Elizabeth

   They returned to waiting. Hutch finished his pile of statements. It was now almost an hour since Starsky’s phone call. He could feel the tension building furiously inside until he could sit still no longer. He began pacing round the room.

   Four fifty-five a.m. came and went without a call. No one said anything. Hutch knew that there was nothing that could usefully be said. The silence became more claustrophobic and oppressive. Dobey and Leoncini gave up shuffling the files in front of them. Buchanan was engrossed in examining every detail of his hands resting on the table.

   At seven minutes past five the phone rang. Marsha jumped visibly. Buchanan held himself very still. Hutch nodded at him to take charge of the phone, which had been set to loudspeaker mode in preparation for the anticipated call.

   Starsky’s voice came through calmly. "Hi, Mr Buchanan, can I speak with Captain Dobey, please?"

   Buchanan interpreted this as a request for Hutch and made space for him to come and speak into the microphone.

   "I’m here, Starsk. We’re on loudspeaker this end. What’s with the delay?"

   "Dunno. Things are still fine."

   Hutch interpreted this to mean that Starsky didn’t want to go into details. How close was Weeks to the phone? Could he pick up anything of what was being said? Hutch tried to be as circumspect as possible. "So no change?"

   "Yeah, think so."

   "You don’t want us to change our approach?"

   "That’s right, same thing." A raised voice came through but the listeners couldn’t decipher the words. Hutch didn’t like the tone: sharp and querulous. "I’ll try and talk again later. Tony wants to say something to me now." He rang off.

   Hutch felt as if he was being tortured. He had no way of knowing just how trigger-happy Weeks was. Starsky didn’t sound tense. But Hutch knew that he was a good actor when the job demanded it. And if Weeks was a complete loony, how much help would Starsky’s instincts be in assessing his own danger?

   He had to move. He had to leave the boardroom before he exploded with worry.

   As he neared the door, Buchanan shouted behind him: "Detective Hutchinson!"

   "Let him go. He won’t wander far." It was Dobey, confident that Hutch would not mount a one-man rescue mission to save his partner under the present circumstances.

   The heavy doors cut off Buchanan’s reply.

   Hutch stalked round the second floor for ten minutes for so. When he felt a little calmer, he found the washroom and freshened up. His over-bright eyes stared back at him wildly from the mirror. He no longer felt tired but recognised that was deceptive. He hadn’t dozed for long enough or deeply enough to make up his sleep deficit. It was the mounting agitation ripping him apart that had temporarily thrust the exhaustion aside and it would crash in on him again later. He saw that he was unnaturally pale. The unflattering fluorescent light strip threw into relief the deep lines round his eyes and carved gullies in his cheeks. He didn’t blame Buchanan for believing that he had lost it.

   He returned to the boardroom to endure more waiting. By comparison, the time he had spent at the hospital that afternoon – or rather the previous afternoon – seemed positively benign. Time was playing more tricks. Dr McKitterick and her reassurances seemed months rather than hours ago. And he didn’t think tonight’s events would qualify in her view as "taking it easy".

   He sat back down in his chair and concentrated hard on gathering together all the control and discipline he could dig up. He had called all his reserves into action. There was nothing left.

   Six o’ clock passed without any call. By this time everyone had given up all pretence of being occupied. The edgy atmosphere crackled with tension. Marsha and Bridges had abandoned their quiet conversation hours ago.

   Around ten past six, Leoncini began to tap his fingers in an irregular beat on the table. A furious glare from Hutch failed to penetrate his private world. Dobey shifted his bulk uncomfortably. After five minutes or so of this new torture, Hutch had to act or explode with fury. "Captain Leoncini? Cut it out, will you?" By a supreme effort of will he kept his voice tightly controlled.

   Leoncini stopped his fingers in mid-beat and stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. "Sorry, didn’t realise I was doing it. Bad habit."

   Hutch grunted his thanks.

   Shortly after six thirty, Hutch was driven to pacing again. Buchanan jumped when he stood up as if awoken from a trance. He too rose and commenced some stretching exercises. Marsha disappeared and returned with more coffee. Hutch noted that even her calm self-possession was beginning to fray.

   Hutch stood by the window to drink and looked out. He knew that it would be dawn in another ten minutes or so. The first glow that precedes sunrise proper was already visible. He was aware that Leoncini had joined him.

   After a few minutes, Leoncini turned back to the table. "Buchanan, do you think we should phone and try to find out what the hell’s happening?"

   He answered without hesitation. "No, I strongly recommend not. Sure, Detective Starsky might not have been able to phone because things are bad. But if they are bad, I don’t think a phone ringing will help him any. And sometimes no news is good news. Patience – we still need to wait it out."

   Leoncini nodded his understanding and returned to the table. The silence resumed and stretched on interminably.

   It was now quite light. Hutch could see the squad cars and men still outside on the street clearly. He sighed and sat down once more.

   He was checking the clock again – now six fifty-eight – when the phone rang. Everyone jumped. Hutch leapt out of his chair and seized the receiver before he remembered it was still set to loudspeaker. He toggled the switch and put back the handset.

   "Hutch? That you?" Starsky sounded jubilant. Hutch let his breath out and leaned his weight against the edge of the desk.

   "Yeah, we’re on loudspeaker." Hutch realised as the words left his mouth how events earlier this evening had changed things. Before today he wouldn’t have worried that Starsky in a fit of enthusiasm might say something inappropriate for all to hear. Something else for him to get used to.

   "Yeah, I know. My brain’s still functioning." Hutch felt a twinge of guilt at the impatient tone in his partner’s voice. "Come on up, will you? It’s all over."

   "You’re not hurt?" Hutch couldn’t help himself.

   "No, I’m fine." More impatience. "Come on, what you waiting for?"

   He needed no more encouragement. He spun round and left the room running, vaguely aware of the two captains and Buchanan following in his wake.

   He tore up the stairs two at time, the combination of anxiety and relief lending his legs gazelle-like power. He remembered to call out so as not to surprise the SWAT team on the landing below the fourth floor, then skidded across to the double doors. He quickly peered through the porthole. No Starsky, no Weeks in sight. He banged one leaf open and charged through, gun in hand just in case. The door slammed violently behind him.

   "Starsky?"

   "We’re still in the middle of the forest. Just keep coming, you can’t miss us."

   He discovered Weeks sitting handcuffed securely through the metal arm of a chair. Starsky stood behind him. Looking at him gave no hint that this was the morning after the night before. His face and body language looked positively exultant. He was bouncing on his toes out of sheer excitement. He seemed as undamaged as he had claimed when Hutch raked his eyes swiftly over him, just to check for himself.

   "I read him his rights, he’s all ready to ship downstairs."

   By this time Captains Dobey and Leoncini had arrived, flanked by the SWAT men, who were training their impressive weaponry firmly on Weeks. Behind them stood Buchanan, eager to be in on the end of the siege.

   Weeks looked far too cowed and innocuous ever to have caused such carnage and fear. He was sitting hunched forward, bending over his knees so that his face was invisible. He hadn’t even raised his head when Hutch burst in so forcefully.

   Dobey took charge of the situation. Starsky unfastened the prisoner just long enough to free him from the chair, then snapped the cuffs on again. At Dobey’s direction, Leoncini and the two SWAT men guided him towards the stairs. As he passed by Hutch, he glanced up briefly with a look of virulent hatred that surprised him. Then he was gone, head drooping dejectedly once more.

   Just before he went through the doors, he twisted back with one more surprise. "Bye, Starsky. I’m real sorry to have put you to so much trouble. Maybe you’ll come visit me in jail."

   Starsky said nothing and then he was gone.

   "Not if I have anything to do with it!" muttered Hutch.

   "I wasn’t planning to take him up on it. He’s ill. He needs psychiatric treatment, friendship from me ain’t going to cure him."

   "So, are you going to let us know what happened or are you going to make me wait till I read your report?" Hutch was desperate to know details.

   Starsky smiled blindingly. "How much is it worth to you?"

   "Come on! I’d like to get to bed before mid-day." The mention of bed brought forth a blazing flush of red from somewhere below Hutch’s shirt collar that raced up to his hairline. Starsky noticed it and grinned. Dobey also noticed it and looked baffled.

   The captain ignored the blush and decided to push things along. "If you can manage the Readers’ Digest version, we’ll all be grateful I’m sure. The quicker you give it, the sooner you can go home. Otherwise I’ll let Dr McKitterick know that you can’t be trusted to rest outside a hospital and ask her to haul your ass in for a few days’ forcible recuperation!"

   "Have a heart, Captain. There’s no way we’ll be finished with the paperwork till this afternoon."

   Dobey’s expression softened slightly. "It won’t even be started before this afternoon. Soon as I hear a résumé, you’re off home. Both of you. I don’t want to see you at Metro until late tomorrow morning. Otherwise I’ll be in need of hospitalisation when Starsky’s doctors are through with me."

   "Here or downstairs, Starsk?" Hutch wondered if the scene of Starsky’s undoubted ordeal might make him feel less than comfortable when reliving the last few hours.

   "Downstairs."

   "Good idea, maybe Marsha and Mr Bridges will get to hear the end of the story?"

   "They still here? Thought they’d have packed up long ago."

   Hutch smiled fleetingly. "I don’t think they could bear to abandon their baby until they knew we’d taken care of the wolf." Starsky looked puzzled. Hutch sighed and tried again. "They couldn’t bear to leave the offices until we’d thrown out the intruder." Light dawned.

********

   Marsha Nichols and Edward Bridges were indeed still waiting in the boardroom. She warmly congratulated Starsky on his success and moved off to make yet more coffee.

   Personally Hutch thought that his partner looked wired enough without caffeine on top of the adrenaline. But trying to veto it would be the mother-hen act to end all mother-hen acts. He said nothing and mournfully watched Starsky gulp down a cupful, then ask Marsha for a refill.

   Starsky had waited until Marsha sat down before beginning his account. He was prowling round the room, nursing his second cup of coffee. Clearly he was too fidgety to settle. Hutch sighed. He knew that when the high ebbed away, Starsky was going to feel like death.

   A further delay was caused by the reappearance of Leoncini, who had entrusted Weeks to his subordinates and rejoined the group.

   "Ain’t much to tell really," Starsky began. Some of the elation in his eyes was overshadowed by a moment of introspection. "We talked and talked and talked. Couldn’t really tell you what about, half the time. I just kept going with anything that calmed him down. Football, baseball, vacation spots, movies, his childhood, my childhood. Almost anything ’cept police work. That made him think too much about you, Hutch, and that wound him up."

   Hutch frowned, baffled. "But I don’t remember it being like that when he was a kid. Sure, he liked you a lot more than he liked me, but I never felt he hated me."

   Starsky considered carefully. "No, I think you’re right. I don’t think it was how he remembers it. But memory don’t always tell you the truth. You edit things. Tony’s into editing big-time."

   Hutch nodded in acceptance.

   "Anyway, I just kept talking or tried to keep him talking. Whenever I hit on a topic of conversation that seemed to relax him, I babbled round it for as long as I could. If he started to tighten, I tried something else. The important thing seemed to be to fill the silence. He told me silence really scared him."

   This time it was Buchanan who nodded.

   "I knew it would be hard on you all if I didn’t let you know I was doing okay." Starsky might have said "all" but Hutch sensed his partner’s eyes boring into him as he spoke. "But it just wouldn’t have been sensible to broach the subject with Tony at first. He was really volatile emotionally."

   "How volatile?" Hutch had to know the worst. "Gun-waving volatile?"

   Starsky thought for a moment or two, clearly torn between upsetting his partner and telling the truth. "Yeah, there was a certain amount of gun waving, specially for the first hour or so. I got to be good at seeing when it was coming so I could sidetrack him before it happened most times." He kept his gaze unwaveringly on Hutch’s face to gauge his reactions. Hutch kept a tight hold and managed to look neutral.

   Satisfied that no explosion was forthcoming, Starsky carried on. "Gradually his mood swings pinged back and forth less often. About three thirty, I flew the idea of phoning you to check in. I was really cautious and took it slow. He was a piece calmer than he had been but I wasn’t too sure he wouldn’t swing right back to being threatening. It took a good twenty minutes for me to feel it was the right moment to make the call. And I’m sure you all worked out for yourselves it wasn’t such a great idea for him to know I was talking to Hutch."

   "So what went wrong with calling on the hour?" Hutch wanted to know.

   Starsky’s pacing happened to have brought him directly behind Hutch’s chair. He came to a halt for the first time and placed a hand on his shoulder.

   "I guess it wound up the tension no end when you didn’t hear from me." He sounded apologetic. Absently he placed his other hand on Hutch’s neck and began to massage it. "It just wasn’t a good moment. Tony’s mood swings were happening further apart, but they were still there. He was having a bad one. I just hung on until he sounded happier."

   He carried on massaging Hutch’s neck and fell silent. "Better?" Hutch nodded. His tense neck muscles were feeling better. The only problem was that a demanding, seductive warmth had begun to spread outwards from his lower stomach. He willed it to die back down.

   Starsky had begun roaming again.

   "The second time I missed my call was different. I could feel he was winding down, step by step. You know how it is, he’d relax, then he’d go tense again, relax again, then something would set him off. But each time, the relaxation seemed that bit deeper. He was getting sleepy – yawning more and more. When six o’ clock came, I just didn’t want to break the rhythm."

   Buchanan stepped in. "That was the right decision. And we were happy to play the waiting game this end."

   Hutch refrained from pointing out that there had been moments when that had been in some doubt.

   "The sleepier he sounded, the more sure I felt I shouldn’t touch the phone." He was still pacing energetically round the room.

   Hutch felt he could trace the surplus energy dissipating from his partner’s body as electric charges. He wondered if he was up to hearing how Starsky had finally wrested the gun from Weeks.

   Starsky had stopped again, this time opposite Hutch. "Anyway, I didn’t need to play the hero in the end. Course, I’d been looking out all along for an opportunity to get his gun away. It just didn’t come. He was too sharp and unpredictable. Then would you believe it, in the end he fell asleep. I didn’t trust my own judgement at first. Till he began snoring like a freight train." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "So I crept to my feet, then pounced. He was so out of it he didn’t even struggle. He looked just like some kid who can’t wake up in the morning." He shrugged again. "And that was it, I guess."

   Hutch closed his eyes and let the relief wash over him. All his terrifying visions of Starsky and Weeks wrestling dramatically on the floor with the gun trapped between them were completely inaccurate.

   There was a moment’s silence while everyone contemplated Starsky’s account.

   Then Buchanan offered his congratulations. "We don’t like heroics in my job. The quieter the resolution, the better." He smiled. "If Captain Dobey ever decides to get rid of you, look me up. I’m sure I could give you a reference for a new profession."

   "I don’t think that will happen just yet," commented Dobey dryly. "Ask me in a few months’ time. The pair of them will probably have rubbed me up the wrong way enough times by then for me to want some well-earned peace."

   Leoncini smiled. "Are you saying your officers here are too much of a handful?" Clearly he sympathised from personal experience of similar difficulties.

   Dobey snorted an impressive "Harrumph" of disgust in pained response, sounding uncommonly like a furious bull.

   Hutch desperately wanted to spirit Starsky away before the adrenaline burned off and his partner collapsed on the floor with exhaustion. "Is there anything else, Captain? It’s been a long day."

   Dobey regarded him keenly. "I don’t know why you’re both still here. I ordered you to disappear once we’d had the résumé. I take it you’re done?" he growled in Starsky’s direction.

   "Think so, Cap’n."

   Hutch was on his feet as soon as he heard "disappear". He moved smoothly round the table while the captain was still speaking and began to steer his partner towards the door.

   "Just stop right there! Not so fast!" bellowed Dobey. "Did I say you could go yet?"

   "Well yes," said Starsky innocently. "I think you did." He looked for confirmation at Hutch, who nodded.

   "I hadn’t finished," he blustered. "I feel responsible for ensuring there are no accidents caused by an out-of-control Torino . . . ."

   "I’ll let Hutch drive as a special treat," Starsky offered.

   Dobey was not to be placated. "No way. You’re both unfit to be behind a steering wheel. I’ll give you a ride home myself in my own car. I can’t trust the pair of you not to bully anyone else to let you go your own sweet way. And I’ll get someone to follow in the Torino, so you won’t be parted from your baby for too long. Meet me downstairs in five minutes while I wrap up things here before I go back to the office."

   The detectives managed to take no more than a single step towards the door.

   "No, hold it right there. If I let you out of my sight, you’ll sneak off. You’re sticking with me."

********

   Dobey was as good as his word. He kept the pair at his heels as if on leashes whilst he dealt with the immediate aftermath of the hostage situation. Bridges and Marsha Nichols had finally been persuaded to leave their office building and bade goodbye to their companions through the stressful night. The cool and collected Marsha surprised them both by emphasising her thanks with a hug for each of them and a firm handshake for Captain Dobey and the others.

   Finally Hutch was able to slide into the back seat of his captain’s car. He was rather hoping that Starsky might sit up front but his partner threw himself inside next to Hutch.

   "Starsky’s place?" queried Dobey.

   "Yeah, it’s closer," Hutch agreed. In the rear-view mirror he could see the Torino pulling away. He hoped that the officer landed with the heavy responsibility of driving it suffered no mishaps en route.

   He leaned his weight against the door and window and looked over to check on his partner. There was still no sign of Starsky coming down.

   Starsky caught his eye and smiled. A lazy, dangerous, bedroom smile, both beguiling and threatening. Not appropriate for the back seat of their captain’s car. Then he stretched his foot across so that his ankle brushed sensuously across Hutch’s calf. He withdrew it before Hutch began to purr audibly with pleasure.

   While Hutch’s brain was busy hoping that Dobey was too occupied keeping his eyes on the road to notice, Hutch’s body had quite different ideas. He felt the tiredness that had been slowly creeping over him flash burn like dry autumn leaves on a bonfire. Heat flooded his groin until he feared Dobey would feel its warmth in the front seat. He flushed with a complex mixture of sexual desire and embarrassment.

   Starsky’s body across the seat acted on him like a powerful magnet. He firmly clasped his hands together in case one strayed to rest on Starsky’s thigh. Or worse. At the same time he yearned for Starsky to reach over and touch him once more, consequences be damned. He tried desperately to block memories of the evening at Starsky’s place, only to find that the sensation of his recent neck massage was equally arousing.

   He was painfully aware that he was fighting a losing battle for control. He refused to look at his partner but could feel his eyes burning on his naked skin. He longed for the ride to be safely over.

   Eventually his wish was granted. Hutch barely waited for Dobey to bring his car to a halt before he thrust the door open and leapt out. His hearing didn’t seem to be working properly. Dobey had wound down his window and was saying something or other. It could be Greek for all Hutch understood. He tried to form the right sort of expression and make the right sort of noises but nothing coherent would emerge. He prayed that the captain would blame exhaustion for his problems. And also for the unusual silence between his normally voluble men: they hadn’t spoken a word to each other since stepping into the car.

   Starsky was making a much better job of acting normally. But maybe he was feeling more normal than Hutch? Hutch watched him uncoil with cat-like grace from the back seat, exchange a few words with the captain, and then saunter round the front of the car to the sidewalk. The sway of his hips was mesmerising. Hutch was breathing in short, painful-sounding gasps through parted lips. His feet seemed sunk in concrete.

   He watched Starsky advance purposefully towards the Torino, now parked behind the captain. He was fascinated by the rhythmic play of muscles in his butt, beautifully revealed by the tight jeans and short bomber jacket. Starsky stalked all the way round his baby, scrupulously checking that the officer hadn’t marked the paintwork. Finally he nodded his satisfaction and retrieved the keys.

   Starsky put a hand on his partner’s arm to turn him in the direction of the building, then propelled him forward with a hand at the small of his back. The contact was so light that it should have felt like thistledown. For Hutch, it represented an irresistible force. He shuddered convulsively even though his shirt and jacket protected his skin from the heat of his partner’s palm. He never saw Dobey pull away from the kerb, once the officer who had transported the Torino was on board.

   He halted at the door as if unable to move of his own volition, while Starsky struggled briefly to fit his key in the lock. He could hear nothing but his blood pounding in his ears and his breath rough in his throat. He stood motionless outside until Starsky’s fingers closed gently on his arm with the merest suggestion of a tug. Hutch stepped obediently over the threshold.

   Starsky bounced round to push his front door shut, before methodically locking it. Hutch stood frozen to the spot where his partner had deposited him.

   The catalyst was Starsky reaching to pull off his own jacket. Hutch was never able to explain why this small movement shattered so calamitously the control he had successfully wrapped around himself over the last months. But the collapse was absolute, like a tidal wave crashing over a delta.

   Before Starsky had shrugged so much as a shoulder free, Hutch flung himself at this partner. The impact shoved his back heavily against the door, which rattled furiously. Starsky’s huff of surprise turned into a grunt of discomfort as the back of his head thumped the wood.

   Some part of Hutch noted smugly that Starsky’s eyes registered shock and uncertainty. It felt good to rip away his partner’s sense of being in control. It was some recompense for the smugness he had detected when Starsky was so much more functional than he.

   His hands swiftly pinioned Starsky’s against the door before they could fight back, then forced them outwards and upwards. His brain didn’t register that only token resistance was offered. If he could no longer exert control over himself, he needed to exert control over someone else.

   He leant down to kiss Starsky fiercely on the lips. The small cut Hutch had suffered earlier opened up again. He was no longer able to distinguish whether the moans were his or his partner’s. He was aware of nothing beyond the taste of Starsky’s mouth, the scent of his skin, tainted with sweat from the night’s exertions, and the roughness of his morning growth of beard. Each scrape along his cheek set his nerve endings alight and danced in his groin.

   The hot fullness in his jeans screamed for relief. He thrust his hips forward and pushed a leg between Starsky’s knees. For a few seconds the rubbing satisfied him. He pulled away from Starsky’s lips to gasp in oxygen. He was being driven berserk by the sound of his partner’s quickened breathing, by the unconcealed lust he identified in his dark eyes.

   He plunged once more deep into Starsky’s mouth. It was no longer enough. He pulled back in momentary confusion. Then he knew that he needed to explore more flesh. He released one of his partner’s hands. Clumsily he began to tug at the buttons of Starsky’s shirt. He couldn’t quite decipher how they worked. Snarling deep in his throat with frustration he grabbed the shirt placket and yanked hard. Buttons skittered across the floor in all directions. Starsky yelped with excitement. Hutch recaptured Starsky’s free hand and pinned it down again.

   The column of his partner’s neck had exercised a potent fascination over him for months. He loved to contemplate it, running his eye along the curves and hollows, imagining nipping the soft skin where it joined his shoulder. He didn’t find women’s necks so magically erotic: try as he might, the difference remained inexplicable. Finally he had unrestricted access. He worshipped the olive skin for a long moment, then bent and attacked. He licked, bit and sucked frantically. The wet sounds of his attack aroused him as much as the velvet softness beneath his lips. Briefly he released the neck to run his lips across Starsky’s stubble-roughened cheek. The contrast in texture was electrifying.

   He lunged again for the neck, feeling Starsky jerk beneath him as he clamped down on the skin. His partner’s breath was now coming in noisy shallow pants. At some point, unable to bear any more stimulation, he started throwing his head about to escape from Hutch’s lips.

   Hutch felt an electric bolt hit his groin. His hands flew from immobilising his partner’s arms to immobilising his head. He buried his fingers in the dark curls and massaged the scalp beneath without conscious intent. Starsky had begun to whimper. Hutch could hear his fingernails scratching on the door behind him like a cat sharpening its claws on a tree.

   Without warning, Starsky’s hands clamped on Hutch’s back. The contact wasn’t gentle. He pulled Hutch forward powerfully. As Hutch lost his balance slightly and tipped forward, he fell against Starsky’s hips, which had surged away from the supporting door.

   The sensation of their engorged cocks meeting, still divided by layers of denim, lifted him to ecstasy. It became impossible to feast on his partner’s inviting neck – concentration failed him. He threw back his head. Somewhere in his head he could hear himself muttering "Oh my god," but his vocal cords were long past co-operating.

   His head had lolled back so far that he was finding it difficult to breathe. So he looked into Starsky’s face. The transformation was astonishing. He knew every line and plane of it, he had examined its nuances of expression in a million different situations. But he had never seen such raw sexual hunger and pleasure. It fed the fever in his groin like throwing gasoline on a fire.

   Whatever Starsky read in Hutch’s face, it pushed him to action. When his teeth nipped an ear, Hutch’s body shrieked a warning. If he didn’t find some distance right now, his jeans were going to be very wet. Desperation gave him the strength to shove Starsky back up against the door and hold him there by the shoulders.

   Starsky’s vocal cords were still working. "Hutch?" The breathless, choked question conveyed protest for the loss of contact, a plea for its restoration, a demand for an explanation.

   Hutch was beyond a reply. He dropped a hand to his partner’s chest and contemplatively raked through the curling hair. Starsky moaned again but made no move. He seemed to have resigned himself to filling whatever role it was that Hutch needed from him. Hutch’s fingers skimmed tenderly over the scars from Gunther’s bullets, before homing in on a nipple. It grew firm and he exerted more pressure, rolling it between his fingertips. Starsky’s rough breathing switched to gasps punctuated by pauses as he struggled to hold himself still.

   Hutch itched to run his lips over the chest and learn what it felt like to follow the lines of the muscles with his lips instead of his eyes. But he knew that it would be too awkward as they stood by the door. He stood quietly in the middle of the roaring blaze and contemplated his partner’s body.

   Starsky’s gasps for breath drew Hutch’s eye down to his stomach, half-revealed through the gaping shirt. He was mesmerised by the heaving muscles. He dropped to his knees and pulled Starsky’s shirt out fully from his jeans. He ran his hands in wonder over his stomach. It stilled beneath his touch. Starsky appeared to have stopped breathing altogether. The door was taking all his weight. He looked completely passive, almost asleep, but Hutch could feel the tension cording his muscles and sensed that although the cobalt eyes were nearly closed, they were fixed on Hutch with absolute attention.

   Suddenly Hutch’s hesitancy evaporated, blasted away by the heat of desire. He seized hold of Starsky’s belt and unfastened it. Part of him was surprised at how easily it came undone. Not like the wretched buttons. It whipped out of its loops like a snake. Hutch dropped it carelessly. The button and zipper yielded without a struggle. Hutch dragged the tight jeans down to his partner’s ankles, then ran his hand back up to his thigh, wondering at the feel of the coarse, curling hair. With infinite care, he inserted a hand upward beneath Starsky’s briefs to lightly grasp one rounded buttock. He saw the stomach muscles quiver with excitement at his touch and heard Starsky begin breathing again, a deep explosive gulp followed by swift pants. He kneaded the muscles cupped beneath his hand. Fingernails began to scratch the door again.

   Signals from his nose began to filter through from Starsky’s crotch, inches from his face. Musk and pheromones enticed him to lean in until his nose was buried in the briefs. It was exotic, overpowering, hypnotic. He began to rub his nose and mouth into the junction of thigh and body, along the border of the briefs. The warm dampness of sweat acted like a siren lure.

   Starsky’s moans increased in volume. His hips began to move, wordlessly begging Hutch to shift his attentions a little further sideways. Hutch removed his hand from his partner’s buttock – more protests – and slid the briefs downwards, dropping them to fall on top of the jeans.

   He was transfixed by the sight of Starsky’s balls. The skin roiled and swirled in a never repeating pattern, like molten lava in a pool. He reached out a finger to touch and watched in fascination as the rippling effect increased where he pressed. His attention was only diverted when Starsky’s penis brushed against his cheek. A bolt of arousal shook him. His final inhibitions were scorched away.

   Anchoring Starsky with one hand round his buttocks, he plunged his tongue into the dark curling hair at the base of the penis, then traced a rippling, sensuous path upwards to the tip. Starsky’s entire body jerked in response and his hands leapt away from the door to bury themselves in Hutch’s fine golden hair.

   The urge to suck and swallow overwhelmed him and he slid his lips over the head. The sensations assaulting him took him by surprise. He had never really understood the erotic thrill of the act. Now he was intoxicated. He was driven senseless by the smell, by Starsky’s increasingly frantic responses. When he realised that he couldn’t fit everything in his mouth, he curled his free hand round the base, now slick with saliva, and created a counterpoint to the movements of his tongue and lips. He abandoned himself to sensation.

   The closer he brought his partner to orgasm, the higher his own arousal blazed. When he heard Starsky scream his name and felt warm fluid gush into his mouth, he wanted to scream with exaltation.

   Reluctantly, he released the softening penis. He felt Starsky sliding slowly down the door towards the floor. He carefully supported him as best he could, until his partner was sitting on the floor, feet together, trapped inelegantly by his jeans and briefs.

   "Oh my god." Starsky’s eyes drifted open and searched for Hutch. He was still kneeling in front of him, gasping with exertion, tense as a bowstring. He was flushed pink, droplets of sweat had collected in the hollow of his throat. He whimpered in his throat as Starsky leaned forward. As soon as Starsky’s fingertips touched his groin, he threw his head back and screamed in bliss. Wetness spread across the front of his jeans and Starsky trailed his hand across it in fascination.

********

   Hutch awoke for the second time that day unable to work out immediately where he was. The ceiling was all wrong. The texture beneath his body was strange. Then something told him that he was at Starsky’s place. But it wasn’t the ceiling above the sofa – he knew that particular patch intimately. For that matter he was a surprisingly long way from the ceiling. He certainly wasn’t in or on the bed. And he was too warm.

   He struggled to sit up and found that he was trapped. A line of cushions ran down his back and he had been thoroughly encased in a blanket like a mummy.

   "Starsk? What’s going on? Where are you?"

   No reply. He grumbled to himself as he fought free enough to sit up. Now this was really strange. He was still in his jacket. He still had his holster strapped on, though no gun. And he had been lying on the floor facing the door. The outer door to the apartment. It had fresh scratch marks at about eye level.

   He shut his eyes abruptly.

   "Oh … my … god." His face blazed red with embarrassment. He was on the verge of hauling himself to his feet and letting himself quietly out, when Starsky appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray.

   He was wearing his blue towelling bathrobe. His hair wasn’t completely dry. He must have showered.

   "Afternoon, Blondie!" He sounded shockingly normal and cheerful and was wearing a smile of fearsome intensity. Hutch couldn’t think what to say so kept silent. "I began to think you’d never wake up without assistance, so I went to make coffee. You gonna get up for it or do you want it there to kick-start you?"

   The implications of "there" shot through Hutch’s brain like fireworks. He decided he had to get to his feet at all cost. He grimaced. His jeans were as stiff as a board at the front. Finally he was upright and staggered to the sofa, still without saying a word. Starsky bounced along in his wake.

   He drank the coffee in a couple of gulps. It was strong enough to blast a rocket into orbit. His brain was refusing to operate, befuddled in a panicked haze.

   Starsky was still prattling away as if nothing had happened and was waving a slice of toast in front of him. "You really look rough, Hutch. Have something to eat then take a shower. That’ll perk you up in no time."

   Hutch thought that he had been altogether too perky earlier. All he wanted now was to hide in a dreamless sleep, preferably till judgement day. But Starsky refused to be deflected. Hutch managed to swallow the toast, then left for the bathroom under his own steam. He didn’t want to be dragged there by Starsky.

   He stayed under the shower until the water ran cold. He was in a dilemma. He didn’t want to pull his jeans back on, bearing as they did the stigma of this morning’s madness. On the other hand he couldn’t wander round wrapped in a towel, not under the present circumstances, and he didn’t want to have to ask Starsky if he had any of Hutch’s clothes in his closet.

   He was still sitting on the side of the tub debating the issue when Starsky called out, "I’ve left you some clean clothes outside the door."

   He snaked a hand out to capture them and dressed slowly. Finally he emerged into the living room, wearing them like armor.

   His heart sank. Starsky was sitting on the sofa and he looked deadly serious. The earlier "everything’s a normal day" attitude had disappeared completely. Hutch sighed but still said nothing. He sat down at the opposite end and waited for whatever was coming.

   "Hutch, we agreed to talk today. About us," he clarified needlessly.

   "I’m sorry," Hutch began. "I just can’t believe I did that. I’m really sorry."

   Starsky looked baffled. "What? Why the hell are you sorry for agreeing to talk? We need to discuss things. I’m not about to let you put it off."

   "No, I mean I’m sorry for what I did this morning."

   "Oh."

   Hutch looked up from the floor to see why his partner had stopped talking. His heart messed a beat when he saw his lascivious smile. His groin twitched hopefully. He ignored it. "It was really unforgivable."

   Starsky was still smiling. "Well sure, it was a little undignified. I usually take my clothes off for sex, right off, I mean. And I expect to see more of my partner. In fact, I expect to see all of my partner. I guess I’m flattered you couldn’t wait." The smile turned into a fully fledged grin. "Tell me, Hutch, when was the last time you ended up with wet jeans. High school?"

   "I guess so." Hutch saw the funny side and laughed despite himself. "Maybe it becomes a problem again as you grow older?"

   Starsky’s grin turned predatory. "I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I know a sure-fire cure."

   "I don’t think I want to know."

   Hutch turned serious again and found fascinating insights somewhere down near his shoes.

   "But it still doesn’t change things. I shouldn’t have done it."

   "Done what?"

   "For Chrissake stop being so obtuse, will you?" Hutch snapped. "I shouldn’t have slammed you up against the door and assaulted you."

   "Oh, so that’s what you’re driving at." Starsky’s bedroom smirk had returned. "Hutch, just use your head for a minute. After all, you’re supposed to be a detective, right? Just think about it. I’m five foot eleven. I’m strong, fit and a street cop – even if I did fall off a roof yesterday. And my Ma taught me how to say no. If I hadn’t . . ." he paused for a moment, then adopted an old-fashioned voice to suit old-fashioned words " . . . if I hadn’t ‘welcomed your advances’, don’t you think I’d have done something about it? I’d have decked you, you idiot, if you wouldn’t have listened." He saw dawning belief on Hutch’s face. "I was enjoying it – the whole novelty thing. When was the last time you dated someone strong enough to pin you to the door and hold you there?" He thought for a moment. "It was a real rush, letting go like that. Letting you use your strength like that."

   Hutch still wasn’t ready to admit defeat. "But weren’t you worried? I mean, your partner suddenly turns into this ravening monster?"

   "I think the words you’re looking for are ‘passionate lover’," Starsky suggested helpfully.

   "Lover? Yeah, I kind of like the sound of that," Hutch murmured.

   "So, lover. When you going to stop sitting in splendid isolation over there and act like one?" Starsky demanded with a well-practised pout, patting his knee at the same time.

   Hutch considered the proposition. Then he swung his legs up and shuffled until his head was lying on Starsky’s knee and his feet were wedged against the sofa arm. Just like the previous evening: except that Starsky had been wearing more then than just his bathrobe. Hutch blushed at the implications. Starsky smiled knowingly and began playing with the fine golden hair.

   Hutch had one final attempt at claiming guilt. "But I lost control," he whispered. "It shattered like glass. I couldn’t . . . " he spread his hands as he searched for the words, " . . . I couldn’t keep myself within bounds. I didn’t have any discipline. I could have done anything."

   "No," Starsky reassured him, "Not anything. You wouldn’t have hurt me. And I told you, if I hadn’t liked what you were doing I’d have stopped you." He captured one of Hutch’s hands and kissed it. "Anyway, it’s not like it was any big surprise. We both know what you’re like after a bad day. You always have to cut your control some slack, before everything goes haywire. Yesterday – last night, it was really ferocious, not just bad. Course you needed to let go. And I ain’t complaining. I had a terrific time."

   He smiled and scattered a few more kisses on Hutch’s hand. "Besides," he went on, "I love it when you take my advice – you usually kick up such a god-awful fuss before you can bring yourself to follow it." Hutch looked baffled. "You remember, my long-term plan: ‘keep on kissing and see what happens.’ I assumed you’d decided it was a good one."

   Hutch snorted. "Okay, I’ll admit it was good as far as it went. But we really have to think about the future."

   "Just halt right there, Blondie. Stop being so cerebral!" Hutch refrained from commenting on the dictionary word. "I have another plan to tide us over the next few hours."

   Hutch sighed forlornly. "Which is?"

   "I’m going to call out for a pizza. Then we’re going to bed."

   Hutch looked uncomfortable. "Starsk, I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm. But I’m still whacked. If I go to bed I’m going to fall asleep, period. For hours."

   Starsky smiled gently. "I know that, Blintz. That’s I want you to do. Sleep. We’re supposed to be showing up at work tomorrow bright eyed and bushy tailed. If we devote the rest of our break to passionate sex, Dobey’s going to complain we look like shit. I ain’t prepared to compromise my record for that," he teased. "Not now I’m an ageing semi-invalid."

   Hutch looked relieved. "Okay then, order the pizza. With healthy toppings," he added, knowing well enough that healthy toppings were about as likely to show up as snow in June in LA.

   While Starsky was busy on the phone, he quickly slipped into the bedroom and stripped down to his briefs before climbing into bed. He suspected that if he gave his partner a free show and undressed in front of him, both their late lunch and any idea of sleeping would vanish into nothingness.

   By the time his partner came in to check out what he was up to, he was already tucked up in bed, the sheet drawn demurely up to his chin. Starsky put on his best deprived little-boy look: "Hutch, I’m disappointed. I was really looking forward to finally getting to see you strip. I could have helped with the difficult things like buttons and such."

   "I’m sure. But I want my pizza and I want my sleep. You’d better go back and wait for the delivery man."

********

   They picnicked in bed, propped up against pillows and ignoring the inevitable crumbs and accidents with topping. When they were finished, Starsky got up again to draw the drapes to block out some of the bright afternoon sun. He climbed back in and lay down on his back without speaking.

   It wasn’t quite what Hutch wanted. "Turn onto your side," he ordered. "I want to cuddle your back."

   He obeyed without demur. Hutch snuggled up against the warm, desirable flesh. It was hard to believe that it was really happening. He felt wonderfully relaxed but not quite ready to sleep.

   "Starsk?"

   "I thought we were going to sleep now."

   "Not just yet. There’s still a few things I want to know."

   "Okay, just make sure it doesn’t take all afternoon, will you?"

   He planted a few kisses across Starsky’s back while he thought what he was going to say. "What the hell was I doing trussed up like a mummy by the door?"

   "You were too heavy to carry and I thought you’d get cold if I didn’t cover you up."

   "You mean I passed out? I’ve never done that after sex before."

   "No, you didn’t faint or anything. I checked to make sure. You were just sleeping. But you collapsed like a falling tree. Toppled right over. It was really dramatic. I didn’t expect it. And I wasn’t sure whether it was a tribute to my skills or whether you were just bored." He twisted his head round to peer at Hutch. "For all I knew you always fall asleep like that. Don’t women complain that men do it all the time – after sex, I mean?"

   Hutch frowned, feeling vaguely that his sexual technique was being impugned. "Well not me, pal. I usually aim at a little post-coital conversation to keep my partner happy." He blushed suddenly.

   "I wouldn’t worry about it. It probably won’t happen again. It was some sort of reaction to being under pressure and then having it all released. Bet you if we have sex often enough, the tension won’t be able to build to the point where you end up snoring like a train soon as it’s let out of the bottle."

   Hutch could hear the smile in his partner’s voice. "Okay, I believe you, Dr Starsky."

   "You ready to go to sleep yet, Hutch?"

   "No, a bit longer."

   "So, I want to know something too."

   "Go ahead."

   "Why didn’t you tell me you were in love with me?"

   Hutch’s head jerked up off the pillow. "You knew?"

   "Sure I knew. I worked it out months ago."

   "Christ! You didn’t guess when we went to that trattoria, what was it called? With Susan and whoever you were with?"

   "Valentino’s? No, least not right away I didn’t. But you acted real strange that night. It wasn’t long after that that I put the pieces together."

   "I don’t believe this, Starsk. Why didn’t you say anything?"

   There was silence for a moment. "I thought about saying something. I felt the same way."

   "So why didn’t you?" Hutch demanded. "And why the hell were you dating women like crazy again?"

   "You were happy to date too, as I recall," Starsky pointed out. "I guess I just wanted to be sure. We’d been together so much after the hit. I wanted to be certain that it wasn’t the comrades-in-arms syndrome. There weren’t so many women, either. And I didn’t do that much with them." He stopped, unwilling to go further along that path.

   "Starsk, how long did it take you to decide?" Hutch’s voice had taken on a steely edge.

   He felt the shrug. "A few weeks I guess."

   "And?"

   "And what?

   "Why didn’t you say anything then?" Hutch sounded pissed off.

   "I was waiting for you to say something. I thought maybe you weren’t comfortable with the idea and if I gave you time to work your way through it, you’d get round to talking about it eventually. "

   "So why last night? What was so special about last night?"

   Starsky shrugged again. "I guess I finally ran out of patience. I knew you were gazing at me all evening. I just couldn’t stand it any longer and went ahead. Otherwise I might have been drawing my pension before you acted."

   Hutch wasn’t mollified. "You let me go through months of agony for nothing!" His voice rose sharply.

   "Agony? You sure about that? You wouldn’t be telling little porkies here?" Starsky didn’t sound convinced.

   Hutch couldn’t lie to him. "Okay, not agony. Not exactly. Some pain though." He sensed Starsky waiting for the truth. He kissed a shoulder blade. "Okay, I admit it, this has been the happiest eighteen months of my life."

   Starsky’s hand reached back and petted his thigh as a reward. "So, Blondie, what were you waiting for?"

   He kissed the other shoulder blade to give himself time. "I was afraid," he confessed. "You might have read me like a book but I hadn’t read you. I had too much to lose if I said something and drove you away."

   Starsky let out his breath. "Okay, you’re forgiven. So I really would have been drawing my pension?"

   Hutch smiled and blew on his neck. "Yeah, I guess so."

   "You ready to go to sleep now?" asked Starsky again, sounding sleepy himself.

   "Not quite. Closer though."

   "Those plans you’re so keen to make . . . . It’s all a waste of time, you know. We can manage without them, providing we sort a couple of things out."

   "I don’t think so," Hutch protested, yawning. "What about Dobey? What about our jobs? Where are we going to live?"

   "Hutch, we’ve known Dobey for years. He ain’t going to say nothing to no one, least of all the IA, unless we do something really stupid, like having rabid sex in front of other cops on the bed during a stakeout in a hotel room."

   "Do you think he suspects?"

   "It don’t matter. But it might help our cover if you try not to blush quite as red as you did in the boardroom and the car this morning."

   Hutch blushed like a beacon at the mere recollection. This is going to be fun if I keep on doing that, he grumbled to himself. "What about our colleagues?"

   "We’ve always been a law unto ourselves. We’ve always pawed each other in public. No one will notice the difference, promise."

   "Okay, maybe you’re right," Hutch granted. He thought some more. "Okay, you are right. I think we can carry it off."

   "Living together won’t be a problem either," Starsky assured him. "We’re together most of the time anyway these days. Dobey never bats an eye if you pick up my phone or I pick up yours. No one would bat an eye if we bought a place somewhere to save money on keeping up two places." After a pause he added, "And if it all blows up in our faces, well – we’ll have to deal. No good trying to guess how until it happens."

   "Okay, I believe you," Hutch said. He found the idea of sharing a house with Starsky intensely exciting, a future so dream-like it didn’t seem real. He realised that if he contemplated the prospect too minutely, he wouldn’t sleep after all. So he stuffed it in a corner to retrieve later and examine at leisure.

   Starsky still had more to say, punctuated by a yawn or two. "I can only <yawn> think of two other things yawn we need to discuss <yawn.>"

   Hutch yawned in sympathy. "Which are?"

   "We need to buy a manual."

   Hutch yawned even more widely. "A manual? I don’t follow."

   "I’m looking forward <yawn> to a very active <yawn> sex life. Hope you are too. <Yawn> This scenario <yawn> wasn’t covered in the book Ma gave me <yawn> when I hit puberty."

   Hutch blushed furiously in sudden understanding. "’Kay. We’ll take a long drive soon and look for something." He yawned and closed his eyes. "That all?"

   "Nope. <Yawn> One final thing to sort out." Suddenly Starsky sounded more alert. "I was hoping to hear some words . . . ."

   "Hmmm? Thought that was what we’d been doing all this time." Hutch felt himself teetering perilously on the brink of a chasm of sleep to rival the Grand Canyon.

   An elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs and yanked him back for the moment. "No, Blondie." Starsky was insistent. "Some special words. You ain’t going to sleep till I hear them."

   Suddenly Hutch understood, despite the fog wrapping around him more thickly by the second. "Thought it might be too soapy for you."

   "No, I’m waiting . . . ."

   "’Kay, Starsk. I love you," he breathed softly in not quite a snore. He nuzzled his face into the neck in front of him.

   "Love you too."

   The reply floated to him as he finally fell off the edge and drifted through the clouds below into sleep. He dreamt of a hand raising his to his lover’s lips and feather-down kiss.

   Then the mists rolled in to clasp his body protectively. All sensation was lost in loving darkness.

THE END