confident that the amount would adequately cover the fare, and exited the car. His was heart racing even before he ran up the steps two and three at a time, then flew through the glass doors at the top. As soon as he entered the lobby the smell hit him. It was the disinfected, sterile smell that he'd come to hate over the years, a smell that Starsky associated directly with pain, either his own, or Hutch's. This time was no exception. His inner voice was back, pleading desperately with God.

Oh God, please let Hutch be OK, please let him be alive, I need him so much.

Skidding to a halt in front of the nurses' station, Starsky saw that it was empty. He glanced around frantically for somebody to speak to. If he had to search the entire hospital until he found Hutch, he would, but it would be quicker and more efficient to get someone to point him in the right direction.

A door opened and a tall, angular woman approached the desk. Wearing the stern look that only school teachers and head nurses ever seem to possess, she peered over the top of her heavy-rimmed glasses at the disheveled sight in front of her.

"Ken Hutchinson," Starsky said breathlessly.

The nurse appraised him fully, taking in his rumpled appearance, before calmly seating herself behind the desk. "Excuse me?" she asked, as if she hadn't heard him.

"I'm here to see Ken Hutchinson, he's a cop...a police officer, he was shot." Please lady, help me, I'm in a hurry.

"Let's see." The nurse consulted her list of patients methodically and with a seemingly deliberate lack of urgency. Looking up over her glasses, she fixed the hapless Starsky with a hard stare. "When did you say he was admitted?"

Starsky's fragile hold on him temper was threatening to abandon him completely. "I don't know," he hissed wanting to grab the sheaf of papers from her bony hands and find Hutch's name himself. The nurse's gaze never wavered, so he added, "er... last night, I think, or this morning." How the fuck should I know?Just look at your goddamned list and tell me where he is so I can see him.

With a sigh, she continued her slow perusal of the information, holding it close to her chest as if it were classified data, whilst Starsky attempted to displace some of his frustration by nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Suddenly the nurse stabbed a scrawny finger at the record papers. "Yes, here he is, admitted last night." Looking up briefly she narrowed her eyes and added darkly, "Following an incident down at the docks involving drugs."

"Where is he? I've got to see him." The impatience in his tone was unmistakable.

"It's past visiting hours," she stated with a finality. "You can come back tomorrow at 10am."

If she had been younger and prettier, and possibly more receptive to his charms, Starsky might have considered a mild flirtation to bypass this gatekeeping, but he knew it would be futile. He had to change tack and quickly before the last shred of his patience evaporated and he did something he might regret.

"Listen, lady, I'm a police officer," Starsky dug into his pocket for his shield, "NYPD Internal Affairs. I need to see Hutch...er...Detective Hutchinson in connection with a very important investigation," he waved the ID in front of her, "and I need to see him now." The last part was true at least. Mentally crossing his fingers, Starsky waited to see if she would swallow this line.

The nurse considered this new twist for a while and finally, with another exaggerated sigh, she relayed the vital piece of information.

"He's in room 233." She told him "You go up the corridor..." She never got to finish her sentence. Starsky was gone, running towards the stairs as if his life depended on it.

Starsky didn't stop running until he was standing outside room 233. Then he paused to catch his breath. A large part of him wanted to thrust open the door, throw himself down beside Hutch and beg him to recover, promise him he'd never leave again, if only he would get better. But another part of him didn't want to see what he knew awaited him behind the door of room 233. Steeling himself against what he might find inside, he gently pushed the door.

The sight that greeted him was more shocking than all the scenarios he'd imagined, and it left him speechless.

Hutch heard the door open and looked up, setting the magazine he'd been reading down onto his lap. If anybody had asked him, he would have been forced to admit that in fact he hadn't been reading the magazine, or even looking at the pictures: it had merely been open in front of him as he gazed sightlessly past it. It had been a while since he'd experienced the dull boredom of a hospital stay and it was the first time in a long, long time that he had been there without Starsky. Starsky could always be relied upon to provide relief from the tedious process of recovery. Whenever Hutch had been injured or sick he had been there, fussing round him, watching over him, making sure he had everything that he might need, along with a good number of things he didn't.

He missed Starsky every day. Every minute of every hour of every day, to be more precise, but his loneliness was compounded when he was hurt and there was no Starsky to contribute the non-stop trickle of meaningless conversation to keep him entertained. For the millionth time since that fateful night Hutch was wondering why Starsky had seen fit to leave the city so abruptly, without giving him a chance to talk about what had happened, without even saying goodbye. He wondered too if he would ever come back and what he would say to Starsky if he did.

Hutch knew with a deep-seated level of surety that his partner's departure was entirely to do with what had happened between them in the darkness of his bedroom. He had known that Starsky had reacted badly when Hutch had woken to find himself alone, with no note to explain the other's absence. When Starsky failed to contact him in the following days, Hutch knew it was serious, but he didn't for one minute think that it was something that they couldn't work out between them. They had always worked everything else out, even the Kira debacle.

The news that Starsky had asked for a transfer back East was so incomprehensible that Hutch had had to sit down when Dobey told him. Their captain had called him the moment the transfer was rubber stamped and complete, knowing with an uncanny understanding that Starsky hadn't shared the decision with his partner.

Hutch couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe that his partner, his best friend for the better part of a decade, the person he loved completely and unconditionally, had abandoned him without so much as a word. Initially, all he had felt was hurt and bewilderment. Their friendship had survived a great deal and grown stronger over the years. The last few months after Gunther's assassination attempt and during Starsky's recovery had cemented that bond forever, or so Hutch had thought. When the pain of betrayal had subsided enough for Hutch to feel another emotion, he found himself very, very angry.

So when the door to the tiny hospital room opened to reveal a disheveled and panting Starsky, Hutch too was speechless.

Suppressing the surge of pleasure at seeing his friend and the urge to leap out of bed and hug the apparition before it disappeared again, he struggled to find his voice.

"Starsky?" Hutch wasn't sure he should believe the evidence of his own eyes and his voice betrayed his surprise at seeing the longed-for figure.

Starsky stared at him in equal disbelief. Hutch wasn't hooked up to a life support machine. There were no wires, no tubes, and no nurses hovering in anticipation of his imminent demise. The only evidence that he'd been hurt at all was a small sticking plaster above his right eye.

A tidal wave of relief at seeing his ex-partner so alive, so healthy, so not struggling for every breath, crashed over Starsky's travel-weary mind, bringing with it a battalion of other emotions. He sifted through the tumbling feelings until he found one he could use - rage. When he finally regained the use of his voice, he didn't bother with conversational preliminaries such as "hello, how are you."

"What the fuck is going on?" he yelled. The innumerable hours of mind-numbing worry, mixed together with his own crushing guilt and regret, produced a volatile cocktail within Starsky's tired body. Now he was furious. Huggy had tricked him into coming back, made him think that Hutch was clinging to life by the slenderest of threads, given him needless hours of fear, made him quit his job, and all for a bump on the head.

"Nice to see you too, Starsk."

Starsky was oblivious to the sarcasm. "Huggy said you'd been shot," he spluttered, his voice rising by at least an octave. "He said you were in intensive care." Starsky started to pace in the tiny space at the foot of the bed, his hands gesturing wildly as he continued to rant.

"I have been so scared, thinking that you were lying here, all wired up to machines an' all. I thought you'd been shot, that some loser had finally aimed good, and...I hadn't been there to stop it. If I'd been there, I coulda done something. I thought it was all my fault for leaving you. I thought maybe you'd quit the force if I left, maybe you'd keep yourself safe, but no, you stay on the streets, where you could get killed, with a new partner..." Starsky paused and looked at Hutch accusingly. "What the fuck happened?"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I did get shot," Hutch replied evenly, placing his magazine on the nightstand with casual grace.

"Wha...whaddya mean, you got shot? Where?" Starsky was still yelling and pacing and staring at Hutch as he sat passively in the bed.

"I got shot in the chest." Hutch indicated the area with his hand. "I was wearing a vest, Starsk," he added, referring to the police issue bullet-proof vests that were used in certain circumstances, generally when the officers involved knew things might get hairy. As partners, neither man had made much use of them, preferring instead to rely on each other as back up, tapping into the sixth sense they had shared which allowed them to "know" when and where to make their moves and how to keep safe.

When Starsky failed to make any comment, Hutch added, "I've got concussion. I hit my head pretty hard when I fell. They want to keep me in for observation, you know the drill." He was speaking as if they had never been apart, as if Starsky hadn't departed, over a month ago, leaving him in a vacuum of silence.

Starsky was momentarily confused, his mind was still on the bullet-proof vest. Why had Hutch been wearing one? His brain sorted through the range of connotations the declaration held.

"Why?" he demanded viciously, knowing that Hutch would understand the abbreviated question and what he was really asking.

"He's young, Starsky, fresh out of the Academy." Sure enough Hutch had picked up on the unasked question. If Hutch had seen fit to wear a vest on a bust, it could only be because he didn't fully trust his back up.

"Where was he?" Starsky fired the question as if he were interrogating a suspect.

Hutch's face took on an innocent look. Starsky had seen it a million times in Dobey's office when they was being bawled out by their superior for some real or imagined transgression. But beneath the crystal blue eyes, Starsky recognized the signs of a storm brewing.

"Where was who?" Hutch's voice was clipped.

"Where was your...your..." The hesitation had betrayed him. Starsky saw a glimmer of satisfaction cross the otherwise bland expression.

"Where was your partner?" Starsky enunciated each word carefully, rising to the implicit challenge, his sapphire eyes fixing firmly on Hutch's.

Hutch returned the gaze evenly and replied in an equally clear voice, "My partner? Oh, he was in New York."

A soft tap on the door, followed by a hushed voice enquiring, "Hey, partner, how ya doin'?" prevented any further outburst from Starsky. The speaker entered the room carrying a fresh stack of magazines under one arm.

Hutch wasn't kidding, Starsky reflected. This boy was young, and slightly built. He should be out delivering papers on a bike, not being responsible for the life or death of my partner. The anger that gripped him surged anew but before he could say anything, Hutch was introducing them as if they had met in a bar.

"Starsky, this is Luke Somers, my new..." he paused, allowing the word its full impact, "partner."

Hutch was taunting him, paying him back for his betrayal, letting him know that he wasn't indispensable. Something inside Starsky knew that he deserved this - he was the one who had let Hutch down, left him to fend for himself, left him free to find a new partner - but he had reached his emotional limit. He was tired and scared and he didn't want any of this to be happening. Without warning he leapt forward, grabbed the unfortunate young man by his lapels and pinned him against the wall.

"What the fuck were you thinkin' of?" Starsky demanded roughly, "Lettin' your partner take a bullet like that!" He shook his victim like a rag doll, causing the stack of magazines clutched under his arm to fall randomly around his feet.

Somers looked terrified and even younger as his pale green eyes grew large in the face of this unexpected attack. Starsky pressed closer demanding an answer.

Somers faltered, "He was wearing a vest..." The excuse came out as a tiny squeak his assailant growled in reply and shoved him once again into the wall.

"Is that what they teach you in the Academy these days, huh, that it's OK to let your partner take a bullet so long as he's wearing a vest?" Shaking the boy mercilessly, Starsky drew in a breath, about to launch into another tirade.

Further intimidation of his subject was prevented by Hutch who swiftly approached the duo, his expression somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

"Let him go, Starsky," he said wearily. "It's not his fault."

But Starsky wasn't done yet. His grip on the young man tightened further. "Your job, your responsibility is to watch your partner's back, not rely on some dumb vest to keep him alive you stupid, fucking imbecile."

A hand closed on Starsky's arm, hard enough to hurt. Hutch's own temper had been pushed to the limit.

"Whatever happened, it's not Somers' fault, and you'd know that if you'd just shut up long enough to listen to the facts." Hutch's voice was low, seconds away from explosion.

Starsky's focus remained on the figure in front of him, his eyes boring into the ones just inches from his own. Suddenly he drew back his hand, slamming it against the wall, a fraction away from the younger man's head.

"Let him go!" Hutch yelled abruptly. It was a command, delivered in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Not until he..."

"I said, let him go!" Hutch pulled sharply on the arm he held, forcing Starsky to turn and face him.

Starsky stood utterly still, his body rigid, held in place by Hutch's hold on his arm. As he glared defiantly at his partner, Starsky was dismayed to find all his fury draining away, leaving him open and vulnerable to Hutch's close scrutiny. He was tempted to look away, to hide all the hurt, anger, sorrow and regret that he knew had filled it's place.

They stood like that, eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity, each man lost in his own thoughts, wanting to reach out but unsure as to how. Starsky felt a lapse in Hutch's hold and took advantage. The momentary lack of concentration allowed him to tear his arm away from the punishing grip. He stalked towards the door and slammed it loudly on the way out, leaving Hutch to explain to the baffled, battered boy what was the hell going on.

The slamming door brought Hutch to his senses, for a moment, he had been lost in a memory unaware of anything around him. He was focussed on one thing - his partner.

The last time he had touched Starsky, the last time they had been so close that they could feel each other breathe, the last time he'd looked deep into those clear blue eyes, it had all been so different. The memory was so clear, the vision so strong, that for an instant Hutch felt like he had been transported back to a time before - a hot night, a month ago, when everything had been so right, so perfect. Starsky lying trembling beneath him, his whole body rigid with desire, his breath coming in short, shallow pants, and that whispered promise I'm gonna come now delivered like a gift.

When just now he had looked into those troubled eyes, darkened by emotion, Hutch had wanted to put both arms around the unyielding form and comfort his partner as he had so many times in the past. Starsky had always responded well to physical contact, allowing himself to be held until whatever was troubling him slipped away in the safety and comfort of Hutch's love. And before all this, he had always been able to return the favor for the blond. But this time Starsky was battling something big, and Hutch realized that he needed to work it out in his own way.

Forcing his attention back to the only other occupant of the room, Hutch sighed and resigned himself to the somewhat difficult task of explaining to Somers what that had all been about.

Outside in the corridor, Starsky found a seat and slumped into it, resolving to wait until Somers left before re-entering the room. Dismally he surveyed the wreckage that had been his reunion with Hutch.

If you could stop being a jerk for just a minute, you might be able to get something sorted out. You might be able to salvage some kind of friendship, but no, you have to behave like an idiot, taking your anger out on a Hutch's new partner.

It was relentless, this voice in his head, and, aggravating though it was, Starsky knew it told the truth. He had done nothing helpful or constructive, if anything he had made the whole situation worse. Running his hands through his unruly mop of hair, he settled down to wait.

It wasn't long before Luke Somers appeared again, poking his head out and peering nervously up and down the corridor. He closed the door noiselessly behind him. Starsky watched as the young policeman visibly squared his shoulders before marching past him, his head held high. Starsky glared at the retreating back, using up the remainder of his residual anger, before returning to Hutch.

As he entered the room for the second time, Starsky realized that he had no idea exactly what he was going to say. But he did know that he should apologize profusely for his previous behaviour, try to appeal to the blond's good nature, attempt to bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

The chasm that you opened between us, when you left town, when you refused to face up to what you were feeling.

Standing silently in the doorway, Starsky stared mutely at the figure in the bed. All traces of anger had gone, leaving him with nothing but a bone-deep sadness that their relationship, one that he had held so dear, had come to this - he felt like a stranger in his own skin. He looked for the reproach in Hutch's clear blue eyes.

Hutch, for his part, tried desperately to look reproachful, but the sight of an utterly dejected Starsky, rumpled from travel and wearing the exhausted look of someone who had reached the bottom of his emotional well, prevented that. When all was said and done, Starsky's appearance and his inappropriate, misplaced outburst proved one thing to Hutch - he still cared - and for that, he was profoundly grateful. Over the last month, the total lack of communication, the fact that Starsky hadn't tried to contact him had left Hutch doubting the fundamental basis of their friendship.

He had started to wonder whether he had forced his attentions on the dark-haired man, pushed him beyond his limits on that night, allowing his own love, his passion, his need for his partner, to overwhelm them both. In his bleaker moments, Hutch wondered whether Starsky had every right to feel so disgusted he had to remove himself bodily to the other side of the country. Guilt and longing produced a strange combination and created irrational consequences.

What was needed now was an olive branch, a stepping stone back to the togetherness that they had cherished for so long. Slowly Hutch found himself offering it. In an almost imperceptible move his hand, resting on the sheet that covered him, turned palm up, long fingers extended, a tiny invitation.

Starsky saw it immediately and pounced. In one fluid movement he crossed the room, took a firm hold of the offered hand and slumped into the hard-backed hospital chair beside the bed. He leant forward, resting his forehead beside Hutch's hip, letting his body go limp. He remained silent, but his tight grip on Hutch's hand spoke volumes, communicating a voiceless apology.

When Starsky lifted his head from its resting place, Hutch saw that the indigo blue eyes were moist and his heart melted. Whatever had gone wrong between them, they would have to work it out. If Starsky were here, with him, gripping his hand like a lifeline, then they would at least be able to talk about it now. Wresting his hand from the warmth of Starsky's grip he brought it up to stroke through the mass of dark hair, letting the curls wind themselves around his fingers.

"We have to talk buddy," Hutch said gently. Not trusting his voice, Starsky just nodded mutely.

"But not now, you're tired and I...well, I need a little time..." Hutch pushed his hand through the thick hair again, trying to soften the blow of making Starsky wait. He figured that they were both too tired, too emotional to do this now. Besides, the ward sister would be here soon to throw all stray visitors out. It would be better to have time and privacy for this conversation.

"Hey," Hutch tried to lighten the mood, "I get out of here tomorrow, why don't you pick me up in the morning?" He smiled at the forlorn figure beside him, "We'll talk then."

Straightening from his hunched position beside the bed, Starsky nodded again, "Sure." But his voice didn't hold much conviction.

A thought occurred to Hutch as he watched his friend stand and zip up the familiar leather jacket. "Where are you staying tonight?"

Starsky looked bewildered for a moment and then shrugged. "Dunno, I guess I'll check into a Motel Six, or something."

Hutch reached across to the nightstand beside the bed and opened the drawer. His hand searched for several moments before finally latching onto the object he was looking for. He handed a bunch of keys to Starsky.

"Go to my place," he said. "Get some rest and come back for me at about nine."

Confusion was the only expression Starsky was managing at this point, but he took the proffered bunch and pocketed it with a nod of gratitude.

"I moved the spare when you left." The explanation said everything. Hutch had no desire to have anyone letting themselves into his apartment except one man. In his absence, the spare key was redundant.

"Hutch...I..." Starsky started to speak, but Hutch cut him off before he could incriminate himself.

"Go," he insisted and then, as he saw the dark shadow of doubt cross those beloved blue eyes, he added softly. "It'll be OK, trust me."

Chapter Four

The apartment was uncharacteristically silent when he entered - and cold, as if Hutch had left a long time ago. Starsky flipped on the light and looked around, wanting the comfort of familiar surroundings. The place was a mess. Clothing lay everywhere, discarded shirts, socks and jeans. The remains of a half-eaten takeaway meal rested beside the sink. The plants wilted and the edges of the leaves were turning brown. Hutch had never been an obsessively tidy person, but this was way beyond his normal levels of disarray.

Moving on automatic pilot, Starsky began to straighten the chaos, watering the jungle first. He felt a strange urge to apologize to the plants as he fed them, removing the foliage that was beyond recovery and tenderly stroking healthier leaves. The state of the greenery was yet another symbol of the devastation caused by his departure.

Picking his way through the jumble of magazines and papers that lay on the floor, Starsky tried to understand the situation he'd produced from Hutch's point of view. Knowing his partner's incredible ability to appropriate blame, he imagined how Hutch must have felt that morning - the morning after the night before, when the bed had been cold and the apartment empty. It was during the early hours of that same morning, as the first rays of sunlight leaked through the blind, that Starsky had realized that they couldn't go on being just partners. He couldn't go back to the work that they did: there had been too many near misses, not to mention one damned good strike. Going back on the street, after what he'd been through, what they'd both been through, would be tempting fate - just waiting until the final moment, when one of them got killed.

What Hutch didn't know was that during that night Starsky had felt the weight of love that he'd carried for so long in its entirety. He couldn't love someone the way that he loved Hutch and still be responsible for his life, or death, not any more. During the long period of recovery he'd spent many hours alone, reflecting on the path that their lives had taken, the horrors that they'd seen in the course of their everyday lives. Starsky knew that morning, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he didn't want to do it any more.

He had died in that hospital, his heart had stopped beating, but by some miracle he had been brought back from the dead. If it had been Hutch lying there, fighting for his life, instead of him, he wouldn't have been able to cope. To lose the person he loved most in the world was too great a price to pay. Starsky had figured that, without his partner, Hutch would either take the lieutenant's exam, or quit the force for good. He hadn't figured on Hutch's stubborn streak.

Of course, there was the other issue to consider as well - loving Hutch the way that he did. Starsky never thought for a moment that Hutch would cease to be his friend if his secret got out, if he finally confessed to the exact way in which the love had changed. But he did know that the whole framework of their relationship, the essential balance between them, the essence of equality that was fundamental to who they were, would change. How could it not change? One partner falls in love with the other - attempting to do the right thing, the other tries, as he always does, to accommodate his partner's strange proclivities and by doing so, he would behave differently. It was inevitable.

In Starsky's imagination, two scenarios presented themselves. Firstly, Hutch would try and return those feelings but, although he loved his partner, he was not in love with him - and the relationship would fail. Or Hutch would back off, ostensibly to allow him to work things out, return to his senses, forget the whole thing ever happened, which Starsky could never do - and the relationship would fail. Whichever way you looked at it the relationship was doomed and Hutch would no doubt find some way of blaming himself for allowing his partner to fall in love with him. At least by leaving LA, Starsky had created a situation in which Hutch could justifiably blame him for the breakdown of the partnership.

And so the thoughts went round and round in his head, making less and less sense as they did so.

But Hutch touched you, reached for you, whispered, "Whatever you want, Starsk." Maybe he does love you in the same way.

Even in the sleep-deprived, travel-worn muddle of his thoughts, Starsky wouldn't entertain that idea. Hutch had merely been offering comfort, giving him what he thought he needed, when he needed it.

But he kissed you, kissed you softly, sweetly, deeply.

Starsky reminded himself sharply of how he'd spent at least a week in a deep, dark depression bemoaning the fact that no-one would ever find him attractive again, not with his body covered in scars. Scars left by Gunther's shooting that went so much deeper than his skin. "Nobody will ever want to touch me again, let alone kiss me." There, he'd telegraphed his need for that intimacy just hours before the event. Hutch was just fulfilling his need, as he always did.

Wishing fervently that he could switch his brain off, along with the incessant voice that nagged so constantly at him, Starsky finished tidying and made a decision about where he would sleep. He allowed himself the luxury of thinking that it was a decision. He had two options: the couch, where he'd slept a million times; or the bed that had witnessed his secrets. He knew, even before he entertained the idea of choice, that he would sleep in Hutch's bed, where he could wrap himself in Hutch's scent, feel his partner's warmth around him and remember, in graphic detail, what had taken place the last time he was there.

Dropping his clothing over a nearby chair, Starsky settled himself into the big brass bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The morning arrived all too early for Starsky's liking. He was no closer to solving any of the problems that he'd created for himself and he couldn't frame one sentence of how he was going to explain himself to Hutch. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the ceiling.

"Whatever you want, Starsk."

"Shut up!" He said it out loud, but telling the voice didn't have the desired effect, and the fact that it was now Hutch's voice - sweet and sincere, didn't help either.

There was nothing else for it - reluctantly leaving the warm cocoon of Hutch's bed, Starsky made his way to the shower with more determination than speed. It was still early and he had two hours before he was due at the hospital so he took his time, letting the warm water rush over him, soaping himself liberally. With the cleansing scent of Hutch's soap tickling his nostrils, Starsky found it impossible to banish all thoughts of that long, lean, golden body from his mind.

He searched his innermost thoughts, trying to determine, where all this had come from. He tried to recall a time when he didn't love Hutch and couldn't. Instead, he forced himself to think of the first time he'd wanted to feel those hands touching him intimately, far more intimately than he was used to the first time he'd wanted to kiss those soft, succulent lips; the first time he'd imagined what it would be like to be underneath that muscled, masculine body. It was certainly a long time before it had actually happened.

Tracing his thoughts backwards, Starsky remembered coming home from the hospital after Gunther's attack. He had been weak, so frail that he could hardly stand, and Hutch had been there, supporting him physically and mentally. In those days, when getting out of bed was a chore, he had spent many hours just watching Hutch as he moved around the apartment, making sure he was comfortable, fetching him glasses of iced tea, massaging cramped muscles with gentle hands.

At one point a cramp in his calf had gripped him so fiercely and so painfully that he'd cried out. Hutch had been beside him instantly, manipulating the leg skillfully, easing the tension out of the contracted muscle. Starsky recalled looking down on the blond, bowed head, his eyes filling with tears of gratitude - and of love. Without thinking he'd reached out to touch the fine strands, his fingertips coming to rest on his partner's cheekbone.

When Hutch returned his gaze, blue eyes wide and innocent, he had wanted to kiss him. It would've been so easy to press his lips against Hutch's slightly parted ones, dip the tip of his tongue into that waiting mouth, swallow whole this man, whom he loved so much it hurt. The desire had been so strong, but instead of acting on it, he'd pushed him away, muttering something about his leg being fine and he didn't need to make such a fuss.

Resting his forehead against the cold tiles of the shower stall, Starsky made a valiant effort to pull himself together. Indulging in fantasies of what could have been was going to get him nowhere. Neither was knowing when and where the changes took place. What he had to do now was pick Hutch up from the hospital and deal with the immediate issues.

He found some of his clothes that were still resident in Hutch's drawers and dressed in an old tee-shirt and an even older pair of jeans. Snatching up the key to the wreck of a car that Hutch was still driving, Starsky headed outside.

The day was comfortably warm in sharp contrast to the dreary, rain-soaked New York weather that he had recently experienced and Starsky felt the presence of the sun lift his spirits momentarily. The sight of the car, parked haphazardly beside the kerb, made him smile - it was as much a part of Hutch as the Torino was of him. The horn blared insistently and predictably when the driver's door was opened and familiar irritation rose within him. It was an old, comfortable feeling, one that Starsky relished as he started the engine.

Entering the hospital for the second time in as many days, Starsky was hit by a fresh wave of panic. Hutch wanted to talk, which was a good sign, but what would happen when he heard what his old partner had to say?

"You have to tell him, you owe him that much."

Now his mother's voice joined the chorus in his head and he hadn't the heart to tell her to shut up. Sighing heavily, Starsky made his way to the nurses' station, level 2.

Hutch was already waiting for him, and as he approached, Starsky paused to observe the scene. The tall blond leaned effortlessly over the counter that separated the nurses' station from the waiting area, chatting to a pretty, dark-haired receptionist. Starsky couldn't hear what was being said, but the girl was animated, giggling and batting her eyelashes in an unmistakable gesture of flirtation. Whatever the gorgeous blond was saying, Starsky could see the girl lapping it up, falling into those bottomless blue eyes. "Probably falling in love with him," Starsky thought savagely as he neared the desk. "Probably already swapped phone numbers."

Hutch saw him first, his smile fading slightly as he saw the glowering expression on Starsky's face.

"Here he is now," he told the receptionist, who giggled some more, fixing Starsky with a sunny but professional smile.

"Hi," she greeted him, glancing shyly at Hutch. "Ken was just telling me all about you."

No wonder she's laughing, she's probably wondering how one person can fuck up so many times in one lifetime.

Starsky gave her a tight smile before turning abruptly to Hutch. "You about ready to go?"

"Yup, the doctor's given me the all clear, so long as I take it easy." Hutch flashed a quick grin at the receptionist. "See you next time, sweetheart."

Something told Starsky that this was not going to be easy. He hadn't thought that it would be a walk in the park, but the reality of watching Hutch flirt, in that gentle, Midwestern, well-brought-up college boy way and the jealousy that it provoked served to highlight the difficulties that lay ahead. Stomping angrily across the parking lot, he cursed his own stupidity at falling in love with someone so totally unavailable.

The journey back to Venice Place was mercifully short, punctuated only by attempts at small talk.

"Your mom OK?"

"Yeah, she's fine."

"Nicky, too?"

"Yep, fine."

"What about IA, the job working out for you?"

No Hutch, the job isn't working out OK. I hate it. You're not there. I'm lonely for the first time in my life and I miss you like hell. You're still in the job, getting shot at with a rookie fresh out of the Academy watching your back, whilst I'm cooling my heels on the East Coast wondering how to tell you that I love you.

Starsky stole a sidelong glance at his friend to catch him looking back with fierce intensity. He remained silent until they reached Venice Place. Pulling up alongside the kerb, Starsky killed the engine.

"Let's go inside, then we can talk," Hutch said as he reached for the door.

Starsky pulled him back, not really knowing why, he just wasn't sure he was ready for this. Without warning words uttered a long time ago and to someone else resurfaced in his mind.

"Sometimes you can't be ready, you just gotta do."

Releasing his hold on the leather-clad arm, he nodded once and left the car.

"Jeez, what happened here?" Hutch asked, surveying his now tidy apartment.

Starsky shrugged, feeling suddenly bashful, wondering whether it was still OK to rearrange Hutch's stuff at will. He sighed with relief as obviously it was.

"Thanks, buddy." A brief smile and a moment's reprieve from the tension that had been growing since they left the hospital.

Moving to the kitchen, Hutch grabbed two mugs. "Want some coffee?"

It was all so surprisingly normal. Starsky followed him into the kitchen, watching as Hutch prepared the drink. It was so easy to study those graceful hands, deftly measuring coffee into the percolator, filling the jug with water, positioning the mugs.

The hands that touched, stroked, soothed away the night terrors. The hands that slid so firmly over heated flesh, hands that satisfied a deep longing and a deeper love.

Starsky felt his groin twitch as he stared and turned away quickly.

Get a grip man, you're getting a hard-on watching him make coffee!

Another memory surfaced as Starsky contemplated those hands.

It had been a disastrous night, Nicky's misplaced attempt to cheer him up. He'd had too much to drink and found himself, with no clear idea how he got there, in a tall blonde's apartment. The girl had been keen, drawn to his dark, brooding attitude like a moth to a flame. Maybe she thought he was a challenge - he'd been pretty cool all evening - maybe she just wanted to get laid. Starsky hadn't cared, he had just let her take the lead, wondering if this wasn't just what he needed himself.

When the lights were dimmed and the wine poured, the had blonde settled herself next to him on the couch, sliding a cool hand inside his open shirt. He tensed slightly, aware of the scars that striped his chest, but unaware of the effect that they might have. As soon as she'd felt them, the girl had withdrawn her hand, not so quickly as to cause offence, but she had definitely resolved to concentrate her attentions elsewhere. In spite of her determination and expertise, her hands had produced no effect whatsoever and Starsky wasn't even embarrassed when she had decided to stop.

"There's someone else, isn't there?" Accusation in her voice.

"Yes, there is." Absolute conviction in his.

A mug of steaming coffee appeared in his hand and Starsky felt, rather than saw, two cool blue eyes fixed on him, waiting expectantly. He swallowed nervously, knowing that the moment had come and he still had no idea where to start.

Clearly sensing his discomfort, Hutch began first. "Wanna tell me why you left?" Hutch seated himself at the table, his mug clutched in both hands in front of him.

"I...I..." Eyes darting frantically around the room, Starsky realized there was no means of escape, either real or metaphoric. For a moment he thought he would just blurt it out, but Hutch took his silence as stalling.

"Come on, Starsky, we've known each other a long time, what on earth could've happened that meant you had to leave, without even so much as goodbye?"

There was a challenge in the tone, one that Starsky didn't miss. Seating himself opposite Hutch, he resigned himself to starting at the bottom and working his way up.

"I didn't want to go back on the force." Risking a look up, Starsky saw Hutch contemplating this information, turning it over in his mind - Hutch could smell subterfuge at forty paces.

"Go on." Hutch spoke in a clear, deadly tone that signaled a tight rein was being kept on his temper.

"After I got shot, and after all the time it took to get better, which was mostly down to you Hutch, I mean if it hadn't been for you, I don't think I would've done it at all, recover I mean. After all that, well, things kinda changed for me..." Starsky was talking quickly, stumbling over his words, playing for time.

Hutch knew that and cut him off. "Get to the point, Starsky." The low, almost threatening tone was getting worse.

Two dark blue pools of unhappiness regarded the blond, searching for understanding. Hutch waited patiently, his eyes on Starsky's.

"I was scared," Starsky admitted miserably, "scared that if I went back on the street, I wouldn't be able to cut it, scared that I would make a mistake, scared that you would get killed for something that I had done, or hadn't done. Whatever."

"That's understandable, Starsk." Hutch's voice softened slightly, but the edge was still there.

"But tell me," he continued, aiming his interrogative stare straight at Starsky who had to work hard not to squirm under it, "were there no openings in Bay City Internal Affairs?"

That was it. Starsky knew that his attempt to side-step the real issue had not worked, not for a minute.

Eyes bored into him as Hutch went on, "NYPD was the only force in the entire country that could give you a position? Bay City had nothing to offer you?"

Starsky gave in to the urge to squirm as he tried to phrase his next line; he came up with a lame shrug.

"Dammit, Starsky," Hutch exploded, bolting out of his chair and slamming his fist into the table. "Why can't you be honest about this?"

"Wha...?"

"Don't give me that - that wide-eyed innocent look won't work with me and you know it. This is about what happened, isn't it?" Hutch stood over him at the table, his whole body taut with anger. "This is about what happened the last night you spent here, isn't it?" he demanded.

It was all Starsky could do to nod in agreement. His tongue suddenly felt two sizes too big and his mouth felt like the Arizona desert.

Hutch glared at him, his eyes wide in astonishment. "For fuck's sake Starsky, that kind of thing happens all the time, especially when people are...are close, like we are." Another penetrating glare. "Like we were," he amended.

"It's not that simple." Managing to find his own voice, Starsky was surprised to find that it didn't sound like his his at all.

"It is that simple," the blond insisted, his irritation escalating again at an alarming rate. "One...encounter doesn't change who you are, it doesn't mean that suddenly you're gay. It's just something that happened. It won't happen again and that's all there is to it."

"I wish it were that simple, but I...er...I didn't, I mean you..." It wasn't like Starsky to stammer. He usually knew exactly what he wanted to say and said it, but this time words were failing him.

Hutch straightened, putting a measure of distance between them. He brought his hand up to his brow, frowning hard, his eyes hidden. When he spoke again, the anger had drained away, replaced by shaky uncertainty.

"Did I...was it...Starsky, did I force you?"

The idea was preposterous; Hutch was definitely going down the wrong path. It galvanized Starsky into action. He had to tell the truth now, or the all-consuming guilt that was an integral part of Hutch's make-up would take over.

"No, dammit, you didn't force me, you didn't do anything that I didn't want. But it isn't that simple, Hutch." Starsky was relieved to find that his voice had grown stronger, matching the intensity of the blond's words. "I left...I left because of how I feel, how I feel about you, how I've been feeling for a while." Adrenaline coursed through him and he caught the wave, riding it out to its inevitable conclusion. "That night made me realize that those feelings weren't going to go away, not after I knew, for real, what it...what it could be like between us." Pausing for a moment, Starsky drew in a deep breath. "I didn't leave because I hated it, or because you forced me, or any dumb reason like that. I left because I love you, I loved what you did, I loved the way you made me feel, and...and loving you like that would change everything."

He didn't realize that he had risen from his seat during his speech, but Starsky slumped gratefully back into the wooden chair. It felt strange, getting it out in the open like that, strange but good, as if a weight had been lifted off his chest and he could breathe again. Hutch knew the truth now and it was up to him what he did with it.

Hutch ran both hands through his blond hair and stared, open-mouthed, at the figure in front of him. Clearing his throat carefully Hutch spoke again, sounding incredulous.

"And you never once thought to tell me any of this?"

Starsky shook his head slowly. He had considered the possibility, but there were a hundred and one reasons why it would have been a bad idea.

"No," he replied with genuine sincerity. "What would've been the point?"

If Starsky thought that Hutch's wrath had peaked earlier, he was wrong.

"What would've been the point?" Hutch yelled back at him furiously. "What the fuck did you think I was doing that night?"

Confused and slightly alarmed blue eyes looked up at him. Starsky was attempting to speak, but before he could get a word out, Hutch was off again, pacing the length of the kitchen as he did so.

"Do you honestly think that I did what I did without having any feelings for you myself? Huh? Did you think that I was just taking advantage of you, grabbing the opportunity for a quick feel when it presented itself? What the hell is the matter with you?" Hutch continued striding up and down the kitchen, trying to release some of the pent up energy coursing through his body.

"You've done some really dumb things in your time, Starsky, but leaving me because you love me..." Hutch raised his hands in an exasperated gesture, "That's gotta be the dumbest!"

Starsky looked at him blankly.

"Starsk, I wouldn't...I mean, I don't just...er...I wouldn't do that kind of thing, not with you, not without feeling the same, you're too important to me."

Starsky's mind was working overtime trying to figure out whether what he'd just heard was what he thought it was, or whether it was some kind of Hutchinson double-talk that would never make any sense. He tested the waters gingerly.

"These feelings Hutch...the ones you have for me..." The question was implied in the slightly querulous tone.

Hutch turned towards him, his voice low and controlled. "Oh, I have feelings for you and right now they are very strong." Without warning he closed the gap between them, yanking his partner bodily out of the chair. A small part of Starsky expected to be hit by a swift right hander, but before he could catch his breath or retaliate he was kissed. Hard.

It took his breath away, made his head swim, caused stars to form in front of his eyes. It was nothing like the gentle exploration of his mouth that he'd treated to before. This was a searing, passion-fueled attack on his senses, driven by a frantic desire and breathtakingly erotic. Starsky felt his knees go weak as his cock hardened. Pulling out of the kiss as quickly as it had begun, Hutch kept hold of the handful of brown leather jacket that he'd grabbed and shoved Starsky forcefully in the direction of the bedroom.

"Get in there," he growled.

In the next instant, Starsky found himself being propelled towards the bedroom, without being given the slightest chance to protest.

Protest? What are you going to protest about? This is the moment you've been dreaming about, it's what you want, what you need.

His trepidation completely overruled by his lust, Starsky did as he was directed and entered the small room. Hutch was totally in charge of the situation, pushing his dark-haired victim onto the bed and straddling the compact body, holding it in place with his own. Reflexively, Starsky rebelled, struggling to sit, but he found strong, capable hands clamping down on his wrists, pinning his arms firmly above his head. They struggled briefly, Starsky wrenching against the imposed restriction of movement, Hutch using the advantage of his position to hold him down. Giving in to the inevitable, Starsky glanced warily at his attacker.

Hutch leaned close. "Not gonna hurt you," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "Just want to keep you in one place for a while."

Like clouds parting to reveal the sun, it all became startlingly clear. Starsky saw that Hutch was no longer motivated by anger: it was deep-seated fear. A desperate fear of losing something that had only just been found. Starsky relaxed back onto the bed and gave himself over to the blond to do with as he pleased.

The moment Hutch felt the resistance drain out of Starsky's body, he lowered his head for another kiss. He took his time, savoring the texture of the mouth beneath his, tracing the outline of soft, parted lips with his tongue before demanding a deeper penetration. Starsky shut his eyes, loving the sensation of being invaded in this way, loving the weight covering his body so completely, loving the way his own body was responding - hot, tingling and excited.

But there was nothing he could do in return, restrained as he was. He tried shifting his hips in a futile attempt to relieve the growing ache in his groin. The action elicited the worst possible response: Hutch lifted his upper body away, causing a muffled cry of frustration. But those hands, the ones that he had dreamt about, longed for and was just about ready to beg for, were in motion again. Hutch covered both of Starsky's wrists with his left hand and skimmed down the tee-shirt clad torso with the other, pausing briefly to finger a hyper-sensitive nipple through the thin cloth that covered it. It wasn't enough: he tugged the blue fabric out of the waistband of Starsky's jeans and slowly revealed the skin beneath. Fingertips grazed over his naked chest, sending shockwaves of pleasure up his spine, leaving Starsky panting for breath. Just as he began to think that his pleasure levels had reached their peak, Hutch's mouth left his and a hot tongue glanced across his right nipple. Starsky arched his spine towards the delicious mouth, feeling the taut bud encased in wet heat.

Again, a strong, determined hand moved downwards, grazing over the tensed muscles of Starsky's abdomen, dipping delicately into his navel. Starsky shivered, unable to suppress the small, inarticulate noises of delight that escaped from his lips. Hutch drew teasing circles on his belly, just above the fastening of his jeans, letting Starsky know exactly where that hand would be going next, enjoying the build-up of anticipation.

"Hutch!" Starsky wanted to beg, demand, encourage, and that one word encompassed all three sentiments in one syllable.

Hutch chuckled softly to himself and continued with the delicious torture, nuzzling at the exposed nipple whilst his hand hovered over Starsky's fly. With a slow and deliberate motion, he unsnapped the fastener and carefully drew the zip down.

"Yes!" Starsky hissed as he felt Hutch take possession of his engorged organ. But the contact wasn't enough - he was still wearing his underwear and he desperately needed the sensual friction of skin on skin. "Please, babe..."

Touch me, hold me, suck me, fuck me, I don't care what, just do it soon.

Carefully, and in the same leisurely fashion, Hutch peeled the denim and cotton away from the heated flesh beneath. Starsky was now exposed from neck to groin, the blood rushed through him, and he could feel his quickened heartbeat, the pulse in his cock, the heat that his whole body was radiating. Suddenly, he was released, Hutch liberated his wrists and sat back, resting his weight on his heels. Confusion warred with abject disappointment on Starsky's face and he searched the cool, blue eyes for reassurance.

When their eyes met, Starsky was shocked by what he saw. Gone was the determined, confident look that had brought them to the bedroom and in its place was raw, open vulnerability.

Oh God babe, did I shatter the trust that lay between us, or is the bond just stretched a little?

Hutch surveyed the sight before him. It was a relief beyond measurement to Starsky to see the flickers of desire behind the unguarded expression of insecurity.

"Don't. Leave. Again." The blond's voice shook slightly as he placed a warm hand in the center of Starsky's heaving chest. The words weren't given as a command: they were a desperate plea from a desperate man.

Starsky shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving Hutch's face, trying to convey his sincerity. "Never," he replied simply.

How could I leave? You're so much a part of me, it would be like amputation. It would be unbearable. It is unbearable, being without you.

"I love you, Hutch, and...and I'm so sorry I hurt you." Starsky felt his eyes welling with tears, but he needed to continue, needed to convince this man, whom he loved with all his heart, that he would do his utmost to make him happy.

"I belong here," he continued, "here with you, if...if you want this." He shook his head more forcefully this time and amended what he'd just said. "Actually, even if you don't want this, I'm gonna stay, as your friend, your partner, whatever you want." He lowered his eyes and admitted a heartfelt truth. "But I want to stay...as your lover."

A smile opened up across Hutch's face, an expression of unadulterated bliss.

"I love you, Starsk. I've loved you so long, it feels like forever." He reached up to tenderly return an unruly curl to its place before brushing his knuckles against the stubbled cheek below. "That night, I guess I couldn't hold it in any longer. I wanted to make you feel good, I wanted to see you smile."

"You did make me feel good, I'm just sorry I reacted so badly." Starsky took hold of the hand that rested on his cheek, squeezing it gently. "I was scared, that's all."

Hutch favored him with another smile, this time wry. "I guess that's understandable, I mean it's not like I told you how I felt, I just jumped on you!" He raised his eyebrows as if in contemplation, "Maybe my seduction technique could use a little work."

Starsky grinned up at him, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Mmmm, I don't think so!"

Starsky watched as Hutch's eyes raked over his still-prone body, taking in the sight fully. He still had one arm stretched above his head and he knew that his face was flushed with emotion. The gaze to travelled lower, taking in his chest and abdomen and finally to his cock, only slightly deflated by the interlude, jutting out of his open fly.

Hutch exhaled slowly. "You look..." Momentarily lost for words as he gazed hungrily at the wanton body beneath him.

"Ridiculous?" Starsky put in helpfully, thinking that the sight of him, stretched out, exposed and panting with lust, could hardly be anything else.

Hutch returned his gaze to Starsky's face, looking deep into the indigo eyes. "You look amazing."

Their kiss was long, deep and healing, each man conveying more love and desire in that simple action than they thought possible.

Gradually, as they both pulled away for air, Starsky became acutely aware of the fact that Hutch was still fully dressed. Recalling a maneuver learnt in a long-forgotten self defense class that he had taken at the Academy, he suddenly pushed his hips upwards, unseating his rider, and rolled on top of him all in one slick move.

"Hey!" Hutch protested, but there was no hint of rancor in his voice.

"Hey, nothing," Starsky shot back. "This is unfair, you get to see me, but I don't -" he bent to kiss the exposed throat - "get -" a button flew off as Starsky pulled roughly at the shirt - "to see -" another button, another kiss - "you."

The shirt fully opened, Starsky scooted backwards so he could plunge his tongue into Hutch's navel. Starsky swirled his tongue lazily over the heated skin, taking his time, tasting the sweet, tangy flavor of sweat and arousal. Hutch buried his hands in dark curly hair and lost himself in the sensations. Languidly, as if he had all the time in the world, Starsky let his fingertips travel gently over a pink nipple, rubbing the ball of his thumb across the tightened center. He was so hard that it almost hurt, but putting his own needs aside for the moment, Starsky focussed his attention on the blond. Trailing light kisses and swift nips down the pale body, he paused briefly to unsnap the fastening on well-worn cords.

"Starsk!" The word was little more than a sigh as Hutch anticipated the next move.

He wasn't disappointed. Quickly and efficiently Starsky unzipped him, sliding jeans and underwear down over his hips. His cock, needy and impossibly hard, surged upwards, nudging his belly. Starsky sat back to fully appreciate his prize.

"I'm gonna suck you now," he told Hutch quietly, his eyes dark with passion. Taking hold of Hutch's cock at the base, Starsky wet his lips, then slowly and deliberately he placed a sweet kiss on the enraged head. "I'm gonna suck you `til you come."

A tremor rippled throughout Hutch's entire frame as he watched the tip of Starsky's tongue flick over his crown. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as the head of his cock was subjected to the gentlest but most compelling suction that it had ever experienced.

It was at this moment, when Hutch's world was expanding and contracting at the speed of light, when every nerve ending he possessed was on fire, when love rose in him like a flood, that the phone rang.

The jangling tone cut through the sexual fog that had descended upon them both, causing Starsky to pause and then stop his ministrations. They both knew from years of experience that a ringing phone could mean the difference between life and death. Neither man had ever ignored it before, now would be no different. Regretfully and slowly Hutch groped for the receiver and placed it to his ear.

"Yes?" Hutch made no attempt to disguise his irritation. However, the voice on the end of the phone made him sit up, both literally and figuratively.

"Hutchinson? I want you in my office right now."

Starsky, who could hear his former Captain's irate tone from his position at the end of the bed, raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Captain, I'm...er...a bit busy..." A flush crept over his face as Hutch risked a quick glance in Starsky's direction. Starsky was propped on one arm, looking delightfully tousled, lazily stroking his flagging erection.

"No excuses, Hutchinson," the disembodied voice bellowed. "This thing is too important to put off and," the voice lowered slightly but was still loud enough for Starsky to hear, "something else has happened - I think you might be interested."

Hutch replaced the receiver carefully and began to rearrange his clothing.

"I guess I'd better go in," he grinned weakly, "before Dobey sends a black and white for me."

"I guess you'd better." In Starsky's mind, the sooner it was over, the sooner they could get back to what they were doing.

The sooner I get to finish what I started.

Starsky straightened his own clothes and stood up. In vain he tugged his tee-shirt downward in an attempt to hide his still prominent hard-on.

"Feel like some company?"

Chapter Five

Starsky was feeling pleasantly nostalgic as they approached the Metro building. It was good to see the old place, and as they jogged up the steps to the foyer, he reflected that it was even better to have Hutch alongside him, shoulder to shoulder, how they used to be.

"This place hasn't changed at all," he commented as they made their way down the familiar corridor to Captain Dobey's office.

"Starsk, you've only been away a month!" Hutch teased lightly. But it was a month that had felt like a lifetime to him and he nudged a nearby shoulder with his own, needing that physical contact to remind him that Starsky was really here and he wasn't leaving any time soon.

"I know, but I've been away from here longer, haven't I? What with recovery time an' all." He glanced up at the blond before adding slyly, "Besides, some things have changed."

Hutch stared back, his expression betraying the effect that those words were having on him.

"If we hadn't been so rudely interrupted, right now I woulda..." Starsky was silenced by a swift nudge in his ribs.

As they approached the squad room a petite and unfamiliar secretary bounced across to meet them, her face betraying a slight confusion at seeing two men when she'd only been expecting one. A perky redhead, Annette had only been working in the office for three weeks but she'd spent a good proportion of that time familiarizing herself with all the gossip. It was the consensus amongst the girls in the typing pool that dating a detective was quite an accolade. Her slanted green eyes fixed on Hutch.

"Detective Hutchinson?" The secretary inquired politely, giving him the benefit of her even, white smile. "Captain Dobey asked me to tell you that he was delayed." Annette's smile was pure seductiveness, her green eyes wide with a hint of invitation. "He asked if you could wait in his office." She waved a manicured hand in the direction of the door.

Hutch turned to Starsky, oblivious to the allure of the green-eyed temptress his blue eyes sparking with indignation.

"I don't believe this!" he spat. "He calls me up, gets all hot under the collar, and now he's not here!"

The redhead pouted prettily, looking through her long lashes at the irate detective. "He's been delayed," she repeated apologetically, "but you can wait in the office."

"There you go!" Starsky put in cheerily, laying a hand on Hutch's arm and applying a slight but definate pressure. "You can wait in the office." To an outside observer, the gesture was meant to be soothing, but Starsky was fully aware of the torturous effect it was having on his partner.

The secretary was unaware of the by-play and went back to her flirting.

"Can I get you anything?" A slight but meaningful pause. "Coffee?" The word was full of erotic potential.

"No." Hutch was distracted by the continued pressure on his arm.

Starsky was now brushing his thumb back and forth over the plaid shirt that had replaced the button-less one, knowing that even through the cotton fabric, Hutch could feel the heat of that small contact. Pulling his arm away with a sudden movement, Hutch marched past the girl and straight into the office, shutting the door sharply behind him.

Both Starsky and Annette stared at the closed door, one feeling slightly smug, the other, slightly puzzled.

"Sorry sweetheart," Starsky said good-naturedly, "he's spoken for."

"Suit yourself." The secretary pouted before flouncing off to pastures new, leaving Starsky alone in the corridor.

Inside the office, Hutch forced himself to relax. He took several deep breaths and sank into a chair and waited.

Moments later the door opened to reveal Starsky carrying two styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. Hutch made no attempt to help him.

"How the hell am I supposed to concentrate, with you..." he searched for the right phrase, but it eluded him, "with you...doing what you did?"

"Sorry!"

Starsky showed no visible signs of remorse as he perched himself on the arm of the chair Hutch occupied and handed the disconcerted blond his coffee. Hutch put the cup down immediately, not trusting his hands to keep a firm grip on it. He was painfully aware of the warmth of Starsky's arm and thigh as he pressed against him, and he was also painfully aware of the effect that it was having on him. He tried to move away, anxious to put some distance between them before his body betrayed him completely, but Starsky just shifted his weight further towards him.

"Starsky!" Hutch snapped. "Give me a break huh?" He caught the shock of rejection in his partner's eyes and softened the blow: "I'm still a little...er...overwrought from earlier and we are in Dobey's office."

"Overwrought?" Starsky didn't retreat but moved infinitesimally closer, he lowered his voice to a soft, seductive purr. "Well, we can't have you getting all overwrought."

Slipping a hand across the back of the chair, Starsky began to massage the tight muscles in Hutch's neck. His partner permitted the contact and when fingertips crept up into his hair, he sighed with contentment.

"Hutch..." The tone was conversational but questioning recognisable as the one that usually preceded one of Starsky's patently odd queries. Starsky continued with the soothing touch on Hutch's head ensuring that he was entirely unprepared for the actual question that followed.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

The conversational tone had been replaced by a provocative murmur. The slight jolt of Hutch's body betrayed the shock and arousal of the question in equal measures. Whipping his head around to check if he'd heard correctly Hutch was met with two dark-lashed orbs that peered at him with a frightening intensity.

Swallowing audibly Hutch returned his gaze to the floor and remained silent. Starsky's lips twitch fractionally upwards in a ghost of a smile - he already knew the answer.

""Cos I've been thinkin" about it, thinkin" about it a lot," Starsky continued in the same hushed tone, bending so low that his lips brushed the top of Hutch's ear.

"It's what I want." Fingers grasped a handful of blond hair and pulled his head backwards, forcing him to meet those piercing blue eyes again, "Is that what you want Hutch?" Starsky's question was a little more forceful this time, expecting an answer. "Do you want to fuck me Hutch?"

Helplessly Hutch nodded, "yes," he hissed closing his eyes against the penetrating stare. The tense hold on his hair relaxed slightly and a finger trailed up his exposed throat, over his chin, coming to rest on his lower lip. Parting the soft flesh with his index finger, Starsky bent and placed a kiss on the moist lips, it was a kiss that Hutch immediately tried to deepen. But Starsky pulled away and continued to whisper around the shell of his ear.

"Uh-uh Hutch, no can do, we can't get carried away - after all we are in Dobey's office."

Starsky's hand that had been supporting his head left abruptly and came to rest on his shoulder. Hutch opened his eyes to focus on the space immediately in front of him. He fixed his eyes on his Captain's desk.

Starsky edged closer, emanating heat and pheromones that he knew were driving his partner's senses over the edge. Hutch's breathe was slow as if he were savoring the familiar scent.

"Besides," Starsky continued conversationally. "We still have to talk."

"Talk? About what?" Hutch's voice quivered like a leaf in the wind.

Starsky heard tremor in his voice and smiled wickedly.

"Talk about what I want to do to you when this little rendezvous with Dobey is over." Starsky replied, his own voice suprisingly normal.

Hutch clearly didn't trust himself to say another word, or to move. He remained still and silet caught as effectively as he had captured his partner earlier.

"When we get out of here baby-blue I'm gonna finish what I started," The seductive growl was back and Hutch could do nothing but listen, helpless to resist.

"I wanna taste you Hutch, taste all of you, I wanna put that big, beautiful cock into my mouth and suck it "`til you can't see straight, I wanna suck you dry." Starsky was immensley gratified to see that his words were having a physical effect on Hutch. He watched as the fabric of the his partners jeans stretched a little more over his erection.

"I can just imagine how you taste, Hutch," Starsky went on, twisting his hand once again into golden hair. "Sweet, strong - so much of you. I want that, all of you in me, in my mouth."

Hutch gripped the arms of the chair, as if he was about to fall off. But Starsky wasn't done yet.

"Do you want that, Hutch? Me on my knees, in front of you, taking alla that in my mouth, maybe stroking your balls until they go real tight, until they are ready to give me what I want?"

Summoning all his remaining strength Hutch forced himself to speak. "Please, Starsk," he pleaded desperately.

But Starsky just chuckled gently, a rich, throaty sound that sent shivers of fear through his victim's body. "Oh God, yes Hutch," Starsky purred happily. "That's what I wanna hear just before you come."

Hutch went boneless in the chair, weak with need.

"But that's not all..." Starsky was clearly relishing the devastating effect his words were having on his captive audience. "After I've taken the edge off a little, I'm gonna let you rest up for a while. You're gonna need that rest, Hutch, for what's gonna come later."

Starsky shifted his position slightly, getting closer to Hutches ear, whispering conspiratorially. "Do you remember me saying I wanted you to fuck me?"

Hutch wasn't going to forget a thing like that - was he?

"Well, I figured after I've gone down on you, like I was saying, we'd just fool around a little." Starsky was getting a hell of kick out of making it all sound so casual, and he knew that Hutch was close now - so close. He grinned. "Maybe, if you're really good, I'll let you touch me, like you did before - only this time with the lights on, so I can see you, watch what you're doing to me."

Starsky paused momentarily. "It felt so good Hutch, your hand on me like that, like it was meant to be there. You held me just right, like you'd been doin' it forever, like you knew how to make it good for me."

The timbre of his voice changed slightly, deepening. Starsky swallowed deliberately before continuing. "Then, when we're all through doin' that, I'm gonna lay flat on my belly and you're gonna fuck me."

A powerful shudder ran through Hutch's body, and he squeezed his eyes closed, hands gripping the armrest as if they were the only thing between him and insanity.

"Yep, that's right, baby-blue." Starsky ran the tips of his fingers over his partners compressed lips. "You're gonna fuck me, just the way I want it, hard - real hard, and deep."

"I want you so bad, Hutch, I wanna feel you deep inside of me, all around me, owning me," Starsky went on. "Do you want that Hutch, do you ever wonder what that would feel like, sliding your cock so deep inside of me..."

"Jesus Christ, Starsky!" Hutch bit out through clenched teeth. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna fuck you right here, right now, over Dobey's goddamned desk!" And it was only a supreme effort of will that kept Hutch from doing just that.

Suddenly Starsky's demeanor changed: he was on the alert, listening intently. "What the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

In the same instant they both heard the unmistakable sounds that signaled Captain Dobey's imminent arrival. Hutch lurched out of his chair, grabbed the nearest file from Dobey's desk and placed it strategically on his lap, whilst Starsky swiftly relocated to the opposite corner of the room. Snatching up a nearby newspaper, Starsky began to study it as if it held all the secrets of the universe.

The door burst open and the Captain stomped in looking anything but calm. He was carrying a large stack of files, which he dumped unceremoniously on the desk in front of Hutch. He caught sight of Starsky, sitting in the corner reading his newspaper, trying to look casual.

"I might've known you'd have something to do with this," Dobey blustered, settling himself into his leather chair he fixed Starsky with a hard stare.

"Something to do with what?" Starsky asked, genuinely confused.

"What's he doin' here anyway?" Captain Dobey turned his attention to Hutch: he obviously in no mood for small talk.

Hutch closed the file hastily. "I think Starsky should hear this too," he replied carefully, not daring to meet the eyes that he knew were staring at him from over the top of the newspaper.

Captain Dobey accepted the situation, and without further ado he tossed a white envelope in Hutch's direction.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" Dobey demanded as Hutch caught the envelope neatly, turning it over in his hands once before placing it on top of the file he still held.

"It's my resignation, Captain," Hutch said simply, putting the envelope back on the desk.

"I know that, Hutchinson, but what I want to know is why." The gruff captain softened his voice, bringing the volume down at least a decibel. "Why are you handing in your resignation, son?" Dobey glanced accusingly at Starsky.

"Why are you handing in your resignation, Hutch?" Starsky asked softly, his confusion evident in the tone.

Hutch turned to face Starsky, temporarily ignoring his captain. "Starsk, I'm just tired," he said with a tiny shake of his head. "I'm tired of running around chasing the bad guys, tired of the irregular hours, tired of pointless court appearances, tired of seeing people out there on the streets doing what they do and getting away with it, when you and I both know they should be locked up for good."

Starsky looked back at him, his eyes full of sympathy: it was so close to his own feelings on the subject.

"But most of all," the blond continued, "I'm tired of getting shot at, stabbed, poisoned, infected, whatever." He looked deep into those familar blue eyes, "And I'm tired of watching those things happening to you - I am so tired of seeing you get hurt."

Starsky swallowed hard, trying to get past the lump forming in his throat. For a moment their eyes locked and love flowed between them, so thick it was almost palpable.

"So Captain, to answer your question," Hutch turned back to Dobey, "I think it's fair to say that I'm tired and I'd like a change." He smiled ruefully. "Maybe I'll try something that doesn't involve so many bullets."

Captain Dobey looked back and forth between the two men. When he finally spoke it was in the same soft tone he'd used earlier. "What about you Starsky?"

"Me?" A more guileless expression would not have been possible.

"Yes, you!" The customary bark was back. "What are you goin' to do now your partner has resigned?" Starsky was happily aware that his Captain still thought of Hutch as his partner. Hutch's partner.

"Hey, if Hutch is tired, then I'm tired too," came the reply, accompanied by an appreciative smile directed at the blond.

"Hmmph." Dobey picked up the resignation letter. "So what are your plans?"

The two men exchanged another glance. Their plans for the immediate future included things that Dobey had probably never even heard of.

Hutch shrugged and changed the subject. "Er, what was the other thing, Cap'n? You said on the phone something else has happened."

"The other thing?" Dobey had to think for a while, "Oh, yes, well it's kind of a moot point now." Dobey glowered at Starsky probably more out of habit than any particular ire. "Let's just say that I had a phone call from my opposite number in NYPD, informing me that a detective," he favored Starsky with more pointed glowering, "the one that I had recommended so highly, went AWOL yesterday, apparently resigning on the spot and getting the first flight to LA." Dobey tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. "They thought I might know of his whereabouts, and I thought you might know."

"So you resigned too?" Hutch asked incredulously as a slow smile spread over his face.

Starsky nodded in reply and then added, "Well, what else could I do? They wanted me to work with some guy who never bought donuts!"

Dobey looked up from his desk and watched the pair for a second. Starsky was grinning at Hutch like a Cheshire cat, that familiar, lopsided smile that he hadn't been seen for a while; Hutch gazed shyly back, basking in its radiance. Dobey cleared his throat, making his presence known once again.

"I'm not gonna try and talk you out of it - I've known you two too long to think that would be any use at all. I guess that's that. I'm sure you'll both find gainful employment elsewhere and I'll supply excellent references for you both," he smiled, emphasizing the "both".

"You two keep in touch, you hear?" Dobey made a significant pause "Whatever happens, you two keep in touch."

Light flickered behind Hutch's eyes, apprehension flared in Starsky's.

"Now get out of my office!"

Both men wondered simultaneously whether they would miss that bark and they both realized that they would. They rose together, perfectly co-ordinated as always, and moved towards the door. Hutch dropped the file that had proved so useful earlier, on Dobey's desk as he went. They were almost out of the door when their captain called them back.

"Hutchinson!"

"Yes, Captain?"

"You bin reading this file?"

"Er, yes Captain."

"Upside down?"

Starsky let out a yelp of laughter before coming to the aid of an extremely embarrassed Hutch. "You'll have to forgive my partner, Captain, he's been a little overwrought!"

* * * * * * *

A long time later - After Starsky had fulfilled every promise he'd made in Dobey's office and then some. After Hutch had uttered his love so eloquently and then made his partner wait and wait and wait for his release. After he had cruelly and cleverly denied Starsky any sort of gratification until he had received a solemn vow never, ever to tease him so unmercifully in a public place again. After they'd made love with an intensity and passion that neither man dreamt had existed. When they lay crushed together, drenched in sweat and semen, when nothing lay between them except the delicate electricity of love. When sleep was hovering so, so close, Starsky spoke.

"Hutch?"

"Mmmm?" The blond stirred slightly, not opening his eyes.

"I've been thinkin'."

The old retort "there's a first time for everything" leaked into Hutch's mind, but he was too weary and too doused in love to use it. "Mmmm?"

Starsky was more awake now, wriggling out of the firm embrace that held him and propping himself up on his elbow. "Well, now that we're technically unemployed," he began, running a finger lightly over Hutch's brow, ensuring that he was listening.

Hutch roused himself, resigned to the fact that this conversation was inevitable in spite of his body's need of recuperation. "There's nothing technical about it, Starsk, we are unemployed."

"Yeah, well that's what I've been thinking about, and..." He placed a tiny kiss on the furrowed brow in front of him, "I have an idea."

"Go on," Hutch said cautiously.

"It's a great way to raise some cash, to keep us ticking over, until we find jobs that we want to do," Starsky went on excitedly.

"Go on," Hutch was still cautious.

"I'm gonna sell the Torino. Its just been sitting around in Merle's garage for a month, I don't suppose I'll miss it. Whaddya think?"

Beneath Starsky's enthusiasm, Hutch detected a tiny hint of reluctance. It made his heart swell to think that Starsky was prepared to sell his beloved car, just to keep them in food and water for a couple of weeks.

"Aw, Starsk," he said fondly.

"I know you think it's just a hunk of junk and that nobody in their right mind would own it, 'cept me of course, but y'know it's probably a collector's item now, it's probably an antique." Starsky trailed off towards the end of his speech.

"You don't have to sell your car, Starsk."

"I know I don't have to sell it, but I want to sell it, so we don't have to rush to get jobs."

Hutch chuckled into the darkness. his hand reaching out to touch Starsky's cheek. "How much do you think that thing is worth, Starsky?"

Starsky's voice took on a slightly petulant tone. "A lot more than you think." He rolled onto his back away from Hutch's hand.

Hutch followed him, turning over so that he was leaning over, chest to chest. "Baby," he said soothingly, running a gentle hand through the dark curls, "I don't want you to sell your car, we don't need the money that badly."

"Might help though." Slightly mollified, Starsky still sounded petulant.

"Yeah, it might, but I still don't want you to sell it."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because what?"

"Because it's...it's...well, it's your car." How could he explain what that car meant to him, the history that it held, a link to the past that was full of Starsky? He was getting sentimental, but he couldn't help it; he was tired and his brain had turned to mush.

"So what?" Starsky demanded. "You've always hated that car. You said it was, and I quote, `a gas-guzzling, back-wrenching, air-polluting eyesore'."

"Starsky," Hutch smiled in the darkness, marveling at his partner's ability to recall anything after what they'd just done.

"What?"

"I don't want you to sell that car."

"Why not?"

"Because, Starsky, I love that car."

Starsky reached up to pull the blond head towards him and placed a sweet kiss on waiting lips.

"I knew that," he said affectionately, "and I love you too."


THE END