A Day In The Life

120

Enjoy these snippets from the daily lives of Starsky and Hutch.

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The Evils of Science
by Sarah Problem

Art by Virginia Sky

 

 

Starsky stood back, arms crossed, watching Hutch intently. The slim blond was tense, guarded, moving across the small room as if he were wary and uncertain. Being so intimately aware of his lover, through long friendship and work experience, Starsky could almost feel Hutch’s consternation as he eyed the suspicious object.

It was all Starsky could do not to laugh at his partner’s reaction, so he settled for a knowing smile and stood back to enjoy the show, knowing a Hutchinson rant was in the making.

He had warned Hutch he was going to buy it. He had even listened to all the warnings and dire predictions of ill health, starvation and radioactivity that would befall the human race because of one evil machine. But even after all of that, Starsky still couldn’t see what the fuss was about. So yesterday, after work, he had bought a microwave oven.

Starsky had awaited Hutch’s arrival with evil glee, wondering how long it would take his lover to notice it. Both of them had planned on going to Dobey’s annual picnic and had decided to fix their pot-luck contributions at his house. The sight of the brand new, silver machine had stopped Hutch dead in his tracks.

“I can’t believe you did it!” Hutch stopped his wary pacing to stand in front of the machine, hands on hips, staring at it as if it would disappear if he stared hard enough. “You know how I feel about these ‘radar ranges’ and microwave ovens, Starsky! They’re just not–”

“Natural. I know, I know.” Starsky walked over and put an arm around Hutch’s waist, joining him in studying the new device that had just cost him an arm and a leg. “But I just don’t believe that it’s as evil as you seem to think it is.”

“Radiating your food is not healthy!”

Starsky gave his partner’s waist a squeeze, feeling how tense and upset Hutch was about this issue. No surprise there, since Hutch had rediscovered his interest in “natural” foods, even if he hadn’t fully returned to all natural foods. “There’s nothing wrong with microwaving your food, Hutch. I think we’ll survive.”

Hutch pulled away from him, and Starsky sighed as he saw the Hutchinson “lecture” finger come up and stab menacingly at the new machine.

“What about blindness and sterilization?” Hutch demanded, a triumphant look on his face, the finger now held high as an exclamation point.

“I don’t plan on sticking those particular body parts in there,” Starsky said, eyeing the microwave with mock seriousness. “But I appreciate the worry about all my future offspring you’re goin’ to pop outta your–”

“Uh, uh!” Hutch interrupted, finger now waving back and forth menacingly. “That’s not a legitimate argument and you know it. Anything that affects one part of your body is bound to affect another, and whatever gets affected there,” he now waved generally at Starsky’s nether regions, “is going to crimp my style, if you…uh…know what I mean.”

Starsky sighed, trying to be patient. “Look, none of that’s been documented or proven. I haven’t heard of a single case where someone’s been blinded, or rendered sterile or impotent by these things. Heck, ‘radar ranges’ have been in use for years–”

“And how do we know anybody has been keeping track of what’s been going on with them? How do we know–?”

“I’ve read the manual!” Starsky countered, holding up the thick booklet that had come with the machine. “I’ve called the better business bureau and looked up some articles in the library! As long as I follow the directions, I’m not going to find myself wasting away because every nutrient in my food has been nuked. I am…” Tossing the manual on the counter, Starsky moved closer to Hutch, brushing that finger off to the side so that he could pull his partner close, “going to make a few side dishes, some instant coffee, try some of that bagged popcorn, and otherwise keep pace with the great breakthroughs of civilization.”

He smiled as he felt Hutch relax into the embrace, feeling the well-known stubbornness underneath that kept his partner a bit tense.

“I’m not going to eat anything out of that machine,” Hutch stated with conviction, resting his chin on Starsky’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around him. “You want to poison yourself and the rest of the western world then go right ahead. I’ll just sit back and wait to say ‘I told you so’.”

“You do that,” Starsky said with a laugh, giving Hutch a tight squeeze and then pulling away. Hutch’s expression held doubt and determination. “I’ll give you fair warning when I use it, but if you don’t want to eat what I’ve cooked in it then you’re free to feed yourself.”

Hutch sighed as he looked over Starsky from head to toe, almost as if he were cataloging him in order to catch any new illness or disintegration that may appear in the future.

“If it comes after me,” Hutch mumbled grumpily, “I’m shooting it in self defense.”

Starsky laughed, aware of Hutch’s very real concern for him as well as the silliness of the conversation. “C’mon, Nature Boy, let’s get our part of the picnic put together so we can go and socialize. Wouldn’t want to miss out on Dobey’s barbecued ribs!”

Giving the machine another wary glance, Hutch turned to the bags on the table, muttering about his salad ingredients as if the subject were closed.

Thinking the subject settled for a moment, with plans to woo his partner with future microwave delicacies, Starsky turned to the refrigerator to pull out the ingredients for the rice dish he was planning on taking.

Give me a bit of time and I’ll have pulled you completely into the twentieth century, Starsky mused happily. Next, I’ll just have to work on your choice of cars!

 

 

The picnic at the Dobey’s had been well attended, with many from Homicide showing up to kick back and visit. Dobey’s son, Cal, was staying with friends and Rosie with her grandparents, so the party was adults-only this year. Starsky had enjoyed himself and thought that no one had seen anything amiss about him and Hutch arriving and leaving together.

I guess I keep expecting someone to notice that we’re different. If they had only known what kind of night we were planning, we could’ve made a mint selling tickets, Starsky thought with more than a bit of pride. He made his sleepy way out of the bathroom and decided to throw on some shorts and a t-shirt, the memory of the night before making his smile feel uncontrollable. One of these days, we’re going to have to put this old bed out to pasture. It’s getting some heavy miles on it!

Hutch had been up a bit longer, and Starsky found him lounging in the kitchen, Sunday paper spread across the table and orange juice in hand.

Walking over to him, or rather, wobbling over because of their late night activities, he leaned over to plant a big, sleepy kiss on Hutch’s willing lips.

“Where’s the coffee?”

“Isn’t any.” Hutch raised his orange juice glass. “You forgot to tell me we were out when I picked up groceries yesterday.”

Starsky headed for the cabinet with the instant coffee, then groaned when he pulled out the container. “Not enough left for even one cup.”

He turned to Hutch with a hopeful look on his face. “You wouldn’t…?”

“I’m fine with juice,” Hutch said, eyes back on the paper.

“You would be,” Starsky muttered under his breath. He sighed, giving in to the idea of an inevitable trip to the local grocery store. “You want anything?”

“Yeah, you’re out of granola bars and molasses.”

“There’s probably a reason for that,” Starsky grumbled as he went to the bedroom dresser to get his wallet. “Since I can’t stand the stuff, why buy it in the first place?” Now that Hutch had actually asked for it, he’d end up buying some anyway. “Okay, be back in a bit. Then we can decide what we want to do today.”

He gave Hutch another quick kiss, this time noticing the orange flavor, and left to get his coffee.

 

 

As soon as Starsky opened the door, he knew something was wrong. Arms full of grocery bags, he stopped at the door and looked around the apartment carefully.

Everything looked okay.

“You’re back,” Hutch announced unnecessarily from the couch, face behind the newspaper. “Took you awhile.”

“Kept seein’ things we needed.” Starsky shut the door behind him, trying to figure out what was setting off his alarms. It hit him then–the slight ozone smell that he couldn’t place. As he took a step forward, he noticed that the newspaper in front of Hutch rose a little higher. Another step, and the paper rose another fraction of an inch. Which was very strange considering Starsky could only see the back of his head and a pair of very tense shoulders.

Something weird is going on, he decided. And it has Hutch written all over it.

Taking the bags to the kitchen, he noticed the strange smell had intensified. Now it was mixed with the acrid smell of something burnt. The kitchen windows were now open, and Starsky was sure they were closed when he left.

He saw it then, a small, black streak at the corner of the microwave door.

Okay, Starsky, get a hold of yourself. We know who the guilty party is, we just need to find out the degree of the crime.

Taking a deep breath, feeling that Hutch was listening to every sound he made, Starsky moved toward the microwave. The strange, burnt smell grew stronger, and as he reached for the handle, he found himself squinting, almost afraid to see what was inside.

He only had it opened for half a second before he shut it again. It was, as part of him had suspected, black and charred-looking inside.

Okay, close your eyes and count to ten. Then you can take it out of his hide!

He was distracted from his counting by the feeling of something falling into his hair. Picking the object out of his curls, he looked up at the ceiling. There were small spots on the ceiling, as if someone had spattered a paintbrush full of yellow paint up there.

The object in his hair was white and rubbery. He looked at it suspiciously, a thought forming in the back of his mind.

Yellow spots. White, rubbery material. Ozone smell…!

“Aw, shit!” Starsky exclaimed, growing concern propelling him over to Hutch, who looked firmly entrenched behind the paper.

Pushing the paper down rudely, he looked into startled and guilty-looking eyes. Leaning forward, hands on Hutch’s knees, he examined the small, red spots that peppered his partner’s face, relieved to see that none looked serious or too near his eyes.

“Ah…a shaving accident?” Hutch said meekly, looking like a kid whose hand was stuck in the cookie jar. “A freak lightning strike? An uncontrolled power surge?”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“Called one,” Hutch said quietly, still looking embarrassed. “I’ve got an appointment in a couple of hours.”

Now able to relax, knowing that his lover was in no immediate danger, Starsky stood up and crossed his arms, trying to look as stern as he could.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Hutch looked around the room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to be ultra casual. “No. Not really. You get the coffee?”

“Let me rephrase my question.” Starsky smiled at him dangerously, watching Hutch cringe. “Why don’t you tell me what happened? Now.”

Hutch sighed deeply, looking a bit lost. “Look, I’ll buy you a new one, okay? First time I get a chance to go to the bank, we’ll stop by the place you got this one and–”

Starsky was not in the mood for the Hutchinson smoke screen. “I want to know what Mr. ‘I’m never touching that machine’ was doing with that machine.”

Starsky had a good idea already, but wanted Hutch to admit it.

“Well, I…uh…decided I’d try a little…experiment.”

“Without reading the manual.”

“Who needs a manual to cook an egg?” Hutch snapped, looking a bit defensive under his guilt. “All I did was put in a couple of eggs and set the timer–”

“Not knowing that eggs cooked in the shell can blow up.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t actually blow up in the microwave,” Hutch admitted.

“Yeah, I gathered that from the egg on my ceiling and the burns on your face.” Starsky sighed and sat down next to Hutch. “They hurt much?”

“No, mostly it was just a shock.” Hutch leaned into the arm Starsky had thrown over his shoulder. “I was lucky I’d put them in a bowl, so wasn’t actually holding them when they exploded. And I did try to clean up the–”

“So what burned?”

Another deep sigh from Hutch.

“I was cleaning it out with a paper towel, trying to get the egg off the inside. I guess I had opened the microwave when it had some time left on it. Guess I left the paper towel in and closed the door when I went to take care of my face. When I came back, it was sort of smoking….”

Starsky found himself chuckling, then laughing, at the mental picture. He could see Hutch scrambling around, trying to cover his tracks, only to have something else go wrong.

Hutch glared at him, a bit of hurt in his eyes. “Well, thanks. Nice to know you’re sympathetic.”

“Me? You ruin my machine and you want me to be sympathetic?” Starsky said, still laughing. “Okay, I am. I’m also glad you didn’t get hurt worse than you did. But the thought of you running around trying to get things cleaned up before I got home….”

Starsky massaged the nape of Hutch’s neck, glad to see an embarrassed smile take over the fair, but blotchy, features. In a moment they were both laughing.

“I really will get you a new one, if you want.” Hutch suddenly looked hopeful. “Unless there’s something else–”

“We’ll see if we can clean it out,” Starsky suggested. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and it’ll be salvageable.”

“Yeah, that’ll be lucky,” Hutch said sarcastically.

Starsky stood, looking at Hutch sternly. “And you, my dear hypocrite, are still in trouble for messing up my expensive machine.”

“I really am sorry–”

“Yeah, and you’re going to be even sorrier after I sign us both up for that microwave cooking class they give every weekend. Next week we’re both going.”

He could see the stubbornness flow back into Hutch’s fair, but red-spotted, features. “Look, Starsk, you know I–”

“Uh, uh!” Starsky warned, his own finger now in the air in imitation of his partner. “You didn’t read the manual, you burned yourself and got food on my ceiling, not to mention the condition of my brand new piece of kitchen equipment. You’re going!”

Starsky watched as a wide variety of emotions played across Hutch’s face, then a look of resigned humor settled in the blue eyes.

“Okay, you’re right.” Hutch smiled at him then, giving Starsky a grin like a ray of sunshine. “Just don’t blow my cover with the guys at work, okay? I’ve been trying to talk Lizzie out of getting one. It’s bad enough that you caught me….”

They both laughed then, Starsky reaching down to pull Hutch up. “C’mon, you idiot. Let’s see what we can salvage of my kitchen before your doctor’s appointment.”

“And, thanks,” Hutch said softly, giving Starsky a warm hug. “For not getting really mad at me.”

Starsky hugged him back, enjoying the feeling of belonging and understanding in the gesture.

“Don’t mention it, partner!” Starsky said with a tight smile, giving Hutch a shove to the kitchen.

Gotta get my points in now, Starsky thought nervously as he followed the taller man into the kitchen. Before you figure out what happened to your car on the way to the store.

I wonder if Merle makes emergency calls?

 

 

Family Ties
by Paula Wilshe

Art by Virginia Sky

 

 

Hutch glanced in the mirror, noticing that the unaccustomed necktie he had just donned had settled into a crooked lump at his collar. Impatiently, he hooked two fingers into the knot and pulled the silk free.

“Need some help?” came a sleepy voice from the bed a few feet away.

“With what?” Hutch asked, stealing a glance over his shoulder, as he started wrestling with the ends of the necktie again.

“The tie,” Starsky told him, burrowing further under the covers. “Crooked?”

Hutch smiled. “How’d you know? Your eyes are still shut.”

“Heard the ‘tie knot rustle’,” Starsky informed him, the fondness evident in his drowsy murmur. “…or in your case, tie NOT rustle…leave off the k….”

Hutch moved over to the side of the bed, leaned down, and kissed his partner on the temple. “Sorry I woke you,” he offered.

Starsky’s eyes struggled to open, and closed almost immediately against the light wafting in from the bathroom. “‘S okay,” he said.

“Yeah?” Hutch asked, his lips moving down from the temple and nuzzling Starsky’s ear.

“Mmmm….”

Hutch moved his lips softly across Starsky’s cheek, and found his partner’s, allowing his own to linger there. He raised one eyebrow at Starsky’s quick intake of breath.

“Mmmmphhhh….” Overcome by an uncontrollable yawn, Starsky quickly turned his head into Hutch’s chest and, draping an arm around the blond’s neck, pulled him down closer as he started to chuckle softly.

“The thrill is gone, huh?” Hutch demanded, trying to sound huffy.

“Never, Blintz.” Starsky pressed his face into Hutch’s chest and yawned again, hard.

“You goof,” Hutch gave him a squeeze. “Go back to sleep.”

“Not really tired,” Starsky assured him. “I’m wide awake now.” He rubbed his forehead against Hutch’s crisp dress shirt. “Wide awake. Really.”

Hutch pushed Starsky back against the pillows and sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head at the blinking, watering eyes and sleep-lined cheek. “Wide awake, huh?” he asked. He leaned down and kissed Starsky’s forehead lightly. “You’ve still got a bit of a fever, Starsk.”

“Nah, you make me hot.”

“Sorry, buddy, I’m not taking credit for this one.” Hutch laughed as Starsky pulled the covers over his head to hide a seriously escaping yawn. Hutch leaned down and tugged at the sheet, pulling it down past Starsky’s eyes, which, heavy-lidded and tired, still glinted with merriment. “So hot you’ve gotta yawn in my face, huh?”

“Oxygen deprivation,” Starsky explained through the sheet. “You take my breath away.” He pulled the sheet down further. “Make you some coffee before you go, huh? What time you have to be in court?”

“Nine,” Hutch said, and planted a hand on his partner’s chest. “And you stay put.  The doc said…”

“…the doc said it was a touch of what everybody else at work has had, including you,” Starsky told him firmly, “and it has nothing to do with….”

“I know, I know,” Hutch finger-combed his bangs nervously.  “But I….”

“I know,” Starsky turned on his side and nestled into the pillows. “I’m better than I was, babe, honest.” He opened one eye. “Honest.”

“I know.” Hutch pulled the covers up around him. He bent down and kissed Starsky’s cheek. “I shouldn’t be gone long.” He stroked his fingers through Starsky’s curls. “Go back to sleep for a while, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Mmmm….”

“You want some juice or something before I go?”

“Mm mm,” Starsky shook his head slightly.

“You want anything?”

“Mm hm.” Starsky gave a barely perceptible nod, his eyes drifting shut.

“What?” Hutch fussed with the covers.

“The tie.”

“Tie?”

“Fix it,” Starsky murmured drowsily.

“Oh.” Hutch flushed slightly and began flipping the ends of the necktie. Slipping the knot up to his shirt collar, he smiled down at Starsky. “Okay, done. Don’t look like a hayseed anymore.”

Starsky opened one eye, “Oh, Hutch,” he sighed, “come here.”

Hutch leaned closer as Starsky reached up with both hands and, although he was blinking sleepily, managed to arrange the accessory perfectly. “Thanks, Starsk.”

He gave Hutch a pat. “You’re beautiful,” Starsky proclaimed, settling back into the bed.

Hutch grinned down at him and pulled the covers up again. “And you’re delirious,” he offered. “But I love you anyhow.” He squeezed Starsky’s shoulder through the blanket.

“I’ll be home in a couple of hours, and make you some soup, and fuss over you real good, okay?”

“Sounds like heaven,” Starsky sighed, closing his eyes.

“Okay. You sleep now.” Hutch stood up and moved toward the door, glancing at the mirror, and he grinned at the perfect placement of the necktie, knowing that all morning he’d be able to feel the warmth and love of his partner in that strip of cloth.

“Hey?” Starsky’s sleepy voice barely reached him.

“Yeah, babe, what?”

“Know what we just did?”

Hutch paused at the door. “What’d we just do, Starsk?”

“Tied the knot,” Starsky smiled softly.

“Yeah? You know what, buddy?”

“What?”

“I think you’re right.”

 

 

Hutch glanced over at his sleeping partner, who was sprawled across the opposite side of the double bed. Still clad in his dress shirt, pants, and tie, the only concession Hutch had made to arriving home had been to kick off his shoes within moments of having walked through the door.

Hutch smiled as Starsky inched closer, seeming to sense his presence even under layers of sleep, and he turned the page of his book as silently as he could, in order to afford his partner the luxury of restful, healing slumber and, he admitted, to allow himself the unadulterated pleasure of watching Starsky sleep.

Starsky nestled up next to his arm, and within a few seconds, was blinking up at him sleepily. “What’re you doin’ ho–” he drew a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut as a yawn overcame him. “…home?”

Hutch leaned his cheek down on Starsky’s curls. “Randolph pled guilty ten minutes before court time,” he explained. “Didn’t have to testify after all.”

“Why aren’t you at work, then?”

“Oh,” Hutch said nonchalantly, “I told Dobey I was catching your…whatever you’ve got.”

“Are you?” Starsky asked, eyes narrowing.

“Nope,” Hutch assured him.

“You sure?”

“Yep. Just felt like coming home.” He kissed Starsky’s head. “Not real effective without you anyhow; he’d have made me do reports or something.” Hutch set his book down and scooped an arm under his partner, drawing him even closer.

Starsky settled against the blond, head resting just along the side of his chest, and he nestled deeply against Hutch, even as he felt Hutch’s arm tighten into a squeeze. “Meant to be up by now,” he offered. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, huh?” Hutch told him firmly. “This is the first time you’ve slept in, what? Two days?”

Starsky shrugged slightly. “Lost track,” he said.

“Two days.” Hutch squeezed him again. “How’re you feeling, anyway?”

“Don’t know,” Starsky answered honestly. “I’m not awake yet.” He reached up and tugged at Hutch’s collar. “Why d’you still have the tie on? That’d be the first thing I’d’ve taken off.”

“Oh, um…” Hutch flushed. “Forgot.”

“Forgot?” Starsky struggled to move up a little higher in the bed, and on his partner. “How could you forget to take off a noose like that? You didn’t forget.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I’m sick, Hutch,” he said pathetically. “Please don’t be mysterious. It makes my head hurt.”

Hutch chuckled.  “Okay,” he said, “but it’s really dumb.”

“Dumb how?”

“Well…” Hutch carded his fingers through Starsky’s curls and, with the other hand, pulled self-consciously at his hair. “Like, you….” He shook his head. “Forget it, Starsk, it’s dumb.”

“Is not,” Starsky insisted. “Tell me. You get a hickey from somebody you don’t want me to see?”

Hutch shook his head, blond hair falling across his forehead.

“Did I give you one last night and I don’t remember?” He rubbed at a sleep-lined cheek.

“Starsk, you were in no condition to do anything to me last night, or have you forgotten? Between the cough and the fact that the fever was making your stomach ‘floppy’ as you so eloquently put it–”

Starsky rested his hand lightly against Hutch’s mouth. “Let’s not talk about it,” he urged.

Hutch smiled against his partner’s palm and quickly darted his tongue against the warm hand.

“Hey,” Starsky admonished him. “None o’that, now.”

“None of what?” Hutch raised his eyebrows, all innocence. “Your palms sweating again? Fever must be going up.”

Starsky leaned up and shook his head, then raked sleep-scattered curls off his forehead. “I’m too tired for this,” he said, smiling crookedly, yanking on his partner’s tie. “Why?”

“Well, ’cause…well…” Hutch shrugged his shoulders. “I know it’s really stupid, but…you knotted it this morning, and I…well…you know….”

Starsky flopped back on his own pillow and started to laugh. “You are too much, Hutchinson,” he said, turning away and coughing. “Too much,” he repeated when he was able to speak.

Hutch could feel himself blushing furiously. “Told you it was stupid,” he mumbled.

Starsky rolled over again, on his side, facing Hutch. He braced his head on his hand, elbow against the pillow. “Not stupid, Hutch,” he said softly. “Not stupid at all.” He tugged at the knot of the tie. “Okay if I do it?”

Hutch nodded, feeling his throat catch with emotion, but feeling like an idiot. “Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

Starsky gently undid the tie, and Hutch lifted his head away from the headboard so that he could pull it off, then leaned back and closed his eyes as Starsky unbuttoned the top three buttons of his dress shirt. “You’re a big mushball, Blondie, you know that?”

“Sometimes,” Hutch sighed. “I…sometimes,” he acquiesced.

Starsky leaned over and kissed him gently on the side of the neck. “Got a great idea,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? What?”

“Know what I’d like right now?”

“What?” Hutch asked, smiling slightly. “Ready for some soup? Glass of juice?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

“I’d like to show you…don’t matter if I tied the tie…no matter where you go, I’m right here.” Starsky slipped his hand inside Hutch’s shirt, laying it against his partner’s heart.

“Show me how?”

“Well…show you how much I love you, and we can break my fever at the same time. Good for both of us,” Starsky assured him.

Hutch grinned. “You sure you’re up to that?”

“Ab-absolutely,” Starsky answered around a yawn.

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, “but let me go get you some aspirin first, and your antibiotics, it’s time. And then you can do whatever you want with me, okay?”

“Sounds like a great plan to me, Hutch.” Starsky turned over on his back, arm across his eyes, smiling in anticipation and glowing with affection.

Hutch unbuttoned the rest of his shirt on the way to the kitchen, yanking it out of the waistband of his pants. Quickly pouring a glass of juice and shaking out the required medications, he moved back to the bedroom.

And stopped dead in the doorway. Starsky was sound asleep, and snoring softly.

Hutch shook his head as an overwhelming tenderness tinged with empathy washed over him like a wave at high tide. “Love you so much,” he whispered, and he lay the glass and pills down on the nightstand and crawled back into the bed to nap with his partner.

 

 

Blanket Optional
by Candy Apple

Art by Shrift

 

 

Starsky pulled a large, flat blanket box from under the bed, assuming, foolishly, he might find a blanket there. With almost all of Hutch’s bedding in a giant laundry bag destined for washing, he’d had a real interesting time finding enough linens to make up the bed. Still, it was getting late, and both had voted to delay the trip to the laundromat until morning.

That’s us. Life of non-stop glamour. First weekend off in months, and we’ll be kicking it off with breakfast at McDonald’s and a trip to the laundromat with a bag of cum-stained sheets. We even managed to fuck up the bedspread. Oh, well. I guess that means we had a hell of a Thursday night.

Opening the blanket box, he muttered a curse under his breath as he found that it was filled with papers. Papers. Not blankets. Not linens. Not even clothes. Hutch had a blanket box full of papers. Under his bed.

“Always knew you were weird, Blondie,” Starsky mumbled, about to put the blanket box back in place. Something caught his eye then, and he paused. A large greeting card envelope sitting atop one of the stacks of papers bore his name in Hutch’s handwriting. It wasn’t addressed for mailing–it simply read “Starsk” on the cream-colored paper.

Hutch was in the kitchen, washing the dinner dishes. Sitting there looking at the envelope, Starsky had no problem figuring out the ethical thing to do with it: put it back. Or, if the curiosity was truly killing him, he could ask Hutch about it. It could be a card Hutch wrote and was saving for some occasion, but for what? It wasn’t near any occasion that warranted a greeting card. He turned it over and found it wasn’t sealed and, for a moment, almost flipped the pointed flap upward and pulled the card out to read it. Then, turning it back over, he stared at the writing on the front again.

“Starsk?” The name was spoken softly from behind him in Hutch’s voice, as he read it written there in Hutch’s writing.

“I was lookin’ for a clean blanket. Kinda thought you might have one in a blanket box,” he said. “Uh, Hutch, what’s this?” He held up the card. “I didn’t mean to spoil a surprise or anything, but I thought you’d have blankets in here.”

“Yeah, well, my storage options are limited in this place.” Hutch walked over to where Starsky was sitting and took the card out of his hand. “You didn’t read it?”

“No. I wanted to…but I kinda figured if you wanted me to read it, I’d’a gotten it by now.”

“It’s not really the right time on the calendar.” Hutch joined Starsky sitting on the floor by the side of the bed. “It’s a birthday card.”

“My birthday’s in March, Hutch. You bought my card already?”

“No, dummy. I bought it for last year…and then I got you a different one.” Hutch shrugged. “So I just hung onto this.”

“So, uh, can I read it? I mean, you did get it for me and it must’a been nice, or you wouldn’t’a saved it all’a this time. Right?”

“Right.” Hutch looked at it a minute. “You know, when you were shot, I read this card a couple times, and I kept thinking it was a damn fool thing I did by not giving it to you. There were things in here…things I wished I’d said before it happened.”

“I’m here now, and I’m fine. How about lettin’ me read it?” Starsky asked, holding out his hand. “Unless you want me t’wait ’til March.”

“No, I think I’ve waited on this long enough,” Hutch said, chuckling and handing Starsky the card.

Starsky opened the envelope carefully, sliding out the large card. It was burgundy, a sort of matte finish paper with swirling gold writing. All it said on the cover was “I Love You.” There were no balloons or chesty girls or bad jokes. Not even a hokey picture of a cake. Just those three little words. Starsky ran his fingertips lightly over the cover, which had the image of two birds in flight embossed into the paper.

“It’s beautiful,” Starsky said, looking up at his partner. “Most beautiful card I ever saw.”

“You haven’t even opened it yet, buddy,” Hutch responded, smiling.

“You thought sayin’ ‘I love you’ was too sappy?”

“We weren’t lovers then, babe. I didn’t know how you’d take it. When I read the card, it just said all the things I felt about you. When I got it home, I realized it sounded like a card you’d give a lover, not a friend. I went out and picked up something I thought was more…appropriate, I guess.”

Starsky finally turned back to the card and opened the cover. He read the inside verse silently:

When I tell you I love you,
I want it to mean more than when anyone else in the whole world says it…

I want it to mean that your happiness is everything to me,
and that I want only the best for you always, no matter what it takes…

I want it to mean that you’re more important to me than anything else in my life…

When I tell you I love you,
I want it to mean that you’re a part of me and I’m a part of you,
and no matter what happens in this world,
we’ll be together forever, sharing our lives and our happiness…and our love.

Happy Birthday

The last words wavered and floated on the page, as words do when read through tears. All the things he wanted to say in return to his partner for the incredible sentiment and emotion in the card were trapped in his heart, unable to move past the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t leave the hospital too often when you were really bad, but one of the times I stopped home to get some fresh clothes, I took this out and read it again.” Hutch shrugged, his own eyes looking a little too bright. “Sat here and cried like a baby, wishing I’d had the balls to give it to you before…before it was too late. I…I f-felt that way for years. Making love was just…expressing what was there all along.

“I never read anything so beautiful.” Starsky swallowed, not caring that a tear slid down his cheek. “I never saw anything as beautiful as you, babe.” Starsky moved over to pull Hutch into his arms, and the embrace was returned firmly. “I’ll keep it forever. Along with you,” Starsky said, smiling.

“I meant every word of it,” Hutch said quietly, holding on tightly. “I meant it then, and I mean it now.”

“I keep thinkin’ we can’t find the words, but you came awful close, darlin’,” Starsky said in a strained voice, pulling back a little so he could cover Hutch’s mouth with his, the two of them melting together into a long kiss.

“I’ll get the lights, babe. Turn back the bed for us?” Hutch asked, smiling and resting his forehead against Starsky’s.

“Bring a bottle’a wine, and you got a deal.”

“We still don’t have a blanket,” Hutch said.

“Do we need one?”

As the two men lapsed back into fevered kisses and heated caresses, an unspoken agreement was reached that a blanket was purely optional.

 

 

Author’s note: The verse used in this story appeared in a Hallmark card. Unfortunately, they don’t cite authors, so I can’t either. My thanks to them for making a card that was perfect for our guys.

 

 

 

Errand Day
by Keri T.

Art by Becky

 

 

“Now this is what you’d call a picture perfect, Southern California morning, partner.” Starsky breathed deeply while standing in the open front door of his tidy house. “This is why people come to vacation here from all over the world, just to get a little taste of what we can enjoy all the time.”

“Then they get a big snootful of our special smog, and become grateful that their vacation will end and they can go home where they can breathe again.” Hutch was pulling his shirt over his head when a loud sneeze erupted from him, surprising them both.

“Aw, come on, it’s not like it’s smoggy every day. I mean, look! It’s gorgeous outside right now.” Starsky reached a hand out to help pull the blue knit shirt lower over Hutch’s belt. “God bless you, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Hutch murmured, sniffling a little loudly. “You wanna put your shoes on, so we can go? And do you have the lists?”

Starsky stared down at the floor pointedly. “You seem to be shoeless, yourself, pal.”

Hutch wiggled his bare toes in the carpet and smothered another sneeze. “That’s because, well, just because I get ready faster than you do, and I wanted to see if you were ready before I found my shoes.” Hutch tried unsuccessfully to deliver the statement with authority.

“Uh huh, and God bless you again.” Starsky went into the bedroom and quickly returned with two pair of sneakers in his hands. He jerked his chin at Hutch, indicating he should join him on the couch, then dumped the shoes on the floor and sat down. “What’s with the sneezing? Your allergies acting up?”

Hutch ran a finger under his nose, “No, I don’t think so. Maybe.”

“You’re not catching another cold, are you? You’ve had three already this year.”

“Of course I’m not.” Hutch started to put on a shoe then took it right off. “Where are my socks?”

Starsky pulled two rolled-up bundles from under his armpit. “Right here.” He handed the white pair to Hutch and retained the red pair for himself. “Um, Hutch? How do you get dressed in the morning when you sleep at your place and I’m not there?”

“Oh, I manage somehow, and how often do we sleep apart anyway?”

Starsky grinned hugely. “Luckily, not very often.”

Hutch started to return the grin, but it was interrupted by a yawn. He fisted a palm and rubbed his eyes.

“You still sleepy? You went out like a light before it was even ten last night.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I hope you know it wasn’t that I didn’t want to stay awake.”

“I know, because I was trying my hardest to keep you up.”

Hutch flushed a little. “Um, really sorry?”

“Not to worry, babe, we’ve been working killer hours and you needed some shut eye. Let’s not make a habit of it, though?” Starsky waggled his brows.

“That’s a promise.” Hutch finished putting his shoes and socks on, but had to stop once to catch two more quick, wet sneezes.

“Uh, oh.” Starsky muttered darkly. “I think you’re coming down with something. We better put off the errands and stay in today.”

“Starsky, I’m perfectly fine! We can’t put off the errands any longer. We agreed that we can’t keep hauling things back and forth between both our places. We need to stock your bathroom and kitchen with stuff I use, and my bathroom and kitchen with stuff you use. Plus, I have to go to the bank and the dry cleaner.”

“What’s at the dry cleaner?”

“My black jacket and your beige one.”

“Really? When did you do that?”

“The morning after you ran into me holding two full cups of coffee.”

“You stopped dead with no warning at the squad room door.”

Hutch began to cough lightly, as he tried to get out a retort. “Does it really matter? And I had to open the door, you know.” The coughing became a little deeper.

“I think you’re getting sick.”

“I am not!”

Starsky shook his head a few times before checking his pockets for the lists that Hutch had painstakingly drawn up. “Okay, if you say so. I got the lists so let’s get goin’.”

An hour later, they’d finished Hutch’s banking and were moving up and down the aisles of a large drug store. Both men had their arms full of their own favorite shaving cream, toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant. “Hey, Hutch?” Starsky was trying to catch the blond’s attention as Hutch was trying to free a hand to cover his mouth before coughing.

“What?” Hutch responded in a raspy voice once the coughing was over.

“Don’t you think it’s funny that we don’t use any of the same kind of stuff?”

“No.”

“You don’t?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“Yeah, but how come you don’t?”

“We grew up using different products and we’re both used to them.”

“You grew up using extra whitening tooth paste? Did they have that in Duluth when you were a kid?”

“Starsky, you’re missing the point.”

“No, I’m not. You said we grew up using different products, so that’s why I asked if they had this kind of whitening tooth paste in Duluth.” Starsky reached for the box in Hutch’s hand to study the picture of the model with gleaming teeth. “By the way, I think your teeth are plenty white enough right now.”

“Thanks.”

“So did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Use the whitening tooth paste?”

“No, I used Crest as a kid.”

“Hutch, that’s what I use now!”

“So?”

“So, your argument isn’t valid, buddy.”

Hutch wished he could free both hands to rub his throbbing temples. “I wasn’t arguing.”

“But you said.…”

“Starsk,” Hutch interrupted quickly, “what else is on the list?”

It took a moment for Starsky to get the drug store list separated from the one for the grocery store. “Um, just one last thing.”

“What?”

“The stuff.”

“Oh. Well, go get it. I’ll wait here.”

“Why don’t you go get it?”

“Because–because my hands are full.”

“So are mine.”

“I don’t feel real good, Starsk.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes and tried to determine if Hutch was admitting to being sick and therefore was sick, or if this was a ploy to get out of getting it. A thorough inspection of the weepy blue eyes and reddish nose told him it was a combination of the two, so he acquiesced. “Fine, wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Hutch refrained from smiling until his partner was out of view. He juggled the items he held into a more comfortable arrangement, and did smile sweetly when Starsky rejoined him. He noticed that Starsky also held several items not on the list. Cough syrup, throat lozenges and a package of 24-hour cold pills. “Got ’em. One for my house.” Starsky placed a large tube of K-Y jelly on the top of Hutch’s bundles. “And one for yours. Let’s check out.”

Hutch wanted to speak but sneezed instead, so he simply followed his partner to the registers.

By the time they reached the grocery store, Hutch’s sneezing and sniffling were reaching the point where it was becoming harder for him to deny that he had another cold. He fumbled in the glove box for some tissue but came up empty handed. “Where’s the tissues?”

“I think you used it all,” Starsky answered, taking a hand off the wheel to squeeze Hutch’s knee sympathetically. “You know, you’re sounding really sick now, babe. I think I should take you home, and I’ll go back out and finish the shopping myself.”

“Nuh uh. It’s not that bad, and it might just be allergies.” Hutch sniffled loudly and hoped he sounded convincing.

“Hutch–will you just one time admit when you’re sick? You said yourself back at the drug store that you didn’t feel good.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m sick.”

Starsky rolled his eyes while removing his hand from Hutch’s knee to place it on his forehead. Heat radiated back to his palm. “Okay, smart guy, does a fever mean you’re sick? You’re really hot.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“Well, your hand isn’t a thermometer. I want to go to the grocery store with you; you’ll never remember all the stuff I want.”

“You wrote it all down.”

“Not everything. I just wrote vegetables, not what kind.”

Starsky decided that his best course of action was to simply take them to the store, do the shopping and then get Hutch home with a minimum of fuss. “Okay, I’ll take you to the store so you can pick out all the fresh vegetables you want, that you won’t eat because you’re sick, and you never eat anything that I don’t shove down your mouth when you’re sick.”

Hating to have the truth tossed in his face, Hutch tried to maintain some dignity while he ignored the comment. Two minutes later, Starsky pulled into an open slot near the front of the store and hopped out. Hutch joined him and together they found a cart. Clearing his throat, Hutch looked around, trying to decide where to start. “Maybe we should get two carts so we can keep the stuff for my place separate when they bag it?”

“I doubt that we’re going to your place today, partner. Let’s just throw it all in one cart and later on I’ll sort it out for when we go back to your apartment.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“I’m changing the plan. Now shut up, and let’s get this done. I want to get you home.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Oh, yeah, sure you’re not. Let’s just go buy vegetables, okay?”

“Okay.”

In the produce aisle, Hutch made a few choices, but it was Starsky who really filled the cart with fresh carrots, onions, potatoes and garlic.

“You want all that stuff at your house?” Hutch’s voice was positively husky now.

“Yep. I think I’ll make a pot of my aunt’s chicken soup later on.”

“Today? How are we going to have time for that?”

“I think we will. Now, do you have everything you want here?”

“Guess so.”

“Moving on, then.”

They continued down the aisles, Hutch adding almost nothing to the cart, while Starsky found most of the selections from their lists. He added a plump whole chicken and some extra orange juice before they were done, and headed for the long check-out line. Hutch slumped against the cart, no longer trying to muffle his sneezes. Starsky noticed the other people in line with them moving as far from Hutch as they could, and he hid his grin behind the magazine he was glancing through.

“You’re still sure you’re not sick, Hutch?”

Hutch ignored him as they were finally rung up. The clerk glanced at Hutch sympathetically as she processed their items. “That sounds like a real bad cold you have there, sir. I hope you feel better soon.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You’re not?” The girl looked confused.

“No,” Starsky sang out. “He’s just faking it for sympathy.”

Starsky yelped when he felt the kick Hutch delivered to his shin, and the clerk looked from one face to the other, apparently deciding to stop talking while she finished with their groceries.

Once back at the car, Hutch made a half-hearted attempt to help unload the cart, but Starsky pushed him into the passenger seat unceremoniously. “Just sit there and enjoy not being sick.” He finished the unloading on his own, got inside and started the engine.

“Okay, we’re done.”

“What about the dry cleaner?”

“We’re done. I didn’t even know my jacket was there, and you own at least ten other jackets so it can wait for our next day off.”

“But.…”

“No buts, we’re done. I wanna go home.” Starsky was in full take-charge mode now, and he noticed that Hutch didn’t continue arguing.

Thirty minutes later, they were back at Starsky’s place with all their purchases cluttering his kitchen table and counters. Hutch began searching through the bags.

“Whatcha looking for?” Starsky asked while putting the perishable food in the refrigerator.

“Tissue. Did we buy tissue?” Hutch’s eyes were almost puppy-dog helpless, and Starsky gathered the long body up for a hug.

“Yes, we bought tissue. We bought everything we need for me to take care of you, so how about you quit being so stubborn and let me?”

Hutch sighed as Starsky began to rub his back. “Starsk?” He spoke against a shoulder.

“Yeah?” Starsky continued his rubbing.

“I think I’m sick.”

“You don’t say?” Both men laughed, although the laughter turned into a coughing jag for Hutch. Starsky released him, swatted his rear and started walking them both to the bedroom. “How about you lay down and get some rest, while I finish putting the groceries away?” He sat Hutch on the edge of the bed and then got to his knees to pull his shoes and socks off.

“Okay, I am tired.” Hutch pulled off his shirt, while Starsky pulled him back to his feet in order to lower the covers and fluff the pillows. He was starting back to the kitchen when Hutch called after him. “Hey, Starsk? Are you really going to make me home-made chicken soup?”

Starsky smiled. “Bet your ass, Blondie, with noodles even. Go to sleep, I’ll be back in once I get done in the kitchen.”

Hutch took off his jeans and slid between the sheets. “Will you bring me orange juice when you come back?”

“Yep.”

“And maybe some of that cough syrup you picked up?”

“Yep.”

“What about…?”

“Hey, babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna bring you everything you need, now go to sleep.”

“Oh.”

Starsky watched for a moment as Hutch settled himself against the pillows. He couldn’t quite make out what he was saying as he drifted off, but it sounded something like “I love you.” He smiled again, before closing the door and thinking about how much garlic to add to chicken soup.

 

 

Words Made Flesh
jat sapphire

Art by Shar

 

 

“Children show scars like medals.
Lovers use them as secrets to reveal.
A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”
–Leonard Cohen

 

 

Sometimes they did sleep apart.

Today–stretching into tonight–they’d been at a stake-out where they had been too close to ignore each other, too focused on the watch and the boredom to talk, after a while, and too on-duty to fool around. It was an irksome combination, and they’d agreed they could use space and quiet tonight.

They hadn’t even seen the suspect clearly enough for a court ID.

Never mind, Hutch told himself. Nothing to worry about. Their relief would see him, or they’d see him tomorrow. He wouldn’t get away.

And meanwhile he needed to sleep, run tomorrow morning, have a good breakfast, so he wouldn’t snap Starsky’s head off for nothing at all.

He lay in bed, not checking off item number one on his list. Looking up at dim smudges of headlights sliding along, refracted from street to windows to walls to ceiling. Missing the warmth of his partner even as he felt relieved to not have to deal with him every single minute of the day. Yesterday, really, he corrected himself. The red numbers on his alarm clock read 12:07.

He rubbed his palm against his bare hip, knowing how he could get to sleep but weirdly reluctant.

Hell with it. What was he waiting for? It was even money that if Hutch asked Starsky tomorrow, he’d say he had jerked off, too.

Hutch started slow. This was the hand he’d burned, years back, and the skin bore a faint dark tattoo over his palm and onto his fingers…and a shallow starburst of scar lines, though Starsky said he couldn’t feel them. That bothered Hutch in ways he couldn’t speak of, had no words for.

Now he let the ridged skin abrade him as he reached down his own leg to find where the lines were like stretch marks, all that was visibly left of the surgery he’d had after being pinned under his car. He sometimes stood in the shower and traced those marks, looked at their rosy tracks like letters in an alphabet no one could read. If he concentrated, he could tell where the screws were that held his bone together. There. And there. He brushed his fingertips back and forth and around, tickling lightly, fixing the image in his mind as he stroked his cock with the other hand and felt it begin to fill.

Good…good. He breathed deeply, listened to the work of his lungs. No other breathing. Faint traffic noises. Wind from the ocean.

On his forearm, on the inside near the wrist’s soft hollow and twisting around, was the seam of the cut he’d gotten in the hospital garage while Starsky lay in Intensive Care. On the other arm was where Diana had stabbed so fiercely and so uselessly, a thick outline along his biceps. Here on his chest, the faint pucker and ridge of the bullet scar near his heart, so near. Starsky had kissed him there once, when they’d been talking about scars. Briefly, gently, not as if he really needed to.

At times like this, Hutch thought that he could still feel the tiny indentations where the stitches had been. They weren’t visible–he’d checked in the bathroom mirror. He could see the splayed damage of the entry wound and the neat line of the surgical incision, silvery pink that flushed redder than his other skin under hot water. It seemed more sensitive, too, though he knew that it literally had fewer nerves. He liked to look at it.

Back and forth, end to end, he stroked the mark of his danger and the doctors’ care. He thought of Starsky’s scars–more, larger, rougher, newer. Those marks Hutch fingered, pressed his palms over, smoothed and kissed, licked and rubbed his own against as they spooned naked to sleep.

He held in his mind the regrown hair over the entry scars on Starsky’s chest, the new directions it grew, the way its texture differed. Softer? Or just shorter? Hutch couldn’t tell exactly, though he focused hard on it, tried to recreate the sensations as he stroked, pumped, tickled himself…and here was the oldest, most precious scar, his circumcision…. Starsky’s tasted different from the rest of his cock, Hutch swore. He could feel it in his mouth. He could feel Starsky under his hands, against his body, skin, hair, scent, taste–

—Scars—

He jolted, felt the spurts of semen leave him, spatter, dribble down onto his hand. His eyes were screwed so tightly shut that yellow spangles and shapes swam there, and then he relaxed all at once, sighing.

He couldn’t make Starsky understand. They’d talked enough about the scars–Hutch had said over and over that they were fine, they were beautiful, they symbolized his partner’s survival, his bravery, everything Hutch loved most about him. And Starsky thought he was being humored, a kind of medicinal praise. He didn’t get it.

Hutch loved the scars. They spoke to him, said “life” and “love” and “sex.” They turned him on.

He thought, only a little facetiously, if Starsky hadn’t had any, now that might have been a problem.

 

 

Personal Space
by Sarah Problem

Art by Shar

 

 

Quietly shutting the door to his apartment, even though there was no one there to hear it, Starsky stood and looked around in the dim glow a single kitchen light threw across the room. They had worked late, and now the silence of his dark apartment after the noise and brightness of the station made the place seem almost museum-like. Artificial, as if this were a display of someone’s home rather than a real one.

Wish Hutch had come here with me tonight. It just doesn’t feel the same anymore.

He smiled to himself as he went through the rooms, turning on lights to make it feel more lived in. He glanced through his neglected mail, throwing the bills in one corner to wait for the morning, when he had a better head for figures. He had watered his plants that morning, so knew they should be all right.

He made a trip to the television, turning it on and grabbing for the schedule guide to see if anything was on. He found he really wasn’t interested in watching anything specific, so decided to just leave it on the same channel. The house still felt empty. It didn’t used to feel that way.

Guess having my own space isn’t as much fun as it used to be.

Through the years, he regularly turned down offers from various ladies to move in to his place and play house, or vice versa. Of all the “in” things to do, shacking up had never been one that Starsky had particularly been drawn to. Oh, in the first blush of lust in any relationship it would be great. Sex anywhere and anytime you both felt like it, no dressing up or counting your cash to see if you could afford a night out to do some courting sounded wonderful. Starsky knew himself better than to think that sharing his personal space with someone wouldn’t get on his nerves.

“You are what you own.” That was it on the streets I ran. The possessions you had, the money you could flash and the people you could boss around told everyone how “important” you were. Guess I picked up that habit somewhere, the part of the street that said you kept the good stuff for yourself. You shared something and it was apt to disappear on you.

Except for Terry. He and Terry had talked about moving in together a few times, before she was shot. Part of him had always been relieved that she had seemed to need her own space as much as he needed his. For them, it would have taken marriage to get them into the same building. They had both played it safe, despite their feelings for each other.

Always protect what’s yours.

Except when it comes to Hutch.

Starsky felt the room grow a little warmer, a little cozier.

Isn’t he always the exception?

He walked through the living room, looking at all his possessions. They were only a fraction of the things he had purchased through the years. Like anyone else, there had been things he thought he liked but later found he really didn’t care for. Those were sold or given away. What was left were the things he truly treasured, and it warmed him to see that many of them had actually been gifts. More than a few weren’t even his to begin with, he just treated them like they were.

I don’t think I ever realized how much of Hutch’s stuff is here.

And there was quite a bit of Hutch around, even when he wasn’t physically there. When Hutch had moved back into his own apartment after living with him during his rehabilitation, he had thought that most of those wayward things would have found their way home. Yet here were quite a few of Hutch’s books and magazines on the table and the bookstand. A drawing pad with some colored chalk thrown over in the corner kept Starsky’s own hobby supplies company. He knew there were extra sets of clothing, shoes, and toiletries in the bedroom and bathroom, as well as Hutch’s favorite snacks in the cupboards and his records mixed in the record holder with Starsky’s own. A mixture of his stuff and Hutch’s, just like it had been for ages.

Funny how all his stuff was here even before I got shot. If you’d seen this place before, and could tell the difference between his stuff and mine, you wouldn’t see any new signs that we’re now lovers. He’s always been here in one way or another.

Deciding he wasn’t hungry, or thirsty, he turned off the television. What he really needed was a hot shower and some rest. He knew he needed to wind down before he could sleep, and staying up and watching TV wasn’t going to help. Maybe tonight he should read something and hope to pass out when he wasn’t paying any attention.

He checked the front door and went around turning off all the lights he had just turned on. On the way through the front room, he found himself listening again to the quiet.

When did it go from being peaceful to being empty?

He turned on the bedroom radio, leaving the bathroom door open so he could listen to the music as he showered. He could pretend he wasn’t alone for that long.

Soon he was slipping into bed, turning off the radio and adjusting the lamp as he picked up his latest book. He smiled as he realized it was one he’d borrowed from Hutch. Not something he’d usually read on his own, but when Hutch got so enthused over something, Starsky felt he needed to give it a try.

Trying to read, the minutes passed slowly, and he found he couldn’t concentrate. He had an odd thought or two about calling Hutch, just to talk.

I’m going to see him in a few hours. And what would I say? He could already be asleep.

Giving up and returning the book to its place on the nightstand, he turned off the lamp and tried to settle in to sleep.

Curled up in his favorite position, he smiled to himself as he realized that his “favorite” position had changed from sprawling over the center of the mattress to curling up on “his” side of the bed. He reached behind him and grabbed Hutch’s pillow, wrapping his arms around it, glad that he could still smell Hutch’s scent in the linen.

I guess my personal space just isn’t what it used to be. It’s taken me a few years to realize that it isn’t what I have, but who I share it with. It’s just not the same if you can’t share it with the one you love.

Maybe…someday…we can play house for real.

One big houseful of us.

 

 

Hutch found himself sighing tiredly as he gave the greenhouse a quick check before turning in. It had been a long day and he was tired. It was mostly a good tired, the kind you got when a case ended well, but there was still all the left-over baggage that went with it. Almost an anti-climax, in fact, when you knew that no matter what happened to the bad guys, that it couldn’t begin to make it up to the victims.

How many cases do we have like that, where even if we get the best results possible we still have the nasty, ugly details follow us around for days afterwards?

He had just wanted to go home. By himself. They hadn’t even had to talk it over; it had just been a given that they both needed some personal space. Some down time.

Even though it was what he wanted, Venice Place had sounded too empty when he had walked in. He had put on a record and hadn’t even realized until he had showered and put on his robe that it was one of Starsky’s. He smiled.

Here, even when you’re not here, right, babe?

He thumbed through the mail he had thrown on his desk. Some advertisements, mostly bills. He felt a faint childlike pang of sorrow that there wasn’t a card or a letter in the pile. There hardly ever was anymore. Of course, he knew it probably was his fault, not sending out many letters or cards himself.

What goes around comes around. If I don’t work to keep in touch with old friends and family, I can hardly cry about being forgotten, now can I?

He decided to sit down and pay the bills. He liked to get them done as soon as possible, even if he wasn’t inclined to mail them right away. There had been times when he had needed emergency money and had been grateful that he hadn’t sent his payments out early. In their line of work, you never knew when you’d have to empty the bank account and make for the hills.

A sudden memory pulled its way to the front of his thoughts.

Heading for the border of Mexico if we couldn’t prove who really killed Vanessa. Man, what were we thinking? We could never have lived like that.

Unless we had to.

His memories of that time were almost hidden in a fog of conflicting emotions. There had been Van’s reappearance and his realization that what they had been to each other was truly dead and buried. That was soon followed by the horror and shock of finding her dead. Then there was his fear and worry about dragging Starsky down with him. He should have stopped Starsky when he realized they were escaping into an uncertain future.

As if I could have stopped you. You would have had me out of the country in a heartbeat if you thought it was the best thing for me. To hell with what it’d do to your life.

As he looked at the bills and wrote checks, he found himself comparing the way Starsky had treated him as a friend and partner and how Vanessa had treated him as a husband. There had been rough times with each, times when arguments were his fault and not theirs.

Starsky is always ready to forgive me anything, even if I don’t ask for it. Van never let anything go. That woman could take an argument with her to the grave.

He winced at the thought. He still would never have wished her the ending she had found. Still, he realized he hardly thought of her anymore. She was a part of his past that seemed content to remain in the past.

He suddenly remembered what it had been like when she had left him at the end of their marriage. She had left him on a moment’s notice, and although they hadn’t had much, she had taken it all. He had barely had his clothing, toiletries and a few pots and pans by the time her paid movers had finished the job, just hours before he came home to find her gone, their house empty and his bank accounts barren. And yet, there hadn’t been any real possessions of his that had gone missing but the money. He had never realized until this moment how little of him had been allowed into her personal space to begin with. He now saw that he had lived with her, and that he had always been with her on her terms.

He paused, looking at the corner of his desk, where Starsky had placed a box of his family pictures he had planned to go through and finally mount someday. There was his basketball and a worn pair of sneakers over in the corner. As the music from Starsky’s album filled the room, Hutch took a look around, silently counting the items that were Starsky’s. He chuckled to himself, feeling less alone.

And here I swore after Van left, that my space was going to be my space, and that I’d never let someone take over my life like that again. Little did I know how someone was going to creep into my life, and my home, inch by inch. Even now it’s more our place than the house Van and I lived in.

Stacking the filled envelopes carefully on the center of his desk, he got up to lock the door. Passing the phone he had a strong urge to pick it up and call Starsky, just to hear his voice.

It’s late. He’s probably asleep by now. You’ve got all day tomorrow to talk to him.

He walked away from the phone and locked the door, shedding his robe as he turned off the main light and turned on the bedside lamp. He checked the alarm before pulling back the cover.

There was Starsky’s pillow, on “his” side of the bed. Hutch gave it a fond pat as he slid under the sheets and turned off the light.

Maybe someday, there won’t be any “his” and “mine” to worry about, or sort through. Maybe I’ll just turn around someday and find he’s taken over the apartment, and me along with it.

Not that I’d mind….

 

 

A Touch of Class
by Candy Apple

Art by Shar

 

 

Stifling a yawn, Starsky wearily pushed the grocery cart down the first of many aisles. Hutch was tied up in court testifying in a case he’d worked with Flores, so Starsky found himself spending a day off by himself–a notion that didn’t sit well with him at all. The last several days had been real back-breakers: double shifts, backed up paperwork and questions from Internal Affairs about a police brutality charge against another pair of detectives. Fortunately, it wasn’t them, but it was a pair of guys they really didn’t believe were the types to unjustly beat suspects, which made it nearly as stressful. Cops had enough problems keeping control on the streets without good cops being forced to soft-soap belligerent suspects.

Despite all that, he’d decided that moping around the apartment wasn’t doing him any good, and set about doing some of the mundane housekeeping tasks they both let slide as long as possible.

His apartment was clean, and after he’d unloaded his groceries, he planned to head over to Hutch’s place and do a little tidying up there as well. After all, they each contributed to both apartments’ messes and clutter. The Torino was overdue for an oil change, and he suspected that blue bucket of Hutch’s was probably about ready to drive itself to the nearest service station to get a change. Some day off–got more to do today than I do at work, Starsky thought dismally, pulling the rumpled shopping list out of his pocket.

The liquor aisle was actually the first one in the store, closest to the counter that sold cigarettes, lottery tickets and handled customer service. He loaded two six–packs in the cart, then paused to add a decent bottle of wine, and headed for the snack aisle, where he stocked up on a number of items he planned to leave at Hutch’s place. He could count on his own apartment to be stocked with staples like chips, dip, cheese corn and cheese curls, but Hutch’s place could be like a vast wasteland of wheat germ and decimated livers or whatever the hell that stuff was Hutch mixed up in the blender.

Satisfied he was safe from resorting to eating bean sprouts for his next movie snack at his partner’s place, he progressed to the cereal aisle. Consulting the list, he smiled. Coconut Stripes. Hutch’s walk on the cereal wild side. Wheat squares with some sort of white sticky stuff holding some fake coconut on them. Actually, Starsky thought they tasted like dry dog biscuits with little strips of icing. The box they came in was small, so he put two in the cart. Hutch was probably out of them at his place, too. Granola. Starsky stared at the list. That’s specific. Frustrated and thinking everything in the aisle, with the exception of the Frankenberry, looked alike, he grabbed a box of Grape-nuts and tossed them in the cart. Backing up, he added a box of Frankenberry. Need breakfast food at Hutch’s place that tastes better than the box it comes in.

The basics of canned goods and coffee and paper products were all fairly simple buying choices–just get two sets of everything. The cart was nearly full by the time he approached the meat and poultry section. He avoided doing any mental calculations. He’d have to make Hutch buy lunch for the next two weeks to make up for his half of the groceries.

He selected a few meat and chicken items, though knew better than to stock up on much. Their schedules changed fast enough that involved meal preparation could get pre-empted at a moment’s notice. He spent what he considered a perverse amount of time in the produce aisle, stocking up on fruit and vegetables after listening to his partner’s vocal bitching about how little he had on hand. Carrots, celery, lettuce, cucumbers, cauliflower, broccoli, and cabbage all went into the overburdened cart. Feels like I’m sleeping with a rabbit…in more ways than one, Starsky thought, grinning wickedly. On that happy note, he grabbed a couple onions, some fresh mushrooms, tomatoes and green peppers, since he planned on dazzling Hutch with his pizza-making ability. He’d done it with canned ingredients before, but nature boy would really be impressed with fresh stuff.

Stopping by the dreaded health food section, he dug in his pocket again and pulled out the list in Hutch’s handwriting. Knowing Starsky was planning a supply run, his partner had helpfully made a list of all the toad’s feet, eyes of newt, butterfly bones, vitamins and other bizarre items that were staples of his health regimen. Wincing at the prices on each of the packages, Starsky dutifully filled in all the little crevices in the stuffed cart with Hutch’s supplies. Sighing, he started putting two of many of the items into the cart, realizing that Hutch often woke up at his place and didn’t have what he needed to brew whatever evil potion he felt he needed to meet his daily requirement of nutrients.

Laboriously pushing the weighty cart toward the check-out, he stopped by the small display of plants. They were nothing fancy, just a couple ferns, a few African violets and a rather stalwart, somewhat menacing-looking little creature called a “Tiger Tail.” Starsky picked up the small plant and evaluated its odd, stiff, pointed foliage that grew straight up out of the soil. Edged with yellow, the center sections of the leaves were stripes of a medium and dark green. Hutch definitely didn’t have one of these critters growing anywhere. Starsky decided it was the single coolest plant he’d ever seen, and tucked the pot carefully between two rolls of paper towels.

Checkbook at the ready, he waited with great trepidation for the young woman behind the cash register to announce a total. What she came up with was over twice his usual bill. Reeling, he filled in the check, signed it, and after surrendering all of his worldly wealth, headed out to the Torino to load it with his treasures.

The rest of the day was spent tending to the two cars. He’d made the trip to the courthouse and swapped the Torino for Hutch’s big old blueberry on wheels, which he’d taken over to Merle for a tune-up under his personal supervision to ensure that no customizing occurred. He did, however, buy from Merle a pair of white fuzzy dice for the rearview mirror just to confound Hutch.

With the cars taken care of and the groceries purchased, that only left cleaning Hutch’s apartment. After dropping Hutch’s car back off at the courthouse, where his blond other half was obviously still entangled, he returned to his apartment, packed up all the items that had to go to Venice Place, and drove over to finish his to-do list with the final cleaning project.

It was a warm day, and by the time he trudged up Hutch’s steps, he was feeling a little winded. His stomach growled ominously, and he ferreted through the bags of groceries he’d brought with him until he found the salami. Hutch never had any salami on hand. He made himself a sandwich and found Hutch had a couple cold beers left in the refrigerator. Taking one of those, he sat on the couch with his food and ate hungrily, chasing it with the beer and enjoyed the air conditioning that was such a welcome change from the driveway in front of his place where he’d done the oil changes, or Merle’s garage, where he’d hung around for the tune-up on Hutch’s bucket.

His body protested the movement when he got up to carry his plate to the sink, and he tried to flex his muscles to alleviate the feeling of tightness and fatigue. He’d put all the perishables away as soon as he arrived, and one of the six–packs was chilling in the refrigerator. Hutch’s place didn’t look too messy, so maybe he could spare time for a quick rest before launching his final project of the day. Pulling off his shirt, he relished the feeling of the cool air against his skin. Deciding he’d like more of the same, he slid out of the jeans as well. Leaving shoes, socks, jeans and shirt in a pile near the couch, Starsky stretched out, clad only in his briefs, and closed his eyes. Gettin’ old, Starsky. Or maybe you’re like a car that’s been in a bad wreck–you don’t run as smoothly as long as you used to after all that repair work. Too bad Merle doesn’t do human body work as well, Starsky thought, snorting a little laugh to himself.

 

 

“Classy, Hutch,” Flores needled as the two men got into Hutch’s car and spotted the pair of fuzzy dice.

“Starsky must’ve taken it in to Merle’s for me,” Hutch said, smiling as he poked at the dice with his finger, making them sway slowly. “Nut,” he said quietly, laughing.

“Starsky takes your car in for you? Man, I have to do some fancy sweet-talking to get my wife to take my car in for me.” Flores laughed and shook his head.

“We were supposed to do something today but then they moved the court date, so Starsky was stuck with a day off and nothing to do. I guess he decided to get the cars serviced,” Hutch said, and as he pulled out into traffic, he realized he was sounding like a married man discussing a shared life–not a cop talking about his partner and best buddy. Deciding that backpedaling would be more obvious, he said nothing more.

“You wanna grab something to eat? Carolyn’s having dinner with a girlfriend who’s in town overnight, and Alicia’s at her grandma’s.”

“Thanks, but I promised Starsky I’d be home right after court,” Hutch said. Shit, Hutchinson, that sounded like Starsky’s the little woman, waiting at home in his pinafore with a hot meal on the table.

“Guess you owe him dinner after the car thing, anyway,” Flores responded. If he’d found Hutch’s statement odd, he didn’t show it. But then, he’s got a great face for undercover work–can veil his reactions at a moment’s notice, Hutch reasoned silently.

After dropping Flores off at his car, which was parked at headquarters, Hutch finally made the trip to Venice Place. Starsky had agreed to meet him there so they could decide what to do about dinner–to go out, stay in, or devour each other instead. Hutch felt a stirring beneath his tan dress slacks as he contemplated the latter of those three choices.

Bounding up the steps, ready to release the pent-up energy of hours spent sitting on his ass in a stuffy court room, Hutch flung open his door and strode through it, expecting to see Starsky watching TV or munching something out of the cupboards, impatiently watching the clock for Hutch’s arrival. Instead, he heard the soft hum of the air conditioner…and the steady rhythm of Starsky’s trademark deep-sleep snore. It was a nice, even snore that wasn’t too loud and didn’t really raise you off the bed in the middle of the night with snorts. Just a steady sound that meant Starsky was sleeping peacefully and deeply.

At six o’clock, in the living room.

Hutch moved over toward the couch, and smiled at the sight. Starsky was sprawled on his back, one leg hanging off the couch, wearing nothing but his briefs. The dark lashes barely fluttered now as the snoring was a little interrupted, but Hutch remained silent until the disturbance passed and after a twitch of his nose, Starsky resumed snoring.

Leaving Sleeping Beauty to his rest, Hutch stealthily moved into the kitchen and noticed the new member of the family sitting on the table. The little tiger tail plant needed water, so he tended to its needs and decided he’d find a good place in the greenhouse for it as soon as he’d had time to grab some dinner and relax a little. That Starsky had not only done all the grocery shopping but also brought him a present from the store, spread a nice warmth around his heart.

Next, he poked around in the grocery bags near the plant. Chips, cheese corn, Frankenberry…Frankenberry?? Hutch pulled the children’s cereal out of the bag and looked at the pink cartoon Frankenstein-like character on the front of the box. Only Starsky…he thought, laughing and moving to the refrigerator to see what else had taken up residence there. He was surprised to find a nice array of vegetables, along with a pair of very nice steaks that were on the top shelf–next to the large roll of salami. He suspected his winded partner had planned on fixing the steaks for dinner. The salami had already been significantly violated. On the counter were fresh bananas and all the vitamins and other supplies Hutch had requested from the store.

As he gratefully shrugged out of his sport coat and discarded his tie, he started piecing Starsky’s schedule together. Knowing his partner, he’d cleaned up his apartment first, then gone to the store, then done the oil changes and probably hauled Hutch’s car to Merle’s. Starsky continually insisted every car Hutch drove needed tuning up, whether it actually did or not. Hutch’s car engines never ran to Starsky’s satisfaction, so he was forever insisting they were in need of service.

No wonder you’re tired, babe. Full day, and it’s over ninety degrees out there. And we were both wiped out yesterday. Guess that plan for spending the day in the sack wasn’t so much fun alone, Hutch thought affectionately as he walked into the bathroom. He shed the last of his clothes and started the shower. Footsteps behind him made him spin around, only to see Starsky standing there, rubbing at his eyes, looking like a bewildered child just awakened from a long nap.

“What time is it?” he asked, squinting at his watch.

“About six-fifteen, buddy. You were out cold when I got here,” Hutch said, smiling. Then he moved forward and pulled the warm, pliant body into his arms for a long hug. “Missed you today.”

“Missed you, too, Blondie,” Starsky managed, just before a huge yawn stole his voice.

“Wanna grab a shower?” Hutch asked.

“Sure, why not?” Starsky stepped in with Hutch and happily relinquished bathing duties to his partner. Hutch soaped and smoothed and caressed and scrubbed, and Starsky basked in the pampering, groaning appreciatively as Hutch’s hands worked at loosening up tight muscles. He had to chuckle a little as Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch’s body and snuggled in for a hug, which, of course, put Hutch in the perfect position to give him a long, leisurely back rub under the spray of water.

“Hedonist,” Hutch teased, kissing Starsky’s temple and giving in to the ploy.

“You just want me relaxed so you can have your wicked way with me,” Starsky mumbled against Hutch’s shoulder, stifling a yawn.

“If you were any more relaxed, you’d be dead.”

“Not quite, babe,” Starsky corrected, his hand sliding down and wrapping around Hutch’s semi-erect cock. “Somebody’s tired of bein’ by himself all day.” Starsky kissed Hutch’s neck, then began trailing his lips up the long throat until their mouths met and joined, long and deep, before parting again. “I’m wakin’ up now,” Starsky said, grinning.

“You’ve been doing all the work today, babe. How about I take you to bed and do a little work on you?”

“I’m all yours, Blondie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hutch said, his response serious in the face of Starsky’s light-hearted retort. He framed his lover’s face with wet hands. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

“Second luckiest, after me,” Starsky responded, turning to kiss the palm of one of the hands near his face.

“Should we call it a tie?”

“Works for me.” Starsky smiled brightly, winding his arms around Hutch again, bringing his hands to rest on the wet buttocks. He squeezed gently. “Let’s get outta here.”

After drying off, they moved to the bedroom, tugging the covers off with little concern for where they landed, and climbed onto the bed together, kissing eagerly, hands roaming and caressing. Hutch moved in close to Starsky’s ear.

“I need another mouth,” he gasped hotly against it, “for all the places I wanna lick you.” He smiled at the answering groan from the man pinned beneath him. “Just lie there and enjoy yourself, beautiful man.”

He began his leisurely journey down the sturdy, hair-dusted body beneath him with little kisses to chin, throat and collarbone, then dragged his tongue in a wet path to the left nipple, pulling it into his mouth and sucking hard enough to draw a gasp, but gently enough not to bruise. Starsky’s hands were in Hutch’s hair now, and as Hutch moved to torment the second nipple, he smiled at his partner’s ongoing obsession with his hair. Starsky with his thick, dense, silky curls was convinced Hutch’s hair was the most incredible thing on earth. Truth be told, Starsky’s open adoration made him feel like the most exceptional creature in the world, and Starsky’s opinion was increasingly the only one that mattered.

He followed the path of hair from chest to belly, pausing to tease Starsky’s navel with his tongue, sliding his hands beneath the warm, firm buttocks and massaging them.

“Hutch…oh, babe….” Starsky’s hands were out of his hair, and he knew that meant they were either gripping the sheets or the headboard. He spared a glance to find out, and saw a white-knuckled hand nearby holding a section of sheet hostage. I’ll get you to grab the headboard yet, babe. That’s when you really go crazy. He felt his own cock grow harder at the thought.

Moving down, he pushed Starsky’s thighs up and apart, a motion eagerly assisted by the man himself, who gave up on the sheets to hold onto his knees. With all of Starsky’s sensitive regions exposed, Hutch evaluated his options. He hadn’t been lying to Starsky when he said he needed two mouths; he wanted to suck him off until he came screaming, and yet he wanted to tease and torment his center until he begged for something more. Wanting their lovemaking to last a while, he chose the second option, hearing a blatant groan of frustration when he bypassed the rigid cock and moved lower, lapping and sucking at the heavy balls before moving still lower, letting the tip of his tongue dance on the smooth skin of Starsky’s perineum.

“You’re all mine, remember, babe?” Hutch said, looking up at Starsky from between the raised thighs. Starsky’s response was to drop his head back on the pillow with a groan, thrusting upward. As Hutch’s tongue found its target, he wrapped one hand around Starsky’s cock and began pumping.

“Aw, God, Hutch…ugh…” began a litany of expressive groans and gasps of pleasure as Hutch pumped the eager shaft and took ownership of the small opening with his tongue, teasing and probing until he knew Starsky was on the very edge of coming. Then he moved his mouth and his hand and engulfed Starsky’s cock in one fluid motion, sucking him in earnest, feeling the weight of the heavy legs go over his shoulders.

Bull’s-eye! He can’t hold his knees anymore because he’s grabbing the headboard! Gotcha.

The scream was guttural and primal when it emerged as Starsky came in convulsive spurts as Hutch drank him down, stilling the thrusting hips slightly with his hands. Hutch was painfully hard by now, and he knew how he wanted to finish this. He waited for Starsky to catch his breath, until he’d relinquished his grip on the brass headboard and his arms had flopped lifelessly onto the pillows, hands resting palms up. Hutch carefully moved away enough to lower Starsky’s legs to the bed, and moved up to stretch out beside him, watching him recover.

“You need to take care’a business, babe,” Starsky observed languidly, running his hand down Hutch’s stomach until he brushed over the rigid erection. “Which way do you want it?” he asked, venturing a light stroke that dragged a low moan out of Hutch.

“Inside you,” Hutch responded immediately, leaning over to kiss Starsky’s temple. “All around you.” Starsky smiled at that, patting Hutch’s thigh before turning over on his side and drawing up one knee.

Hutch fumbled in the nightstand until he found the tube of gel he was seeking, then set about the task of preparing his lover. Starsky was so relaxed now that he needed very little of the preliminaries, and Hutch was too close to wait much longer. He coated himself and eased into the slick heat, gently moving forward until he was fully sheathed. He reached around Starsky and found his hand, lacing their fingers together, curling his body protectively around Starsky’s in a sheltering embrace.

They lay that way a few moments before Hutch began moving slowly at first, then building tempo as his body demanded satisfaction. Releasing Starsky’s hand, Hutch reached down and found another erection building there. He kissed Starsky’s neck, his shoulder, his ear, anything his mouth could easily reach while their bodies were joined. He concentrated his strokes to stimulate Starsky’s prostate, and was rewarded by an almost continuous groan of pleasure and the cock in his hand coming to full hardness.

Hutch’s own climax was earth-shaking and soul-shattering. He pulsed into Starsky, sucking soft flesh into his mouth, leaving a bright passion mark on Starsky’s shoulder as he heard his lover crying out his own completion, the cock in his hand surging and emptying for the second time that night.

Spent and sated, they stayed wrapped together for long minutes, intermittently dozing or petting whatever skin they could reach.

“You wanna fix steaks and salads for dinner?” Starsky asked tiredly. Suddenly, Hutch realized that cooking sounded like a laborious way to get nourishment. Going out was out of the question–he didn’t plan for either of them to wear more than a bathrobe for the rest of their night off together. And not even that for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

“We could order a pizza. With everything on it.” Hutch kissed Starsky’s neck, and the other man chuckled.

“It was that good, huh?” Starsky said, wriggling his ass a little against Hutch’s sated groin. Hutch could, however, feel a telltale stirring that said the night definitely wasn’t over. Then he remembered why it had been so important to him to pleasure Starsky so fully earlier.

“You busted that gorgeous ass of yours all day, babe. Did all the dirty work. You oughtta get something in return for that.”

“Thought I just did,” Starsky sighed happily and rolled over, smiling and moving back into the circle of Hutch’s arms. “‘Case I didn’t tell you yet today, I love you, y’know.”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.” Hutch was quiet a moment, then smiled. “By the way, thanks for the dice.” Hutch knew Starsky would understand the implied gratitude for all the other things he’d done that rode on that one little phrase.

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t go for fur on the dash, and I had to let Merle think he was classin’ your car up a little.”

“Don’t need the dice for that.” Hutch moved in for a long kiss. “I’ve got you riding with me.” Hutch waited until the deep blue eyes met his. Eyes the color of which was almost captured by Merle’s indigo paint job. But not quite.

“You’re the one with all the class, Blondie. Knowin’ all the right wines to pick and what kinds of caviar are better. Me, I think I’m doin’ something classy when I buy the more expensive Chianti at the grocery store.” Starsky smiled at the statement, but there was a little undercurrent of self-consciousness in it.

“Hey.” Hutch nudged Starsky’s chin up with a gentle finger. “Anybody can learn how to pick wine, or tell the difference between caviars. Real class, the genuine article? That comes from inside. Let me tell you something, buddy. I’d rather have the bottle of Chianti and the tiger tail plant you brought home from the supermarket than all the caviar on Earth. You spent all day thinking about me, doing nice things for me. That’s as classy as it gets.”

“If I can get past thinkin’ about the fact I’m eating a lot of fish eggs, maybe you can teach me the caviar thing sometime. How much’a that stuff have you eaten, anyway, so you know it like that?”

“Jack Mitchell’s family had it every time they had a fancy party. I went to all their parties. I just remember that one year, Mrs. Mitchell almost had a stroke because they served the wrong type. The way she flew around that house like a balloon with the air let out of it was a great way to impress on me that what I was tasting wasn’t supposed to be good.” Hutch found himself chuckling at the memory. “All the Mitchells were outraged, so I had to pretend I was, too, or look like some sort of clod.”

“I don’t think anybody’d ever figure you for a clod.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Okay, so maybe when you run into patio doors, or trip over your feet–”

“I get the picture. Thanks, pal.”

“You really think I’m classy?” Starsky asked, dead serious. Hutch kissed the little crease between the dark brows.

“First class all the way, babe.”

Dinner was delayed until much later.

 

 

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