Elizabeth

   Starsky was right. Things were fine. When their first dangerous situation on the streets tested out Hutch’s defenses against the fear, they held. He tinkered with them constantly to strengthen them and each time they held back the fear, he grew more confident in his own ability to function. Not just to function adequately but at his peak.

   The months slipped seamlessly past, until the stomach bug hit the precinct, and now here he was once more stuck in a relatives’ room in a hospital, waiting. And waiting. With plenty of time for self-analysis.

   He sighed and wished he could consult Starsky’s watch. The clinically austere and comfortless clock on the wall informed him his partner had been gone about two hours. He was tired; he still hadn’t recovered from all the overtime, let alone this afternoon’s tension. But he was too wired to sleep. He compromised by lying down on the battered sofa, feet hanging off over the arm. It could be a lot worse, he really is all right. He kept on repeating his mantra.

   The clock ticked on. When Starsky had been gone for almost three hours, Hutch began to worry in earnest. Did it mean the doctors had turned up something with their tests? If all registered normal, wouldn’t they have finished with him by now? Eventually he lurched to his feet and started pacing back and forth.

   When the door opened without any warning knock, he spun round, ready to take out his frustration on whoever had disturbed him. But it was a smiling Starsky.

   "Stop worrying, Hutch. Everything’s all right." Just as Hutch was about to interrupt and give him a real grilling to be sure that he wasn’t hiding anything, Starsky leapt in again. "I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I brought along Dr McKitterick to convince you." He stepped out of the doorway to let her into the room.

   She looked amused that Starsky had predicted his partner’s reaction so accurately. "Detective Hutchinson, your partner is doing very well. None of the test results gave any cause for concern at all, and we tested him exhaustively. Work seems to agree with him." She smiled. "As for this afternoon’s tumble, it’s lucky he landed on top. Your suspect is quite badly injured. Several broken ribs, among other things, and a fair degree of internal injuries."

   She saw the shadow cross Hutch’s face as he contemplated what would have happened had Starsky been pinned underneath, given that his insides had been so thoroughly mangled by Gunther’s bullets.

   "Detective Starsky has sustained some bruising and, as I said earlier, he’ll probably feel stiff later. So take him home, keep an eye on him and make him take it easy tomorrow. I recommended that he take aspirin if he’s too uncomfortable."

   "And Craddock’s okay too," Starsky added cheerfully. Hutch felt a twinge of guilt. He had never enquired who the officer down was, let alone how he had fared. Clearly Starsky had. "Off duty, wrong place, wrong time," he supplied in answer to Hutch’s unspoken question. "I dropped by his room on our way here."

   "So, what do you think?" Hutch asked, scuffing the carpet with his toe.

   "Yeah, let’s get ‘em done tonight." Neither noticed the doctor’s bafflement at their broken train of thought and verbal shorthand.

   They thanked her for her care, then left. She stood at the relatives’ room door and watched them go. She was surprised to see Detective Hutchinson lean over on the way out and grab his partner’s wrist. Then she realised he was consulting his watch. Belatedly she understood their cryptic conversation: they’d been discussing whether to return to the station and write up their reports. She wondered how long they’d been partners.

********

   Dobey was still at the precinct, eager to hear Dr McKitterick’s report and grateful for the update on Craddock, who had still been in surgery when Dobey was at the hospital. The two detectives settled down to type up the paperwork as quickly as possible.

   On the way home, Hutch insisted on calling at a foodstore to buy something decent for dinner. Shortly before eight, Starsky turned the key in the lock of his front door. To say that it had been a long day didn’t even begin to cover it.

   Now that he was away from the precinct, Hutch felt punch-drunk with euphoria. He catalogued the onset of the jitters with clinical detachment and watched his hands begin to shake. His mind informed him calmly that he was about to come down with a bad case of delayed reaction. He knew from experience that he had to act quickly before he fell apart completely.

   He commenced mothering Starsky mercilessly. He guided him to the couch and settled him down. He brought him fruit juice – no alcohol in case he needed painkillers later. He drew him a warm bath to relieve the ache of his bruises. He threw in some soothing oil he’d once picked up at a street market in the hope that it would ease the pull of tight scar tissue. He set out clean fluffy towels to warm, he retrieved Starsky from the sofa. He managed to let him walk to the bathroom on his own two feet and restricted himself to holding onto one of his arms. (He hoped he kept it toned down to "hold" rather than "clutch".) He forced himself to leave his partner to undress and bathe himself whilst he prepared the steak and salad he’d purchased. And he forced himself not to stand like a servant at Starsky’s elbow to wait on him at table.

   At about nine, he shepherded Starsky back to the sofa and made him lie down while he took care of the dishes. A quick scan of the TV listings threw up the ancient monster movie, which Starsky said he wanted to watch. Hutch protested that it finished too late but Starsky wouldn’t budge. Besides, he was probably right: they both needed to unwind before they would sleep. So Hutch disappeared to make popcorn. He returned to find Starsky sitting upright.

   "You missed the first five minutes."

   "You don’t need to fill me in, thanks. I don’t suppose it will be so complicated I can’t catch up." He couldn’t resist the sarcastic dig at his partner’s viewing habits.

   Starsky patted the sofa and Hutch lay down in the space beside him, cautiously because his back was hurting. He gazed up at his partner. They had survived, he was happy. He didn’t want to move any time soon. Just contemplate how he had found this safe haven. He drifted blissfully.

********

   The movie was still droning on but Starsky had finished the popcorn. Hutch tried to reach back for the bowl, intending to make a refill. Starsky’s hand on his chest stopped him.

   "No, I’ve enjoyed enough sin for one night. The movie’s nearly over anyway." Hutch drank in the sleepy smile and stayed put.

   He had learnt today that his defenses against the fear held out on the streets even when pushed to the limit. He could afford to congratulate himself. He’d won. He had wrapped discipline and self-control around his weakness like armor plate and they were sufficient. Okay, Dobey knew he was worried today. But that was no different than before. His boss and fellow officers knew that he watched out for Starsky, Starsky watched out for him.

   Months ago now, when Starsky survived without injury his first exposure to gunfire post-Gunther, Hutch had exposed a serious flaw in his system. Discipline could be wound only so tight. He realised that evening that there was a point at which it would explode catastrophically and he was perilously close to a stress fracture. Thinking quickly, he worked out that he needed to avoid this testing to destruction at all costs. Maybe if he eased the tension on the rope and let it out a few notches . . . .

   He was desperate after that first firefight. As soon as Hutch shut the door of Starsky’s place behind him, he gave free rein to the terrible urge to be over-protective. He switched into full mother-hen mode, even though Starsky was completely uninjured. It worked. He could feel the fractures in his armor healing themselves, closing over. He no longer sensed that he was going to fly apart into destructive shards ready to slash through anything in their path.

   And to his amazement, Starsky permitted him to mother him. He made no complaint, nor did he try and wrest control back from Hutch. Hutch guessed that his partner had figured out what was going on. But just as the fear had never been mentioned, Hutch’s safety valve was left in silence and shadows. He was grateful.

   And he worked hard to ensure that he didn’t abuse the privilege. Never once did he slip up at work where their fellow-officers could see. Never once did he indulge himself unnecessarily when there was no imminent danger of a blow-out. And when he felt that he had to invoke his emergency procedure, he sensed Starsky’s wordless support enfolding him like a blanket.

   He knew that without evenings like tonight, lying quietly on the sofa, resting his head against Starsky, no amount of discipline would enable him to return to work as if nothing had happened.

********

   He stretched luxuriously, pushing his head against Starsky’s thigh and his toes against the sofa arm while arching up his back like a cat. He felt his partner’s attention drop to him instantly. "You want to go to bed now, babe?" A hand massaged his shoulder.

   "No, don’t be silly. The movie’s not finished yet. I’d hate to be responsible for the tension of not knowing what happened keeping you awake," he teased.

   Starsky’s lazy lop-sided smile bathed him in its glow. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them again quickly. He needed to locate one of Starsky’s cushions. Now. He hugged it to his stomach, ensuring unobtrusively that it lay across his groin. Starsky noticed.

   "I can pull the afghan down if you’re cold?" He didn’t wait for an answer but twisted round to snag it down from the back of the sofa without disturbing Hutch’s head from his thigh. Then he threw it out to the side, over Hutch’s legs, and carefully tucked it round his partner as far as he could reach.

   Hutch formed a mental grimace. Much as he appreciated seeing that Starsky had managed the awkward turn without any discomfort, he wished he’d left well alone. He was going to roast now. But he didn’t dare make a fuss and draw attention.

   The truth was that Hutch was nursing another problem.

   As a cop, he knew that the best place to hide a secret is often beneath another secret. Not beneath any old secret, but beneath the kind of secret that isn’t really a secret any longer. If people think they have unearthed something and solved the puzzle, they often won’t bother to dig any deeper to see if something else is lurking.

   So Hutch was relying on his two secrets that weren’t really secrets to hide the remaining secret. He and Starsky had never openly discussed how close he had come to being so overwhelmed by fear for his partner that he couldn’t return to his job. They had skirted it indirectly and dealt with it. He felt Starsky’s unstinting support as he struggled to thwart the problem. But nothing had been said overtly.

   Starsky understood perfectly that the only way Hutch could maintain the discipline that kept the fear locked away was by periodically letting go of his control and indulging in over-protective behaviour. Once upon a time Starsky would have refused to put up with this occasionally smothering blanket. But like Hutch, he had learnt much over the last eighteen months. And like Hutch, he was prepared to pay the price of maintaining their partnership. But nothing had been said directly.

   Sometimes, for long periods at a stretch, Hutch thought that his final secret was safe. But at other times he doubted. Most people might not suspect the existence of the secret beneath the layers of secrets. But Starsky wasn’t most people. He was an exceptionally good intuitive cop who rarely missed emotional clues. But if he had detected anything strange, he gave no hint that Hutch could pick up.

   Not knowing whether Starsky knew was unsettling, to say the least. But all Hutch could do was act as if Starsky didn’t know and hope that his camouflage was good enough. Even the most delicate probing would only serve to alert Starsky’s instincts to the fact that there was something hidden. The concealment was a form of deception, which didn’t feel good. But it was like conquering the fear: there was no other way. He had to do it.

   Hutch had fallen in love with his partner. It hadn’t been revealed to him in a blinding flash of light, there had been no road to Damascus revelation. "Fallen" was the wrong word altogether. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened. It had been an imperceptible shift.

   Being in love had crept through his defenses by stealth. He thought that if it had been something sudden, he might have resisted it. He would have seen the attack coming and might have fought it off successfully. The truth dawned on him gradually in the months after Gunther’s hit.

   Not when Starsky was first shot: he doubted then that he could live without his partner but physical desire had no part in his unbearable cocktail of grief, anger, guilt and loss.

   But when Starsky was beginning to recover and Hutch began to trust that his own life could start up again, he started experiencing the strangest sensations. Thoughts and emotions flitted at the edge of consciousness. It was like seeing someone out of the corner of your eye, then finding they’d disappeared when you turned to look at them directly. Or like watching a badly tuned TV where you could almost make out the images and interpret the soundtrack but not quite.

   Hutch had been puzzled, intrigued even, but not worried. The almost-thoughts didn’t seem threatening: far removed from the gut-wrenching nightmares he’d experienced after the hit. He waited in the belief that when he was good and ready to understand, his brain would show him the complete thought. And it did.

   He became aware in the hospital that he was spending hours staring at Starsky, especially when he was asleep. He might have read a book – several books – but watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing was more engrossing and never failed to hold his attention. It filled him with a sense of peace he couldn’t find anywhere else. Even when his partner was awake, he could barely drag his eyes away from him to acknowledge any other presence in the room.

   But when he examined this tendency, it didn’t seem strange. Even when they were both healthy, he was aware that both he and Starsky concentrated their attention on each other to an unusual degree. It didn’t matter where they were, at work, relaxing together or out on a double date. It had been part of their relationship for years. It was how they were able to predict each other’s thoughts and actions with so little verbal communication. And he knew that he loved Starsky more than anyone else in his life. So it wasn’t inexplicable that he should be unable to take his eyes off him. He’d come so close to losing him that he needed the constant reassurance of his existence.

   It was just a little strange that the curve of his eyelashes, the line of his throat, the junction of neck and shoulder, the sweep of his collarbone, had become so hypnotic.

   He had also become vaguely aware that something was different about his response to being in physical contact with Starsky. But again, it hadn’t been a disturbing realisation. They had always had a very physical relationship and he’d always enjoyed its warmth. There had been a lot of touching in the hospital, more than usual even for them. Starsky had needed a lot of comfort to help with the pain of his injuries and the psychological trauma of what had happened. Hutch had needed a lot of comfort for the loss he’d so nearly suffered. Hutch had noted curiously that being in contact with Starsky produced a heightened sense of pleasure, a deepened sense of peace. The world outside was more effectively blocked from his consciousness. But when he examined this phenomenon, it seemed completely comprehensible as a reaction to the hit.

   Hutch sighed. Perhaps he’d known all along what was going on but had refused to acknowledge it. He’d enjoyed a few remarkably kinky wet dreams involving his partner – he would certainly never have told them to Starsky under any circumstances. With hindsight he had been extraordinarily obtuse in ignoring their blatant message. But at the time he’d succeeded in dismissing them: he’d gone without sex for months because of concentrating on Starsky’s recovery; he hadn’t been in contact with any women who could provide the body for his dream sex life. As if his brain couldn’t have supplied some image from one of his long string of girlfriends – the nurses even – as a more convincing template than Starsky!

   What had finally forced him into reading the message his brain had been sending was Starsky’s resumption of dating. He hadn’t had any inkling of trouble when he set up that first double date. He still didn’t understand when out on it. He was just vaguely surprised that he didn’t enjoy it more. He’d been looking forward to resuming his own sex life: in the abstract at least – perhaps it was peculiar that he hadn’t any particular woman’s face in mind when he visualised it. He came away from the evening haunted by a sense of unease. He’d hoped that Starsky hadn’t noticed: he didn’t want to spoil his partner’s well-deserved treat.

   It was during their second evening out with a couple of women that all the little signals and clues finally coalesced into a pattern he could interpret.

   They were sitting in the trattoria waiting for dessert, chatting about this and that. He’d watched Starsky intently all evening to be certain that he was enjoying himself. He had a vague feeling that his own girl was just slightly uncomfortable for some reason: maybe he’d been neglecting her a little. But he needed to look into Starsky’s eyes to read that he was happy. Then, before the waiter showed up with their orders, Starsky placed his hand over his girl’s where it lay on the white damask cloth.

   Hutch was transfixed. His head swam, his throat tightened, clammy sweat beaded on his back and soaked his shirt. He recognised the emotion. He was consumed by jealousy. His brain had finally found a way to make him take notice. All the changes he’d catalogued and dismissed so readily flew into place. They were joined by a cohort of clues he’d managed to ignore completely. How could he have failed to notice that there was a correlation between his erections and Starsky’s presence? Easy, the ostrich part of himself snapped in a last-ditch attempt at self-justification, Starsky was never absent. What was I supposed to do? Never have an erection at all?

   Thinking of erections was fatal. His face flushed from bone-white to bright red as he realised that his penis was extracting vengeance for his previous refusal to act on its suggestions. His first instinct was to flee to the bathroom to calm down, splash his face with water, anything that might help him regain his balance. But that was out of the question. His figure-hugging slacks weren’t going to conceal anything. He had to stay put and brazen it out.

   Starsky was speaking to him. "Hey, Hutch, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong? You can’t get food poisoning that quick, can you?"

   For Chrissake, can’t you give me some space for once? "Um . . . I just came over hot for a minute. The ice cream’ll cool me down . . ."

   He couldn’t think of anything more convincing to add. Shit, the women were looking worried. He must look really strange.

   "Do you want to go outside for some air? I can come with you if you want – you’re not going to faint, are you?"

   "No! Quit fussing." Hutch knew he sounded annoyed. "It’ll pass, just give me a minute or two’s peace and quiet."

   He felt Starsky’s eyes boring into him for a moment as he assessed how bad he was.

   "I’ll hurry up the waiter." This Starsky accomplished with a huge song and dance, which made Hutch more uncomfortable than ever. He could feel heads turning all over the room. The only good thing was that the embarrassment had taken care of his erection. It was safe to make a swift exit to the men’s room to pull himself together.

   He stood at the sink, splashing water onto his face and peering into the mirror. He looked spooked. Wild-eyed, white round the lips, definitely not healthy. He took hold of the porcelain, lowered his head and tried to breathe normally. Much as he would have liked to hide here, lock himself in a cubicle, climb out the back window, anything to avoid going back to his table, he knew that he couldn’t. And if he didn’t resurface soon, Starsky would come to check on him.

   Having willed himself to relative calm, he studied himself in the mirror again. He didn’t look too bad. Time to walk back to his group as if nothing had happened.

   He judged afterwards that he’d carried it off very well. He’d deflected a few more concerned comments from Starsky, managed to join in the conversation and laugh at Starsky’s jokes without hysteria making him sound like a berserk hyena. He managed to drive Susan back to her apartment but wasn’t surprised when she seemed reluctant to invite him in.

********

   Life carried on. He coped. For the first week or so he tried to hide his secret as far from the light as possible in the hope that it would remain undetected. Maybe if he subjected it to pitch darkness for long enough, it would wither like one of his plants? Of course it didn’t.

   Then, while pounding the streets on his morning runs, he started letting it out from its prison cell to examine it. It surprised him. He suspected that the seeds had germinated in the months before Gunther: his impatience, bad temper, tiredness and general restlessness had been symptoms of his refusal to acknowledge what his body was desperately trying to communicate.

   It was also while running that he began to work out a plan. Stuffing it in a cupboard and hoping it would go away wasn’t enough.

   Telling Starsky about the problem was an option so obviously impossible that he didn’t waste time analysing why it was a bad move.

   But he was surprised that he so readily rejected "terminal decline from unrequited love, crash and burn". He didn’t actually feel morose: worried that Starsky might find out, yes. And deeply regretful that there wasn’t a hope in hell of trying out for real what his dream self had enjoyed so spectacularly. But he wasn’t miserable. Seeing his partner lying so close to death, hearing that his heart had stopped, had granted Hutch a terrifying view of the mud churning at the bottom of the pit of despair. This wasn’t the same at all. In the hospital, he would have made a pact with the devil himself to save Starsky. If unrequited sexual love was the price, so be it. It certainly didn’t negate the joy of being at Starsky’s side day after day.

   And he knew beyond any doubt that no one was more important to Starsky than he was. His partner might date but the women weren’t close to him the way he was. They weren’t really that much different from going to the movies – entertainment, an enjoyable evening out, a break from routine and the hard work of recovery. Realistically Starsky was a bachelor well on his way to forty, old enough to be set in his ways: Hutch thought it unlikely he’d find another Terri. He might have to revise this sometime in the future, but not yet.

   There was, of course, another convincing reason not to pine to death. Starsky couldn’t fail to notice and he’d demand to know what was going on.

   So Hutch opted for concealment and enjoying what he had. As time passed, he tried hard to fool himself as well as Starsky. His musings on his discovery that he could harness self-control and discipline to drive down his fear were of course not completely honest. A long-forgotten seal and an exam paper weren’t his only models. There was also the matter of living successfully with concealed passion.

   And after more than a year of coping with his problem, he knew he’d been right. The regret was there, turning the knife in quiet moments, usually when Starsky wasn’t with him. But it was always tempered by the joy of his friendship. He was happy, very happy, despite the flaws.

   Very occasionally, when he judged it was safe, he let his mute love out to play cautiously where the shadows were thickest. Amongst the swirling emotions brought on by today’s near-miss, Starsky wouldn’t decipher the true reason for the gazes that lingered longer than usual or understand why his partner craved the warmth of physical contact so much more urgently tonight.

   And so Hutch lay there, eyes shut, waiting for the movie to finish, sleepy but too adrenaline loaded to doze off, over-warm but too aroused to throw off the afghan and camouflaging cushion. Tinny music signalled the rolling of the credits. Soon he would have to move. Time to concentrate on not thinking about his erection and fool it into quiescence.

   Starsky turned the set off by remote. Silence. Hutch couldn’t bring himself to shift. Just another few minutes, no work tomorrow.

   Then Starsky’s voice, much closer than he expected, surprised him. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up . . ." The soft, low tone conspired with the gentlest brush of fingers (lips?) across his forehead to undo any progress he had made.

   Either the shock of the proximity of the voice or the unexpectedness of the caress, he couldn’t say which, caused his eyes to fly open. He found himself staring straight into Starsky’s violet eyes only inches away. Starsky sat up abruptly, equally surprised. Hutch reflected that he’d probably thought he was asleep. Instead of the bleary, endearingly unfocussed gaze he’d expected, he’d been confronted by complete alertness.

   The phone rang. And rang. It sat on the coffee table at Starsky’s end of the sofa. He made no move to pick it up. It continued to ring.

   "Pick it up, Starsk. It’s probably the office."

   "Your turn." Starsky’s tone was completely blank.

   Hutch sighed audibly and moved to comply. His legs were trapped by the afghan, so he caterpillar-humped backwards until he was lying across Starsky’s lap, then he stretched out his arm. He couldn’t quite reach, so wriggled his legs vigorously to loosen the afghan and gain more maneuvering space.

   Starsky leaned over and gave the cover a firm yank. It came away, trapping the cushion in its folds. Hutch’s fingertips made contact with the handset and he pulled it towards his ear, trying to get a firmer grip. He was suddenly horribly aware of Starsky’s hand grasping the upper reaches of his inner thigh to balance him as he stretched. Totally unprepared for the contact, he felt his trousers tighten. For a split second, he suffered a nightmare premonition of imminent disaster and cursed his self-indulgence in not moving off the sofa sooner. He could hear Captain Dobey’s puzzled voice coming from the receiver.

   He closed his eyes again and halted with the handset somewhere in limbo. Was there going to be a volcanic eruption to dwarf Krakatoa? Or would Starsky decide to reject any knowledge of the third secret?

   Somewhere in the background, he could still hear Dobey’s disembodied voice, now sounding higher volume and worried. Fuck, if I don’t answer he’ll assume we’re unable to respond and send a squad car to investigate.

   He pried his eyes open again. He came no nearer to dealing with Dobey. The fingers had stopped grasping his thigh and had begun a sensuous circling movement inches from the crotch of his jeans. He held himself quite still. Over the background of Dobey’s voice, he heard his own breathing quicken and roughen, felt his jeans become painfully constricting.

   Starsky’s face loomed above him, pupils huge in the lamplight. His own eyes fastened in fascination on Starsky’s glistening lips and catalogued their measured descent. A burgeoning lump against his shoulder blade filled him with wonder.

   He stopped breathing. He let the handset fall to the floor. He heard it go dead. He felt the kiss. Gentle, tentative, but overwhelming.

   He was so frozen by surprise that he couldn’t respond, not until he sensed the first hint of withdrawal. He moaned in disappointment and instinctively pursued the retreating mouth, desperate for more contact, desperate not to reject what was being freely offered, desperate that the chance might not be given a second time. His hand, freed from the phone, buried itself in thick, dark curls to anchor his partner’s head.

   Starsky’s lips parted slightly above his. His tongue swiftly probed between them, drawn as irresistibly as if summoned by a magical piper. He tasted a faint aftertaste of salty popcorn while the scent of sandalwood soap and faint aftershave tickled his nostrils.

   Now it was Starsky who seemed stunned into immobility. But Hutch could sense tiny noises coming from his partner’s throat, vibrations transmitted through the closeness of their bones rather than heard, which plainly indicated pleasure. Careful not to spook him, he ran his tongue sensuously along the line of Starsky’s teeth. Obediently they parted and his tongue slid beyond to curl round his partner’s like a cat brushing against its owner’s legs.

   He wasn’t prepared for the effect on himself. He had believed that his attempts to keep his passion for Starsky under control had been ineffective. Now he learned the truth. The passion and lust that swept through him bore as much resemblance to his dreams as a woodsman’s campfire to a forest conflagration. He knew he couldn’t douse it again down to a controlled, domesticated flame.

   Nor was he prepared for the effect on his partner. For half-a-dozen heartbeats he gently brushed back. Without any warning, he attacked, demanding entry fiercely to Hutch’s mouth. Each man pushed furiously, nipping at lips, duelling wetly. Hutch tasted salt and knew dimly that Starsky had bitten his lip too hard.

   Without conscious volition, his hips struggled to maneuver Starsky’s hand from inner thigh to groin. He refused to cooperate and Hutch moaned in frustration. His skin beneath the old denim soared to such a pitch of sensitivity that each circling motion must be searing a scorched trail into his flesh.

   But his complaint bore some fruit. His partner’s free hand seized hold of the front of Hutch’s shirt and began to pull it with sharp, urgent tugs from his waistband. When the fingers began massaging his bare stomach, Hutch thought he would disintegrate and blast apart like a dry branch in the path of an explosive cloud surging down the slopes of Vesuvius.

   At the point of disintegration, he was distracted by a nagging sense that he’d forgotten something crucial. His cock, given delicious, unlooked for freedom after so many months of denial, frantically tried to quash any rational thought. It nearly succeeded.

   Oh my god! Dobey! He withdrew his hand from Starsky’s hair and immobilised the hand at his stomach before it tackled his belt buckle. He struggled to disengage his lips. "Starsk?"

   There was no response, no indication at all that Starsky had heard him. He spoke more firmly. "Starsk, listen to me." At the same time, he gently pushed against his partner’s chest in an effort to make him sit up. He daren’t use too much force as he calculated that it would only produce a tussle for mastery. The last thing he needed right now was to start off a wrestling competition.

   This time there was some response at least. Starsky followed the guiding hand on his chest without resistance and looked into his eyes. Hutch shivered at what he saw. He had seen that expression on Starsky’s face before but had never expected that he would be its cause. He remembered nights after difficult cases when a soaring adrenaline high had been the only thing keeping them on their feet. They would phone up a couple of girls and go out, excitement burning in their veins like a drug, nothing on their minds but sexual conquest. He had seen that look on Starsky’s face, focussed, utterly confident in his own irresistibility, eyes blazing into his own private world, as he slow-danced with whichever girl he had mesmerised. His breath caught in his throat. Had he been so sensitive to Starsky’s sexual magnetism, even then?

   He couldn’t afford to be mesmerised. He swivelled round so that he sat on the sofa next to Starsky, facing towards him, one leg hooked underneath himself. Avoiding moving suddenly, he placed his hands on Starsky’s shoulders and shook them gently. He felt afraid to risk eye contact in case cobalt-blue witchery drained away his wits, but equally he knew that Starsky was more likely to be swayed by his own pale blue eyes if he put enough resolution into them.

   He tried again, keeping his voice low. "Starsk, you have to listen to me right now."

   He listened to his partner’s breathing. It remained unchanged, rapid and shallow, and when he glanced down his lips were slightly parted. And swollen with kissing. He quickly looked away, not trusting himself. "Starsky, that was Dobey on the phone. You remember the phone ringing? He’ll send a squad car along to investigate if we don’t let him know everything’s all right. We have to phone the precinct right now." He emphasised his urgency by another gentle shake.

   As he looked into his partner’s eyes, he saw the furious intensity leach away, then he watched Starsky’s gaze fall on the table and register the fact that the cradle was minus its handset.

   "Shit," he said succinctly. He drew a deep breath and held it, clearly searching for some control. "Can you make the call, Hutch? Don’t think I can manage it."

   A smile twitched the corner of Hutch’s mouth. "I don’t know what makes you think I’m any better off."

   "Well, let’s see, you don’t sound like you ought to be admitted to hospital for breathing problems and palpitations. How’s that for a good reason?"

   "Okay, anything to keep you happy." Hutch bent down and retrieved the handset, then pressed the cradle and dialed.

   The call was intercepted by switchboard and patched through to the captain’s car. It didn’t surprise him that he picked up immediately and bellowed at full volume, "Dobey!"

   He sat on the edge of the sofa and leaned forward, trying to block his awareness of Starsky’s proximity. "Captain, it’s Hutch. . ."

   He was rudely interrupted. "Hutch! What the hell’s going on there? Another minute and I was dispatching a couple of officers to check on you both. I hope your explanation’s damn good!"

   Hutch was horribly aware that occupying only the edge of his seat was a bad idea. Starsky had wriggled around behind him, ostensibly to get nearer to the phone at Hutch’s ear. Hutch felt his blush deepening as his overwrought brain – no, not his brain – registered the delicious sensation of Starsky’s thigh pressing erotically against his own. And Starsky’s crotch brushing against his lower back. He swallowed.

   "Uh, Captain . . . there’s nothing to worry about just ignore me if I moan with ecstasy , we were really tired. We’d fallen asleep watching TV and the phone woke me. I was just disorientated I guess and dropped it."

   "Hutchinson, I’m amazed sometimes you’ve never managed to shoot yourself with your own Magnum . . ."

   Oh my god! Hutch helplessly caught his breath as Starsky’s teeth nipped his ear lobe. "Just give it time, Captain." Starsky’s tongue tentatively probed the depths of his ear, then began to swipe the soft skin behind it, investigating the little pit formed between his jawbone and skull. He wasn’t going to survive this conversation. He covered the mouthpiece and hissed, "Cut it out!"

   Mouthpieces are sensitive. "What’s going on back there? Hutchinson, are you paying any attention to what I’m saying?"

   "Sorry, sir." He improvised. "Starsky’s tickling my feet." Oh god, I should have kept quiet. At least Starsky had desisted from nibbling and licking and his brain might function better for the rest of the conversation.

   "Well get him to stop. Listen, Hutchinson, I’m sorry to drag you out again after this afternoon but we have a major situation. I need you both here."

   Hutch’s heart sank. They were both too tired for this. Starsky was now fully focussed on listening in.

   "How major?"

   "Multiple hostages."

   "And why us?"

   "The gunman’s asking for Starsky."

   "Not me?"

   "No, just your partner. His name’s Tony Weeks. We don’t know how he knows Starsky – he has a conviction record for mugging but he wasn’t the arresting officer. See if Starsky knows the name."

   Starsky twisted the mouthpiece round. "No, Cap’n, don’t meaning anything to me."

   "Okay. I’m almost at the crime scene. I want you to get down here as soon as you can. I still need to liaise with the officers handling the situation before it thumped down on our doorstep to get all the details. We’ll hold off till you’re both here. No sense having to repeat it."

   "Here being?"

   "You know the offices of the law firm Bridges and Sutterman?"

   "Yeah," put in Starsky. "Swish."

   Dobey grunted in agreement. "We’re trying to find out if there’s any connection with the hostage taker. Haven’t found one yet. Okay, I’m just parking the car. I’ll see you here."

   The connection went dead. Hutch put the phone back down and stared at it for a minute. Starsky had already slipped out from behind him and was standing by the sofa. He squatted down by Hutch and put a hand on his knee. "Come on, partner. Go wash your face and we’ll hit the road."

   Hutch obeyed. He was shocked by what he saw in the mirror. Dobey’s news might have taken care of his erection, but he looked like a man who’d just enjoyed a night of wild passion. He was flushed pink, his hair was an unruly mess, his lips were swollen. Where Starsky had bitten too hard had blood crusted over it. His eyes burned too brightly.

   The only good news was that he couldn’t spot any obvious love bites.

   Quickly he washed and combed, then emerged to strap on his Magnum. His partner was looking at him with some amusement.

   "What?" he demanded.

   "I think Dobey would prefer that you tucked your shirt in for the briefing. Wouldn’t want to add any more to our reputation for scruffy dressing, would you?"

   Hutch blushed even pinker and complied. Starsky had clearly run a comb through his curls and found his gun and jacket while Hutch was in the bathroom. Hutch envied him his dark coloring: he didn’t look half as ravished as his fair-skinned, fair-haired victim.

********

   Starsky drove in silence for some minutes. Hutch was grateful. The lawyers’ building wasn’t too far and he desperately wanted to avoid starting a conversation that couldn’t be brought to a proper conclusion.

   "So, Blintz, why d’you tell Dobey I was tickling your feet?"

   Hutch blushed again. It’s going to be a really embarrassing night if this happens every time my partner speaks to me. "Could it have something to do with the fact that you were licking my brains out through my ear? I had to come up with something. It felt like an innocent enough excuse till I actually said it out loud."

   Starsky laughed softly in his throat. The sound was so erotic and suggestive that Hutch’s blush deepened. He cursed silently. Maybe he could make Starsky blush too? "Amazing how sensitive phones are these days, don’t you think? I wonder if Dobey could hear you licking and drilling my ear right next to the ear-piece? I guess he was just too polite to say anything about all the slurping."

   He noted smugly that he had rattled his partner’s composure. Starsky shot him a panicked glance. "Oh shit, you don’t think he could hear that, do you?"

   Hutch looked away and shrugged noncommittally. Silence fell once more.

   It was Starsky who broke it. "Hutch, we need to talk about tonight."

   "Oh no we don’t," Hutch shot back sharply. A pang of guilt stabbed him when he caught a hint of vulnerability in his partner’s expression. He could see he was casting about for something to follow up with but not finding it, so he stepped in hastily. "I didn’t mean ‘we’re not going to talk about it, period’, just ‘we’re not going to talk about it right now’."

   "But it’s important . . ."

   "Yeah, it’s important. Too important to start on just minutes before we arrive at a crime scene. Too important to talk about when we’re both so exhausted the only thing keeping us upright is adrenaline. We still have tomorrow off, it’ll keep till then."

   "I’m not gonna stand for you putting it off forever."

   "I won’t, I promise. Just not now, okay? We need to come up with a plan . . ."

   "Yeah, I already came up with a plan." Starsky caught sight of Hutch’s questioning gaze. "I wanted you, so I decided to kiss you."

   Hutch snorted with laughter. "That was your plan?"

   "It worked, didn’t it?" said Starsky defensively. "You kissed me back. Enthusiastically, as I recall." Poor Hutch blushed again and felt himself twitching hopefully.

   "Okay, it worked. It had a few flaws, though."

   "Poor timing?" Both men collapsed in hysterical giggles.

   "Yeah, that for starters. Seriously, we need a broader plan, something more long term." He watched the effect on Starsky. His face had turned suitably grave.

   "How about we keep on kissing and see what happens?"

   "Starsk!" His voice rose up through the scale in reprimand.

   His partner looked chastened. "Yeah, you’re right, Blondie. It’s too important to start and then have to leave hanging. And too distracting. We’ll talk it through tomorrow, ‘kay?"

   Hutch thought he had finished, but no. "You meant the long-term thing, didn’t you?"

   "Starsky," he began in exasperation. "You agreed we’re going to drop it." A heartbeat’s pause: it wasn’t fair to deny Starsky that little security. "Yeah, I meant it."

   His partner smiled lop-sidedly. "So," he began again. Hutch felt incipient annoyance. "This Weeks guy." Hutch felt guilty. "Remembered anything about him yet?"

   He shook his head. "Fuck all. You?"

   "Nope. Maybe you never even met him – that’d explain why he hadn’t asked for you as well."

   "Could be, but we’re not often separate on the job. Maybe he doesn’t know you from the job … maybe it’s social or something?"

   "Yeah, possible I guess. We’d better hope Records turned up a decent mug-shot."

   There was nothing else left to say. The rest of the journey passed in silence. Hutch tried to keep his mind blank.

********

   The whole area outside the offices of Bridges and Sutterman was seething with men and women. Barriers had been erected to keep the curious public at bay out of harm’s way: not that there was much evidence of a curious public at this hour in an office district, although there was a fair smattering of journalists, including a bored-looking television crew. They were greatly outnumbered by armies of cops in uniform and plain-clothes, many of whom Hutch didn’t recognise. A few members of a SWAT team, kitted out in full body-armor, were visible and were doubtless accompanied by colleagues out of sight on surrounding rooftops.

   Looking incongruous among the sizeable collection of police cars and vans sat an ordinary city bus, parked with its wheels on the exit side right up on the sidewalk in front of the lawyers’ impressive doors. Looking ominous was a trio of ambulances on standby.

   Starsky parked the Torino as close to the barrier as possible. They flashed their badges for entry and scanned the crowd for Dobey. A uniformed cop so youthful looking that Hutch felt he should still be in high school spotted them and came across. Starsky clearly recognised him.

   "Hi, Shepherd. Seen Dobey around?"

   "Yeah, I’m supposed to be taking you to him. We’re using the boardroom as a temporary HQ. If you’ll follow me?"

   More pass flashing to gain admittance through the revolving glass doors. Hutch glanced round the expansive lobby: it certainly warranted Starsky’s epithet "swish". All tasteful black marble, jungle-like foliage plants of statuesque proportions, and expensive modern art. He doubted that they were copies.

   "We’re using the stairs rather than the lifts. We don’t want to spook him with the sound of moving machinery," Shepherd explained as he led the way up to the second floor. He came to a halt in front of a set of impressive double doors in some exotic dark hardwood. "Here we are." He knocked and opened up one leaf, then moved aside to let the detectives through. "Seems like a real psycho, don’t envy you. Good luck!" He turned back towards the stairs.

   The partners looked at each other, then sauntered in. It was a room calculated to impress. Underfoot was a deep-piled cream carpet. Starsky judged that it must be very new or they had exceptionally good cleaning staff. Hutch noted the fashionable artists’ work lining the walls. Dominating the room was a substantial rectangular table in a wood so dark it was almost black. Heavy drapes in a self-patterned black brocade reeked of money. These clearly weren’t the sort of lawyers to come to if you had a petty argument with your neighbour over an overhanging tree. Hutch knew that his father would feel right at home.

   Several people sat scattered around the table. In addition to Dobey, he thought he recognised one man as a captain from another precinct. The others were all strangers. A telephone sat in front of a middle-aged man near the far end of one side.

   Dobey started things rolling. "Come on in and take a seat. People, the fair hair belongs to Detective Ken Hutchinson, his partner is Detective David Starsky."

   None of those watching saw any signals, but they settled on two chairs down at the end of the table nearest the window, apparently by mutual consent. Starsky decided that the chairs were too far apart. He picked his up and moved it right next to Hutch’s, close enough to touch thighs.

   "I’ll make the introductions," Dobey carried on. He was sitting at the top of the table nearest the doors. "Clockwise from my seat, on my left is Mr Edward Bridges, the managing partner of this firm." He looked the image of a successful lawyer, late middle-aged, a well cut sober suit, conservative but not outmoded, thick grey hair perfectly barbered. He nodded at the detectives, distant but not unfriendly.

   "Next to Mr Bridges is Mrs Marsha Nichols, the firm’s office manager." She smiled warmly at the two new arrivals. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed very much in the same style as her employer – conservative dark suit, expensively cut, with the addition of a piece of conservative and expensive jewelry; conservative hair style, expensively cut.

   "Moving on, we have James Buchanan." This was the man with the telephone sitting in front of him. He was in his mid-fifties, ordinary looking, stocky without being overweight, calm. "He’s our expert negotiator and a civilian. He’s successfully handled a lot of hostage situations."

   "Then on your side of the table is Captain Giacomo Leoncini of Fourth Precinct. You may already be acquainted?" All three men nodded. "The situation started on his turf."

   Leoncini was tall, thin, dark complexioned, smartly (but not expensively) dressed, and about forty-five. From what Hutch had heard, his reputation was excellent.

   "Perhaps you’d like to fill my men in on the story so far. Wouldn’t say no to knowing more details myself, for that matter."

   Leoncini nodded and was about to begin when Starsky interrupted him. "Sorry, but I want to hear background about Weeks first. It’s really bugging me that I don’t remember who the hell he is. Did Records fish out a mug-shot yet?"

   Dobey considered his request and then agreed. "Okay, Starsky. We’ll do it your way. Here’s the file." He extricated one from a pile in front of him and signalled Leoncini to pass it along. "The picture’s recent – he was arrested about a year ago and served a short spell inside for mugging a young woman. There was nothing about the crime to indicate he might turn to hijacking and hostage taking. No undue threats or violence, he just snatched her bag in a crowded mall and ran. And he was a model prisoner. He’s twenty now."

   Starsky fairly snatched the file from the table as Leoncini slid it over the polished surface towards him. He opened it and Hutch leaned in even closer until their heads were virtually touching. The photo showed a good-looking young man, slim but well muscled, with a heavy curtain of straight fair hair falling to his shoulders. The notes underneath described him as 5 foot 11 inches, about 155 pounds.

   Dobey added more information. "Although it’s recent, his hair’s different now. Much shorter. He didn’t grow it back so long when he came out of prison. We’ve taken a few shots with a long-distance lens today but with the poor lighting after dark they aren’t any real help." He shoved an envelope across to Leoncini to pass along again. Hutch captured it, rifled through the contents and put them down without bothering to hand them to his partner.

   Starsky was still peering intently at the mug-shot. Finally he looked up into Hutch’s eyes. Hutch shook his head very slightly. "Yes, you do," insisted Starsky. "About six years ago, maybe even a little more. He was a small kid for his age, must have had a growing spurt later. But he had that same mane of dark golden hair. No matter how scruffy he looked, the hair was always immaculate. He tagged along with a gang of kids who were just getting into minor crime. One day we came out of Wally’s Diner to find him breaking into your rust-heap of a car. I told him he should’ve had more taste and waited till I had my machine parked."

   Hutch frowned. "Yeah, you wouldn’t book him, just gave him a severe talking to. He hung around you for a while."

   "Yeah, just for a few weeks. I really thought he was going to keep his nose clean. He used to wash my car, things like that. But he didn’t like you much. Think you scared him." Starsky smirked.

   "That’s right. Don’t you remember overhearing him one day talking to his friends? He had some god-awful nickname for me that had us in stitches. What was it now?"

   Starsky’s smirk broadened to a grin. "The Golden Ice Queen." Both men laughed. No one else joined in, though a hint of a smile crossed Dobey’s face. "I’ll swear he thought you were going to blow him away when we walked round the corner."

   "So what happened to him?" asked Hutch.

   Starsky frowned. "He just kind of disappeared. His ma moved away, out of the city. She was Italian, with relatives out somewhere in the sticks. Never heard no more about him."

   Dobey nodded. "That fits with the report in the file. His folks moved back to LA just before the mugging."

   "So," said Hutch, "that doesn’t advance us very far. Knowing how he knows Starsky doesn’t give us a clue about why he’s holding the hostages or even why he wants Starsky."

   Buchanan spoke for the first time. "His behavior today is strongly suggestive of mental disturbance, probably quite severe. Witness statements indicate paranoid delusions."

   Hutch frowned. "Wouldn’t that sort of illness have shown up when he was in the pen?"

   "He might well not have been ill then, or the symptoms might have been so mild as not to be noticeable. He did a good job of keeping a low profile. There’s been more than enough time since for the illness to develop."

   "Why isn’t his mother here? Has anyone asked her if he’s had symptoms like these?"

   Leoncini stepped in. "We can’t. She died in a car wreck three months ago. It seems like she was close to her son – she visited him in jail regular as clockwork and the warders say he always looked forward to seeing her. Exchanged letters regularly too. We’ve had men visit her neighbors. They all tell the same story as the warders. Kept a low profile, no obvious signs of anything odd. A good boy who put out the trash for his ma and didn’t play noisy records or have antisocial friends round at ungodly hours. In fact he didn’t have friends round, period. They mostly described him as a loner."

   Buchanan frowned. "It all ties in to a fairly classic profile."

   "Okay," said Starsky. "I can picture the man now. Let’s hear the story."

PART THREE