Comments about this story can be sent to zebra.three@hot-shot.com

Wood for the Trees

by

Z3

Here is my song for the asking
Ask me and I will play
So sweetly, I'll make you smile

This is my tune for the taking
Take it, don't turn away
I've been waiting all my life

Thinking it over, I've been sad
Thinking it over, I'd be more than glad
To change my ways for the asking
Ask me and I will play
All the love that I hold inside

Song for the Asking – Paul Simon

       "Well, see ya tomorrow, partner, uhm … if I'm in a fit state to come to work, that is!"

       Hutch forced a reluctant smile back at the 1000 watt grin on his partner's face as he prepared to leave the squad room, grabbing the Torino keys and carefully picking up the ostentatious bouquet of deep pink roses he'd spent almost half an hour choosing. Starsky's performance in the florist's had just about pushed his partner over the edge. He'd changed his mind so many times the assistant had looked like she might just leave him to arrange the bouquet himself. Having finally decided that it was "a little too soon for red roses", he'd settled on the pink bouquet, and now he was leaving Hutch to catch up on some paperwork while he went home to get ready for what he described as a hot date with the lady of his dreams.

       "Enjoy", Hutch managed, as his buddy practically bounced out of the room and down the corridor. He didn't think Starsky had heard him. But it didn't matter. He didn't mean it anyway. He jumped as Dobey threw open his door and barked, "Where's that partner of yours, Hutchinson?! He's leaving ripped up napkins with scribbles on them as expense claims again!"

       "Y'just missed him, cap. Goin' out with Donna again. Probably halfway home already, speed he walked out of here."

       Captain Dobey paused, scrutinizing Hutch. He knew his top two detectives like they were his own. He called them his "boys", and when he sensed something was troubling either of them, his avuncular side always took over. He'd known for a while now that something was eating away at the blonde half of the duo, and as much as it pained him, he thought he might know what it was. So when he spoke now, his tone was gentler. "And you're not too happy about that?"

       Hutch looked up and met his eyes. "That obvious, huh, captain?"

"Well, he seems to be in the same starry-eyed condition as when he was with Terry, and at that time, you looked deliriously happy just because he was. So what gives? You don't approve of this girl he's shacked up with?"
       

       ""He's not shacked up with her!!"  Hutch's retort was loud and unexpected, and he practically spat the words at Dobey. The few remaining heads in the squad room turned to see what was going on. Captain Dobey didn't flinch, and as Hutch regained his composure and began to apologise, the older man asked him to step into his office, although it was more order than invitation. Embarrassed and confused by his own reaction, Hutch followed, sullenly. Dobey closed the door quietly behind him.

       "Sit." He pointed at a chair, and the detective slumped into it, rubbing his hands over his face. "Alright, Hutchinson. Out with it. What's eating you?"

       A sigh. He couldn't look Dobey in the eye.

       "I want to know what the problem is, Hutch. When there's anything less than complete harmony between a team like you and your partner, I have to be sure that it isn't going to affect you out on the street. Now talk."

       The captain's words were stern, but his tone was one of genuine concern. Hutch sighed again and looked at him. " I can't stand seeing him waste his time on this … Donna, captain. He's way, way too good for her. She treats him like dirt and he goes back for more. I've never seen him act this way before. It's like … it's like he enjoys it, for Chrissake! He … well, he just deserves better, you know?"

       Dobey didn't answer right away. Slowly, wearily, he stood up and turned round to look out of the window, putting his hands in his pants pockets. Hutch just sat with his head in his hands, not really caring. When Dobey did speak, it caught the detective by surprise.

       "You two spend any time together lately?"

       It hung in the air, and Hutch screwed his face up in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

       Dobey's turn to sigh. He took his time before answering, and when he spoke, it was quietly, as though any loud noise could detonate what he considered to be a time-bomb of emotions sitting in the seat behind him.

       "Hutchinson, in all my long years on the force, I can safely say I have never witnessed a bond as strong as that of yours and Starsky's."

       He shifted from one foot to the other, and it was a few seconds before he went on.

       "I knew from the day I set eyes on you two together that … there was some kind of chemistry, some link, that no other team, no matter how close, could ever even hope to have."

       Hutch sounded as genuinely confused as he felt when he replied, "What are you telling me?"

       Turning around, Dobey sat down heavily in his chair, ran his hands over his tired eyes and leaned forward on the desk, looking Hutch straight in the face. "Ken, I don't know what I'm telling you, son. You need to look to yourself for the answers. But hear this; I don't think it's this Donna that's the problem here. I think the problem lies with you and your partner. No-one else. And I think the only way you're going to get through this … whatever "this" might turn out to be, is together."

       "Wha … huh? Captain, what are you saying? I don't unders …"

       "Talk to him, Hutch. Level with him. You've been closer than a married couple for nine years now. Use that trust you've built up and don't be afraid. Talk to him. As soon as you can. Then you'll know how … then you'll know."

       Hutch was about to answer when Dobey's phone rang. It was Edith, and he mouthed to his detective that it was private. Thoroughly bemused, Hutch left the office, quietly closing the door behind him. He stuck around for half an hour or so but found himself too distracted to work, so he tidied up the papers on the desk he shared with his partner, grabbed his jacket and left.

       On the drive back to Venice Place, he had time to contemplate his current state of mind. It annoyed him that he felt he was holding something back from himself … and when the hell had he become so introspective, anyhow? Stopping at a bar, he picked up some booze and drove home. He sat in the LTD for several long minutes after he parked, listening to the gentle ticking of the car's engine as he stared into the dark night. Remembering he'd a couple of six-packs motivated him to get out and climb the stairs to his apartment.

       After months of nagging, Starsky had finally succeeded in persuading him to stop leaving his key on the door ledge, but he still wasn't used to it, and he had to hold the beer under his arm while he fished around in all his pockets for the door-keys. He located them in his inside jacket pocket, but as he yanked them out, he dropped the beer, cursing out loud and bending to pick it up, only then dropping the house-keys in the process. It was at that precise moment that the apartment door opened from the inside, and standing there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, was Starsky. Neither spoke. Their eyes met and locked. Starsky beckoned Hutch to enter the room as if it were his place, but Hutch, slightly unnerved and somewhat astonished, just stood staring at his solemn looking partner, until the silence got the better of them.

       "Hutch, are you coming in, or should I make up a bed out here on the landing?"

       "Uh, y-yeah …" and he walked in, Starsky closing the door behind him.

       Hutch gave himself a mental shake and stopped, turned around, looked squarely at Starsky. When he spoke, it was barely louder than a whisper. "What're you doing here? Where's Donna? Why aren't you with her?"

       Starsky broke into what could only be described as a knowing smile. Everything seemed to be happening in slow-motion. Starsky sauntered past him, taking the beers from him as he did, and disappeared into the kitchen. Hutch heard the sound of the refrigerator door open and close and watched him emerge with a beer in each hand. As he moved to the couch, his eyes locked with Hutch's, and neither's gaze faltered until Starsky plopped down cross-legged on the cushions and opened first one beer, then the other. Froth poured out of each can, the result of Hutch's having dropped them before. He saw Starsky chuckle silently and shake his head. But neither spoke. Time seemed to stand still, and the air was heavy with that energy which is borne of the rawest of emotion, of almost palpable chemistry, of unspoken thoughts and fear and frustration.

       "Ya gonna sit down, blondie? You sure are makin' me uncomfortable, standin' there like a waxwork model." He turned his head then to look back at his discombobulated partner, and he winked at him. Not a singular gesture. And not for the first time. But the effect it had on Hutch was extraordinary. He melted. He felt like he was sixteen and on a first date.

       Feeling inexplicably self-conscious, he moved to the couch and tentatively sat next to the person he was closest to in the whole world, the one for whom he'd willingly give up his life, and who had shown he'd do the same in return. Next to the only person who really, really knew him … the person he loved above all else.

       And here he was, not even daring to look at him.

       "I ended it."

       Starsky's words pierced the atmosphere like a thorn in soft flesh. Hutch didn't move at first, didn't react at all. But he had to know if he'd heard right. So, with all the will he could muster, he turned to look at Starsky, who was sitting facing him, an almost mischievous expression tugging at the corners of his mouth and dancing in the sparkle of his eyes, which looked darker, heavy- lidded, and seemed to be gazing right inside his head.

       "You ended it."

       "S'what I said." He took a swig of beer.

       "You … you just ended it? Just like that?"

       "Correctamundo, detective Hutchinson. Gave her the blooms and said bye-bye." He took another swig, but his eyes didn't leave his partner's. Ditching the wisecracks for a moment, he changed his tone. Picking up the other beer from the coffee table, he handed it to Hutch and said, "Drink. Relax. Come on, huh?"

       Hutch took the advice and downed half the can in one go. The beer did little to ease the tension he was feeling, and his neck and shoulders were beginning to ache. And it didn't really surprise him that Starsky intrinsically sensed exactly what he was feeling, nor did it feel anything less than natural when Starsky told him to lay back and relax as he moved closer and slid a hand up to the nape of his buddy's neck and began to gently massage the tense muscles.

       For Starsky, this had the desired effect. He could feel the tension flow out of his partner's body just with the touch of his hand.

       For Hutch, the gesture had both the effect he desired … and the one he most dreaded. The warm touch of Starsky's hand on his skin rendered him powerless to deny what he had kept locked up for too long now; he had to face up to this, it was all-consuming, eating away at his insides, suffocating him, and he couldn't go on lying both to himself and to the one person who deserved nothing but his complete honesty. He closed his eyes and leaned his head right back into Starsky's hand. He swallowed, hard.

       "Why, Starsk?"

       He continued with the simple but luxurious neckrub.

       "Why what, Hutch?"

       As he gently turned to look at Starsky, he felt a finger brush his ear. He thought he might dissolve.

       "Donna."

       Starsky looked down at his beer, never moving his hand away from his partner's neck.

       "Got tired a' lyin', I guess."

       Hutch needed to see what he was thinking, what he was feeling, to know if it bore even the slightest semblance to what was in his own heart but which he could not dare to accept if he was in this alone.

       "Lying to who?"

       A tiny grin … and still he didn't look up.

       "Whom".

       "What??"

       "Whom, college boy. Lying to whom."

       Trepidation turned to irritation now as the axis of their friendship shifted back for a moment to its regular angle.

       "Ok, wise-guy, to whom have you been lying?"

       Starsky pulled his hand away from massaging Hutch's neck, only to rub at an itch on his ear, but to Hutch, it felt like the temperature in the room just dropped ten degrees as the axis shifted again …

       "To Donna. To me, to you, to everyone, but most of all, most of all, to you." He lifted his head and when their eyes met there was heat between them. "You deserve more than that, partner."

       Had to know. "Tell me, Starsk. Tell me what you're thinking. I gotta know."

       Starsky shifted on the couch so that his arm rested along the back, not quite touching Hutch's shoulders. Hutch turned around slightly, so that they almost faced each other. Starsky sighed a heavy sigh, closed his eyes tight for a second and then started trying to put into words what he knew in his heart of hearts to be true, but which he knew could fundamentally alter his entire existence.

       Gazing into the confused, troubled expression of his partner, he began:

       "Well, buddy, I'm thinkin' that you came home here tonight with two packs of cold ones, alone. I'm thinkin' you'd a mind to sit on this couch and tie one on. All by yourself.  Now, I know you better'n I know myself, and I know you're a creature of habit. And one of your habits is not drinking yourself silly, alone, on a work night."

       Their gaze didn't waver. Hutch took another sip of beer. "Go on."

       "I'm thinking that you must've had some reason for wanting to get drunk. I'm thinking … I'm thinking I might know what that reason could be … an' I think …" He looked down, swallowed.

       "What, Starsk? What do you think?"

       Starsky hesitated. Took a breath. This was it. `Fess up time, folks! Bare your soul and bear the consequences!

       "I think the reason", he almost whispered, looking into his buddy's eyes, "… is me."      

       For just a few seconds, they sat motionless. But for Starsky, the seconds felt like an eternity. The only sound was their gentle breathing, but he swore he could hear his own heart beat. For those endless moments, he felt he had fallen into an abyss, and there was nothing he could do but wait till he hit the bottom, nothing to grasp on to, no way of stopping himself from plunging deeper into the darkness.

       Unable to suffer the silence anymore, he started to speak, but the words caught in his throat, and he coughed. He couldn't quite catch his breath and ended up in a mild coughing fit, eyes watering. Hutch leaned in and pulled him close at first, but when the coughing continued, he jumped up to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. By the time he got back to the couch, Starsky was fine and gulping down what was left of Hutch's beer.

       "M'okay", he managed, as his partner handed him the water, and then his words came out in a torrent. "Don't want water. Hutch, you gotta level with me. What the hell's going on in that head of yours? Am I imagining all a' this? I mean, was I right? What I said, I mean? Is it because of me that you're acting weird? Will you talk to me already?"

       "Will you take a breath, Starsk? Yes, I'll level with you. It's just … not easy. I feel for the first time in nine years I don't know what you're thinkin'."

       "Hell I just told you!"

       "No. No, you didn't. You told me what you think I'm thinking. And you didn't even expand much on that, Starsky."

       "Aw, Hutch will ya!? Can't you understand I'm … I mean, was it right? What I said? Will you at least tell me that?"

       "You were warm."

       Starsky rolled his eyes incredulously. He stood up and began pacing up and down the living room. "WARM??! I was warm? Oh, geez, great. OK, tell you what, you give me a clue and I'll have another guess, yeah?"

       "Starsky …"

       " … and then you can tell me if I'm getting warmer, or even hot … I dump a gorgeous girlfriend for this crap?"

       "Starsk, will you sit down and shut the hell up? Jeez, I didn't even invite you here tonight and I certainly didn't ask you to dump Donna! You just let yourself in, lay all of this on me and …" He bit his bottom lip. The instant he'd said the words he regretted them.

       A tense and silent moment, and then "OK. I'll go." And Starsky snatched his leather jacket off the back of a chair. That was it. He was leaving.          

       At lightning speed, Hutch leapt from his spot on the couch and was at the door before him, blocking his way.

       "Move".

       "Look, Starsk …"

       "MOVE IT, Hutch, NOW."

       "I don't want you to leave."

       "For the last time, get outta my way."

       "NO, stay …"

       But Starsky was mad, and getting madder by the minute. Feeling vulnerable and being made to feel that way by his so-called best friend was not something he was ready to deal with, not tonight. Hutch was plainly intent on making him stay, but he had other ideas. Furious, he grabbed his partner's upper arms and threw him to the side. Hutch was ready for him, though. Just as Starsky opened the apartment door, Hutch threw himself back to the left and knocked his friend out of the way, but Starsky was still standing, and he tackled Hutch full on just as he was slamming the door shut. They grappled each other to the floor, and what ensued was a futile but fervent wrestling match between two people who were too evenly matched. None of them could outsmart the other. The physical exertion was what Starsky needed as a release for his earlier fury, and after almost ten minutes of throwing each other around and smashing into furniture, both were struggling to keep serious expressions on their faces. It was Hutch who conceded first. Temporarily trapped in a particularly uncomfortable position with Starsky's knee on his neck, he spluttered, "OK, OK, GO if you want to!"

       Starsky rubbed his bruised limbs as he wearily stood up. "Fuck you, Hutchinson".

       "Well, I think we should talk it over first." 

       No movement. Not a sound. 

       It took a few seconds, but Starsky did read the underlying implication of his partner's words. Asking himself if he'd heard correctly, he looked down at Hutch, who was still flat on the floor massaging his neck, and looking right at Starsky, defiance and a million questions in his baby blue eyes.

       "Will ya help me up?"

       Starsky didn't budge. "What did you mean when you said I was warm?"

       "Look, Starsk, let's sit …"

       "Tell me what you meant. Tell me."

       A sigh. "Well, I guess I meant to say hot. I think you're hot, Starsk. Positively tantalizing."

       "Stop fucking with my head, Hutch. What did you mean?"

       There was no humour in his partner's voice, and Hutch realised it was time to talk. Just like Dobey said. He propped himself up on his elbows.

       "What I meant was, you were almost right. You said you thought the reason I was drinking alone and acting weird was you. That's not strictly true."

       "Go on."

       "Well, the reason my head's in about a million bits is not you, Starsk. You haven't done anything wrong. It's not you."

       "So what is it then?"

       Starsky's expression was so innocent and adorable at that moment Hutch just wanted to hold him in his arms and tell him everything was going to be alright, except this time, he feared it might not turn out that way.

       He stood up slowly and rubbed his neck again before answering. They stood, face to face, only a few inches between them. Trust in us, Hutch told himself, me and thee, trust in our bond…

       "It's us, Starsk…it's us."

       Their eyes were locked, each searching the other's for answers to questions they couldn't bear to put into words.

       "Starsky? Do you know what I'm trying to tell you here?" There was a hint of desperation in the blond's voice, begging him to understand.

       Starsky knew everything at once … felt so much joy he thought his heart might burst right out of his chest … so much fear he wanted to run until he couldn't run another step … fear that his life was no longer something he controlled … and deep, deep, deep love that lifted him up and deposited him somewhere wonderful, somewhere where the world was sublime.

       "Starsk?" Hutch's voice was low, and he looked as frightened as Starsky felt at that moment. "Starsk? I …"

       But Starsky put two very gentle fingers on his partner's lips, "Shhh" … and smiled at him, a smile which radiated everything wonderful he was feeling in his heart. His hand moved to cup his partner's face. Still, their eyes were locked in hypnotic gaze. His words were spoken softly. "I think I know what you're telling me, Hutch. And I think, this time I might be hot."

       The intensity and unexpectedness of the moment, however, spooked his partner, and Hutch suddenly backed away from Starsky's touch. Stuffing his hands into his too-tight jeans pockets, he told him, "OK, uh, well now I expect you really do wanna go, and this time I won't stop you. I gotta take a shower. I ache all over. Lock up when you leave, will ya?" He headed for the bathroom.

       "Uhm, Hutch…"

       "Whatever, Starsky … we'll make arrangements tomorrow. Just go, huh?."

       "Hutch." (Louder now.) "I don't want to go. And just for the record, you didn't stop me last time. I chose to stay."

       Hutch stopped dead in his tracks just outside the bathroom door. His back still to Starsky, he lowered his head to his chest and muffled something inaudible.

       "Hmm? What're you mumblin' about, blondie?"

       Deep sigh. He still didn't turn round, couldn't look at Starsky in the eye. "I gotta take a shower. Stay if you want. I'm beat." As he closed the bathroom door behind him, his partner walked aching to the kitchen, threw some cold water on his face and grabbed another couple of beers from the refrigerator.

       Myriad thoughts swarmed round in his head as he fell onto the couch, kicking off his shoes and snuggling into the cushions. He only knew two things for sure: All he wanted to do was walk out the door and get the hell outta here. And second? There was no way he could leave. Something inside him ached for the moment his beat up, blond buddy would emerge from the bathroom. And yet he was terrified. He switched on the television and flicked through the channels. News. Depressing. Ballgame. Predictable score. Talk show. Boring guest. Movie. Tearjerker. Flick flick flick. Nothing worth watching. Utterly exhausted, he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes.

       A featherlike touch on his forehead awakened him. His eyes fluttered open. Hutch was brushing a curl off his brow as he sat there on the coffee table in front of him, tousled blond hair still wet from the shower, glistening droplets of water on the golden skin of his chest, a tiny stream running down the muscles of his upper arm. He had a towel wrapped round his hips and another one lay on the table beside him.

       Starsky, for the briefest moment, thought he must be dreaming. He moved his hand to meet the one on his forehead, and their fingers gently intertwined.

       "Hey".

       "Hey yourself, Rip Van Winkle."

       "How long …"

       "No more than fifteen minutes. I took a long shower. But you were in a real deep sleep."

       "Hmph. Guess I was tired out."

       Hutch smiled tenderly at the tired face beneath him and freed his hand to resume his mussing the dark curls. With the other hand, he picked up a beer and handed it to his pal. "Sit up?"

       "Yeah".

       Starsky straightened himself up on the couch, wincing at the aches in his neck and arms after the fight earlier, and he took a long, satisfying drink of cold beer.

       "You're all wet."

       "Shower, Starsk. Water. Wet."

       "Ha ha."

       Hutch picked up the towel and threw it around his shoulders, sending droplets of water all over his partner and stood up to run it through his hair.

       "Hey!" said the supine figure below him, "Watch it!"

       Hutch threw the soaking towel onto Starsky's head and made to run for the bedroom. Instinctively but blindly, Starsky grasped the nearest part of Hutch he could find … which happened to be the towel around his waist … and just as he managed to yank the wet towel off his own head, the last thing he saw was one very naked partner diving into the bedroom. "Ya got a great ass, Hutchinson!!", he yelled at the top of his voice.

       "Starsky, my neighbour!" hissed his partner.

       "Well, I haven't seen seen his ass, but I still think yours'd win hands down."

       "You're a scream, know that?", came a muffled voice from the bedroom.

       "Yeah, well get your pretty patootie out here and talk to me already."

       When Hutch returned he was in blue Nike shorts, which looked a little too tight. To his consternation, Starsky gaped at them, making him blush to his roots. "Starsk, will you please get your eyes offa my shorts?"

       The dark blue eyes met his, with a wicked gleam. "Correction, Detective Hutchinson. That's `Will you get your eyes off your shorts'! How long have my favourite shorts been in your drawer?!"

       "Oh, " Hutch replied, ingenuously, "they're yours? That's probably why they're tight. Sorry. You can have them back."

       "Yeah, well I might raid your bedroom `fore I leave, blondie … see what else of mine you got stashed away in there."

       " I don't have anything of yours, I swear, Starsk."

       This comment, though innocently meant, brought a smile to the corners of Starsky's mouth. If only you knew, blintz …

       A reasonably comfortable silence ensued, both sitting on the couch, sipping beer and gazing at the soundlessly flickering TV. There was still that awareness, however, of unfinished business which they knew they could not leave unresolved any longer. As the minutes ticked by and the beer went down, each became more and more aware of the other's presence, of their closeness on the couch, until the reasonable comfort slid into uncomfortable silence. Almost simultaneously, they turned and looked at one other. "Got to talk, Starsk."

       "I know."

       Another uncomfortable but brief silence.

       "'Nother beer?", Hutch asked.

       "No." He sat up straighter. "What I have to say I want to say clear- headed. I want you to know … that I mean it."

       "Okay. Who goes first?"

       Starsky turned round to face his partner. The only light in the room came from the tv screen and the kitchen. He pulled himself up straight and began, hoping with every fibre of his being that Hutch would be able to deal with the emotions he was going to try to put into words. "I finished it with Donna … because I was using her. It wasn't fair to her. Nor was it fair to me. Or-or to you. She was a trophy girlfriend. Jeez, you saw yourself what she looked like. And I know the few times you met her you thought she treated me pretty badly. But there was a reason for that." He swallowed the rest of his beer.

       Hutch didn't speak, didn't want to interrupt his partner when what he was obviously concentrating deeply, taking care not to say the wrong thing.

       Starsky continued, both hands gripping the beer can, eyes meeting Hutch's for a moment and then looking down again. "When I was with her, Hutch, only – only half of me was there, ya know? I was with her because I kept thinkin', `This is how it should be. Stunning girlfriend, she's crazy about me, I'm crazy about her, this could be the one,' … but deep down, I mean, in my heart, I knew that was just so much bullshit. And I've been knowing that for a long time now … longer than I was even prepared to admit to myself. But then tonight …"

       He hesitated, a slight shake of the head, as if still trying to understand himself.

       Hutch leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm listening. I'm here."

       Starsky nodded, looking up into his eyes. "Tonight, leaving you in that office, to be with Donna, to be with anyone else, … I just asked myself finally, I said, `Starsky? Just who are you trying to kid?'"

       Eyes locked in intensive gaze, they were silent then, Hutch praying his partner was saying what he thought he was, and Starsky inwardly pleading for him to understand and to accept.

       "Who … did you want to be with?"

       Starsky for a brief moment looked at him like he'd grown another head. Hutch found it hard not to laugh at the (quite familiar) expression on his partner's face, and bowed his head, hoping to hide his grin, but Starsky tilted his chin up with his hand and replied simply, "You, dummy. Dontcha get it, Hutch? I'm happy when I'm with you."   

       The blond sighed, a million emotions coursing through his veins. "Aah, Starsk", he said softly, pulling his partner into a warm, loving embrace, "I thought I was goin' nuts, you know? I … I thought it was just me. I didn't dare say anything, I mean I…I …"

       "Shhh", soothed his partner, responding to the hug and nuzzling into his neck, relishing in the familiar, fresh Hutch scent on the damp, blonde strands. "You don't need to say a word, buddy. You never did. I see it all in your eyes. But …"

       "But what, babe?"

       Starsky flushed, pulled back a little and smiled playfully at his buddy. "Babe, huh?"

       "We've called each other `babe' before!" said Hutch, a little indignantly, neither one of them yet quite comfortable with this shift in their relationship, but both totally intent on making it work. "We have!" he repeated, when the devilish look didn't leave his partner's face.

       Starsky just grinned even wider. "Easy, tiger. Don't start sulking when we're just getting started …"

       "You …!" Hutch grabbed his partner and had him pinned underneath him on the couch in a matter of seconds. The dark blue eyes twinkled with even more mischief. "Ooh, baby, aren't we feeling rough this evening!"

       This brought a shy smile from the blond, who adjusted his position to make sure he wasn't hurting the man below him. They'd beaten each other up enough for one night. As he made himself comfortable on top of Starsky, gripping his arms firmly but gently so that he couldn't move, Hutch whispered into the dark curls, "Baby, huh? Now, that is a new one."

       The response was a deep intake of breath, a long sigh, and a pair of dark blue eyes which for some reason had misted over a little. "Let my arms go?" he whispered.

       Hutch obliged. Starsky slid his strong arms around his partner, rubbing the bare back gently, and very slowly pulled Hutch closer until their faces were only inches apart.

       "Baby", he repeated, soft this time, his gaze never leaving his partner's. "Baby", came the equally tender reply, and still neither budged. "Darlin'". "Darlin'".

       A pause, and then a look of worry flashed in Starsky's eyes.

       "Scared?" His hand moved up to push a blond strand off Hutch's forehead.

       "Scared?"

       "Yeah. Of … this."

       "Scared, Starsk? With you this close?" He shook his head. "Nah. Not scared a bit, buddy. Not a bit."

       They melted into each other's smiles, and just as their lips were about to meet in their most tender, gentle, loving first kiss, the only sound was of two voices, whispering I Love You.