Warning: Slash. This story involves a non-graphic homosexual relationship. If that disturbs you then please stop now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Starsky and Hutch, or any of the characters herein. No money is made from this, and no disrespect intended. It is purely for entertainment purposes.
Dedication: To the one person who listens to me rave continuously about the virtues of S/H slash, and also doubles as my beta, whose identity is withheld to protect the innocent.

   Starsky banged on the carved door at Venice Place and called his partner's name. No response was forthcoming and he checked his watch. Seven o’clock. Hutch should’ve been ready half an hour ago. Starsky pawed for the key above the frame, but after twisting the doorknob he realized it wasn’t locked.

   "Hutch?"

   An electric crawl started at his spine and spiraled its way to his scalp, sending its tingling warning tendrils to the rest of his body. He eased his sleeping Baretta from its cradle, eyes darting to either side, taking in everything in seconds. A low moan drifted up from the far side of the couch. Starsky kept his gun at attention while he backed across the room. His chest clenched at the too familiar sight of a blond sheen glowing in the dim lamp light, just visible over the back of the sofa that was pushed out from the wall.

   Hutch.

   He was propped against the couch’s back, head lolling gently to the left. Starsky dropped to his side, sheathing his weapon. He glanced over Hutch’s body searching for the wound, pulling at his jacket to check his chest and stomach.

   Nothing.

   A giggle bobbed above him as the skin under his probing hands shivered. Starsky looked up in alarm. Hutch’s head still lay to the left, his eyes closed in apparent pleasure, a happy smile rounding his cheeks. Oh God, he’s been drugged again. Starsky panicked. He seized Hutch’s face and the blue eyes popped open, glazed like melted candle wax, shiny and liquid. The smile dropped momentarily, only to be replaced by something delighted and excited when the distant eyes focused.

   "Hutch?" Starsky jerked Hutch’s arm to him and tugged up the sleeve. No track marks. Could be an oral drug…

   "Hutch, what happened?"

   The brow furrowed. Eyes blinked. Expression confused. "Huh?" the blond firmly breathed out.

   Starsky almost fell backwards. The alcohol on Hutch’s breath was so strong he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it immediately. Then a different, more powerful smell hit. Hutch must have practically marinated in some kind of herbal lotion, or oil, or cologne or something. It smelled like the incense sold at the novelty shop around the corner from the station. Like pine with a hint of cinnamon. He'd ignored the odor before in his haste. Now, mixed with the alcohol, it was smothering.

   "Jesus, Hutch. What in the heck are you doing?" Starsky felt torn between relief and unabashed ire at his needless worry. Didn't they have enough stress worrying about each other without adding more?

   Hutch smiled pleasantly, his head rolling to the side. His right hand rose to Starsky’s left cheek where it loitered a few loaded seconds. Then it fell leaden back to the carpet, only to grope for something on the floor. Starsky noticed an empty brandy bottle that had rolled several feet away. He swatted Hutch’s hand.

   "There isn't any more. And it don’t look much like you need it," he scolded in confused disgust. If the other heard him it wasn't noticeable.

   Hutch’s pleased smile was maddening.

   "What the hell are you so happy about?"

   Hutch lurched up before Starsky could move again, the blond’s gangly arms clamping heavily around his neck, the heart shaped mouth still smiling softly. The rest of Hutch’s body came forward, drawing up and nearer until Hutch was looming slightly over Starsky’s head.

   "Hutch?" Starsky looped his arms around Hutch’s waist, thinking maybe he could drag him around the couch, that maybe Hutch wanted help to move. The body beneath his hands shuddered violently again as if Hutch were chilled.

   "Starsky?"

   Starsky turned his head at the soft slur. Hutch leaned forward, his wax eyes serous and fluid with blue flame. They burrowed into Starsky’s gaze, and he half imagined the heat palpable in the pupils. The brunette shivered and reflexively backed away, only to bump the wall.

   He knew that look. He’d seen it before. He knew that look and it made his stomach roil with panic. Any conjectured possibility of what was happening came too late.

   Starsky froze and so did his brain. A long, jumbled moment later he shouldered Hutch against the couch, breaking the unexpected kiss. Hutch looked confused.

   Starsky sucked in a deep breath for a moratorium of collecting himself. Hutch had just kissed him. Okay, that was no big deal, they'd kissed before, albeit not quite in that manner. Accidents that came out of excitement, the result of too much emotion with not enough outlet. Besides, Hutch was fall down drunk anyway.

   "We’d better get you sobered up," Starsky declared, rubbing his mouth at the alcohol taste that lingered. He braced Hutch against him to hoist him up. Hutch started his giggling and went limp against Starsky’s struggling limbs, becoming a giant, cumbrous rag doll.

   Starsky growled in frustration and pulled apart to cuss at his partner. But the face looking back had changed expression again, any amusement extinct. Starsky was pulled into another kiss before he could react, this one more exacting than the first as Hutch's tongue swiped his lower lip.

   "That’s enough!" Starsky shouted, jerking back, though it was more confusion than ire. He forced Hutch around so that he leaned over the back of the couch. Then Starsky grabbed hold of his partner's ankles and jerked him head over heels over the back of the couch. Hutch landed sloppily on the broken cushions, his appendages like tangled, wiry coat hangers.

   Standing up, Starsky could now see a small bottle crushed in front of the couch, surrounded by a wet spot on the carpet. That's what that smell is. It was a bottle of ointment that Hutch had once purchased for rubbing a bullet wound scar on his shoulder.

   "And I thought it was your cheap organic cologne."

   Hutch must have stepped on the bottle and shattered it. At least he had his shoes on. Starsky didn’t want to spend an hour picking out glass shards.

   Hutch was carefully, languidly righting himself on the lounge, moving each limb a singular mission. Starsky made his way around the couch and knelt, taking the newspaper that rested crumpled on a stand. He used two sheets to sweep up the glass, glancing up to see Hutch watching him studiously with burnished eyes. Starsky took the shards to the kitchen where he threw them away, relieved to escape the intense gaze and large hands. After putting on a pot of coffee, he reached into the kitchen cabinet and tore off one towel to soak up the puddle of oil that was permeating the house with it’s smell. He returned to find Hutch clumsily lighting a candle that he’d previously declared purchased strictly for show. The wick needed trimming so the flame was too large, flickering dangerously close to Hutch’s blond locks.

   Starsky took it from him and set it on the table. "I hate the smell of burnt hair. And don’t breathe on that thing or the whole place is liable to go up."

   Hutch only smiled softly, his blue eyes creasing with open affection. Starsky could tell Hutch was far removed from whatever else he was doing in the room.

   "If I ask why you’re wasted despite having offered to buy me dinner is there any possible way I’ll get an intelligent answer?"

   Hutch grinned.

   "This is a lot of trouble just to get out of a six dollar steak."

   The light blond leaned forward. "Hey, Starsk?"

   The dark brunette leaned backwards. "Hey, Hutch?"

   "Wanna know a secret?"

   Starsky gulped, the burning alcohol smell and proximity playing with his composure. "If you tell me I’m cute, Hutchinson, I swear I’m leaving."

   Hutch’s face dropped an entire hemisphere, his voice unhappy and flat, slow with each word. "You are…you're such…a jerk."

   Hutch was fixated on the candle again, toying with it before Starsky realized the danger.

   "You trying to burn us down?!" he hollered when the candle tipped out of its holder and scorched a small hole in the couch before Starsky snatched it up and fanned out the tiny flame.

   Hutch was shaking his hand. Starsky grabbed it and saw the clear cream wax solidifying and probably burning Hutch worse than he realized. Starsky sighed in irritation. He glared at Hutch straight in the eyes.

   "Don’t move," he warned.

   Just in case the burns might blister, Starsky went to the bathroom and searched for some aloe. He kept an eye turned on Hutch. The blond had gone boneless on the couch and was completely limp. A soft voice drifted into a low song that filtered through to the bathroom where Starsky was still tearing up the drawers. He gave up and returned to his partner, only to spot Hutch’s aloe plant hiding nervously in the corner.

   "Ah ha!" he grinned pleased and plucked a defenseless stalk. He sat down on the couch, seized Hutch’s hand, and mashed out the slimy, lucid gel over the mild burn.

   The fact that Hutch didn’t protest the abuse of one of his plants was proof enough to Starsky that Hutch’s mind was functioning in a place where plants were candy canes and Starsky was Mrs. Claus...or her daughter.

   "Starsk?"

   Starsky frowned. "Is this another secret?"

   "No."

   "Go on."

   Hutch whispered something so low that Starsky had to lean in. "What?"

   For a drunk man, Hutch’s coordination was doing pretty well. His arms trapped Starsky’s neck, the pliable mouth both pleading and demanding reciprocation. Starsky found he was rather pinned down, Hutch's weight easily holding him, and his brain was losing basic synaptic functions rapidly in his confusion and frustration. And while his brain was failing, his body had disturbingly come alive. The only thought he could manage was a profanity.

   Well…fuck.

   And the phone rang.

   "Hutch, let me up," Starsky demanded, wriggling around, focused now. He tugged Hutch's hair a little roughly. "The damn phone is ringing, let me up!"

   Hutch didn’t seem compelled to either comply or resist, and Starsky finally just propelled up, causing Hutch to simply slump to the inside of the couch. Starsky managed to contort enough to reach the phone.

   "Hello?"

   "Starsky?"

   "Cap’n? What is it?" Please tell me you called to give us vacation. One of us is gonna need it.

   "I need you and that partner of yours in here for a briefing."

   "Huh?" Not now!

   "Vice needs help on a bust. Two of their men were in an accident. Get your tails here for the run-down."

   "Cap’n look, uh," Starsky gazed down at Hutch resting silently on his torso, the picture of oblivion. It was almost tenderly intimate. "I can come but not Hutch."

   "Why the hell not? He’s there isn’t he?"

   "Well, yeah, but, he ain’t exactly got his wits all collected."

   "Starsky, what the-"

   "He’s drunk cap'n. To the gills."

   "Wonderful," Dobey groused.

   "I can still come in…"

   Hutch looked up at that.

   "Forget it. I’ll call Parkers and Buchanan. I need a team unit on this one, not a tail without the head." And Dobey hung up the phone.

   Starsky turned an angry glare at Hutch, all intimacy forgotten. "Dobey 's pissed and it’s all your fault." He pushed Hutch hard enough to send him to the other end of the sofa. "If you think I’m sticking around to baby-sit your drunken ass and sit here while your horny self tries to turn me into some curvy brunette, you really are gone."

   Starsky strutted for the door but never made it. The thump Hutch made in his attempt at pursuit was enough to halt him. He sighed in defeat.

   "Damn it, Hutchinson. You're gonna become an alcoholic yet."

   He deposited his inebriated blond on the couch again and went back to the kitchen to get the coffee. He poured a huge glass for Hutch and one for himself, pondering the causes and effects that had been unfolding in the living room, trying vainly to sort out what in the world was going on with Hutch. And me, too, for that matter.

   Starsky stopped in the kitchen entrance.

   "God, Hutch, what are you doing now?"

   The semi-naked blond was in the process if removing his slacks when Starsky set down the glasses and knocked his hands from the zipper. He regarded the shirt tossed to the floor. "Here, put your shirt back on. For God's sakes, Hutch, do you even know who I am?"

   Starsky's buttoning hands were stopped over Hutch's heart, held in place so that he had to feel the rhythmic double beat of life.

   Hutch spoke slowly, having to think hard in order to form a chain of words, the right words. "You think 'm drunk, don' you Starsk." Another long pause for concentration. "Well, you're right."

   "No kidding, Sherlock."

   Hutch's hands calmly cradled Starsky's face, his long fingers environing the back of his head. "There is a reason."

   Starsky's throat pulse amplified against Hutch's broad palms. "I-I'm listening."

   And Hutch leaned in for another kiss. Starsky stopped it before it could start and get him into deeper trouble. But the look on Hutch's face made him regret it. He felt like he'd just shot him with his own gun.

   "Hutch, look, you 're drunk, okay? You have no idea what you're doin', and that's the only reason ya still got all o' your teeth."

   Hutch smiled. "I always was…the brains here."

   Strange things started clicking in Starsky's head. Was Hutch saying he got drunk for the sole purpose of kissing Starsky without any possible repercussions?

   "You gonna let me kiss you?"

   "Hutch. Look, babe, why don't we put you to bed, let you sleep this off…"

   Hutch made a martyred face. "By myself," he finished. He was looking a lot less drunk, and very quickly.

   Starsky nodded.

   "Fine. Go away then."

   Hutch looked completely furious as he wobbled to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen. Starsky recalled the beer filled fridge. "Oh no you don't." Hutch was too spindly and long to pick up, so the best Starsky could do was jostle him to the bedroom and trip him onto the bed. Hutch captured his hand and pulled him down, half on half off, and Starsky became awkwardly aware of Hutch's sudden attraction poking his thigh.

   Okay, Starsky attempted to reason. He wants me. He's drunk and he wants me. There's no way he'll remember this in the morning. Just kissing him is no big deal…

   And Starsky couldn't believe his own appalling thoughts. Hutch would kill him if he remembered.

   "I won't regret it tomorrow, Starsk," Hutch encouraged. He was sounding more together, more serious.

   "Why do you think I got drunk…lured you here with the promise of a steak dinner?"

   "Which you still owe me, Blondie." Starsky shifted so that he was at Hutch's side and they were in less contact. It was hard to think while touching.

   "If you don't want me…then you'd better leave now." Hutch was getting agitated again. He pulled at Starsky's wild hair.

   Reason with him. "Hutch, I don't wanna take advantage of you." That tugging and coarse breathing. God, it was getting to him, like a throwback memory of every time he'd ever made love.

   "Would you kiss me sober?"

   Figuring Hutch wouldn't remember anyway, Starsky agreed. He didn't think he could do anything else. "If you wanted me to. Of course I would. I have before…"

   "I'll remember that, you know. If you're lying—"

   "Hutch, c'mon!"

   "I love you, Starsky." Serous eyes, liquid ice, hot blue flame. Hutch was deadly somber. There were no after comments to ease the implications, make it nonchalant.

   Starsky swallowed. "I know. Uh…" Did he really have to say it? So seriously like that? He needed a joke to disguise it in. "It's mutual." There, that was painless.

   "Is it?"

   "Of course," he blurted out before realizing the possible ramifications of the question. Oh well. He was digging a grave anyway. He'd agree to sell his Torino if it would make Hutch go to sleep and give him a minute to think.

   Hutch leaned up for another kiss which Starsky didn't deny him, not wanting to make himself a liar. It wasn't as though he didn’t like kissing Hutch. Actually, it was quite…pleasant. And natural. Hutch wasn't very animated, he seemed drained, and Starsky ended up doing most of the work in the kiss, wanting to calm Hutch's fears, and just plain liking the contact. He'd always liked being connected to his blond.

   Hutch moaned when Starsky first pulled away, as though it physically hurt to be separated, and something about it ripped up Starsky's insides. If Hutch wanted to kiss, they'd kiss damn it! Starsky had never denied him anything before. He rolled over until he was lying halfway over Hutch again so that the contact was easier to maintain. Hutch livened at that, threading his hands into Starsky's hair and bending one knee. He opened his mouth to moan like a man in pain, deep and repeatedly. It was more than a person of as low self-control as Starsky could take. He filled the warm cavern with his tongue and the noises stopped. He could feel the effect it was having on Hutch as the blond's groin swelled against his thigh. God was Hutch getting hot. From him!

   Shit.

   He wrenched away and realized he needed to leave Hutch's bed and sort out his hormonal reactions. While he'd been cataloging Hutch's arousal he'd overlooked his own. His body was doing horrible things, and over a man! His partner! The revelations made his hands tremble like he'd just been struck with polio. It was too scary, too weird, and too exciting too fast. It just wasn't something that should be happening. It shouldn't have felt so natural that he just took over like that, lost control.

   "See," he reasoned, taking a ragged breath that pierced in his throat, "it'll keep till tomorrow and you're sober." What the hell am I saying? "Will you go to sleep now?"

   Hutch nodded and lay down on the bed, his azure eyes intense in the dim light, shining eerily in their drunken glaze. They closed and Hutch sighed like he'd just feasted on ambrosia. Starsky couldn't resist brushing another kiss over the soft mouth, something to level off the electricity left behind from the one before.

   He found himself unable to move.

   "Here, lay on your stomach 'n case you puke." Even amidst all the hazy weirdness, the partner in him came through.

   Hutch rolled over dutifully. Starsky watched him for several minutes, the rising and falling of Hutch's back with his breathing. Hutch fell asleep quickly, but Starsky still sat on the bed's edge playing the voyeur, observing the body an interminable amount of time. He just watched, his mind as numb and tingly as his thigh that he rested on.

   The city was quiet on the street below, the occasional car passing by. Once the distant, familiar, haunting siren of an ambulance.

   And it was like opening floodgates. Memories inundated Starsky of so many things, events, washing over his foggy mind, and they melted into a gray blur. Dozens of deaths, thousands of beers, women from years gone by, a lot whose names he couldn't even remember. Some he would never forget.

   And there was Hutch. In every thought, in every fleeting memory he was somewhere in the picture's border, a bright splash of blond in an otherwise foggy existence. Then the rush of thoughts dissipated as quickly as they'd invaded, leaving only Dave Starsky, Ken Hutchinson, and the cool night air.

   The sky was dark. It was a new moon, few stars. Maybe a time for new beginnings. He contemplated what ifs and maybes. What if it isn't just the alcohol talking in Hutch? But what about the safe boundaries of friendship? It was easier that way. It had always been enough before, so why did a few kisses and drunken flirting suddenly screw him up so?

   Too many mixed feelings, too many variables. Too many good and bad memories muddling together, tainted by adrenaline and shallow lust.

   Lust. Now that was an eye opener.

   He didn't want to think about it anymore. It was insane. He left the bedroom, laid down on the couch, and decided to get some rest, the smell of pines and alcohol still burning in his nose. He'd wake up and be gone before Hutch's mind ever saw the light of day…

   If I ever fall asleep, that is.

*******

   It was with more than a little trepidation that Starsky again knocked on the carved door of Venice Place, having more flashbacks than old war film. He checked his watch. After six. Surely Hutch had gotten up and around by now, had nursed his hangover and forgotten everything that had happened last night. And that filled Starsky with both relief and despair. A night of restless sleeping had done little to clear up his garbled thoughts.

   "Door's unlocked," came the debilitated voice from within.

   The small burn on the couch was duct taped. The oil was a new stain on the carpet now. Hutch must have aired out the place because Starsky could hardly smell it anymore. The candle was on one of the tables. Everything looked patched up and forgotten. Hutch was fussing over his plants.

   "You didn't have to rip one of my aloe's leaves off just for a candle burn," he quipped, his back kept neatly to Starsky's face.

   "Huh?"

   "Candle wax doesn't burn a person; it doesn't get hot enough."

   Starsky watched the ritual of pruning, somewhat annoyed. "It's your own fault."

   Hutch seemed not to hear him. "I guess we'll be on Dobey's blacklist for awhile."

   "You will." How the heck is he remembering all this?

   That earned him a probing glance. "Starsky and Hutch, remember? You think Dobey actually differentiates between us anymore?"

   "Mi screw up es su screw up. Is that it?"

   Hutch smirked. "Yeah, I guess so. I figure all these years buys me certain liberties."

   Starsky flittered over how many new liberties he could apply to the statement. "So, you wanna pay up on that steak you owe me still, or what?"

   Hutch sat down at one of the tables in the living room. He sipped at his coffee slowly, the cup clinking as he placed it back on the saucer. "I thought you'd want an explanation for last night."

   "So explain. I'm hungry."

   Hutch sighed, looking subjugated. He stood. "Alright, never mind. Come on."

   No, don't run. Gotta talk about it. "Wait. Look, Hutch, I'm sorry. But you scared the dickens out of me when I came here yesterday."

   Hutch looked truly apologetic then, his brow creasing with rivulets of regret. "Sorry."

   The two sat down at the table warily, one at each end, so many wild animals clawing to get out in the open, begging for a little freedom. Starsky fiddled with the familiar candle, trying to act painfully blasé.

   "Hutch, how much of last night do you remember?"

   Hutch sipped his coffee, doing a better job. "Most everything, I think."

   Starsky laughed too loud and almost winced. "I don’t know how. You were totally smashed. You remember everything?"

   "If you mean me kissing you, then, yeah."

   It was like throwing sand on a fire. "Oh."

   "If that bothered you, I'm sorry." Hutch stood up and paced to the corner window where his plants were.

   "No, it didn't bother me." Starsky immediately clarified. "I mean, it was kinda weird…"

   "I thought shaving my mustache might help. You know, if it felt more like kissing a woman to you."

   "Oh yeah, that." How on God's earth did I miss that last night?! He studied Hutch's profile and the smooth upper lip in approval. His mind fluttered over the memories of how those lips had felt, like delicate nylon, and his chest constricted guiltily. "Yeah, it's nice."

   "Oh?"

   Shit. "Uh, th-that ain't what I meant. Hutch, why'd you do that? Get drunk and all that stuff."

   Hutch shrugged noncommittally. "I was at Huggy's yesterday afternoon having a drink. 'Hutch, m'man,' he said out of the blue, 'you just gotta take the chance sometimes, you know?' The man's perception is frightening sometimes."

   Starsky scrunched his face. Huggy?

   "So, I decided that if I was gonna lay almost a decade of trust on the line, I was gonna have to be well prepared. And that meant an escape route. Every good criminal has an escape route."

   "Hutch, what the heck are you talking about?" The blond was talking like he was explaining a math problem. But Hutch continued uninterrupted, rearranging rearranged plants.

   "I went home, set up our dinner date, and then got as drunk as I possibly could. That way I could just act like I didn't remember anything if things went badly, and we could just go back to how we were."

   Just keep playing dumb. "Hutch, why don't you just lay it all out. I don't need any long-winded explanations. You an' me gone beyond that years ago."

   "Alright." The façade fell. Hutch turned and faced him square on and Starsky suddenly felt very small. "I kissed you because I wanted to, and I'm damn glad I did it. I'm tired and I'm sick of games. I've been around the block so many times I've worn the heels off my boots and I'm tired of looking for something that I have right in front of me, okay? It was nice for awhile but..."

   "So what are you sayin, babe?"

   "God, you're dense." Hutch was losing his composure, getting agitated. Starsky almost felt sorry for him. "Do I have to spell it out one letter at a time?"

   "Well, yeah. 'Cause this is important and I don't wanna get it wrong." And I want you to say it so I don't have to.

   Hutch sighed. "Look, Starsk, I'm not trying to trap you into anything. I'm just saying that some day, if you ever wanted…I don't know if you meant what you said last night. I guess not, and I can't blame you for just saying whatever."

   "I didn't think you'd remember," Starsky confessed.

   "I remember you kissing me."

   Starsky froze. "I think it was the other way around."

   Hutch shrugged, apparently doubting his recollections. Starsky got serious.

   "Hutch, d'you know what you're sayin'? What all this could change for us?"

   "I know." Hutch picked at a plant.

   Starsky shook his head. There was a part of him that still demanded resistance, that cried for the safety of ten years of friendship, that insisted on old dreams of family and Christmas time with children and grandchildren. How could a kiss make him forget that? "Hutch, look, I need some more time to think about this, okay? It's all weird and new and kinda scary, you know?"

   "I never realized I was that frightening before. What ever have children seen in me?" Now Hutch was lapsing into smart-ass mode. That meant he was getting defensive. Starsky could only get angry.

   "You ain't being fair Hutch!" Tempers flared. Eyes meeting.

   "It isn't fair, Starsk. None of it is. I'm sorry I put you in this position, and I'm sorry if it changes anything between us." Hutch laughed hollowly. "You think I could take care of you week after week, watch you hurt and ache and struggle and fight…and not wanna make it all better?"

   Starsky fidgeted with thoughts of Hutch caring so loyally and lovingly for him. "Well, sure but, when did you, you know, change?"

   "My feelings? Gee, I woke up one day and thought, I think I'll be gay today. I don't know, Starsky! You can't date stuff like that, it just happens. Maybe I was too busy chasing girls before to give it the attention it deserved."

   "It doesn't bother you that we're both guys?"

   "Should it?! You think I care anymore where your curves are? I love you because you're you, not because you’re a man or a woman."

   Starsky blushed. Hutch made it sound so simple and it wasn't.

   "You ready for that steak now?" The blond was pulling on his leather jacket over his guitar print shirt.

   "Hutch, you do look kinda tired." Starsky took one of the large hands and cocooned it protectively between his, rubbing it like it was cold. "Here, lay down on the couch for awhile."

   "I'm not an old man, Starsk. I just feel like it sometimes."

   "You got tons of good years left in you." Starsky smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

   Hutch looked drained and sat down. "The roller coaster can be a lot of fun, sweetheart. The thrill and anticipation, the rush. Some people never get off, ride it all their lives, but me…"

   "You're ready to cash in the extra tickets."

   Hutch nodded as Starsky dropped his hand.

   "That why you're tired of chasing girls?"

   "Maybe. Maybe I just want something familiar and safe."

   Starsky managed a weak grin. "I'd say that by now, girls ought ta be plenty familiar to you, Blondie." Even if they sure ain't safe.

   Hutch didn't have any argument left in him. "Go home, Starsky. I guess I am tired."

   Hutch retreated to a stool near the back window, retrieving his guitar and laid it across his lap. He strummed the chords, testing them, seeing if they sounded rich and full. Starsky watched him, not moving—not feeling able to move. He'd put up a good line of defense, resisted just like he should have, and felt like a jerk.

   He'd expected Hutch to put up more of a fight this evening, argue until he was thoroughly convinced it was the natural thing for both of them. Convince him in his Hutchinson, know-it-all manner that he was right and Starsky was wrong as usual. Hutch had started it and it wasn't fair of him to leave it dumped at Starsky's feet.

   The blond was lost for a long time, just sitting there with the hollow piece of wood and string on his thighs.

   Watching Hutch looking beautiful as he was, wearied but strangely lightened, filled Starsky with a kind of euphoria. Hutch was the object of so many women's affections, and still was, even though they both silently acknowledged the fact that they were getting a few too many bullet holes for a girl to appreciate. A girl anyway. Hutch's scars were lovely to Starsky. They spoke volumes about who he was, the man that he was. Starsky reflexively rubbed his own scars. I bet there's ten pounds of lead between us. Guess that buys a lot of comfort, huh? Guess that buys a lot of hurtin' and a whole lot of love.

   And how many "liberties" did that buy?

   Probably not, Starsky reasoned, his hand unconsciously drifting to his crotch. Last night his own body had found Hutch's curves just right.

   And maybe that wasn't so strange after all. Maybe old dreams could be replaced by new ones. Dreams that fulfilled themselves in the here-and-now instead of on falling stars that burned their way into oblivion.

   It was like writing a book as they went through life, weaving their tale together, chapter after chapter, the plot twisting and evolving its way to an inevitable conclusion. The butterfly coming out of the cocoon. It went through the stages of growing, had to spend it's time on each phase like nature demanded, until it spread it's wings and took flight, blooming into the final echelon of it's life. The most beautiful, and the most complete.

   It was scary as hell, and maybe it didn't make much sense to accept it so readily, but he'd be damned if he screwed up something with so much possibility all because Hutch had the guts and he didn't. Hutch's feelings were there. And so were his despite all his equivocations.

   He touched a leather-clad shoulder. Hutch started.

   "You still here?"

   "Yeah."

   "Starsky, look. I'm sorry. I tried, I really did, to just ignore it. But it was like fighting something from the wrong position. There was no way I could win. It was going to get to me eventually, my feelings, break me down, make me hate you. God, I'm sorry." Hutch shook his head, looking down.

   "Hey Hutch?"

   "Yes?"

   Books and butterflies. Bullets and beer and a beautiful blond. "You wanna know a secret?"

   Hutch looked up, a critical look, wary of some forthcoming cut. "Sure. I could use a good laugh."

   "I ain't never had a man shave his mustache for me before."

   Hutch couldn't help but laugh at that, laugh so hard at how worried he'd been, how much he'd been through.

   "You're a moron, you know that?"

   Starsky smiled and leaned down to Hutch's face, his perpetual need for physical contact gnawing like a rat on an old chair leg. Hutch was surprised at first, but he always did adapt well. The kiss pushed carefully into an oral study, learning this new form of touch between them, just experimenting its possibilities. Starsky felt his hands tingling with excitement just like the rush he got from a chase—this feeling was so new and dangerous because it was a man he was kissing, but so sensational because it was Hutch. The Hutch he'd had right there for years. He nudged Hutch's mouth open with his tongue and Hutch took it, moaning—softly this time—in a replay of the night before.

   Oh God. Starsky felt sweat dotting his face, chills rushing all over like an incorporeal possession. He pulled away, Hutch's hands still mussing his wild hair.

   "Yeah, it's nice," he gasped as he rested his forehead on his partner's.

   "Being a moron?" Hutch managed, his voice rough. A glance at his pants showed why.

   "The death of your lip hair. Guess they'll start carding you again."

   Hutch laughed, his head falling to Starsky's shoulder. "So, you changed your mind awfully fast. A minute ago you acted like it was a nightmare."

   "I didn't change my mind, just had to finish convincing myself, that's all."

   "I'm serious Starsky, about us. I don't want some on again off again fling. I know how you think you're in love twice a week…"

   "You're insultin' me, Hutch. You think I'd toy with you like that?"

   The other detective arched an eyebrow. "Just so you're sure. I need to know. It's a lot to give up just for me."

   It was never vocalized, but Starsky's need for contact was voice enough.

   "Hutch?" he sighed.

   "Starsk."

   "You wanna know something?"

   "Is this another secret?"

   "Not after all these years."

   Hutch pulled away and looked up. "Go ahead."

   "I'm still hungry. You gonna buy my steak, or what?"

   Hutch smiled, his periwinkle eyes looking youthful and renewed, carefully laid down his guitar, and Starsky followed him out the door as another line of defense was shattered.

THE END