Jet lag's a bitch, and Hutch is prone to it. In the past when it got its claws into him, he always wanted to climb into bed and revel in several unbroken hours of unconsciousness before facing the world again. This time he can't even feel it. He flew in from Duluth not thirty minutes ago, and it's late, but he's wide awake, every nerve ending humming. He feels like humming, come to think of it, or hell, singing. He's with Starsky, and Starsky's alive and Starsky hasn't taken his eyes off him once since they got to the restaurant. Hutch has barely touched his drink, but he's higher than a kite.

They don't talk much. They don't need to. They talked on the phone every day of the two weeks Hutch was gone, and Starsky knows all about Hutch's sister's car accident, the emergency surgery, the days she spent unconscious in the ICU. He knows about Hutch's frantic brother-in-law, and the strained politeness that hung between Hutch and his parents even in time of crisis, and the awkward hugs they shared when Debbie was pronounced out of danger. He knows Hutch has dreams about hospital waiting rooms, ICU's, heart monitors, and that Starsky's voice across the miles helped keep them away.

Hutch picks at his appetizer and looks at Starsky. He wants to go home with him. It doesn't matter which home, Starsky's or his, and it doesn't even matter — much — what they'll do when they get there. He'd actually be satisfied watching TV, exchanging gentle kisses, letting Starsky fall asleep on his shoulder. They did that every night for a week after Starsky was released, still weak, from the hospital and before Hutch got the phone call about Debbie. It's a holding pattern he's comfortable with, an island of calm between the tumultuous past and the unknowable future.

But he knows that's not what's going to happen, and on some buried level, it scares him. But here, now, with Starsky gazing at him in the lamplight and Starsky's sneakered feet touching his under the table, he can't make himself feel anything but soaring anticipation.

Starsky says, "Hutch, I gotta have you."

Hutch feels his heart skip at the words. It doesn't surprise him that Starsky knows what he's thinking, only that he's saying it out loud, in public. There's a couple in the booth next to theirs, eating silently. The woman sitting inches behind Starsky gave them a long look when they sat down. Hutch wonders if she's listening now.

"Starsk..." He clears his throat and glances cautiously around.

"What? You want me to keep quiet about it?" Starsky's voice is a smoky whisper. "I can't do that anymore."

Hutch looks at him, at his eyes, so dark in the low light, at the coins gleaming dully beneath the hollow of his throat. He can almost see the pulse beating there, can almost feel it against his lips.

"I don't know if you're ready," he says. "What if—"

Starsky's hand closes, hard, on his wrist. "I'm ready. I'm so ready I'm going crazy. I need you so bad." His thumb strokes gentle circles over Hutch's pulse point.

"Starsk," Hutch begins again, and stops helplessly. He knows he should argue, but.... I need you so bad. The words swell joyously in his brain, crowding out his protests.

"Babe, I gotta get my hands on you. I can't keep going like this, it's like starving. All I can think about is your mouth and your ass and the way you used to—"

"Jesus, Starsky." Hutch squeezes his eyes shut, but the pictures won't go away. They're painted, lewd and beautiful, on the inside of his eyelids.

"Let's get outta here, huh? I need to be where I can touch you, where we can...." Starsky trails off. "Please, Hutch."

"God," Hutch whispers. "Okay. I'll— I'll pay. Go get in the car—" But Starsky's already sliding out of the booth, almost stumbling as he rises.

Hutch swallows and rubs a hand over his face quickly. He grabs his jacket, leaves a tip, and pays without remembering any of it.

When he emerges from the restaurant he takes several calming breaths of the cool night air before heading for the Torino. He can see it, gleaming under a street light, Starsky's silhouette behind the wheel. His head's tilted back against the headrest. As Hutch watches, he swallows, the Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

Throat, Hutch thinks dizzily. Warm, wet, pulling at me. Jesus, it's been so long.

As he approaches the car, Starsky's eyes turn toward him. He opens the door, slides in, and Starsky says softly, "You know how you look in the light? Like a fuckin' angel, babe." He raises a hand to Hutch's face. "God," he whispers, "I wanna come all over you."

Hutch closes his eyes. "Starsk, drive."

"Didja hear me?" Starsky traces Hutch's lips with a finger. "I think I could do it, too. I been saving it up so long, I think I could drown you in it."

"Let's go," Hutch whispers. He can't even think anymore, can't even remember his reservations. "Let's go home."

*****

Duluth, Minnesota
One week earlier

He hadn't seen his parents in almost seven years. The last time he'd been with Vanessa, and they'd fought all the way to Duluth and back, though they managed to put up a front of togetherness at the Thanksgiving table. Hutch's parents had loved Vanessa. Why not? She was beautiful, intelligent, classy. She was proof that their son's wavering sexuality had settled on the right side at last. She made them temporarily proud of him, and he remembered how pathetically grateful he'd been to her for that.

But by the next Thanksgiving, he was a bachelor again.

He settled back with his coffee into the uncomfortable molded plastic chair in the corridor outside the ICU. The nearest coffee machine was two floors down, and by now he could have made his way to it blindfolded. It wasn't good coffee, but like nearly every cop he'd ever known, he was addicted to the caffeine jolt. Quality was almost beside the point.

His mother emerged from Debbie's room and sat down beside him, sighing a little. He tried to smile at her, but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the window across from them, beyond which her daughter lay, white and silent, bandaged and intubated and still.

Hutch couldn't look through that window anymore. He couldn't watch Debbie's face anymore and ache to see her eyelids flutter. It was getting to the point where he was having trouble telling nightmares from reality. It was beginning to feel as if life outside hospitals was a mere illusion, as if he'd been sprung from prison, allowed a sweet few days of dreamlike freedom, and then thrust back again into captivity, a hated world of surgical masks and cold white corridors and still figures who wouldn't move no matter how much you begged them to, no matter how much you needed them to. He could feel the dread building up in him, creeping through every part of him, treading pathways worn smooth during the time he'd spent staring at Starsky's motionless face.

The thought of Starsky started an almost unbearable itching in his mind. He needed to call him. Hell, he needed to see him, hold him, listen to his heartbeat. Thank God for the telephone. He'd talked to Starsky every night since he left Bay City, closing his eyes and soaking up his partner's voice, reveling in every inflection, every breath, every muffled laugh. He'd called him the first night, terror-stricken after a dream, and last night he'd stroked himself to climax while Starsky whispered to him. He needed Starsky now, so badly he hurt. He needed to be home.

"Every time, I think she's going to open her eyes." Lillian's voice was so soft Hutch had to lean close to make out the words. "Every time I touch her, I think she's going to wake up and ask me what time it is."

"She will," he said, knowing it for the empty promise it was. How many miracles were there in life, anyway? Maybe Starsky's had exhausted the supply.

His mother said nothing, so Hutch added, "Starsky did."

Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Lillian looked blankly at him, and he realized that such a comparison was unfathomable to her. Debbie was her daughter. Starsky was her son's co-worker, his friend, someone she had never met and was aware of only vaguely. That Starsky's life was more important to her son than his own was something she had no inkling of. How could she? Hutch had learned long ago that the secrets of his heart were not to be shared with his parents.

After a few moments' silence he asked, "Where's Harry?" His brother-in-law had been a near constant presence at Debbie's bedside since the accident.

Lillian sighed. "Your father took him home. He's going to be in intensive care himself if he doesn't get some rest, and the children need him. They don't understand any of this, they're always asking for her, crying for her...."

Hutch didn't have to ask why she and his father didn't go home, too. It was the same reason he'd barely closed his eyes while Starsky hovered between life and death in the days after the shooting. Debbie was that precious to them. Well, children were supposed to be that precious to their parents. He was an exception.

"If only she'd wake up," his mother whispered. "If she'd just wake up."

Hutch downed the last swallow of his coffee and stood. He hesitated a moment before touching her shoulder gently. "I'll be back," he said, but she didn't react, either to the words or the touch. She didn't take her eyes off the window.

He crumpled the paper cup in his hand and headed to the pay phone to call Starsky.

*****

They go to Starsky's place because it's nearer. It's what they used to think about — whose place was nearer, where they'd spend the night, whether each of them had enough clothes at the other's apartment — and Hutch is tired of it. It doesn't make sense anymore. The only thing that makes sense now is for them to consolidate, start from scratch, get a place together with a greenhouse for him and a darkroom for Starsky and a bedroom they can lock themselves into for days at a time. He smiles at the thought, smiles into the night air whipping through the Torino's window, listens to the low throb of the engine, feels Starsky's hand warm on his knee.

At the door Starsky fumbles the key, drops it, and growls, "Shit." Hutch forces himself not to help while Starsky lowers himself with careful, precise movements and gropes on the deck. Hutch's eyes rest on Starsky's head, on the curls stirred by the breeze. He thinks about burying his fingers in them, feeling them against his cheek, under his lips, between his thighs.

Then they're stepping inside, and Starsky's locking and chaining the door behind them, and they're kissing, hard and deep and wet, and Hutch is kneading Starsky's ass through his jeans, and Starsky makes a sound in his throat like a drowning man pulled suddenly to the surface, tasting air so sweet it brings tears.

"Babe," Starsky whispers as their lips part, "babe..." and then he takes Hutch's mouth again, and Hutch feels his throat tighten until he can hardly breathe. His mind spins uselessly, brimming with the things he can't say without falling apart.

"Hey," he murmurs, when Starsky's lips finally retreat, and "Hey" again when Starsky presses his forehead to Hutch's and breathes harshly against his face. "It's okay. Calm down, it's okay." He feels raw, stripped of all defenses, empty of everything but love so fierce it aches. That makes him uneasy. He can't be weak here, even if it feels like every touch of Starsky's hands, of Starsky's mouth, could reduce him to rubble, could go through him like a blade through water. He has to be whatever Starsky needs. He's not the one with the scars.

Starsky turns his head slowly back and forth, his brow not leaving Hutch's. "It's just— I can't believe we're gonna do this again." He laughs, a small, breathless sound. "It's like when you're a kid and you can't wait for Christmas or your birthday, and it gets closer and closer, and it seems like it'll never get there, and then...."

Hutch takes Starsky's face in his hands and runs his thumbs over the cheekbones. "And then it does," he says softly, and he lays a kiss between Starsky's eyes.

"Yeah," Starsky whispers. He returns Hutch's gesture, his fingers finding the trace of late-night stubble. "And you can't believe it's finally here. You can't believe it's real."

Hutch closes his eyes and pulls Starsky closer, burying his face in Starsky's neck, burrowing into its warmth, his mind adding silently, You can't believe he's alive. You can't believe he still wants you.

*****

Six weeks earlier

He drew back slowly from Starsky's mouth, returning, dazed, from the familiar sweetness to harsh fluorescent light, antiseptic smell, the muted chattering of "The Price Is Right" from the TV high on the wall. The contrast was so jarring he blinked stupidly, disoriented.

"I mean it," Starsky said. He was able to stand now for short periods, and his hands, if not the rest of him, were strong. They held Hutch's head, the fingers petting the hair at his temples. His eyes were clearer than Hutch had seen them since the shooting, the narcotic haze receding before a tide of intensity. "I know what I'm saying, I ain't fogged over." His voice softened. "I mean it, Hutch. I never meant anything so much in my life."

"Starsk—"

"It won't be like it was before, babe, I promise." He grinned. "Well, some of it will be. The good stuff. But the bad stuff — we won't let that happen again. We're older and wiser now. And I've seen life from the other side." He waggled his eyebrows and made spooky "Twilight Zone" noises.

Hutch stared at him, not daring to believe it was happening, what he'd needed, what he'd dreamed about, what he'd ached for like a man who'd lost a limb. What he'd cursed himself a thousand times for throwing away. Starsky was telling him he could have it all back. He hadn't even gotten over the miracle that Starsky was still breathing, and now— Hutch couldn't take it in, couldn't make himself accept it.

"I know," Starsky whispered, and the humor was gone from his voice. "Aw babe, I know. But we'll make it work, you and me." He smiled, almost shyly. "Just you and me, remember? We'll figure it out. It's gonna be so good, you'll see." He slid both arms around Hutch's waist, and Hutch felt him sway a little. He's tired, Hutch thought numbly. Five minutes out of bed, and he's tired.

Behind him, Bob Barker invited a squealing woman to spin the big wheel. From the corridor outside came the squeak of more wheels, a nurse approaching with a cart full of medications. In a moment, she'd be in the room. In a moment, just a moment, he'd have to let Starsky go.

"Hutch, say you want it, please—"

"Yes," Hutch choked out, forcing the word past the knot in his throat. "Yes, yes, I want it. I want you."

*****

In the bedroom, he takes Starsky's shirt off. Since the shooting he hadn't helped his partner undress; he knew Starsky would have resented it, would have taken offense at the implication that he needed help with anything less arduous than mountain climbing, so Hutch had clenched his fists and kept his hands to himself. But now it's not help, it's lovemaking. He pulls the shirt gently from Starsky's jeans and undoes the buttons, and then spreads it wide and looks. He hears Starsky's breath catch a little; feels him tense, just slightly.

He's seen it before, of course, the battlefield that was Starsky's abdomen. He's surprised only by the improvement. In the two weeks since he last saw them, the scars have begun to fade. Barely, but it's noticeable. The hair is creeping back slowly, coming cautiously out of hiding, peeking out from between the glaring white ridges where the scalpels entered, where the surgeons reached in to remove the bullets that were ending Starsky's life. Hutch touches the hair, rubs it between his fingers, closes his eyes and remembers the way it felt against his nipples.

He looks up and finds Starsky watching him, the faintest apprehension in his expression.

He bends down and kisses the largest scar, the ugliest. He lays a line of kisses over it, from one end to the other and back again. Above, he hears Starsky let out a long breath, feels his partner's fingers bury themselves in his hair.

When Hutch raises his head, Starsky's looking at him through slitted eyes. "That felt good," he whispers. "Hutch..."

Hutch traces another scar with a finger. "They're sensitive," he says. It's not a question; he knows it from past experience.

"Yeah. Sometimes they sting a lot, or they just ache." Starsky grunts. "Ugly as hell, too."

"No," Hutch says, seriously. "Beautiful." Without them, you'd be.... He can't even finish the thought.

He expects a light response, an Oh, please or You got terrible taste, Blintz, but Starsky doesn't even smile. His eyes look into Hutch's and shine.

Hutch kisses his mouth, and while he's doing it, Starsky's hands come up between them and fumble impatiently with his shirt buttons. He moves back an inch and lets Starsky remove the shirt, and he pushes Starsky's own shirt off his shoulders, and they stand chest to chest, skin to skin, arms encircling each other, hands stroking backs, fingers tracing spines, and Hutch touches the other scars there — the neat, round, entry scars — and the breath catches in his lungs. He can feel them, as sharply as if the flesh were his own — the bullets slamming into Starsky's back, the impact sending him spinning to the pavement, the scant second of tearing agony before the plunge into unconsciousness. It's so vivid he gasps, pulling away from Starsky, tilting his head back and closing his eyes and drawing in a deep chestful of air.

"Hey." Starsky reaches up, frames Hutch's face with his hands, turns it toward him. "It's all right. Look at me, babe. It's all right, I'm here. You with me?"

Hutch can't get the words out. He nods, his eyes locked onto Starsky's, and covers his partner's hands with his own, twining their fingers together, letting Starsky's warmth seep in. Starsky's alive.

"Don't check out on me like that," Starsky says softly. "It scares me."

"Starsk," Hutch whispers, "I don't know if I— if I can—"

Starsky smiles. "Sure you can," he says. "We ain't even started yet." He palms Hutch's crotch, gently strokes the lax genitals beneath the trousers. "I'll help ya."

Hutch closes his eyes at the touch. I'm afraid I'll hurt you. I can't hurt you.

"You can't hurt me," Starsky says, and Hutch's eyes snap open. "Hutch, you can't ever hurt me as much as not having you hurts me. That's like— like a bleeding wound. I'm not goin' through that again. I'm not doing without you again. I wouldn't care if you beat me black and blue, I wouldn't care if you knocked me cold" — his voice rises, fighting the horrified protest on Hutch's lips—" nothing is as bad as being without you." He stops, his breathing harsh. Hutch stares at him.

"And you won't hurt me anyway." Starsky's tone lightens abruptly. "You don't know what they've been doing to me down at that physical therapy place. Remember that therapist I told you about, that Hilda?"

Hutch feels a welcome smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Heavyweight Hilda, the Lesbian Lioness?"

"Hey, I didn't make up that name; she calls herself that. Hutch, she bends me in ways the human body was never meant to bend. She ties me up like a pretzel. She abuses me with a rolling pin. Yesterday I had to beg and plead to keep her from sitting on my chest. I'm tellin' you, it's unconstitutional, torture like that."

Hutch is laughing now, the tightness in his chest dissolving.

"But it makes me strong. If I can take her, babe, I can take you. I ain't in love with her." Starsky smiles and touches Hutch's face. "She's not the other half of my soul."

Hutch swallows. He wishes Starsky wouldn't say things like that. Crazy things, terrifying things, things that should have a warning label attached. Caution: May reduce a grown man to jelly. The last thing he wants right now is to start crying.

*****

Eighteen months earlier

"You don't believe it, do you? You don't fuckin' believe I'm in love with you!"

"How can I? How many nights have we spent together in the past month? Or the past six months? You're with women all the time, girls you pick up at discos, in bars, in fucking whorehouses for all I know—"

"While you're home alone cryin' your eyes out, huh? We both know you get laid any time you want it, partner, with any chick you so much as smile at! And you want me to give it up?"

"Yes, dammit, I want you to give it up!" He knew it was ridiculous, hypocritical, selfish. He didn't care. The pulse thundered so loudly in his ears he couldn't hear anything else, not Starsky's disbelieving snort, not the voice of caution in his own head.

"Hypocrite. You're a hypocritical son of a bitch, Hutch. And you got an awful short memory. When did we ever say we were gonna be exclusive, huh? When did we say that?"

"We didn't say that." He'd just wanted it, that's all.

"You've thrown 'em in my face, Hutch! How do you think I felt, walkin' into that hotel room and seeing your clothes and Anna What's-Her-Name's all tangled up together? How do you think I felt watchin' you walk out of that bar with that crazy nurse of yours?"

"How the hell do you think I felt watching you fall in love?" Hutch snapped. "And knowing it might happen again with the next girl you slept with, or the next, or the next?"

A muscle twitched in Starsky's cheek. "I love you. I can't believe I have to tell you that."

"I know you love me. That's not the point. We've always loved each other. That's not the same as— as—"

He saw exasperation in Starsky's eyes. "Whaddaya want me to do? How do you want me to prove it? Jesus, Hutch, it never used to be like this. We used to...." He trailed off, and when he spoke again his voice was softer, and the pain was heavy in it. "We never used to care about the women. We knew it didn't matter, we knew we always had each other no matter what. That was— that was like the sun, you know? And everything else was just the planets goin' around it. Goin' around but not touching it." He broke off and shrugged awkwardly. "Oh hell, you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Hutch said softly. "I know what you mean."

Starsky's voice rose again, high, almost panicky. "So what the hell happened to it, huh? What happened?"

"I don't know!" He felt just as desperate, just as helpless. He loved Starsky. He was tired of pretending anything was more important to him than that. But he couldn't do anything about it. Starsky was right, the women didn't matter. They were only important as a shield, a cover. He didn't like that, but it was a fact. Until a Rosey came along, or a Terry, or a Gillian. That was when things got shaky.

"I just— I just want it be us, Starsk. Just us, me and thee, remember? I don't care about anything else, just you and me."

"It can't be like that, babe." Starsky took a step toward him and touched his hair, fluffing it gently and smoothing it down. "You know it can't. We can't live alone in the world. We can't pretend nobody cares what we do. I ain't letting you go out on the streets not knowin' if you're gonna have backup when you need it, not knowing if some asshole's gonna blow a hole in you because he don't like who you're sleepin' with. And you feel the same way about me."

"Yes." He closed his eyes, steeling himself. "But Starsk, I can't keep doing this, either. I can't stand having you but not having you. If that's all it can be, I don't want it anymore."

He couldn't believe how calmly he'd said it. As if he wasn't volunteering for torture.

Starsky said nothing for so long Hutch eventually had to look at him. His face was white, strained. Hutch saw him swallow.

"You want out?" he asked.

He could say anything now, Hutch thought. That he didn't mean it, that he was just upset, that he couldn't live without what they had, that he needed time to think....

But he didn't say any of that. He said, "Yes."

*****

They leave the lights off. Not because of Starsky's scars, though Hutch knows he's self-conscious about them, but because it's the only way Hutch can handle it, the only way he can stand the intensity. He feels as if his skin's been electrified, as if all his nerves are lying exposed on the surface, quivering, resonating like guitar strings beneath Starsky's fingers. Every touch evokes an agony of sensation, an ecstasy of feeling so keen he's honestly afraid he can't bear it. He lies on the bed, naked in the arms of his beautiful lover, and contemplates blacking out from an overload of emotion.

Yet even after all the fooling around, all the kissing and touching and Starsky's mouth on his body and Starsky's dirty, dirty whispers in his ear — he still can't get it up.

And he's so happy he barely notices.

"Hutch," Starsky says softly. "Look at me."

As if he could do anything else. As if he could see anything but Starsky, Starsky everywhere, Starsky filling up the room, Starsky filling up the world. The bedroom may be dark, but Hutch can see everything he needs to see.

"You gotta relax, babe. You gotta meet me halfway." He runs gentle hands over Hutch's flanks. "You gotta loosen up and quit worrying about it."

"I'm not worried about it," Hutch says, and it's true. Starsky's alive, and Starsky loves him. What the hell is a hard-on compared to that?

He glances down. Starsky — scarred, damaged, weakened Starsky, survivor of cardiac arrest and double pneumonia; Starsky, who died — is doing just fine. His cock juts up, hard, insistent, pushing arrogantly against Hutch's belly. Looking at it, Hutch feels a rush of tenderness. He closes his hand around it and strokes it gently, glorying in its warhead heat, the surge of life through its veins. He'd like to swallow it up, lock it inside him, set a guard on it. Own it.

"Quit," Starsky says in a faint voice, even as he thrusts slowly, rhythmically, into Hutch's fist. "Quit, or I'll come."

Hutch loosens his grip. "How long since you've taken anything?"

Starsky opens glazed eyes and blinks. "What? Oh. Coupla hours ago, I guess. Right before I left to pick you up."

"Tylenol?"

"Yeah. You think I could do this zonked on morphine?"

Hutch smiles at him. "I'm sober as a judge, and I still can't do it."

Starsky takes Hutch's cock in his hands, fondling the soft flesh, slipping down to cradle the loose, heavy balls. "You can do it. You're just scared. You think you're gonna hurt me—"

"No," Hutch whispers, "it's not that." It is and it isn't. He's terrified of hurting Starsky, but more than that, he's just paralyzed by the unreality of it all. He still can't believe he's not about to wake up alone. The one left behind.

He strokes Starsky's chest, runs his hands over Starsky's shoulders. "Buddy, I don't care, it doesn't matter. I just— it feels so good, touching you. Your hands on me...." He stops, takes a breath, tries to force the quaver from his voice, the prickle from his eyes, the incoherence from his words. "It doesn't matter, just fuck me. Fuck me."

He hears his partner's indrawn breath, feels the eager leap of Starsky's cock between their bodies, and smiles. "Yeah, you want to." He plants a soft kiss on Starsky's lips. "Come on, baby."

"Hutch..." Starsky murmurs, and then he seizes Hutch's head and plunders his mouth, his lips so hard, so hungry, and Hutch buries his fingers in Starsky's hair and holds on.

"Want you so much," Starsky breathes as their lips part. "God, you don't know how much." He paints Hutch's face with frantic kisses. "You'll see, babe, I'll make it so good for ya, you'll get so fuckin' hard, won't take any time at all.... "

Hutch's hands slip down to Starsky's ass, his tongue to the warm skin at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and Starsky groans. "Let go, buddy, I gotta get the lube." He turns in Hutch's arms, reaches toward the nightstand, and gasps, his fingers falling short of their destination, his face twisted in a mask of pain.

Hutch's heart lurches with shock. "Starsk?" He reaches for him frantically, his hand closing on his partner's shoulder. "Starsky, are you—"

"I'm okay," Starsky whispers. In the dimness, Hutch can just see his eyes blinking rapidly, as though trying to push the pain away. "Just— stretched too far."

Hutch lets his own eyes slip shut in relief, and guilt. He squeezes Starsky's shoulder with fingers that feel suddenly clammy. "Babe—"

"No!" Starsky turns awkwardly to face him, his careful movements in odd contrast to his sharp words. "We're not gonna stop! I told ya, I'm okay! I can do it!" His voice breaks suddenly. "Hutch, please, I need you—"

"All right, all right." Hutch speaks in a soothing murmur, but he's badly shaken. He'd suspected Starsky was lying to him, or at least exaggerating the extent of his recovery, but he'd allowed himself to go along with it, shoving aside his own misgivings in his greed to have his lover back. And now Starsky's paying for it.

"All right, but Starsk, you've got to be reasonable. You're not a hundred percent—"

"I can do it!"

"Okay, but let's just tone it down a little, huh?" He strokes Starsky's chest, then lets his fingers slide down to gather in the diminished erection. It swells again in his hand. "Just relax, lie back and I'll suck you."

"No," Starsky says, almost pleadingly. "Hutch, I wanna fuck you. I wanna be—" he hesitates, as though searching for words "—I wanna be strong again. I don't give a damn if it hurts. I just wanna be strong again."

Hutch starts to speak, and stops, stymied. How can he possibly say no to that?

Starsky reaches out and strokes his face. "I want it to be like it was."

Defeated, Hutch turns his head slowly and kisses Starsky's palm. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

*****

Three years earlier

He collapsed, gasping, into his pillow, barely managing to turn his head in time to avoid landing squarely on his nose. Above him Starsky shouted, a sharp bark of triumph, and followed him down, and they lay sprawled ungracefully across Hutch's bed, which was, he realized dimly, a wreck. Sheets tangled, twisted, torn loose from the mattress, pillows scattered in all directions. Sweat-splashed, semen-spattered, Vaseline-smeared. Beautiful. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, or as deeply as possible under Starsky's boneless, panting weight. Light on his feet though he was, Starsky was heavy. And hot. Hutch imagined himself buried under that weight, immersed in that heat, suffocating joyously, covered, surrounded, enclosed, by Starsky. He smiled and burrowed his face into the pillow.

"Babe?" Starsky whispered, and Hutch felt fingers gently brushing the hair back from his ear. "That was good, huh? You liked it?"

Hutch couldn't summon the strength to make the obvious reply — "No, all that begging and pleading and yelling and screaming and coming like a fucking fire hose, that was all in your imagination, Starsk" — so he just said "Mmmm" and nodded, his cheek brushing the pillow.

He felt Starsky's lips curve into a smile against his shoulder. "Mmmm, huh?" he said, and then he was raising himself and before Hutch could protest, he pulled up and out. They gasped, in unison, and Starsky rolled onto his back. Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him. The mustache was wildly crooked, and one end of it was hanging loose. Hutch grinned, because he couldn't help it, and reached to straighten the thing.

"This looks absolutely ridiculous," he said, as his fingers smoothed the limp fur over Starsky's upper lip.

"Hey, I was just tryin' it on to see how it was gonna look when we go under at the dance studio, and first thing I knew, that McCabe guy was gettin' all worked up."

"You're the one who danced us into the bedroom."

"You're the one who tried to chew the hair off my face. How was I supposed to know you had a lech for gorgeous South American tango teachers?"

"Gigolos."

"Teachers."

Hutch yawned and lifted Starsky's arm, sliding under it to rest his head on his partner's shoulder. "I just taught you, partner."

"Yeah, and I learned something. I learned you got the sweetest ass west of the Mississippi, cowboy. How come we never did that before?"

Hutch laughed. He didn't know why the hell they hadn't done it before. Maybe he'd been afraid he'd never, never want to stop if they did. "What, you didn't like all those blowjobs and handjobs?"

"Yeah, but.... " Starsky paused, and when he spoke again, the bantering note was gone from his voice. "It was so good, Hutch, bein' in you like that. It was like— like coming home, or something." A faint, embarrassed flush crept into his cheeks. "I mean, it's always good between us, but this was just...."

He faltered to a stop, and Hutch whispered, "Yeah. I know." He smiled as Starsky let out a grateful breath, relieved of the need to explain himself.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," Hutch said, before adding recklessly, "Try harder next time."

Starsky's eyes widened, and then gleamed. "Okay. And maybe the time after that, I can get some of what you had. That mmmm thing."

"Oh, yeah?" Hutch smiled, though privately he'd have been delighted to bottom for the rest of his life. He was selfish that way.

"Yeah. You sounded awful happy when you said that. It really feels like that, huh?"

"It does for me."

"Like mmmm?"

"Mmmmmm." Hutch drew the single syllable out into a long, deeply satisfied growl.

"Man, I gotta get me some of that." Starsky glanced down and gathered Hutch's tired, spent cock into his hand. "If I can stand it. Buddy, you got enough here to put a four-lane highway through me."

Hutch gave him a wicked grin. "Everything's bigger in Texas," he said.

*****

Starsky rubs against him, gentle, shallow, his cock just riding the slippery crack of Hutch's ass, and Hutch can feel the strain in him, the tremor in the arms that brace him on either side, the harsh, uneven breathing, and he knows it's not just passion. He squeezes his eyes shut, bites his tongue, clamps down on his better judgment, but just as he can't stand it anymore, Starsky abruptly rolls off him. Hutch raises his head from his arms and looks, and there's pain in Starsky's narrowed eyes, in the lines around the corners of his mouth. But before he can touch him, before he can offer comfort, Starsky turns toward him.

"Get on your side, babe," he says, his voice strained but determined. "I can't hold myself up, but—"

"Starsk," Hutch whispers, "for God's sake, we don't have to do this, we can wait—"

"I can't wait. I don't wanna wait. It's just— my chest hurts a little, but I can do it, I know I can. We'll just go easy, okay?"

Hutch wonders with dread what "a little" means, but he says nothing. He rolls silently onto his right side and sighs as he feels Starsky's warmth settle along his back. The anxiety he feels for his partner begins dissolving with shameful haste, replaced by the sweet anticipation that coils in his stomach and snakes up his spine. He moves his left leg a bit, bending at the knee and lifting, and Starsky slides closer, pulls him in with one arm around his waist, and plants his mouth next to Hutch's ear.

"I love you like this," he says softly. "Don't worry, I'm okay."

Hutch nods, hoping it's the truth.

"Pull yourself open for me," Starsky whispers.

Hutch shudders as the words tickle his ear. He reaches back with one hand and separates his cheeks, pulling the left one aside, giving Starsky room. Something about the baldness of the act, the wantonness of it, excites him, always has, and he knows that's why Starsky wants him to do it. He feels the blood rise in his face.

Behind him, Starsky sucks in a breath. "Babe, that's so sweet, that's so hot. You need me in there, don't ya?"

"Yes," Hutch chokes out.

Starsky kisses the back of his neck. "You missed it, didn't ya? Missed havin' my cock up your ass?" His voice is dark now, husky.

Hutch moans and presses back against him. His own damn cock is still barely awake, still perversely refusing to get with the program, but he wasn't lying when he told Starsky it didn't matter. He loves being fucked, craves it with an intensity that used to embarrass him. It doesn't anymore. He no longer tries to analyze it. It's what he needs and, thank God, it's what Starsky wants to give him.

"God, baby," Starsky whispers, as Hutch pushes beseechingly against his groin. "Okay, okay. Hang on."

Hutch feels the hands holding him shift, feels a hard pressure at his anus, and then freezes, gasping, as Starsky's cockhead breaches him. For a moment, he can't breathe. His nails scrabble for purchase on the mattress, but he relaxes faster than he'd expected. He groans with delight as it happens, as he loosens, as Starsky sinks deep, that long, smooth glide he remembers, until he feels the tickling brush of pubic hair against his ass. It's so right, so perfect; the size, the strength, the heat of Starsky's cock. It's what he was made for. Crazy as that sounds, he believes it utterly. He hears himself whispering, "I love you, God I love you," and Starsky murmurs something in reply, soft, breathless words Hutch can't make out, but he doesn't have to. He knows.

Starsky's breath is coming so hard it's frightening, or would be, if Hutch could think clearly enough to register it. He can't, because Starsky's fucking him again, at long, long last Starsky's fucking him again, and there's nothing else in the world but that. He shoves backward, hungry for more, and Starsky gasps "Fuck," and then it's a two-man show, Hutch meeting every pained thrust with a mirrored one of his own, every action with an equal and opposite reaction, and then Starsky nudges his prostate once, and, encouraged by Hutch's shout of pleasure, again and again, and Hutch's cock finally, finally jerks to life because now it's real, now he's home. This is Starsky and this is him and this is them, the only thing in his whole fucking life that matters, and everything narrows down to just that, just Starsky's cock and Starsky's fist milking him, and Starsky's painful, ecstatic grunts in his ear. He comes fast, moaning, thrashing, bathing himself and Starsky's hand and the sheets with semen, his head thrown back against Starsky's shoulder, shuddering as Starsky's shaking hand strips the last drops from him.

He lies gasping, eyes closed in sated bliss, but Starsky's still laboring away behind him, his groans so raw that even through Hutch's dreamy haze, they hurt his ears. Deliberately, he clenches down, forcing himself backward, hard, against Starsky. Come on, babe, finish, please finish.... And to his vast relief, he feels Starsky's body stiffen abruptly, hears the familiar yelp, sharp-edged this time with pain, and with a final gasp of Hutch's name, Starsky goes limp.

For a moment, they don't move. Hutch feels Starsky's harsh panting against the back of his neck. There's an almost sobbing quality to it.

"Starsk?" he whispers. He twists awkwardly, and gasps a little as Starsky's cock slips from him. He rolls over hurriedly and touches Starsky's face. "Are you—"

Starsky opens his eyes and smiles a weak smile. "M' okay." His voice is a rough, raspy mumble, but his eyes are soft. "Told ya, didn't I? Went off like a rocket, didn't ya?" He laughs, then cuts himself off with a groan, his face contorting.

"Jesus," Hutch breathes. "Lay there, don't move, I'll be right back." He rises, a little stiffly, and heads for the bathroom, where he collects Starsky's pain medication, a glass of water, and a towel.

Starsky's lying on his back when Hutch returns, staring at the ceiling and breathing with obvious caution. Hutch turns on the light and sits down beside him, and even that motion is enough to make Starsky wince, which makes Hutch wince in turn.

"Take this," he says, his voice brusque. He pushes the morphine tablets at Starsky. "Take it!"

But the stern-voiced order isn't necessary. Starsky accepts the pills and the water meekly and downs them without hesitation, which sends another shiver of unease through Hutch's heart. Even on his first day out of the hospital, Starsky had taken the powerful drug only grudgingly.

While Starsky lies still, Hutch silently swipes the towel over them both, makes a token attempt to straighten the twisted sheets, and takes the empty water glass back to the bathroom. When he emerges, Starsky turns his head toward him and holds out both arms.

Hutch hesitates, torn between anger at himself, fear for Starsky, and a desire to lie in his partner's embrace for the rest of his life. Weakness wins out, and he climbs into bed, pulling Starsky gingerly against him. He feels Starsky sigh, and that tiny sensation, Starsky's uneven breath tickling his shoulder, sends sudden tears to his eyes. He blinks hastily, and swallows.

"We shouldn't have done this," he whispers, stroking Starsky's hair.

"Why?" Starsky murmurs, his voice muffled by Hutch's skin. "Didn't you like it?"

"Stop it," Hutch says, as he hears another painful laugh building in Starsky's chest. "Babe, don't, you'll hurt yourself."

"Then I'll hurt myself." Starsky raises his head and gives Hutch a defiant look. "I ain't gonna stop laughing, and I ain't gonna stop makin' love to my baby. Not ever again."

Hutch touches Starsky's lips, running a gentle finger over their curves until Starsky opens his mouth and wraps his tongue around it.

"Gonna be tough when we go back to work," Hutch says after a moment.

Starsky shrugs a little. "So it'll be tough. We talked about that. We're too smart to make the same mistakes twice, remember? And the alternative— I'm not interested in the alternative."

Hutch smiles. "The alternative to going back to work, or the alternative to us?"

Starsky looks sharply at him. "Either. We're gonna go back to work, and we're gonna be together, and we're not gonna pretend we're not. And anybody who don't like it can take a nine millimeter automatic right up their ass."

Hutch laughs.

"And besides, you're a fuckin' hero, Hutch. Nobody's gonna say a word to you. You could sleep with sheep if you wanna."

"I don't wanna."

"Of course you don't wanna, you got me. And you know the department's gonna have to start hiring gays any time now. Councilman Whitelaw's not gonna shut up till they do, and the mayor's on his side, and—" He winces as a jaw-cracking yawn interrupts him. "God, I'm sleepy."

"Go to sleep. I'm here."

"And the backup thing..." Starsky trails off. "Hutch—"

"Starsk," Hutch says softly, "don't. People have always talked about us. People assumed we were in each other's pants years before we ever thought about it." He smiles. "Well, before you thought about it, anyway. And that was way before Whitelaw was elected and way before anyone took gay rights seriously. If they didn't leave our asses uncovered then, why should they start now?" And if they do, he adds silently, if I ever have the slightest suspicion that somebody's not backing you up, the world won't be a big enough place for them to hide in.

"If they do," Starsky says, "I'll cut their fucking heart out." He yawns again.

Hutch nods. "And on that cheerful note, let's get some sleep, okay?"

He turns away to snap the bedside lamp off, and when he turns back, Starsky's looking at him with dark, serious eyes.

"Hutch," he says, "I mean that."

Hutch leans over and kisses him.

"I know you do," he whispers. "I know, babe."

*****

Duluth, Minnesota
Fall 1967

Their parents wanted no part of it, so Debbie helped him load up the car. She was a budding concert pianist with a bright future ahead of her if she didn't throw it away to get married or something, and he worried about her spraining a finger dragging heavy junk around, but she just smiled and ruffled his hair and said, "My big brother, world champion worrywart." So together they hauled suitcases out of the house and wrestled boxes full of albums and books into the trunk, and placed the tiny portable TV and the big, awkward guitar case and the Carleton College pennant on the back seat. It was a tight fit for a '61 Comet, even though he really wasn't taking much with him. Just the things he couldn't imagine leaving.

"Well," Debbie said, brushing her hands together as the last box was stowed away, "I guess that's it." She lowered the trunk lid with a gentle thunk.

"Yeah," he said, "thanks," and cleared his throat. He sure as hell hadn't cried in front of his parents, but he was almost certain he wouldn't be able to get away from his sister without it. To distract himself he glanced away, across the wide lawn to the line of nearly naked maples across the road. A faint honking tickled his ears and he looked up at the bleak sky over the trees and saw a flock of geese in perfect V formation, pointing south, so high he could barely make them out.

"Everyone's leaving," he said, as he and Debbie watched the birds out of sight. "It's that time of year." He managed a smile as he met her eyes, and sang under his breath, "All the leaves are brown/And the sky is gray..."

Debbie smiled back. "You'd be safe and warm/If you were in L.A..." Her lower lip trembled dangerously.

"Perfect," he said. "I should've written that song myself."

She whispered, "Kenny," and then she was in his arms, hugging him so tightly it actually hurt, hiding her face against his chest and shaking. He tried to say "Hey, don't cry," but only got as far as the "Hey" before his throat closed up. He returned her embrace, stroking her back through her bulky jacket and staring despairingly over her head as his vision blurred.

After a long moment she sniffed, hard, and pulled back from him, releasing him to scrub violently at her eyes. "Okay," she said, "that's the last time, I promise. No more goddamn crying."

"Watch your language," he teased, before wiping at his own cheeks.

"That's not fair," she said. "There won't be anyone out there to make you watch yours."

"No one to watch over me," he said. "No one to care if I disgrace the family. No one to give a damn what I do with my life." He sighed theatrically. "Sounds beautiful, doesn't it? Wanna come along?"

She rolled her eyes. "I have to stay here and play 'Chopsticks.' Don't you wish you were me?"

"You love playing 'Chopsticks.'"

"Oh, yes. And I love having stuffy old farts in tuxes and evening gowns tell me how divinely I render Tchaikovsky. Just think, I'll be sitting in some dark concert hall, stuck behind some enormous Steinway, while you're running down the beach, sand squishing between your toes, searching for that perfect wave—"

He cut her off with a raised finger. "I'm not going to take up surfing. That's a promise."

"Why not?" She cocked her head innocently. "That's where all the cute guys are."

That knocked the breath out of him for a moment. He felt a tide of red creeping up his neck to bloom triumphantly on his face.

She laughed and touched his hot cheek. "That reminds me, did you pack plenty of sunscreen?"

He knocked her hand aside playfully. "Have some respect for your elders."

"I have respect for some of my elders, but I think this particular elder is a little nuts. Everybody else runs away to California to bum around, lie in the sun, cast off all responsibilities. You're running away to California to become a policeman. Don't you think that's just a smidge peculiar, big brother?"

He spread his hands with a grin. "I gotta be me, baby."

"I hope you mean that." Her voice was suddenly soft, and he blinked at her, startled by the change of tone. "Don't give in, Kenny. Don't change. Don't let anyone tell you who to love."

She hugged him again and he held her tight, squeezing his eyes shut guiltily. He'd already made up his mind. "Cute guys" or not, he was done with it. It had brought him nothing but trouble already, and whatever police department he eventually joined, it was unlikely to be staffed with social radicals. That was okay. He'd manage. He liked girls well enough.

He let Debbie go, quickly, before anyone could start crying again.

"I'm leaving," he said, with false heartiness, and opened the driver's side door. "I can't stand around here all day listening to you sniffle."

He slid behind the wheel, and Debbie made a face at him. "Go on, then. Go to L.A. See if I care."

He smiled and started the engine.

"Ken," she said, "I'll visit you. Don't feel that you have to come home and be with Mom and Dad. I'll come out there."

"Any time," he said softly. "Any time, kid."

He squeezed her hand once, hard, and then she was backing away and he was rolling the window up and easing down the long driveway, the gravel crunching beneath his tires. He looked in the mirror once, just before he pulled out into the road. She was a small, faceless figure with a waving arm.

He drove steadily through town and out into open country on the highway heading west. So far, he knew every mile of it. He'd been that way countless times, on scouting trips and fishing trips and even drag racing in high school. He'd parked once, down that narrow side road, with a girl. He was surprised at how little he felt now that he was leaving it. He didn't feel sad, or angry. He didn't feel apprehensive about the future, even though he'd never been to the West Coast in his life. It somehow didn't feel like leaving home.

It felt more like going there.