Special Feature Week

109

Missing and stand-alone scene snippets showcase.

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Love’s Vigil
by Candy Apple

A pre-slash snippet that takes place after “Sweet Revenge” and before the S&H Slash Virtual Season timeline

SHSVS Special Feature Week

 

 

Being a celebrity makes everything more complicated. In the three years since I dealt with Jerry Taybor’s twisted revenge plot, and wrestled with my conscience to convince myself that I wasn’t somehow responsible for those two innocent men he killed, my career skyrocketed. Ironic that it all really did get a kick-start in Pitsville, North Carolina, with a man who would eventually destroy himself over it. My friends and family have tried to convince me that a man like him would have destroyed himself over something else if it hadn’t been for that, but who knows? I mean, a guy gets stabbed in the throat in a bar fight over a song on a jukebox, and his career is over. If his career hadn’t been over, if he hadn’t lost his voice, if he hadn’t played my song over and over again…if, if, if…

I avoided playing anyplace in Bay City or its environs after that. For two whole tours, I ignored the Saddle Bar, which I’d always made it a point to visit at least once every time out before everything happened. I don’t know why I picked on Bay City; I’d been getting his phone calls all over the country. But no one died in those other towns.

I never forgot the two police detectives who put their all into helping me, into stopping a killer, and even into crossing over into my world. Ken Hutchinson would be one hell of a singer if the poor guy didn’t die of stage fright before getting the first note out of his mouth. When we decided to sing “Lovin’ Arms” that night at the Saddle Bar, I thought I noticed a little flash of something in his partner’s face–something like disappointment or…or…I don’t know. At the time, it reminded me of the look on my little sister’s face the day she found out I was dating a boy she liked. It looked like a little jealousy, a little hurt…a little like the way somebody looks when they just got left out of something real important.

His whole expression changed, so fast that I was never really sure if the look I saw was just my imagination, or if it had really been there. He was all excited then, encouraging Hutch, goading him into doing it. I didn’t realize that at all those police barbecues, Dave Starsky was usually sitting not two feet away from his partner, singing along. There’s another one who would have a nice voice, if he didn’t feel compelled to be such an over the top ham when he used it.

Oddly enough, in the last few years, it was Dave Starsky who often flashed into my mind. His smile, his polite chivalry, his impishness and his humor, the New York accent that colored his speech. He was one of the most alive people I’d ever met. He could be horribly annoying, but so endearingly enthusiastic that it was almost impossible to be as angry with him as you wanted to be. I always wanted to write Hutch and ask him what he did when he caught him, after they tore out of the bar that night, Starsky mumbling about putting a dime in the meter and running for his life, with Hutch in hot pursuit. Like a couple of silly kids fighting with each other. Cops who faced death by day and clowned around like children by night. Even in the brief time I spent with them, I could tell their friendship was what held them together. Their shared laughter and affection for each other made the job bearable.

So, when I finally came to grips with playing the Civic Arena in Bay City, I sent them front row tickets and backstage passes. Partly to thank them for their kindness and their concern during one of the worst times of my life, and partly because I wanted to see them again. I wanted to feel the warmth and the joy that seemed to radiate from that friendship one more time.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Bay City and found a message from Captain Dobey waiting at my hotel. Detective Starsky was in the hospital, in intensive care, fighting for his life after suffering multiple gunshot wounds. Well, Captain Dobey had said “recovering,” but when the rest of the message said that Detective Hutchinson was there almost around the clock, but thanked me for my thoughtfulness, I knew what it meant.

You don’t sit vigils around the clock for someone who’s recovering. It’s when they’re not recovering that you either wait minute by minute through a living hell of praying that they’ll pull through, or you simply sit a death watch, waiting in a sort of quiet agony for them to finally succumb, as you’ve known all along they would.

It couldn’t be true. Dave Starsky, with his impish grin and those impossibly blue eyes that held so much life and love and kindness in them–he simply couldn’t die. If he did, what would be left of the quiet, sensitive, musician-cop who was his partner?

Well, a simple little thing like visiting a sick friend isn’t simple when your last album just went double platinum. It becomes a carefully orchestrated operation, akin to a visit by the President of the United States. Security, limousine, overwrought manager on the alert for deranged fans… I should have just snuck out of the hotel, but then my luck with Bay City hasn’t been good in the past, and I’m not a lady who likes to tempt fate.

It was four in the afternoon when I approached the ICU. I finally told Cal and his band of human guard dogs to park themselves in a waiting room and let me go on my own. I told him most of the nurses looked relatively harmless, and I figured I could make the journey without my own version of the Secret Service tagging along.

There was a tall blond man at the nurses’ station, talking solemnly to one of the older women there–I guessed she was probably some kind of supervisor. I honestly had to do a double-take to recognize Ken Hutchinson. His hair was longer and he had a mustache now, but that wasn’t what threw me. Those handsome features were so battered by fatigue and fear and soul-deep pain that I honestly wouldn’t have known the man if I’d bumped into him on the street. I would have known, however, that he was a man in pain.

All of a sudden, he looked up. I guess my hovering near the opposite end of the counter finally got his attention. He looked at me blankly for a few seconds, as if he weren’t even capable of dealing with me or anyone else. For a minute there, I was sorry I’d come. It seemed like an intrusion on a very intimate, painful situation that had nothing to do with me. After all, I was one case out of how many hundred these men must have handled. The great Sue Ann Grainger was just one more crime victim, one more name on a file folder. The entire world was not in awe of me because of my big hit album. I’d always known that, but it was never driven home as poignantly as it was at that moment. What weighed on Ken Hutchinson’s mind–and heart–was so much bigger than fame or fortune or hit records, that it suddenly snapped life into perspective again. Love and life is what matters. Hit records are nice if you can get them, but they aren’t what life is made of. Having someone love you so much that your confinement to ICU ravages them that way–what greater gift can you have? Doesn’t matter how many people buy your records… I knew right then that Dave Starsky–who probably worried about bills and making ends meet on a cop’s salary–was richer than I’d ever been in my life. Richer for having someone ache for him this way.

“Sue Ann?” Ken managed a smile, and there was genuine surprise in his tone as he approached me and we exchanged a brief, friendly hug and peck on the cheek. I had the strongest inclination to hold onto him–he looked so much as if he needed someone else to be strong for him for a change. Instead, I let go, stepping back with a smile.

“Captain Dobey left a message at my hotel,” I said. “I wanted to stop by and see Dave, if he can have visitors. I wanted to have a chance to see you both while I was in town, and…oh, I’m so sorry about what happened,” I finally said, and for a moment, I thought he was going to cry, but he didn’t. He gave me another little smile and a nod.

“Starsky’d love to see you. He’ll be really excited to know you came here just to visit him,” Ken said, as if the man who had been riddled with some criminal’s bullets in the line of duty and lay near death should be honored by a visit from someone who’s biggest occupational perils are getting her hotel reservations lost or figuring out how to get around a crowd of adoring autograph-seekers. “Thanks for coming,” he added, as if his mind had needed the time to catch up, to figure out what was the polite thing to say.

“How is he?” How do you think? If he were doing well, would his partner look this devastated?

“We thought he was doing better–he, uh, went through a cardiac arrest the day after the shooting, and, uh…he pulled through that, but he was in a coma for a few days…” Hutch pushed his hair back, and I noticed his hand was shaking. His face was an odd color, almost gray-white. His eyes were exhausted. “He came around and he was doing better, but then the infection set in and his fever shot up…he’s in and out. More out than in right now.”

“I’m sorry. He’s strong, though. You can’t give up hope.”

“Yeah, he’s strong…but…he took three bullets. They tore him up pretty badly, and there’s just so much a body can–” He stopped talking and swallowed. I could see his eyes filling. It occurred to me then how alone he was. Ready to drop from fatigue, sick with worry…and alone.

“Does he have any family?”

“In New York. His mother knows he’s in the hospital, but she thinks he’s doing better. Before he got so sick with the fever, he made me promise not to worry her.” Ken sighed. “His father was shot and killed in the line of duty, and she’s already terribly upset about all this. But it would mean more to him to shield her from seeing him this way.”

“Have you slept recently? You won’t do him much good if you collapse yourself.”

“He needs me. He drifts in and out.” He paused. “Would you like to see him? I don’t know if he’ll know you’re here, but if he does…I know it will mean a lot to him.”

“You sure it would be okay?” I asked, flicking a quick glance at the nurses’ station.

“It’ll be fine. Come on.”

He took a light hold of my elbow and steered me down the hall toward the room. As soon as we were inside, the reality of what Dave had been through hit me like a ton of bricks. He was pale, but his cheeks were flushed with fever. Hospital machinery was everywhere. A monitor beeped in the background, keeping track of his heartbeat. His dark eyelashes fluttered a little as Ken approached the bed, and suddenly, I could understand why the exhausted man couldn’t bear to be out of this room. No matter how wracked with fever or close to death the man in the bed was, he was very aware of his partner’s presence. I watched the previously motionless fingers of the hand resting on the bed move slightly, and then saw why–Ken had moved close to the bed. He took a hold of the hand, closing it gently in his larger one.

“Starsk? Hey, buddy, you got a visitor,” he said softly, using his free hand to smooth the sweaty curls off Dave’s forehead. “Come on, babe. Open your eyes, huh? She’s worth lookin’ at, trust me,” Hutch teased affectionately. In a moment, the lashes fluttered again and Dave’s eyes opened, just to slits at first, then gradually all the way.

Opening his eyes was an effort. He was making the effort because of my visit. I felt a lump in my throat, and I felt honored. He might be dying, these might be some of their final minutes together, and they were trying to be the perfect hosts…just for me. Twenty thousand people in the Civic Arena that night would not make me feel so important.

“Remember me?” I asked, incredulous at how lame and useless and superficial the question sounded. You’re in unspeakable pain, you’re hovering near death, opening your eyes was an effort, but of course, you’ll remember the great Sue Ann Grainger. “Couldn’t visit Bay City without seeing a couple of my…” Was I really going to say “biggest fans?” I’m starting to believe my own press. “…my old friends,” I concluded.

One corner of Dave’s mouth twitched a little, and I knew he was trying to smile.

“Moonl…Moonlight…” He mumbled something else, but I couldn’t make it out.

“‘Moonlight’ is his favorite song off your new album,” Ken said, squeezing Dave’s hand. “But his all-time favorite is still ‘Lovin’ Arms’.”

“He sings it,” Dave managed, his eyes fixing on his partner now, somehow accomplishing the smile he couldn’t quite manage a moment ago. But looking at his partner, it seemed to just spread over his features, in spite of his weakness and his pain.

“Gettin’ warm again, pal?” Ken asked, testing a washcloth that was hanging over the bed rail to see if it was a good temperature. It must have satisfied him, because he used it to cool Dave’s face.

“Next time I come through Bay City, you two have front row seats for the show,” I said, clueless as to what else to say. “Actually, you oughtta come up to Tahoe when I play there later this year. I can give you a rain check on the tickets and passes, and you can come up to that show. Of course, that means you have to get a move on and get outta this hospital bed,” I concluded, hoping maybe, in some small way, I could give the man in the bed a little encouragement. Maybe make him feel as if I didn’t think I was visiting his deathbed.

“I’ll try,” Dave said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hutch likes it at Tahoe. He’ll be there for sure,” he managed, smiling a little. Then his eyes drifted shut again, as if the whole thing had been too exhausting for him.

His words registered with Ken, and after a sick expression passed over his features, he got up and rushed out of the room.

“Hu–” The abandoned hand flopped a little helplessly on the bed, and I walked over, hesitantly, and took it in mine. Dave’s face was even more flushed now, and his expression was troubled. He knew Ken was upset, and he knew he wasn’t there, and he actually tried to pull his hand away, though he did little more than flex it ineffectively. “Hutch,” he managed.

“It’s okay, Dave. He just had to leave for a few minutes. He’ll be right back,” I said, picking up the cloth and cooling off his face.

“Go…Hutch,” he breathed, without opening his eyes. He didn’t care about cool compresses or visits from celebrities. His partner was upset, and Dave wanted whoever was there–it could have been me, a nurse, anyone–to go find him.

“I’ll go make sure he’s okay,” I said. “You rest now,” I added, which was useless, because I knew he wouldn’t truly rest until Ken was located and back where he belonged.

I approached the nurses’ station, and the same older woman Ken had been talking to when I came in was still there, making notes on a patient’s chart.

“Did you see where Detective Hutchinson went?” I asked.

“Just to the men’s room,” she said, smiling. “You look familiar,” she said, looking up at me again.

“Sue Ann Grainger,” I said, holding out my hand, which she shook.

“Oh, my goodness. My husband has all your albums! You have to sign something for me to take home to him,” she said, finally locating a blank notepad. “Please?”

“My pleasure,” I said, smiling. I asked his name and wrote him a nice note. Business as usual. It was almost possible to forget for a moment the horrible reason I was there. Then I had a flash of inspiration. “Would you two like to come to the show tonight?”

“We planned to, but the tickets were sold out by the time we found out about it.”

“If you come to the arena tonight, there’ll be two front row tickets and two backstage passes waiting for you at the ticket counter.”

“You’re not serious?” She laughed a little, covering her heart with her hand.

“Absolutely. I had set them aside for Detective Hutchinson and his partner, but since they won’t be able to use them, I’d like to see someone have them who’d really enjoy the show.”

“Thank you so much. Oh, Donald will be so thrilled!” she effused. Then I caught sight of Ken coming down the hall, and I remembered my assignment from Starsky–to go get Hutch.

“I’ll see you both tonight,” I said, smiling and turning back to join Ken on his trek back to the room.

“I’m sorry. It was just…what he said in there.” The blue eyes were bloodshot, and it was obvious he’d been crying. “Like I’d go without him,” he added, trying to put a little humor back into things. Then the smile disappeared. “Like I want to go anywhere without him,” he said, new tears filling the beleaguered eyes. “I can’t lose him.”

“He asked me to go find you. You probably should go back in. I think he’s worried about you.”

“Sue Ann…I’m sorry about this. I know it was a lot of trouble for you to come here, but Starsky really isn’t…up to having company right now.”

“It was more than worth it. I’d like to say good-bye to him if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” He led the way into the room, and Dave’s hand was in motion on the bed again, reaching feebly for Ken’s.

“Hey, buddy. I’m here.” He enclosed the hand in both of his. Dave looked agitated, though he was obviously not up to conversation anymore. “Shhh. Rest, babe. I’m here. I’m right here,” Ken soothed, looking at the washcloth a little sadly, knowing it wasn’t cool anymore.

“I’ll freshen that up,” I said, making myself useful. I ran the cold water on it a while, then wrung it out and brought it back to Ken, who warmed it a second in one hand before using it on Dave’s face.

“That’s it, buddy. I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Sing,” he whispered to Ken, who smiled. Suddenly I regretted that I was there, figuring I’d probably give the poor guy stage fright. Then I had an idea.

“Maybe we could try our duet again,” I said, and Ken smiled again. The first big smile I’d seen from him since I got there.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all. I need to rehearse anyway,” I said, pulling up a chair on the other side of the bed.

So, on either side of the hospital bed, Ken constantly bathing Dave’s face, never letting go of his hand, we softly sang the full verses and all the choruses of “Lovin’ Arms.” I could feel a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes for this performance, and I knew that no matter how many concerts or appearances or recording studio occasions demanded I sing that song, I’d never sing it with anyone else on my mind but these two men, and their amazing devotion to each other. I prayed that I would not have to remember Dave Starsky’s tragic death at the same time.

When I finally took my leave, I gave Ken a quick last hug and gave Dave’s limp hand a gentle squeeze. I don’t think he knew I was there anymore, only that Ken’s hand had moved, and now the fingers were again moving about on the sheet restlessly.

“Remember, I expect to see you both at Tahoe.”

“We’ll do our best,” Ken said, smiling.

So I went back to my hotel, freshened up, and dealt with a million and one last-minute issues before the show. Went to the arena for a sound check that was running way too late because I’d messed up the schedule with my hospital visit. Got myself all dolled up in satin and leather and sequins, and greeted twenty thousand of my closest friends. Put on one hell of a show, if I do say so myself, one I’m sure the nurse and her husband enjoyed.

Everyone was waiting for “Lovin’ Arms.” When I got ready to sing it, I motioned to the band to be quiet, and waited until the crowd settled down. I’d made arrangements for candles to be distributed to the audience, and I was betting that someone would have a lighter. Someone did, and before long, I was seeing a sea of tiny points of light in the darkness as each candle was given light by touching the flame of the one before it.

“For a lot of years, this song has been special to me because it was a big hit for me. All my fans know it, and the audience cheers loudest when I sing it. Now, it’s special to me because it’s Dave Starsky’s favorite song. Dave Starsky’s not famous; he’s a cop. A cop who’s lucky to make in a year what a big time star can make in a couple weeks. A cop who puts his life on the line every day for you and me, and now, who might lose that life because some…some criminal put three bullets into his body. If he doesn’t make it, there won’t be any big national news stories about it, no huge crowd of fans laying flowers outside the door of his apartment. Just the quiet snuffing out of a man who loves life, loves his work, and most of all, loves and is loved by his best friend and partner, who never leaves his bedside now. So while I’m singin’ this song tonight, I want you to look at the candles you’re holding and say a little prayer for that cop in the ICU room who couldn’t come see the show. He’s not doing so great, folks, and this is all we can do to help him now.”

I sang the song, hearing the echo of Ken’s voice in my head, imagining that right about then, he was probably holding Dave’s hand, singing it to him again. I think he probably sang more songs than Dave realized, as his high fever made the hours all run together.

When the show was over, I did my duty with the backstage fans and then made my excuses and went back to my hotel. I put in a fitful night’s sleep and was relieved when dawn came, and I could head out to the next town. I was learning to truly hate Bay City. The phone rang as I was making the vital decision of what to order from room service.

“Hello?”

“Sue Ann, it’s Ken Hutchinson. I’m sorry to call so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left.” My heart froze, and I wondered if my swallow was audible. I was amazed he’d take the time to call me, of all people, and also dreading with all my heart those awful words notifying me that Dave had slipped away during the night.

“No, it’s no problem. I was awake.”

“Starsky’s fever broke during the night. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he’s doing better. I…I didn’t think he was gonna make it for a while there.”

“Thank God,” I said, more genuinely than he knew. Twenty thousand people had lit candles and prayed for this, and the news that someone up there was listening renewed my faith in a whole lot of things. Then again, who were we to think our twenty thousand prayers and candles meant anything more than the ongoing prayers of the one devastated man who hovered tirelessly at Dave’s side? Who loved his partner more than his own life.

“Thanks so much again for coming by yesterday. I know we weren’t exactly great company, but it was good to see you again, and I know it meant a lot to Starsky. He’ll be even more excited when he really understands the Tahoe invitation,” Ken added, a smile in his voice. “We’ll be there.”

“I’m counting on it. You take good care of him, now. I’ll see you both this fall.”

“We wouldn’t miss it. How’d the show go last night?”

“One of the best ever,” I said, smiling, knowing that was true. Why this miracle happened, I’d never know for sure, but the possibility that we’d played one tiny part in it made the show magical. “But Tahoe will be better, I promise,” I added, and he actually laughed softly on the other end of the phone.

After I’d hung up, ordered room service, and gone on with my day, the usual swirl of activities took my mind off Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson. Life was going on as usual.

Life was going on…for me–and for Starsky and Hutch.

 

 

 

Fringe Benefits
by Sarah Problem

SHSVS Special Feature Week

 

 

If ever there was a perfect night for a party, Starsky thought, this would be it. Too bad we weren’t invited. Although crashing it does have its benefits. We don’t have to worry about insulting the host.

It was a crisp, starry night, and, although it was not yet midnight, one party that had started out with a bang had already ended in a whimper. The mansion, sitting across the large well-tended grounds from where Starsky waited, had less than an hour ago been filled with bright lights and band music. He had been there, outside, watching as some very rich and very untouchable members of society had made their grand entrances.

He had also been there, watching, as many of those same members of the elite class had been taken out in handcuffs, just before the party got into full swing.

I guess if Dobey and the chief want to lend a bunch of guys to the FBI for a day, you couldn’t ask for a safer undercover assignment than this. I hope they get their fair share of brownie points for cooperation.

It might have been exciting, even thrilling, if Starsky hadn’t been assigned to watch over the motor pool. His role had been limited to picking up and chauffeuring, several out-of-town bigwigs from the airport to expensive hotels in one of several limousines rented by the host for the occasion. Later, he’d picked them up again for the gala affair. He’d then been left “on call,” spending the evening with the other drivers, waiting for the signal that the FBI was ready to move in for the kill.

The excitement had been short lived. More than half of the drivers had been undercover cops and known to each other. The other drivers never made a move and were quite willing to see their employers carted away, as long as it meant they were left alone.

In the main house, not a shot had been fired, which suited Starsky fine. Now, all that was left was the clean up, which meant the FBI agents were going to be spending a long night with a lot of angry rich guys who were already screaming for their lawyers.

Hutch must’ve had a much better view than I did, Starsky thought, with a little envy, as he watched the resulting noise and organized confusion that was bound to result from an operation this size. At least I got to drive that sweet car all day and play cards the majority of the evening. He must’ve had a ball running all evening, playing waiter, and marking time until the men with white hats rode in.

And speaking of men with white hats…

At home, as they had dressed in their undercover outfits, Starsky had been hard pressed to keep his eyes off Hutch. He had been assigned as a waiter and would join other undercover cops on the catering staff. He’d been given the standard outfit to wear, which consisted of black pants, a white shirt and jacket, with a black bow tie. On most people, the intent may have been to blend them into the background. But with Hutch, it seemed to bring out all his best features.

Starsky still held the image in his mind’s eye. The outfit fit Hutch to perfection, emphasizing his tall, lean build. The white jacket and shirt showed off the creamy tan of Hutch’s complexion and reflected the golden highlights of his fair hair.

If I’d been assigned to the waiting staff, at least I’d’ve gotten a chance to look at him all evening. Driving the car was a kick, but that would’ve been a lot more fun.

A thought came to him. It was only a flash–a glimpse of what his long-legged golden lover would look like all rumpled in the back of the expensive machine Starsky still had the keys to. He smiled to himself as a plan formed.

Maybe I can drum up some excitement tonight, for both of us.

 

 

Hutch sighed to himself, as he made his way out of the huge mansion. He had to flash his badge a dozen times to get out of the place and now had to weave through the groups that had taken over the lawn, all in the various stages of the federal arrest procedure. It had been a long, hectic evening for the catering and serving staff, and Hutch was glad he didn’t have to do that for a living. The anticipation of the bust had been what kept him alert and ready all evening, but when it all came off without a hitch, the built-up adrenaline had turned quickly to fatigue and boredom.

At least everything was well planned for once. Seems kind of selfish to wish it’d been a little more exciting. I guess Starsky and I are so used to being the moving force in a case, that sitting in the back seat just isn’t as fulfilling as it’d been when we were in uniform. Now all I want to do is go home and get some rest.

Hutch kept his eyes open for any sign of his partner. Somewhere, in the mass confusion of last-minute parking by official vehicles and black-and-whites, was Starsky.

Spotting a long, dark form at the back of the lot, Hutch walked toward it. He smiled, recognizing the man in the chauffeur uniform who leaned carelessly against the back passenger’s door.

My, my, my! Something about a man in uniform…and Starsky always did fill one out well.

In the light from a small lamp post, Starsky looked good enough to eat. Although the cap hid the curls Hutch loved, the pressed jacket accented his broad shoulders and gave him an air of authority that had nothing to do with his job. As they had dressed for the day, he had found it hard to keep his eyes to himself.

If I couldn’t spend the evening watching him in that outfit, maybe I can talk him into letting me take him out of it–a thread at a time.

As he approached, Starsky pushed away from the limo, the twinkle in his eyes matching his crooked smile.

“Anything exciting?” Starsky asked casually.

“Nope,” Hutch answered, working loose his bow tie. “Lots of outrage, righteous indignation, and yelling for lawyers. Mr. Cento almost had a stroke when he realized the Feds were crashing his party. Guess he won’t get that cross-country drug transportation set-up finalized, not with all those other drug lords arrested and wailing for their overpaid legal help. Crying shame, isn’t it?”

“Sounds like a job well done.” Walking up close, hands behind his back, Starsky looked at him with wicked eyes, making sudden chills run up his spine. Starsky’s voice went deep and husky. “I think this would be a good time to…celebrate. Don’t you?”

The chills turned instantly to heat, as Hutch realized that Starsky had something interesting up his sleeve. There was no mistaking that look. Hutch swallowed thickly. “Uh…what do you have in mind?”

“How ’bout we go for a ride?”

Starsky’s voice flowed over Hutch like a slow slip into a hot tub, making him feel warm and flushed. The images that voice drew in his mind couldn’t help be hot and erotic. Hutch looked around quickly, suddenly aware of how out in the open they were. “Starsk, someone is gonna miss a whole limo.”

“Agent Monroe and the rest of his team will be busy with paperwork all night. When I graciously offered to make sure the limo was returned to the rental company bright and early tomorrow morning, he never even blinked an eye when he said, ‘Don’t get it scratched’.”

Hutch smiled. “So, you don’t have to have it back–?”

“Until tomorrow morning.” Starsky wiggled his eyebrows, turned, and opened the passenger’s door. “Come with me, and I’ll take you all the way home.”

Walking up to the car, Hutch leaned over to look into the interior. The dark tinted windows prevented anyone on the outside to see the luxury inside. The dark upholstery was expensive leather and the carpeting thick and inviting. There was a small bar, a small bucket of ice with an unopened champagne bottle, what looked to be the controls on an expensive stereo system, as well as a phone. There were cabinets Hutch knew could hide anything a pampered customer would ever want.

It was certainly tempting, but there was something important missing.

“By myself?”

“Just consider it time to…get prepared for arrival.”

Feeling a bit silly, Hutch got into the back of the limousine. Starsky shut the door and left him in the lap of luxury.

 

 

Starsky hummed happily, as he hurried to the front of the car. It was going to be a bit of a drive to his house and the safety of his own driveway, and thinking of Hutch spread out in the back wasn’t going to make the drive any shorter. Throwing his cap onto the passenger’s seat, he looked through the glass divider that separated the driver and the passenger’s compartment. Starting the car, he took a moment to adjust the rearview mirror, so he could see Hutch in the back.

Man, he’s so beautiful! He looks like he belongs back there. Wish I could give him that every day for the rest of our lives.

Hutch had thrown his white jacket on a seat at the side of the limo and was sprawled in the seat at the back. His blond hair was mussed, the long strands framing his face and curling slightly where it was long enough to touch his collar. He took off his bow tie and tossed it on his jacket. He then unbuttoned his white shirt halfway down, exposing the warm, creamy brown of his chest. The snug-fitting black slacks made his legs seem to go on forever. Against the dark brown of the upholstery, Hutch was all gold and light.

The sight made Starsky’s blood warm and his skin feel hungry to touch the smooth, exposed skin. With amusement in his eyes, Hutch was looking at him in the rearview mirror, letting Starsky know that the small striptease was for his benefit.

With great effort, Starsky dragged his attention back to the job at hand.

Wouldn’t do to get too distracted and wreck the car. Monroe will be taking it out of my salary–with Dobey’s blessings–for the rest of my life. Not to mention it’ll put one hell of a crimp in the rest of the evening.

He managed to pull out of the long driveway and get halfway down the mountain road before the limo’s intercom buzzed. Glancing into the mirror, Starsky smiled at the way Hutch was looking at him from the other end of the line. Even with the distance between them, Starsky recognized the playfulness in Hutch’s eyes.

“Yes, sir?” Starsky said huskily into the handset. “You have a request?”

Hutch chuckled throatily into the receiver. “Yes. Your body, naked, back here with me.”

Starsky had to swallow hard in order to pull his eyes away. Hutch was lounging back in the seat, long fingers caressing his skin through the open button at the top of his shirt, his eyes wicked. He knew what that did to Starsky. Before Starsky could say anything, Hutch smiled wickedly and dropped the handset back into its holder.

Taking a deep breath, his body screaming at him to hurry, Starsky resisted the impulse to stand on the accelerator.

“You better have one hell of a tip waiting for me, buster,” Starsky muttered to himself. “A man shouldn’t have to drive in my condition.”

 

 

Hutch took the rest of the time to look through the amenities. The mini-bar was full, but he was more interested in the small champagne bottle that had been left chilling in the bucket. He gathered two flute glasses from the set and placed them within arm’s reach.

There was the stereo to play with as well. Hutch found a station he liked and sighed, as the high quality speakers filled the back of the limo with soft, slow strains of quality jazz music.

The ride across town seemed to take forever, and when they finally arrived at Starsky’s house, it was well after midnight. The neighborhood streets were deserted, and the few neighbors who could see into Starsky’s property were probably not awake to notice the long, elegant car pull into the driveway. Even if they did see the car arrive, the one-way tinted windows would keep them from seeing anything inside.

As soon as the engine went off, Hutch popped the cork on the champagne bottle and filled the glasses half full of the bubbly liquid. He watched as Starsky walked to the back door.

When the door opened and Starsky slid in, Hutch had his glass ready for him.

Starsky took it with a smile, sliding over the expensive leather until their arms and thighs touched. Starsky shifted on the seat, eyes looking deeply into Hutch’s as he raised his glass.

“To us and the future.”

“To us,” Hutch repeated softly, enjoying the sharp clink of the glasses as they touched at the end of the toast.

He sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s. He never tired of studying the strong, clean lines on Starsky’s face, the way his eyes seemed to change color with his moods, the way his smile grew a little crooked, giving him a mischievous air. The air seemed charged and heavy around them, as if time were standing still just for them.

In the soft glow Hutch had set for the interior light, Starsky’s hair was dark and thick, with just the faint outline of the cap that had come with the suit. Leaning back, knowing Starsky was studying him as well, Hutch put his arm on the back of the leather seat and started to comb his fingers through the thick strands. He smiled to himself, always enjoying the feel of it in his fingers, and worked gently to remove the last trace of the cap that had dared to hide all that dark glory.

Starsky’s smile grew deeper, his eyes heavy with desire, as he leaned into Hutch’s touch. The desire, longing, and happiness Hutch saw in those eyes never failed to warm all those empty places he sometimes felt he carried.

Sometimes, I could just look at him all night. Just be with him and know that things will be all right. If I could just stay here in this moment forever.

Starsky drained the last of his champagne, placed the glass aside, and turned to take Hutch’s busy hand in his. Hutch sighed, as Starsky turned his hand and his soft lips touched Hutch’s palm, sending warm waves of pleasure up his arm.

His own drink almost forgotten, Hutch set it aside quickly, reaching out with his other hand to touch Starsky’s neck lightly and slide his fingers to Starsky’s nape. As Starsky nibbled and kissed one hand, Hutch could feel the heat and pulse of Starsky’s heart under the palm of the other.

It made his heart jump, his skin heat, and his breath come fast, as if the living energy of the man between his hands was the source of all power around him. All it took was seeing that look in Starsky’s eyes, the heat of his touch, to make Hutch long to live forever in the moment.

Hutch heard himself moan deeply, as Starsky turned his attention to Hutch’s fingers, nipping at the tips. He took a deep breath, feeling his blood sing in his veins. His cock, half-hard with anticipation during the trip, was now straining at his clothing.

A combination of many things broke him. A nibble too wonderfully sharp, the sly leer under curling dark lashes, and the thunderous beat of Starsky’s heart under his hand drove him to move, to touch, and to give up the moment he had wanted to live in for the rest of his life.

Forever, Hutch thought as he moved toward the beautiful man between his hands. Not even forever could be enough with him.

 

 

It had taken all of Starsky’s will power to drive as carefully and as conscientiously as he had. Now, safe in his own driveway, with that lean, golden body before him, he felt the wait was worth every second. All the luxury in the world couldn’t compete with the warm, handsome man in front of him.

Hutch was glowing. His face, neck, and chest were tinged red with the flush of desire. His blue eyes were smoky, framed by the white glint of blond lashes turned white in the dim lighting. The blond mane of hair flowed softly around his face, making him look wild and on the edge of something dangerous.

The champagne was cool and tingling, but that wasn’t what Starsky wanted in his mouth. When Hutch moved his arm along the back of the seat and started touching his hair, Starsky took a moment to enjoy the caress, then began on Hutch’s hands.

Hutch had such large, loving hands, and Starsky enjoyed handling them. As he did so, placing a kiss on the broad palm and caressing the fingers, memories of those hands came to mind. Remembering the way Hutch’s hands had touched and held him during sex was a thrill Starsky didn’t think would ever fade. But there were other times that came to mind as well.

In our early days, when I was scared and not willing to admit it, your hand would find my shoulder for a quick squeeze. During the good times, you’d reach out to touch an arm, or nudge a rib, as we both found ourselves sharing a smile or a laugh. After gun or fist fights, I’ll always remember the way one of your hands would find my middle, giving me a quick pat when I knew you meant it to be a hug. And when I was sick…

As he nibbled on those fingers–long and strong–he could only remember the incredible tenderness and love they’d always expressed for him.

He heard a deep moan, then Hutch’s other hand was at Starsky’s neck. For a second, there was the coolness left over from the champagne glass, then it was only heat and strong fingers at the nape of his neck. He knew Hutch could feel the beat of his heart. As he glanced at Hutch, he saw the flicker in his eyes just before Hutch moved toward him.

Starsky gave up Hutch’s hand in exchange for his mouth.

Between one heartbeat and the next, they were kissing as if they would suffocate without the other. Lips pressed then moved together, tongues demanded flavors and textures from each other, as Starsky felt himself happily drowning in the basic essences of his lover.

Hutch’s hands were all over him, rubbing and pulling at clothing that didn’t seem to come off fast enough. Starsky’s hands were on the white shirt, rubbing at Hutch’s chest and abdomen, then down to his hard crotch. Hutch was hot and hard everywhere, and the feel of the him under his hands, the taste and smell of him, made Starsky’s body respond in kind.

When Hutch’s hand gripped his cock through his slacks, Starsky groaned with pleasure. He pushed into the delicious pressure, loving the way Hutch pulled and rubbed him hard in all directions at once.

They writhed together, hands and mouths everywhere, and, although Starsky had no real memory of how it happened, they were suddenly both nude. He pressed against Hutch wherever he could, tasted flesh where he found it under his lips, and still needed more contact. Some part of him strove to meld into Hutch, to connect nerve to nerve and thoughts to thoughts.

He could never get enough of him. Not even if he tried forever.

 

 

Hutch’s heart was pounding, his breathing ragged. Starsky seemed to be everywhere around him, and yet there was one place Hutch had yet to savor. Pushing Starsky down against the soft leather of the long, wide seat, Hutch backed away for a moment. As Starsky lay on the seat, stretching out and pushing up on his elbows, Hutch took a precious moment to drink in the sight.

Starsky’s chest was heaving, the bronze nipples hard and wet from Hutch’s attentions. His muscular, tanned body was artistically dusted with dark curls that accentuated and outlined his strength, yet allowed a hint of the faint scars he would always carry. His hair was tousled and damp at the edges, giving the thick curls a chance to catch and frame his face. And his eyes…Starsky’s eyes were a wild blue–deep and intense.

If anyone else had seen Starsky’s face at that moment, they would have thought he was a crazy man. There was no other way to describe the look of need, desire, and determination that accompanied the slight smile. If there was a look that could portray “possessed” and “possessor” at the same time, Starsky’s look was it.

Down the broad body, down the long waist, and nestled between Starsky’s thick, muscular legs was his cock. Thick and rosy with need, it beat like a second heart.

Hutch needed that taste, wanted to savor it and sooth the hard need of it.

As he leaned toward it, Starsky reached out and grabbed Hutch, pulling him around so Hutch was soon kneeling on the seat. Hutch leaned forward on his hands and knees, bringing them both face to cock. In a moment, he was devouring Starsky and almost lost himself when Starsky took his own cock in the bargain.

It was almost torture–the second-by-second pull on his mind and his senses. The sounds and movements from Starsky, who was humming and writhing under him, enforced Hutch’s need to bring the cock he was loving to eruption. Yet, at the same time, the hot, tight mouth and probing tongue that claimed his own pleasure demanded more and more of his mind.

Over time, Starsky grew more and more animated, then suddenly seemed to convulse. His hips strained to thrust past the point Hutch’s hands would allow. When he came, Starsky groaned deeply, and Hutch felt the flair and pulse of the cock in his mouth only seconds before the unique taste of Starsky’s come hit his tongue and the back of his throat.

He only had a moment to savor it before his own body took over, encouraged by Starsky’s attentions. As his brain and body exploded, it was all he could do to let go of Starsky, as gently as he could, and bury his face into the warm, soft nook between Starsky’s balls and the crook of his thigh. The hot, musky smell of Starsky’s sex surrounded him, as his insides pulsed and hummed with ejaculation.

Fuzzy with pleasure, humming with the aftermath, he sighed and settled next to Starsky, needing to share the quiet moments as well.

 

 

He wasn’t sure how long he drifted, but at some point Starsky knew he was going to have to get up. As much as he loved being near Hutch–who had squeezed between him and the back of the leather seat–Starsky knew he was only seconds away from gravity dumping him on the floor of the limo. The seat was wide, but not that wide.

There was also the fact that both they–and the limo–were due back on duty, bright and early in the morning. Starsky wanted at least a few hours in his own bed, stretched out next to Hutch.

And then there’s cleaning up the car…

He could only laugh at the sight of the clothes scattered all over the limo.

“Think we can find everything?” Hutch asked, sitting up and snagging a pair of dark slacks that could have been either his or Starsky’s.

“We’d better, or the limo company is going to have some interesting gossip tomorrow.”

“I doubt we could do anything that would surprise them.”

Starsky nodded, then leaned toward Hutch so they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. He listened to the jazz music from the expensive stereo, eyed the fine crystal glasses they had somehow managed not to knock over, and remembered the taste of the cold champagne.

“This sure is some machine, don’t you think?” Starsky asked, with more than a touch of wistfulness. “She handles like a dream, Hutch, and comes with all kinds of neat accessories. Can’t you imagine us owning a limo just like this? We could be business executives. Both of us spending our days in a high-rise office, dressed in expensive business suits, sporting top-of-the-line jewelry, bulging wallets, and fifty-dollar haircuts.”

“With both of us unhappy being stuck inside every day, you mean. We’d soon be full to the brim with the boredom of business meetings and corporate deals we really couldn’t care less about, and working on the first ulcer of many.” Hutch snorted, grabbed another piece of clothing, and looked as if he was trying to make heads or tails out of it. “I’d rather be in the real world, where we can wear comfortable clothes, be too smart to wear expensive jewelry, and live on just enough money to pay the bills. And, hopefully, with a bit left over to indulge my lover once in a while, by humping in other people’s expensive cars.”

Starsky laughed. “So I can’t start picking out limos, huh?”

Hutch leaned toward him and winked. “Hell, you’re lucky I let you keep the Torino.”

When Hutch’s lips touched his, Starsky was still chuckling.

 

 

 

Beyond the Veil
by Ellis Murdock

A missing tag scene from episode 604, “The Veil”

SHSVS Special Feature Week

 

 

“We’ll never make it now,” Hutch announced dejectedly, looking at his watch for the fourth time since they’d been out there, at least by Starsky’s count. Standing as he was behind his partner’s chair, Starsky couldn’t be positive he’d caught every impatient glance downward toward the flannel-covered wrist.

“Maybe not the whole trail, but this can lift any second. You know how it is with this stuff–quickly here, quickly gone. Right?” Starsky folded his arms across the chair’s top rail and leaned over to sweep his chin against an enticingly soft, silken mass of blond hair. Hutch’s moods often required finessing if one wanted to avoid having a dark cloud descend over the entire day, but Starsky had become a master of that art ages ago, the changes in their relationship over the past year only sharpening the skill. “Besides, it’s kinda pretty, don’t you think? I like fog.”

“You like fog?” Maneuvering his head back far enough to be able to look up into Starsky’s eyes, both Hutch’s tone and expression suggested that Starsky had just committed the spoken equivalent of putting ketchup on caviar.

“Yeah, I like it. ‘The fog comes in on little duck feet–”

“Cat feet.”

Starsky grinned. “See? You read poetry about it. Can’t hate it all that much.”

Hutch opened his mouth, then snapped it shut with an audible puff–his standard reaction when confronted with irrefutable evidence that he’d been baited and hooked. “If we’d have gone last evening like I suggested–”

“We’d have either fallen into bed exhausted by dusk, or solved the entire problem by plunging off some fog-hidden bluff.” Or turned into handily packaged bear snacks. “Think about it, would you really have wanted to run into this at night?” Starsky drew in a deep breath, drummed the armrests lightly, and added in his most patient tone, “Besides, when you consider how we did spend our time, well, don’t know about you, but if I had to choose between the two…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad. Still our day off, we’re still together, and you’ve gotta admit, there’s something about a really good bank of fog.”

“Inconvenience?”

Starsky narrowed his eyes and plastered on his best mock-stern expression. Most of Hutch’s current grumbling, he knew, was play, but to let on to that fact would ruin the entire game. Planting one foot on the chair’s stretcher, he deftly tipped Hutch backward. “Magical,” he corrected. “It’s like it throws the world just a little off-kilter for a while. You know, everything looks the same, only different.”

“Looks the s–? Looks the same?” Hutch extended a hand and gestured dramatically toward the expanse of gray. “We’re stuck in the middle of a damned cloud! I can’t even make out the cabin across the way in this soup.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Admit it, the only reason you’re standing there like a cross between Carl Sandburg and that meteorologist on channel five who always looks like someone slipped him a joint before air time–”

“Bucky Turner? You’re saying I’m like Bucky Turner?”

“–is because fog reminds you of every late-night B horror flick you’ve ever seen and fallen in love with.”

Head resting on his arms still crossed on the top rail, Starsky regarded Hutch for a while in amused silence, trying to determine how much of what he was hearing was a reflection of his partner’s true feelings on the matter, and how much was just talk. If he honestly didn’t see… Decision made, Starsky righted the chair abruptly, swept past Hutch’s left, down the steps, and ordered, “Off the porch.”

“What?”

“Get offa the porch.”

“But–” The unexpected command seemed to fluster Hutch, and his voice turned from petulant to conciliatory in an instant. “Look, I wasn’t…I mean, I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. Honestly.”

“That’s good,” Starsky replied, flashing a grin as he turned around and leaned over the railing. “‘Cause you’d lose this one, buddy. Come on, I wanna show you something.”

With curiosity thinly veiled in what Starsky immediately decoded as decidedly forced nonchalance, Hutch followed closely down the path and joined him on some boulders that were strategically located near the lake’s outer bank. Starsky plopped down on the flattest, most horizontal specimen and patted the space next to him until Hutch obediently sat down. Needing a few moments to collect his thoughts, Starsky folded his arms and took in the field of view, such as it was. Hutch was bound to break the silence eventually, but he didn’t need long to accomplish this task. Years of training and practice made it almost second nature.

Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, left side pressed against Starsky’s right, Hutch predictably cleared his throat after a longer than expected pause, asking tentatively, “You wanted to show me something?”

Starsky nodded and pointed to a shrouded area to the west. “Tell me what you see.”

“Fog.”

Playfully cuffing Hutch in the arm, Starsky growled, “Try again.”

“Well, I can see the outline of a tree.”

“Describe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean describe it. Big tree, small tree, pine, cedar, dead, alive, what? Come on, after all these years of describing fleeing suspects, this should be a piece’a cake.”

Hutch grew quiet for a few moments, then nodded. “A pine, about forty-feet in height, medium build–”

“Hutch–”

“Okay, okay. I can only make out some of the branches on the northern side because the rest is totally obscured at this point, and I’m guessing at the height since the top isn’t visible. It looks odd…incomplete.” He turned to Starsky, nudging him lightly with a shoulder. “So how’d I do?”

“Not bad, considering.” Before Hutch could ask the requisite, Considering what? Starsky launched into his own appraisal of the scene before them. “I see one tall pine with two shorter companion trees; the tall one’s jutting right into the thickest part of the fog, while the small ones are just veiled. It throws the color off, makes them look muted, like you’re seeing ’em through thin gauze that only lets a small amount of light through. Can’t make out the bark, but I can still tell the trunks from the branches–at least until about a third of the way up. The texture’s gone, but the shadowing makes them all look more dimensional than they would in full sunlight. And…” He pointed toward the base and moved his hand slowly upward. “…look at how the tree goes from almost clear at the bottom and fades as you look up. Every now and then, you’ll get this glimpse of the very top when the sun’s trying to break through, but blink and you’ll miss it.” Starsky dropped his hand back down and rubbed it vigorously up and down his pant leg to disperse the chill. “Wisps of fog swirl around even in a slight breeze, and if you’re looking at the darker part of the trunks at the right time, they’re pretty distinct. It almost makes it look as if the trees themselves are moving. You know? Shifting, like they’re not really there at all.” He shrugged. “That’s what I see.”

As expected, Hutch gave all appearances of a man temporarily stripped of the ability to speak, his jaw doing a practice run a few times before any sound was forthcoming. “Wow. That’s…it’s…where did all that come from?”

Starsky laughed. “You’re forgetting what I do as a hobby, Hutch. Photography, remember? Wouldn’t be much of a photographer if I couldn’t size up a scene. Do you have any idea how much I paid for a filter that only does half the job Mother Nature’s doing now? Can’t beat fog for creating mood and interest. It’s great. Take that cabin back there–”

“Let me,” Hutch requested softly, and Starsky nodded. Hutch took his time now, answering only after a few full minutes had passed. “The basic shape is still visible, but there are no sharp edges anymore. Its lines are softened and there’s nothing harsh. The roof is so light, it’s more of a suggestion than something you can really see.” He leaned forward and squinted. “Can’t even begin to guess whether it’s shingles or tiles. Huh…” He pointed toward the southern side of the small structure. “From here, the windows look blue, and the outside looks almost, I don’t know, looks more metallic–copper?–than wooden. You’re right, it’s haunting.”

“Yeah, well, it’s also getting thicker.” Point made, Starsky stood up and stretched lazily. “Wanna head in while we can still see?”

“Not quite yet.” Head down, toe-to-toe with Starsky, and presumably lost in thought, Hutch stood motionless for brief seconds before meeting Starsky’s gaze and gracing him with a shy smile. “I forget sometimes that I’m in love with an artist. I shouldn’t.”

Starsky opened his mouth to respond with one of his usual rejoinders, then quickly swallowed the quip, sensing that this was not the time for that type of humor. He’d been paid a serious compliment, and it deserved a serious response. “Thank you.” Starsky extended his hand, palm forward, fingers splayed, and delighted in the sensation of the large hand that mirrored the gesture, exerting gentle pressure, finger against finger. Thank you for always finding a way to remind me who I am.

“You’re not the only artist who appreciates the aesthetics of fog and mist. Have you seen the paintings Monet made of the Houses of Parliament? I’ve got the prints in a book at home; have to drag it out when we get back.”

Starsky chuckled. “You inviting me in to see your etchings, Detective?”

“Something like that,” Hutch whispered, suddenly and without warning interlocking his fingers with Starsky’s, in a display of strength that sent an unexpected surge of sensation down Starsky’s arm, quickening the pulse of both men.

Starsky’s left met Hutch’s right hand next, fingers stroking and gliding across their counterparts in deliberate exploration, the purely instinctive rhythm resulting in a strangely graceful dance. Nothing existed here but them. Even time dared not intrude in this place, and Starsky closed his eyes, not wanting sight to distract from the tactile sensuality of the moment. Moving in closer, the fact that every touch was answered in kind registered on a nearly subconscious level, the boundary of who was doing what blurred beyond any hope of distinction. It wasn’t until the dance extended beyond their hands and he felt Hutch’s caress on his chest, that Starsky permitted sound to invade their sanctuary, and when he did it was under protest. “Too public,” he objected thickly. “People might–” Reluctantly, he opened his eyes at the sound of Hutch’s baritone laugh, then had to smile himself. In the time they had been lost in one another, the fog had become their unwitting ally, becoming so dense that not even the boulders at their feet were visible anymore. “When did this happen?”

“I don’t know, but I’m never going to complain about this stuff again.”

It wasn’t until Hutch stepped back a pace, kicking the tulle fog until it swirled in a dramatic ballet of arching vapor, that Starsky became acquainted once again with the downside of this particular weather phenomena, and shivered. Hutch, whose left hand was still pressed firmly against his partner’s chest, must have felt the tremor, for he moved in immediately and pulled Starsky into a warm embrace.

“You must be freezing, and this damp… If it’s playing havoc with my back, I can only imagine what it must be doing to you right now.”

Starsky nodded, suddenly very aware of the ribs that had not so very long ago been shattered and pinned back together. “Gotta admit, for all its virtues, it does have a downside. Think we can find our way back to the cabin?”

Hutch laughed. “We’ve navigated rougher paths than this blind. I’ll start a fire, and maybe we can go to work getting the cold out of each other’s bones, huh?”

Starsky smiled, but said nothing, reflecting on a fire that already warmed him to his soul, and consumed without destroying. For this was the rarest type of blaze, he knew, and one whose flames would never be extinguished.

Poem excerpt from “The Fog”:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
— Carl Sandburg

 

 

 

 

A Deep Scratch
by Keri T.

SHSVS Special Feature Week

 

 

“Son of a bitch.” The soft curse issued in the room teeming with activity went unnoticed by all but one. Hutch made an effort to swallow back his anger and sorrow before turning towards his partner. He watched for a few seconds as Starsky swallowed several times, then cursed again. “Son of a bitch.”

“I know.” Hutch redrew the blanket over the victim’s face, then briefly clasped Starsky’s shoulder before rising to his feet. “Doesn’t matter how many years we’ve been doing this, does it? Some cases just…”

“…are brutal and unfair,” Starsky finished for him, still kneeling next to the small covered body. Starsky cleared his throat a few times and then rose to stand next to Hutch. The men backed up to make room for an approaching stretcher being guided by Ginny Simpson, the coroner they’d worked with on too many cases.

“Did you get everything you need, Ginny?” Hutch asked.

The dark-haired woman looked exhausted, as she ran a hand through her bangs. Her assistants gently lifted the victim and placed her on the stretcher. “Yes, I’m finished here. Cause of death is obvious–strangulation followed by a broken neck–but that, of course, won’t be official until I autopsy her. Your office will have my report as soon as possible.”

Hutch nodded as Ginny and her team left with the dead woman, now zipped into a body bag. He looked around the small room and noticed Starsky was doing the same thing. Uniformed officers were still dusting for prints. The room was startlingly neat, considering the violence that had occurred there. A velvet-covered sofa was the largest piece of furniture. It was well worn, but dust-free in the bright late afternoon sunshine, streaming in from lace-curtained windows. On either side of the sofa were two highly polished end tables with Tiffany style lamps on top of them. None of the furniture looked to have been disturbed. The only thing out of place was a black patent leather purse with broken handles, lying open on the rose-colored carpet. “It looks like my mom’s living room in here,” Starsky said quietly, then signaled to the officer kneeling by the front door before Hutch could respond. “Was it forced, Bob?”

The middle-aged cop looked up tiredly. “Nope. No signs of forced entry. The lock is intact.”

“We’ve got three teams canvassing the neighborhood, right?” Hutch asked the man, just wanting to confirm what he already knew.

“That’s right.” The officer returned to his minute inspection of the front door and frame.

“Better call Dobey with an update,” Hutch muttered, intending the comment for Starsky, but his partner was no longer at his side. Hutch glanced around, quickly finding him next to the sofa.

Starsky was staring at the wall when Hutch joined him, fixated on a large grouping of framed photographs. Some black-and-white, some in color, all covered with clean, spot-free glass. The pictures seemed to cover a range of about fifty years, starting with a photo of a young smiling couple on their wedding day. The happy faces of children and adults were in direct opposition to the somber sadness in the room.

“She was someone’s mother, Hutch.”

“I know.”

“Someone’s grandmother.”

“I know, Starsk.”

“She had to’ve been eighty years old, and someone does this to her in her own house.” Starsky shook his head, and wrapped his arms around himself tightly as if he were chilled, and Hutch had to stop himself from putting his own arms around Starsky.

“Come on, partner, we’ve been through this before. You can’t let it get to you.” Hutch was genuinely concerned by how upset Starsky was. Normally, his partner was all business at a crime scene, saving the release of the tension and despair for their private moments. Several disturbing cases in a row had now seemed to catch up with Starsky, and Hutch wanted to get him out of the house–ripe with the smell of death–and into some fresh air. Get him away from this sad place.

“Let’s head out, okay? There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go over to Metro, give Dobey our preliminary report, then go home. The uniforms will be out for hours still. You heard Ginny. The murder probably happened sometime last night. We’ve already got a cold trail, so starting our investigation in the morning after the canvassing is done and we might have some leads, makes the most sense.”

“Okay,” Starsky agreed, “but let’s check the front yard ourselves first. The guys are moving fast, and I want to be sure they haven’t missed anything that might’ve been dropped.”

“Good idea,” Hutch answered quickly, following as Starsky took the lead, and pleased to be able to get him outside into the open air.

The small front yard contained an over-grown lawn and several carefully tended rose bushes. When new, the house had been situated in a very desirable neighborhood, but the years had changed that. Hutch knew that what had once been an area to raise a family in peace and security was now a neighborhood ruled by poverty, drugs, and crime.

After a few minutes of perusal, Hutch was the first to stop. “There’s nothing here, Starsk. I’m going to radio Dobey that we’re on our way back, then we can make sure the men have everything wrapped up inside and get out of here.”

Starsky nodded as Hutch made his way to the Torino, parked snuggly against the curb. The gleaming chrome shone brightly in the sun and something that didn’t belong there jumped out at Hutch. “Damn,” he whispered under his breath, then turned back to look at Starsky.

Starsky gave him a puzzled look. “What is it?”

“Aw, Starsk. Someone gouged your door.”

“What?!” Starsky hurried to the car. Hutch didn’t have to point out the damage; it was glaring. A gouge, probably caused by a key or a knife, ran just above the bold racing stripe. It was long and deep. “Well, shit.”

Hutch knew more than anyone–maybe even more than Starsky–what his car meant to him. “I’m sorry, Starsk. We’ll get it fixed. We’ll take it to Merle, and–”

Starsky shook his head a little before he spoke. “It’s just a scratch, Hutch. Just another scar on her. Just one more scar. Call Dobey, I’m going back inside.”

Hutch ran his fingers over the gouge before he reached inside the open window for the radio. After being connected to his captain, he gave a brief status, then hurried back inside. Starsky was looking at the pictures again when he found him.

“Okay, let’s go,” Hutch said.

Starsky looked up quickly, whether to argue or not Hutch didn’t know, but he had a tense expression on his face. “What’s that?” Starsky pointed toward an open door.

“That’s a door, buddy.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes. “The noise, I mean. What’s that noise?”

Hutch listened closely, trying to hear what his partner had heard. It was faint, but there–a low groan, almost sounding like a baby. “Didn’t anyone check the bedroom?” Hutch cried on his way to the room, Starsky close on his heels.

“We checked it, remember?” Starsky replied, at the same time two officers answered affirmatively, one following the detectives.

“Well, we missed something, and it’s coming from under the bed.” Hutch got to his knees as he responded, slowly raising the coverlet. Starsky went to the other side and did the same.

Both caught sight of the creature making the noise at the same time. “It’s a cat,” Starsky stated unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I can see that, Starsk.” Hutch was closer to the animal, and he reached a hand out toward it, quickly latching on to the cat’s tail.

“Be careful.” The words were barely out of Starsky’s mouth, when the cat swiped at Hutch and he let out a yelp. The cat then ran right into Starsky’s knees, and without missing a beat he scooped the bundle into his arms and got up at the same time Hutch did. Hutch had one side of his fist in his mouth, watching as Starsky tried to calm the nervous cat. He removed his hand so he could issue a warning. “Be careful, I think it’s on the mean side.”

What happened?” Starsky asked.

“It scratched me,” Hutch answered, and resisted the urge to put his hand back in his mouth.

“His heart’s beating real fast,” Starsky said, obviously trying to settle the animal comfortably against his shoulder, “but he seems gentle enough. You must’ve pulled his tail.”

Hutch was examining his hand, and he didn’t look up. “I was trying to get it out. Oh, well, it’s just a scratch and it isn’t deep.”

“That’s good,” Starsky said distractedly, as he stroked the animal’s fur.

“I’ll call Animal Control to come pick up the cat,” the young officer said.

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other from the opposite sides of the bed and Hutch knew they were thinking the same thing. The sad after-effects of murders didn’t always end with grieving families and friends. Often, children were relegated to foster care, and pets to the pound. It was the part of the story seldom mentioned on the evening news or the newspapers.

“Well, that’s just terrific,” Starsky muttered, as he continued to stroke the now purring cat he held. “We all know what the cat’s odds are of gettin’ a new home. This isn’t a kitten, and no one wants old cats.”

Hutch gave his partner a long look before addressing the officer. “Go call it in, Greg.” He waited until the man left the room, then walked softly over to Starsky. “What’s going on with you?”

“You mean what else besides being disgusted by an old woman being killed in her home?”

“Yeah, besides that,” Hutch said unwaveringly.

Starsky didn’t answer, and almost a minute of silence occurred before he spoke again. “You know that little girl who lives down the street from me? Her name is Amy; you’ve seen her before.”

Hutch thought quickly and brought up a vague impression of a pig-tailed child. “I think so. The one that roller skates outside practically before the sun is up?”

“That’s the one,” Starsky confirmed. “She had a cat that got hit by a car a month or so ago. I bet she’d love to have a new one.”

“Ah, Starsk, come on. You don’t know that, and this cat may have someone come claim it. There could be a family member or a friend…someone who wants it.”

“Or it could be put down in three days at the pound.”

Starsky’s depression weighed heavily in his speech, and Hutch gently patted his partner’s shoulder in between tentative pets to the cat. “What do you wanna do?” Hutch asked, willing to go against his better judgment if it meant he could bring back the bounce to Starsky’s voice.

“I wanna bring it home. If someone comes forward to claim it–great. If not, we’ll try Amy or find it another home, but I don’t want to see that poor old woman’s cat get put down at the pound.”

Hutch just smiled as he scratched under the cat’s neck, gently turning its collar around so he could lift the metal nametag. “Okay, buddy, we’ll bring her home–temporarily.”

“Her?” Starsky asked.

“Read the tag. Her name is Princess.” Hutch led the way out of the room, Starsky and his armful of cat close on his heels. “We better check the kitchen, see if there’s any food for her.”

“And a carrier, or at least a box,” Starsky added, holding the cat a little more firmly against his chest. The activity in the room was causing her to wiggle with nerves. “I’m not real sure she’s going to enjoy car travel.”

Hutch suppressed a sigh and began to peruse the cupboards in search of cat food. Sadly, he noted there wasn’t much in the way of “people food” in sight, but there were several stacks of canned cat food. “Got it.”

“You better get that, too,” Starsky said softly.

“What?”

“That,” Starsky said a little louder, jerking his chin in emphasis.

Hutch turned in the direction in which Starsky was pointing, and this time his sigh was not suppressed. “A litter box?”

“I think it’s a better choice than having her ‘go’ on my floor.”

“Can’t she ‘go’ outside?” Hutch asked, looking at the box distastefully.

“Come on, Hutch, we can’t let her out in a strange neighborhood. She won’t know where she is or how to get back, would you, Princess?” he finished in a low tone.

“Are you cooing to that animal?”

“Are you gettin’ the box?”

Hutch just shook his head in defeat, found a sack for the food and some spare litter in an unopened bag, and dumped the used litter out of the pan and into the garbage. “When did you get to be such an expert on cats?” he asked, once his arms were full.

“I read,” Starsky replied.

“I know. Let’s go.”

 

An hour later, they were seated in Starsky’s living room, watching their four-legged guest carefully investigate each nook and cranny suspiciously. They’d set up her litter box in a corner of the kitchen and placed food and water on the opposite side, but so far, the cat was ignoring all of it.

“She acts like she’s sniffing for a bomb,” Hutch said, pulling his shirt-tail out from his jeans. He unbuttoned the bottom two buttons and started scratching his side enthusiastically, while Starsky remained silent. His partner had been quiet on the drive over, too. He’d glanced one more time at his gouged door, then handed Hutch the keys and climbed into the passenger seat, holding the unrestrained cat. They’d been unable to find a carrier or an empty box to transport her in. Other than a few low moans from Princess, the Torino had been mainly silent.

Hutch ran a socked foot over Starsky’s calf to get his attention. “Did you hear what I said?”

“She’s just gettin’ her bearings,” Starsky replied. “She’ll settle down.” Starsky relaxed back against the couch and watched the cat, while Hutch started scratching at a maddening itch. “Is your scar bothering you?” Starsky asked, and Hutch knew which scar he was referring to, the small surgical scar one on Hutch’s side, earned after the train accident they’d survived months ago.

“No, not really,” Hutch said lightly. “It’s just a little itchy.”

Starsky nodded and grabbed Hutch’s free hand. “Come to the bathroom with me. You need to wash out the scratch Princess gave you, anyway, and I’ll put some cream on your side. See if that helps.”

Once inside the bathroom, Hutch took off his shirt and started the water, while Starsky looked through the medicine chest. for the items he wanted. “Wash it out real good,” Starsky directed, when Hutch had soap in hand.

“I am.” Hutch looked closer at the scratch. “This is nothing.” He reached for a towel.

“Let me see.” Starsky grabbed the damp hand and inspected it carefully. “Yeah, it looks fine, but let’s put some antiseptic on it anyway.”

Hutch only hissed a little, as the stinging substance was applied to the slight wound. He refrained from commenting when Starsky added a completely unnecessary bandage.

“There ya go, now let’s get this cream on you.” Starsky offered a half smile, as he shook the bottle he held with one hand, using the other to stroke along Hutch’s side. Then he opened the bottle and began rubbing it into the healed-over scar.

“That feels good, babe,” Hutch commented appreciatively, trying to catch Starsky’s eye. The dark head was bent in its task, though. “Do you want to talk about what you’re thinking?”

“You know what I’m thinking?” Starsky asked as he finished.

“I think so.”

“The Torino.” Starsky put the cream and the antiseptic back in the medicine chest.

“Um, hm,” Hutch murmured, not letting on that he’d guessed wrong, yet sure the death of the elderly victim was still troubling Starsky. Just as it was still troubling him. “I’ll call Merle for an appointment….”

“No, I mean, I was thinking of her when she was brand new. The first day I brought her home.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that day,” Hutch said with an indulgent smile. “You were beaming from ear to ear.”

“She was my first new car and she was perfect.”

“I guess we’ve beat her up a lot over the years, haven’t we?” Hutch asked rhetorically, his tone sympathetic as he imagined Starsky thinking about the newest damage done to what had once been his pride and joy. That had been when they were younger, of course. Before the job and life had banged their priorities around to what they were today, but still it had to hurt a little. “I’m really sorry about what happened to her.”

“She’s still perfect to me, Hutch.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Starsky returned his hand to Hutch’s side, massaging in the cream a little more. “I remember the first day I got you, too.”

Hutch laughed a little at that. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yep. All skinny and shiny. Not a mark on you.”

“Ah. Well, I have a few of those, now.”

“We both do, but, Hutch, you’re still perfect to me. Always will be.”

Hutch looked at Starsky sharply, surprised by the uncharacteristically sentimental comment and the slight catch to Starsky’s voice. “Been a long day, huh?”

“Real long. And that poor old woman. Alone…” Starsky wrapped his arms around his chest. “We’ve got so much, ya know? We have us. We have everything.”

Hutch reached for Starsky’s arms, loosening them from his sides before he gathered him close. “You’re right. We’ve got it all,” he whispered into an ear. “And, Starsk? You’re perfect to me, too.”

Starsky burrowed against Hutch’s naked chest. “You getting soapy on me?”

“Me?” Hutch said, followed by a laugh and a swat to Starsky’s rear. “Never. Now let’s get out of the bathroom and see what your cat’s up to.”

With their arms loosely wrapped around each other’s waists, Starsky and Hutch went in search of the orphaned cat. They found her in the kitchen, eating contentedly.

“Look at that,” Starsky said with a smile. “She’s feeling at home, now.”

Hutch didn’t comment, but he did smile at both the cat and his partner. Tomorrow would be time enough to start the calls to get her a new home, and make an appointment for the Torino to be patched up. For now, he wanted to think about other things. “Let’s let her eat in peace and see if she can find us when she’s done,” Hutch said, and then gave Starsky what he hoped was a sexy look.

“Where are we goin’?” Starsky asked. “You look like a man with a plan.”

“Well, if I have to tell you…” Hutch’s voice trailed off into laughter, and he turned and left the kitchen.

“Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart,” Starsky whispered to the cat, then left to join his partner.

 

 

“Considerations and Concerns”
by pepcidDC

A missing scene following episode 606, “Surprises”

Art by PattRose

 

 

They lay tangled in the sheets, relaxed in each other’s arms, their loving having helped cushion them from the case. Hutch gently kissed Starsky on the forehead, as his lover reached out and gently stroked his chest. “Hey.”

Starsky smiled his dreamy smile. “Hey, back at ya.”

“Starsk, I hate to say this, but I think we need to talk to Huggy. Tonight.”

Dark eyes opened wide and Starsky nodded. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

 

 

The Pits was quiet when they got there. Anita was behind the bar, washing glasses. The place looked empty, but Anita caught their eyes and nodded toward the back. The first hint Hutch had was when Starsky pulled up short in front of him, tensing. Peering into the gloom, Hutch could see Huggy tucked into one of the booths in the back. Hutch placed a hand on Starsky’s back, as he moved past him toward the booth. Starsky followed close behind.

Huggy didn’t acknowledge them as they approached. Hutch didn’t wait for an invitation. He slid into the booth opposite Huggy, and Starsky followed him in. The thin man had wedged himself into a corner, one leg propped up in the seat. He had a glass in one hand and a bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him.

“Huggy,” Hutch greeted him carefully.

Starsky eyed the bottle and the glass. “You drunk?”

Huggy snorted. “Wish to God I was. Might not hurt so damn much.”

Hutch slumped back. “You heard. About the kid?”

Huggy took another sip. “Yeah. My sources on the street.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

“Sorry, Huggy. We should’ve called.”

Huggy shrugged. “You get the bastards?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all that matters.” Huggy downed his drink and reached for the bottle.

Starsky got there first. He picked up the bottle and ran his thumb over the label. “Can we join you?”

Huggy shrugged and raised his voice. “Hey, Anita!”

Anita looked over, and Huggy waved his glass in the air. “Two glasses.”

Hutch shot Starsky a glance, then lifted his voice. “Anita, make that two beers instead.”

Anita brought over two beers and set them down on the table. She flashed a tight, worried look at Starsky, and quietly tilted her head toward Huggy, before turning and walking away without saying a word. She didn’t have to as far as Starsky was concerned; she was worried about Huggy and expected them to help. Anita disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving them alone.

Hutch took a sip, then set his glass down. “You know the kid well?”

“Nah. Saw her a time or two. He didn’t bring her in here.” Huggy contemplated his glass. “She was a cutie, though. All smiles.”

Starsky watched the foam on his beer as it slowly went down. “How’s Alejandro’s ma holding up?”

“She’s not.” Huggy shifted in his seat, moving to sit opposite them. “Lost her son and granddaughter in one fell swoop.” He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “Seems like not a day goes by that someone doesn’t walk through the door and say, ‘Hug, ya hear that Sam OD’d?’ or ‘Jackie’s pimp beat her to death last night’.” Huggy took a drink “So tell me, my friends.” His voice was both angry and sarcastic. “How long before someone walks through that door and says, ‘Hear the news, Huggy? Starsky and Hutch got killed last night’.”

Starsky made a sound–a cross between denial and protest–but Hutch nudged him quiet.

The blond leaned forward. “Huggy, about the other night–”

Dark eyes flicked over his face and away. “Was told it’s none of my business.”

Hutch winced at having his own words flung back in his face. Huggy continued to stare into the pale gold liquid. “You damn careless bastards.” Huggy’s head came up and his dark eyes held theirs in turn. “Bad enough when I had to worry about the streets killing you, now I gotta worry about your fellow cops. Wasn’t it enough when Gunther drilled your ass?” Huggy’s voice rose to a shout.

Hutch shook his head. “We don’t like having to think about it all the time. Having it hanging over our heads.”

Huggy threw himself back against the padded seat. “Like having to worry if the next guy who comes in here is a racist who will take offense? Been there, bro. Wondering if the next white man I meet is gonna call me ‘nigger’.” He shook his head. “For two street-smart cops, you guys’ve got no clue.”

Starsky stared into his beer. “It’s not that we were careless. It was you, Huggy, and I didn’t think we needed to hide from you.”

Hutch nodded. “You’ve always been there. Through the worst and the best. Maybe we just took it for granted. Took you for granted.”

“Hutch and me…” Starsky took a deep breath. “It’d be hard to lose you, Huggy.”

“The worst part? When it happens to one of you? I’ll be the one who gets to pick up the pieces of the other one and watch him die right in front of me.”

“Huggy–” Starsky put his drink down and leaned forward.

Huggy poked a thin finger at him. “Don’t ‘Huggy’ me, my man. I saw what Hutch went through. You die, and he won’t be far behind. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Starsky looked stricken. Hutch put his leg along Starsky’s and pressed it gently. The three of them sat for a moment in silence.

“What’s the alternative, Hug?” Hutch’s voice was just a whisper.

Starsky leaned against Hutch’s shoulder. “What happens if Hutch and I leave the streets, leave the force? What happens then?”

Huggy rubbed his face with his hand. There was a dampness around his eyes that was whisked away. “You live. You get off the streets. You’re safe. Protected.”

“What happens to the people we leave behind?”

Huggy looked away.

“We’re good at what we do, Huggy.” Hutch took a sip from his beer.

“I know you are…but I am sick to death of losing friends, and I don’t want to lose you.” Huggy’s voice cracked, and, for just a moment, he covered his eyes.

Starsky got that sly shy smile on his face. “So?” His voice questioning. “So, we’re still friends?”

Huggy snorted, wiping his eyes. “Hell, yes. At least until you pay your damn tab. After that, I may have to reconsider.”

 

 

“A Dreary Saturday Morning”
by Candy Apple

A missing scene following episode 606, “Surprises”

Art by Helyn Highwater

 

 

Rain was coming down, and the sky was overcast. A dreary day to match a dreary mood.

Carolyn Flores looked at herself in the mirror. Unlike so many of her friends, turning thirty the previous year had been no great trauma. It wasn’t as if she went to bed a young woman and rose on her birthday a bent hag with a wart on her nose. Her mother had stayed with Alicia that evening, while Arturo took her out to an absurdly expensive restaurant, then out dancing until late into the night. She’d worn a flame-red dress and matching heels, toiled over her make-up, and swept her dark hair into an elegant style with curling ringlets framing her face. She wasn’t ordinarily vain, but she had to give herself credit that night–she looked sensational, and she knew it.

Arturo barely took his eyes off her long enough to order dinner, let alone notice any other women. They’d been like newlyweds that night in every way, and she remembered them joking how they would have to celebrate her fortieth the same way.

Now she looked at herself in the mirror and saw a tired housewife looking back. Losing the baby had drained so much of the joy out of her, that she could barely remember being that gorgeous woman in the red dress, who turned heads and kept her husband captivated.

But why fret over how captivating she did or didn’t look? Arturo had loved her with swollen ankles and an extra thirty pounds while she was carrying Alicia. He’d brought her flowers and romanced her, when she was too pregnant to get close enough to him to slow dance comfortably. He’d helped with the baby and, as Alicia grew, rejoiced with Carolyn in each stage of her development. He wasn’t a tail-chaser, and he didn’t embarrass her by ogling other women. When their passionate interlude on her birthday had led to a second pregnancy, she’d expected–and received–no less love and support from him.

Then she’d lost the baby, and nothing anyone did seemed to matter anymore. Nothing could ease the pain of losing a child the world never knew. Of never holding that baby, or seeing the child she’d come to love as it grew inside her. Arturo had lost something that horrible day, too, and she’d tried to be there for him. She really had tried. Yet there were times she raged at him that he couldn’t know how she felt, that he couldn’t be in the pain she was in. She knew that wasn’t completely true, but in a way, it was. The child wasn’t physically inside his body–a little life force growing inside that was suddenly snuffed out and taken away.

Never given to much bickering before, they seemed to pick arguments with each other, and things between them became increasingly strained.

And then Arturo was partnered with Lizzie Thorpe. Lizzie was pretty, tough, capable–a good cop, with whom Arturo now spent most of his waking hours. Someone whose life he guarded and who guarded his in return. Someone he had inside jokes with, ate meals with, talked with during long stake-outs…someone he traded confidences with…someone he became very close to, very fast.

Carolyn was no more thrilled to see her husband partnered with an attractive, recently divorced woman than most women she knew would have been in a similar situation, but she promised herself she would not turn into a jealous harpy. She resolved that Arturo’s friendship with Lizzie would not get under her skin, and that she would understand the bond between partners for what it was, and not read something sexual into it. After all, she’d seen the closeness between Ken and Dave, and they were two men, for heaven’s sake. There was no reason to read anything into it. Still, there were times their bond seemed so exclusive that it made her fear for the relationship forming between her husband and his partner. There was something in Arturo’s eyes when he looked at Lizzie. It was the way he’d looked at Carolyn the night she wore the red dress.

After watching him with Lizzie, things had gone from bad to worse. Carolyn had begun making the little waspish remarks she so hated to hear from other women who succumbed to jealousy. She even went so far as to demand Arturo get another partner.

She’d lost her child, she was bitterly depressed, irritable, and the last thing she’d felt was sexy or beautiful or romantic. Then along came Lizzie Thorpe, the perfect woman. Pretty, intelligent, caring, and available. She had no evidence Arturo had ever been unfaithful, but she knew in her heart that he wanted to be. And that was just as bad.

Now twice in just the last few months, he’d brushed far too close to death for any of that to matter too much. He hadn’t strayed, he was still a wonderful father to Alicia, and the traumas had brought them closer as a family. Or so it seemed. With this last incident, he’d seemed to withdraw from Lizzie a great deal, and Lizzie seemed preoccupied with her own need for counseling and time to recover. The details were foggy, but Carolyn knew they’d been forced into a humiliating sexual situation of some sort, for the cheap thrills of a sleazy–and homicidal–pornographer.

Since he’d been home from the hospital, Arturo had been quiet and sullen. He sometimes woke up screaming, and, despite the fact he would cling to her for comfort, he’d never tell her what they were about. Well, not exactly, anyway.

“Carolyn?” Arturo’s voice coming from the bedroom across the hall from the bathroom startled her, as she realized she’d been staring in the mirror for many long minutes, when she’d only gotten up for a drink of water and an aspirin. It was just past dawn, but it was Arturo’s day off and a Saturday, so the family had no reason to be up early.

“Coming,” she responded, keeping her voice quiet so as not to disturb Alicia’s sleep. She checked on their daughter on her way back from the bathroom, and found her sleeping peacefully. Smiling at the sight, she closed the door and returned to the bedroom she shared with her husband. “I needed an aspirin.”

“You okay, honey?” he asked tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“Just a little headache. I’m fine,” she said, smiling. Getting back into bed, she moved closer, drawn against him by an arm that closed around her. “When are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked gently.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what you keep seeing in your nightmares. The real story.”

“Carolyn, please. I told you it was an ugly scene–”

“I know. I heard you. But I also know there’s more to it than what you’re telling me. I also know the doctor cleared you, but you haven’t touched me since you’ve been home from the hospital.”

“For God’s sake, Carolyn, what we went through was…it was…degrading and–”

“I know that, sweetheart,” she said soothingly, stroking his cheek. “That wasn’t a complaint. I just feel that there’s something more…terrible that you’re not telling me. I just want you to know that I love you, and nothing you tell me is going to change that.”

“Oh, God, honey, I wish that were true.” He shook his head and then looked toward the curtains that were stirring slightly with the morning breeze, carrying in the rain-scented air.

“I know you were attracted to Lizzie.”

“I never–”

“Arturo, listen to me.” Carolyn sat up in bed, stuffing a couple of pillows behind her back. “We’ve known each other since high school. We’ve been through a lot together. I know you. I saw the way you looked at her, and I knew what that meant. So I know that whatever sick thing these people did to the two of you probably had a very weird, double meaning of sorts for you.”

“I can’t do this.” Arturo sat up, turning his back to Carolyn. The marks from the beating he’d taken had faded a lot. For that, she was grateful. She got on her knees behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her head against his.

“Try, baby. I’m here and I love you, and I know that whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s my fault I wanted it to happen,” he said brokenly. “God, Carolyn, I’ve been such a selfish bastard. I…I wanted it to happen and then it did.”

“What did you want to happen, Arturo?” she asked softly, feeling the tremors coursing through his body.

“I…I thought about having an affair with Lizzie.”

“I know.”

“You–? Is that why you wanted me to get another partner?” He turned to look at her, and she released her hold on him, sitting on the bed so they could face each other.

“No. I didn’t really know then. I was just jealous. She was pretty and a cop and with you all the time. I didn’t feel comfortable with it. But then I met her and I felt like an idiot. She was so nice and seemed so level-headed and not like the home-wrecking bimbo I’d turned her into in my mind.”

“She is a good person, Carolyn. She never…she didn’t let things get out of hand. But I have no right to expect you to forgive me. The only reason we didn’t have an affair was because she put the brakes on it.” The words hit Carolyn hard, but they were nothing she didn’t already know, and she had never seen Arturo look more devastated than he did now. “I love you, honey, I really do. I just… There’s no excuse. I just…we got to be close friends, and I could talk to her–”

“At a time when you couldn’t talk to me, is that it?” Carolyn asked, her tone neutral and not accusatory.

“Maybe partly, but that’s no excuse. Maybe I was just running away. From the miscarriage, from the pain, from the things we needed to work out between us. Maybe I was just attracted to her. I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. I felt like I was falling for her, but I never stopped loving you. I still haven’t. I never will. This is sounding like a bad love song. ‘Torn between two lovers’ or something like that.”

“It can happen. People are capable of loving more than one person in a lifetime. That’s why people sometimes remarry after they’re widowed. There’s more than one person out there in the world you can make a life with. Of all the women in the world, there was bound to be another one somewhere you could have feelings for. Of all the men out there, do you seriously think you’re the only man I’ve ever found attractive?”

“But that’s not the same thing.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be so sexist. Sure it is. If I were in a job where I was partnered with a handsome, sensitive, capable man, what guarantee is there that I wouldn’t have thoughts about him that weren’t completely wholesome?”

“None, but being attracted to someone and being on the verge of having an affair with that person are two different things.”

“Do you want me to get past this and forgive you, or are you trying to give me some reason to throw you out and ask for a divorce?”

“Why would you say something like that?”

“I’m trying to understand this, trying to get past it, and you keep insisting on rubbing my nose in it and forcing me to see it as something unforgivable.”

“I don’t mean to do that. I just want you to understand–”

“That you had feelings for her and that you wanted to take her to bed? I get it, Arturo. You don’t have to draw me a picture.”

“And you’re not angry at me for that?”

“I didn’t say that. I never said it didn’t hurt or didn’t make me angry, or that it didn’t matter. But when I thought you might die and you were in surgery, it didn’t seem quite so unforgivable.”

She reached over and took his hand in both of hers. “What matters to me is what you want now. If you still want her, then I don’t want you with me. I won’t play second fiddle to Lizzie Thorpe or anyone else. I love you with all my heart, with everything I am, but I won’t be second choice. If you want her, go be with her.” She paused, looking at the stricken expression on his face. Maybe his freedom isn’t what he wanted after all. “But if you love me, and you want to be with me–not just because you feel obligated or because of Alicia, but because you want to be with me–then I want you to know that I’m here, and I want our life together. But you have to make a choice.”

“Before you promise me too much, you need to know the truth.” Arturo sighed, which still caused him some pain. “They made me…they made us…” Arturo swallowed. “We had to have sex on camera,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “They threatened to kill her if I didn’t. I had to…”

“What?” she prodded gently, wondering what could be a worse revelation than forced intercourse. She’d suspected that all along, given Lizzie’s sudden distance from Arturo and the fact she was taking time off for counseling. Mostly she’d suspected it because Arturo had been unable to sustain eye contact with her since he’d been home.

“If I didn’t come inside her, they were going to kill us both,” he said, a tear rolling down his cheek. “So I did.” He began to cry then, and she moved toward him, pulling him into her arms.

“You did what you had to do to live. It wasn’t your fault.”

“How can you want to be close to me when you know what I did?”

“When I know you saved your partner’s life and your own? When I know you were as good as raped by those sick animals? You’re a cop. You know what it means to be a victim, and it doesn’t mean you did something wrong.”

“I have no right to touch you. To expect you to love me after what I’ve done.”

“You’re my husband and I love you. We’ve got a beautiful little girl and a whole life ahead of us. We can let this destroy us or we can overcome it.”

“I love you,” he said, pulling back and taking her face in his hands. “Oh, honey, it’s not a hard choice to make. I’ll always feel close to Lizzie as a friend, but she’s not you. She’s not the woman I married, the woman who had my child…she’s not you. If you can forgive me, I’ll make it up to you. I promise I’ll–”

“We’ll start over,” she interrupted. “Clean slate, new start. And it has to start with us going to someone who can help us get past this. A good counselor who can help you with all the pain inside you from what you went through.”

“Anything you want,” he agreed, but she shook her head.

“It has to be what we both want. Don’t do this just for me. Do it for us, for Alicia–but for yourself, too. I want you to want this as much as I do.”

“I do,” he said, smiling a little at the words.

“I do, too,” she responded, smiling back. And for the first time in months, she felt the unity with Arturo she’d felt when they first said those words.

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a dreary day after all.

 

 

A Love for All Seasons
by Kaye Austen Michaels

A missing tag scene from episodes 607 & 608, “Big Men on Campus”

SHSVS Special Feature Week

 

 

“I need food, a shower, and some quality time with Amelia–in that order,” Hutch said through a yawn, shedding his jacket, gun, and holster with absent movements that spoke of habit.

“Amelia?” Starsky took charge of Hutch’s gun and holster, and hung them with his own. Handling the physical proof of their profession, he remembered how some of the students in class had gaped at the bulges that showed too well through his and Hutch’s light jackets. Their shift had kept them busy, and they had arrived on campus with just seconds to spare before the beginning of class. Both men declined wasting even the time required to lock their guns in the Torino’s trunk.

“Amelia?” Starsky asked again, because Hutch hadn’t responded.

Hutch yawned. “The maidenhair that’s been trying to go sickly on me.”

Starsky smiled. A fern. Hutch needed quality time with a fern. Well, that was one of the things about his partner he had always found endearing. Unfortunately for Amelia, Starsky had other plans involving his gorgeous fern-specialist. He would allow Hutch the food and shower–especially the shower–but after that, he didn’t intend to share his blond with a plant, even a maiden in distress.

Urging Hutch onto the sofa with a promising kiss, Starsky ruffled his partner’s hair and dashed into the kitchen before Hutch could retaliate. He set the table with all the edible leftovers he could find and yelled for Hutch like a chuck-wagon chef in a Western film. Hutch grinned and sat down at the table, but he didn’t let Starsky take his own seat. Instead, Hutch grabbed him around the waist and pulled him into his lap.

“Hey!” Starsky protested. “Your legs won’t thank you, goof.”

“You think I care?” Hutch laughed. “Feeling your one-of-a-kind ass nestled against my groin like it belongs there–I’ve been needing this all day. You have a problem with it?”

Starsky wiggled back for firmer contact and made sounds of approval low in his throat. “You make one helluva chair, Blondie, especially the part of you that’s getting harder and bigger by the second.”

By the time they finished shoveling down the food, neither man wanted to spend time clearing the table. They left the mess for later and nearly tore a strip from the floor on a dead run for the bathroom and a shared shower. The noises that filtered through the closed bathroom door were comical–bangs and laughing curses, as clothing removal and lust combined with too small enclosed space; smacking kisses that transformed to yelps and shouts, when the water failed to turn warm as quickly as expected; and finally the moans and teasing of foreplay and bathing. Comedy yielded to passion. Someone listening at the door would have known from the panting and husky sexual commentary that Hutch was doing whatever he pleased with his partner’s “one-of-a-kind” ass.

The lovers emerged wearing robes and sappy smiles. Hutch pulled Starsky close, delivered a grateful and deep kiss, and released the starry-eyed dark-haired man after a slurpy smack of lips on his forehead. Starsky rubbed his mouth and breathed deeply, watching Hutch head for the greenhouse. Shaking his still damp hair, Starsky tried to separate his brains and hormones. It was time for action of a different sort, and he had to snag Hutch’s attention before he became absorbed in Amelia.

 

 

Hutch was already absorbed, mixing a delicate healing potion of liquid plant food, minerals, and distilled water in a watering can and humming softly. Amelia waited patiently on her shelf, droopy and in definite need of loving care.

“Hutch!”

The shout startled Hutch, and he dropped the watering can. “Dammit, Starsky!”

“Sorry,” Starsky said, appearing behind him and wrapping his arms around the amateur botanist’s waist. “I need you in the kitchen.”

Hutch pulled away from the cuddling arms and bent to retrieve the watering can. “Now? I need to work on Amelia while I have a chance, Starsk.” He held up the empty watering can and frowned. “That was the last of the plant food, too.”

“Well, then you’ll have to wait until you get some more, right? So you can come on into the kitchen.”

“Funny how you always get your way,” Hutch grumped. He tidied his work area, pointedly ignoring Starsky’s fidgeting in the background, and whispered a few soothing words to the suffering fern.

“Hu-u-u-tch!”

He had never been able to deny that wheedling voice. Hutch sighed at his lack of willpower and followed Starsky to the kitchen to discover that his partner had cleaned the table. The half-eaten leftovers and dirty plates had been replaced by two glasses of wine, a tape recorder, and Starsky’s copy of Robert Bolt’s “A Man for All Seasons,” the text they had discussed in class just a couple of hours ago.

“What is this?” Hutch demanded shortly, still concerned about his troubled fern.

“Siddown,” Starsky ordered, grinning. He softened the order with a tongue-tip kiss against Hutch’s neck, directly on the sensitive spot beneath the right earlobe, and Hutch quivered on cue.

Dropping into the chair, Hutch absently fingered the kiss-tingling skin and wanted to be angry at his instinctive response to Starsky, but he couldn’t even manage indignation at the curly-haired tempter seated just inches from him and fiddling with the tape recorder.

Hutch sipped his wine and watched Starsky flip through “A Man for All Seasons.” Starsky had been especially vocal in class tonight, no doubt buoyed by his solid B+ on what had been a demanding “Measure for Measure” paper topic. Instead of shoving his paper into his notebook as he had last week with the disappointing C on the “Antigone” assignment, Starsky had left this paper sitting proudly beside his class text throughout the entire discussion on Thomas More, Henry the VIII, and the battle between absolute power in England and the Church in Rome.

“Starsky, we just spent over two hours discussing that book. Aren’t you ready to give it a rest? What’s with the tape recorder?”

“I’m interviewing you, but I have to get my questions in order. Drink your wine and relax.”

“Interviewing me?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said. “For the final paper.”

“Oh.” Hutch’s brow furrowed, as he tried to figure out his partner’s intention. Last week, before their “Measure for Measure” discussion got underway, Garner had outlined the requirements for their final paper–an interview project. “If you’re using Thomas More as one of your subjects, I think Garner’s intention is that you find a modern-day lawyer to interview.”

“That’s the spirit of the assignment,” Starsky argued, “not the letter of the law. ‘Sides, I don’t know a single lawyer in Bay City I want to share air space with, long enough for an interview like this.”

But why did Starsky want to interview him? Hutch swallowed the sip of wine that had lingered forgotten on his tongue, and decided to ask rather than wait for explanations.

“Why do you want to interview me, and why now? The paper isn’t due until December, you know.”

Starsky looked up and smiled. “I’m getting a head start on the project. I want to do this part while the book’s still fresh in my mind, and you’re my Sir Thomas More.”

Hutch choked on the wine and set down his glass with a splash that almost spilled over onto the table. “Starsk, I–” He took refuge in cynicism. “I’m not sure I like that comparison. For one thing, in More’s time, the real Sir Thomas might well have had a mile wide anti-Semitic streak.”

Starsky blinked. “The book didn’t say anything about that.”

Hutch dismissed the book with a backhanded wave. “Ah, of course not. More is Bolt’s protagonist; he’s not going to insinuate that Sir Thomas might have–”

“Hutch.”

“What?”

“We’re supposed to be basing our comparisons on the text.” Starsky picked up the book and wagged it. “This is the More I’m interested in, and you’re him.”

“Starsky, More was canonized as a Catholic saint, a martyr for the faith. I’m sure as hell no saint.”

“Hutch!” Starsky sounded on the verge of irritable. “I don’t see him as some saint. I see him as a damned incredible guy, and a lot of the things that made him incredible make you just as special…like idealism, dignity, class, courage, and intelligence, if you need a list. Why’re you having such a problem with this?”

Hutch squirmed in his seat. How could he express the truth? Besides a twinge of embarrassment, Hutch felt overwhelmed. How could he tell Starsky that the adoration shining in those deep blue eyes humbled him, filled him with a sense that he’d never live up to the image Starsky had of him. Hutch would never have believed that this comparison with a sixteenth-century martyr could leave him so shaken. Perhaps it was because he himself stood in awe of Bolt’s More, who was perhaps an idealized version of the real Sir Thomas, but still…. Starsky had said it was Bolt’s More that reminded him of Hutch. The Thomas More of “A Man for All Seasons” epitomized love, zest for life, humor, wit, courage, humanism, and devotion to integrity.

Me and Hutch don’t make deals. Hutch could still hear those words in Starsky’s inimitable voice.

Neither had Thomas More, and he’d paid for it with his head.

“All right,” Hutch said in a hushed voice. “Fire away.”

“All right,” Starsky replied, grinning to the point of showing all his teeth. “You read the text, so I don’t need to give you background. I’ll just start with the questions.” He pressed the record button on the machine and cleared his throat. “What do you admire most about Thomas More?”

Hutch smiled. “His humanity. If you read between the lines in his relationship with his wife, More was a passionate lover. He loved his career and was good at it. He had friends and knew how to entertain them. He wanted his daughter to be more than just a pretty face–amazing, considering this was pre-Elizabethan England.”

Starsky had been sipping his wine during Hutch’s answer. He put down the glass and said, “What do you not like about him?”

Hutch rubbed his eyes and took another swallow from his own glass. “I understand why More felt the need to sacrifice his life for principle, but I’m not sure he gave enough thought to what his death would do to his family. Not just their grief, but also the danger they might be in, especially during those times. I think in the end, he became more concerned with his duty to God than the lives of the people he cared about. I have a hard time with that. But then, I’ve never felt I have a contract with God, so I can’t relate to More in that capacity.”

Starsky nodded. “Garner talked tonight about ‘core belief’ and how More knew what his core beliefs were. What are yours? What do you believe in that much?”

Hutch reached across the table and clasped Starsky’s hand. “Our partnership, but then you know that.”

“Hutch–”

He smiled. Starsky could pack ten thousand meanings into the way he said “Hutch.” Right now the student was reminding his interviewee that this was a class project. Still, Hutch didn’t release the hand his fingers caressed.

“I think I like what you said in our very first class session–about protecting the innocent,” Hutch said, obediently backing away from more personal, private beliefs that couldn’t be included in Starsky’s paper. “I don’t think I can say ‘justice’ anymore, because my idea of justice doesn’t always match the legal system’s. But I know I believe in strapping on that holster if it means that lives will be saved. When we pull a rapist off the street or put a child-killer behind bars, when we convince a kid to get off the street and go back to school–yeah, hell, that’s what I believe in. That’s my religion.”

“Anything else?” Starsky’s eyes gleamed sapphire as if backlit by a candle. Hutch knew three bottles of the potent red wine couldn’t intoxicate him the way Starsky’s eyes did when they probed past his barriers and searched his heart. In an instant, Hutch forgot the Law and Lit course, the class project, and Starsky’s silent request to stick to answers he could use.

“You. My love for you,” Hutch whispered. “I believe in those two constants more than anything else in life.”

Starsky clicked the stop button. His smile was tender, but his voice scolding, “Hutch, you know I can’t put that in my paper no matter how much I want to.”

“I know, but you don’t have to turn in your interview tape. You can use a different tape for your other interviews. Now, push that record button because I’m not through.”

Shaking his head, Starsky lifted Hutch’s hand to his lips and then released it. “You know it’s not safe to have stuff like this on tape.”

Hutch couldn’t restrain a rush of anger. “Oh, come on! More could give his life for a belief, but I’m not supposed to risk my damn job on the slim chance that somebody would find this tape and actually listen to it? Where’s my fearless Starsky?”

“Hutch–”

“Am I Thomas More or not? Don’t ask me to live up to that standard and then keep me from doing it…even with something this simple.”

 

 

Starsky turned his eyes from the determined soft blue stare. He traced patterns in the moisture on his wine glass and tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. Maybe he should have let Hutch carry out his rescue plans with Amelia. Damn his tendency to give in to impulse, Starsky condemned himself. All during the class discussion, he had been reminded that he saw Thomas More’s equal in his partner every day of the week. It had seemed a given that he should interview Hutch for his paper.

He opened the class text to a quote that prefaced the play. Robert Whittinton, More’s contemporary, had said of Sir Thomas:

More is a man of an angel’s wit and singular learning; I know not his fellow. For where is the man of that gentleness, lowliness, and affability? And as time requireth a man of marvelous mirth and pastimes; and sometimes of as sad gravity: a man for all seasons.

If that weren’t Hutch, Starsky would drink desiccated liver shakes for a month.

Hutch–the White Knight, his guardian angel, protector of the weak and needy, gifted with an intellect he didn’t show off, sometimes concealing his education in a vernacular that sounded more farm boy than Renaissance man.

Gentleness? Starsky smiled. He would never forget Hutch pleading with deaf Larry not to cry when he brought him in on shoplifting candy bars. Though five years in the past, that moment remained vivid and strong as a memory.

Lowliness and affability? Hutch would be at home in the centers of wealth and prestige, but he had chosen a simple life and got along best with the everyday people who populated his inner city world.

Hutch had the range of emotion, too. At the most surprising times, he could get downright silly, or he could be deadly serious–and grave–like yesterday, when he had shed silent tears at The Angel’s funeral. He could be stoic, happy, vulnerable, and any emotion in between.

Hutch was a man for all seasons, all right.

But with talk of Thomas More inevitably came talk of death.

Starsky shuddered. He knew what lay behind Hutch’s desire to record the words. The shadow of losing Hutch to the dangers of their job hung over the room. His tenderhearted partner obviously hoped the tape would be a source of consolation in the event that he did have to give his life for his core belief in protecting the innocent.

“Starsk?”

Realizing that he’d been lost in thought, Starsky shrugged free of the gloom and turned on the record function. “Knock yourself out,” he said gruffly.

In a flood of words with only the occasional, faintest stutter, Hutch poured out his heart. Starsky wanted to concentrate on the words, but he couldn’t. Mesmerized by Hutch’s earnest expression, the movement of his lips, the spell of his voice, Starsky knew he was experiencing a miracle. He was seeing raw emotion, hearing it slip past his ears, seep through his skin, fill the air with the scent of love. The flavor of the wine on his tongue gave way to the taste of Hutch’s mouth and skin.

“Starsky?”

Starsky shook himself. Hutch had already stopped the recorder. Reaching for the record button, Starsky fully intended to try giving Hutch the same precious gift he’d just received, but Hutch clasped his hand and drew it away. “I–” Starsky began, unsure what to say.

As usual, Hutch read his mind. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ll interview you some other time. Come here.”

Starsky left his seat and bent over Hutch, encircling his partner with an iron grip and burying his face in Hutch’s hair. He kissed down to Hutch’s cheek and slid his mouth over for an insistent, open-mouthed union. “Not through asking you questions for the paper,” he mumbled against Hutch’s lips.

The mouth beneath his curved into a smile. “Can we put that aside for a while? I want to do some exploring south of the equator.” Hutch’s large hand crept beneath Starsky’s robe in a strategic location to emphasize the desire.

Laughing, Starsky pressed against the roving hand. “Yeah, but, after this interview, I’m kinda scared you’ll think I’m pretending you’re someone else.”

Hutch frowned, clearly confused. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Aw, you know what I tend to do when you put those world-class lips of yours around my cock.” Starsky winked.

Scratching the bridge of his nose with his free hand, Hutch shook his head. “Remind me– I’m not following you.”

Starsky threw back his head and shouted, “More, more, more!”

Hutch burst out laughing. “Don’t tell me all this time I’ve been competing with the ghost of a sixteenth-century lawyer. A lawyer, Starsky, where’s your shame?”

Grinning, Starsky took Hutch’s hand from its exploration of private secrets and licked a trail of moisture across the palm. “I have no shame, Blondie, want me to show you?”

Hutch shivered. “Yeah, come to bed, my lewd scholar-clown.”

Pulling Hutch by the hand toward the sleeping alcove, Starsky reflected that his relationship with Hutch mirrored Whittinton’s view of More as well. Gentle, down-to-earth, full of life, love and lust, exhibiting everything from humor to the most solemn emotion….

They had a love for all seasons.

 

 

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