Go back into the darkness

Like the wild thing that you are

Your teeth are far too sharp, my love

I'm afraid you'll go too far.

        Wild Things -- Chris Williamson

    "I'd forgotten what real beef looked like," Starsky said, clearly in awe of the slab of perfectly cooked prime rib Huggy Bear laid down in front of him. "Forgotten the smell! Huggy, will ya marry me?"

   The slim bar owner peered suspiciously at the ravenous cop, even as Hutch cut into his own piece. "Hutchinson, you need to let him out more often," Huggy admonished in mock-seriousness. "The man's close to tears over a cut of dead animal, proposin' permanent relationships with people not physically compatible with him. I can remember when he only made noises like that over a lovely female!"

   Starsky cut a small piece of the still sizzling slab and slipped it into his mouth. His eyes closed in bliss. "This ain't food," he said around the morsel melting in his mouth. "This is heaven!" He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor, the texture he hadn't had in so long. His mouth filled with saliva.

   "Twice a week," Hutch said in between bites. "I talked to the nutritionist. She said we could have beef no more than twice a week if we want to maintain."

   Starsky looked at Huggy for relief. "It's no wonda I ain't int'rested in women. Every time Hutch starts with 'the nutritionist...' I know I'm gonna be deprived of somethin' I love. It's like aversion therapy, where they keep shockin' ya to teach ya to give up bad habits. The nutritionist is this beautiful redhead," he shaped his hands in the air, then kissed his fingertips in homage, "who won't let me eat anything I like. The physical therapist!" He rolled his eyes. "A stunning brunette -- with all the gentility of a domino-trucks!"

   "Dominatrix," Hutch said automatically around his mouthful.

   Starsky acknowledged the correction with a nod, and continued, "The sports doctor? A blond goddess, right? Hands of ice, a frigid stethoscope, a strong preference for anal thermometers, and all the bedside manner of a storm trooper." He shook his head in mock misery, until Huggy was roaring. "The very mention -- never mind appearance -- of any of the three witches causes 'little Davy,'" he pointed at his groin with his fork, "to act like a turtle in winter."

   Hutch, who was taking a sip of his beer, nearly sprayed Starsky with it. He gestured in the area of his partner's groin. "Care to tell me exactly what part earned the name, 'little Davy'?"

   Starsky just chuckled around his next bite. Hutch could afford to make jokes. While they'd showered together often enough -- and nursed each other often enough -- to be well aware of each other's endowments, Starsky knew Hutch's manhood was exactly where it really needed to be -- in his mind. While Hutch could match him physically with no problem, Hutch's masculinity fit him so comfortably, he'd never rise to the baiting of a man like Russo. Starsky wished he could be like that, but when he'd been a kid in New York, his masculinity was constantly called into question in the typical one-up-manship that was a trademark of that competitive environment. In New York, he'd had to fight to prove his manhood. It was stupid. He wished he could get over it, be more like Hutch.

   "Y'know, you two are gettin' worse over the years," Huggy interceded, joining them with his own steak at their table.

   Both partners looked confusedly at the bar's proprietor, their sometime informant, and good friend.

   "You've always had this certain code between you," Huggy explained. "This enchanting, if confusing, dialect that the rest of us mere mortals could never decipher. But lately, it's gettin' worse."

   "Must'a been all those weeks in training," Starsky figured. "Got so we hardly hadda talk." In spite of all the blood, sweat and tears involved in his recovery, Starsky found himself a bit nostalgic over that time alone with his partner. There was nothing between them then except the work they had to do and Starsky's progress. It was the ultimate bonding experience. They were together, a unit, in a cushion of security, knowing the only person with them was completely trustworthy, incapable of betrayal. No wonder, in spite of his wounds, he'd felt kind of good about it.

   "Hey, I was talkin'!" Hutch protested around a mouthful. "You just didn't listen t'me."

   "True," Starsky agreed too readily. "Hutch thought if he'd just talk to me like he does his plants I'd grow some new leaves or somethin'."

   "Worked, didn't it?" Hutch said smugly.

   Starsky just chewed happily and smiled back.

   "It's good to see you two back in top form," Huggy admitted. "Hope L.A. can handle it. This calls for somethin' special." He signaled to the waitress who was bringing over new beers. "Forget that, Suzie. Break out that bottle of champagne I been savin'. Three flutes!"

   Huggy opened the old bottle with a flourish, letting the cork fly. He poured the bubbly generously and when they killed the bottle they went back to beer. They traded old stories and made up new ones, and the hours ticked by in a happy haze of celebration with good friends and good food. It reminded Starsky almost painfully of the night they'd celebrated graduating from the Academy. Everything had been so sweet then, so full of promise. He felt like that tonight, and found himself looking fondly at the big blond who'd given it to him.

   It was around ten when he leaned toward Hutch and murmured to him drunkenly. "Y'know, I love you, man."

   "I know," Hutch said warmly, smiling, just as drunk. "And I love you."

   "No one would'a stuck by me like you did, pal," Starsky insisted.

   Hutch waved it away. "Any good partner -- "

   "Y'mean, like Russo and Wilson? No. Uh-uh. Nada. No way. I'm tellin' you true. I wouldn't be here today, not fit like this, not feelin' this good, 'cept for you. Y'know my runnin' time's faster than when I gradjatated -- uh, gradiated -- got outta the 'cademy? My firing range average s'improved. Know what it felt like when I ran down that dude this morning and caught him, slapped the cuffs on him, got him dead to rights with the goods?"

   Hutch giggled helplessly. "You didn't just run him down, Starsk!" The Nordic cop looked at Huggy. "The guy jumped into his car and Starsky ran him down on foot, before the joker could get into second gear. He was like an antelope! He ran down the Mercedes, leaped onto the trunk and over the hood before the guy could finish shifting. Never saw anyone move that fast! Motivated. The man was motivated, I'm tellin' you, Hug!"

   "Know what that felt like?" Starsky repeated, blinking in the slow way the seriously inebriated had. "To be that fast, that strong, after what those bastards did to me? Felt better'n sex, Hutch. You did that for me. An' I love you for it."

   Hutch peered worriedly at Huggy. "You're right, man. I need to let him out more. Hey, if you think chasin' a bad guy's better n'sex -- shit, Starsky, we gotta work on that." Hutch stood shakily on his long legs. "I gotta recuperatin' cop here," he announced to the crowded bar, "a hero to our fair city, who desperately needs to get laid! Any lovely ladies care to volunteer?"

   Huggy and Starsky both grabbed Hutch by the arms and forced him back into his chair before he could follow up on the random offers being sent their way. The two partners fell into a fit of drunken giggles.

   "Have you two been sippin' the joy juice when my back was turned?" Huggy asked seriously. "I can't remember ever seein' you this destroyed. Not over a bottle of champagne and a few beers. You're both wasted." He grinned, trying to deflect the sting of his criticism.

   "S'okay, Huggy," Starsky told him with a drunk's sincerity. "We can take care of each other, even when we're drunk! Ain't that right, partner?"

   "S'right," Hutch agreed, his elbow slipping off the table, causing him to nearly ooze out of his chair. Starsky and Huggy righted him, then Huggy waved to his waitress.

   "Suzie," the bar owner called, "I'm'a hafta take these two sorry-asses home before they fall on the floor and sue me for damages. I'll be back before closing."

   "Got it, Huggy!" the woman called back, her tray piled high with glasses.

   The slim black man grabbed each of them by the elbow and urged them to their feet. "Gonna be able to make it to the car? Don't think I can carry you both."

   Hutch was clearly in the worse shape of the two, Starsky realized dimly, and he felt a certain amount of pride that he could hold his liquor slightly better than his taller partner. He could afford to be generous, and slid an arm around Hutch, pulling him close.

   "I got you, partner. You can lean on me for a change," Starsky murmured to his friend, and Hutch turned warm eyes on him, as a long arm slung around his shoulders.

   "I know that," Hutch whispered back, putting a lot of meaning in those three simple words. "I've always known it."

Man, we are really drunk, Starsky thought, as that simple statement caused a lump to grow in his throat. "Come on, buddy. Le's go home." They could crash at his place tonight -- it was closest to the Pits.

   Since the shooting, they hadn't spent a night apart. First there were all those weeks of recuperation and physical therapy at the hospital. The staff got tired of tripping around Hutch, so finally just made sure there was always a spare bed for him wherever they put Starsky. Once Starsky was released, they were still in training, and it seemed natural to collapse at night at either one's residence. They'd never talked about it or planned it, it just kind of happened. Starsky wondered about that a little, but knew for a long time Hutch was too nervous about Gunther's cohorts who were still loose on the streets and gunning for them. It just seemed easier to do it this way for their peace of mind. And after coming that close to death, Hutch's presence was a comfort to the recovering cop. He didn't mind admitting that.

   He'd have the rest of his life to sleep in empty apartments, Starsky realized. This time with Hutch was nice. He wouldn't look at it any deeper than that.

   Arms around each other's shoulders, they stood and turned while Huggy slipped the Torino's keys out of Starsky's leather jacket pocket with practiced ease. Huggy tried guiding the swaying partners toward the door, as Starsky concentrating on keeping his friend, and himself, on their feet.

   "Just a little farther, m'man," Huggy encouraged as the exit loomed closer.

   But then something came between them and the door. Something large.

   Starsky blinked, his mind warning him with a cop's instinct for trouble. Stand up straight. Look alert. Fake it! He drew himself up, still gripping Hutch, pulling him erect with him.

   Hutch picked up the vibes and stood straighter, glancing around.

   "You two still at it?" a familiar, dark voice grumbled.

   Starsky felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Russo. Don't start. Not here." It was a warning, a clear one, and Hutch heard it and came to.

   "Can't keep your hands off each other, even in a public place," Russo sneered.

   Starsky went rigid, his mind clearing, a red haze covering his eyes.

   "Starsk, don't," Hutch murmured, a warning of his own. But Starsky wouldn't look at him, or release him either.

   Huggy was suddenly between Russo and Starsky, something akin to panic on his face. "Be civilized, Russo!" he growled at the big weight lifter. "'Less you wanna get banned from the Pits for life!"

   The beefy cop ignored him. "Time for bed already?" He glanced at his watch. "Kinda early, ain't it, hot-shots? Just can't wait, can you? That shower was a long time ago."

   Hutch's grip on Starsky's shoulder tightened, as the blonde's right arm crossed Starsky's chest, holding him in place. Starsky shrugged his partner off and stepped clear of him, his body automatically moving into a defensive stance, bowed legs slightly spread, arms loose at his side.

   "You got somethin' to say to me, Russo," he murmured softly, his voice clear as a bell, "let's take it outside." It was pure Brooklyn bravado. Starsky was smiling. The entire bar grew quiet.

   "Starsky!" Hutch snapped.

   Russo took a step forward. "Sounds good to me, cocksucker."

   Hutch and Huggy both moved in to grab Starsky's arms, trying to keep the drunken detective from walking toward the door, and Russo took advantage of the momentary confusion. Starsky saw it as if it were in slow motion, the big man's fist balled for action, coming up to catch him full in the face in a sucker punch while his friends restrained him. Reacting fast, Starsky grabbed fistfuls of both Huggy's and Hutch's shirts and yanked them down and away, out of the range of the big man's wild swing. At the same time, he dropped to avoid the blow. Russo was left swinging at empty air, as Starsky spun around under his arm and came up behind him. Then he tapped Russo on the shoulder.

   Confused, the man turned instantly, only to have Starsky punch him hard on the chin, then the cheek, then full on the nose, one, two, three strong blows that didn't even make Starsky breathe hard. Starsky danced away on the balls of his feet as the big man went down on one knee holding his bleeding nose.

That felt good! Starsky thought, as he moved lightly, ready for the big cop's response. He was grinning, licking his lips, and his cock started to rise. Yeah!

   "Come on, Russo!" he taunted, fingertips calling the man on, gesturing for him to rise, to come after him. He was sixteen again, the baddest kid on the street. "You're all talk. While you're down there on your knees, why don't you put that mouth to some constructive use." And he grabbed his dick with both hands, just to rub it in.

   Russo's face turned beet red and his hand dived into his jacket towards his holster. There was a shocked scream and suddenly Hutch yelled, "GUN!" as Russo pulled his police special into view. Hutch dived for that arm, even as Starsky's foot came up in one smooth, long arc, catching the weight-lifter under the jaw. The crew-cut head snapped back with the kick and Russo grunted, even as Hutch grabbed the thick wrist, controlling the hand holding the weapon and tackling it to the ground. But Russo was already out cold.

   Hutch confiscated the weapon and cuffed the unconscious man. "Call the precinct," he told Suzie. "Let him spend the night in the tank. We'll lodge charges in the morning. He's on suspension soon as Dobey finds out." He looked up at Starsky, his expression apprehensive.

   Starsky felt the adrenaline rush drain out, felt his legs go to rubber. But his dick was still hard, and he was grinning. He wet his mouth and said to Hutch, indigo eyes twinkling, "Let's piss on him."

   "Not in my bar," Huggy roared, grabbing the two cops by the shoulder. "You've both had enough fun for one night. I'm puttin' you to bed. Piss on him? Whoever heard of Batman and Robin pissin' on anyone? Shame on you, Starsky. You're too drunk to know better. Anymore of that, and you'll get banned, too."

   But Starsky could only giggle, full of himself, the power of his healed body, and the surge of blood in his veins. "Must'a been the red meat," he told his friends. Hutch shook his head ruefully as he and Huggy towed Starsky out of the bar.

   By the time Huggy delivered them to Starsky's apartment, both detectives were singing -- badly -- a medly of Motown numbers with simplistic lyrics that their driver had recommended. They managed to remember the repetitive chorus of "Land of a Thousand Dances" pretty well, only they kept mixing all the "Na-na-na-na-na's" with the words to James Brown's "I Feel Good." Before long, both songs were a horrible, cacophonous mess. Hutch couldn't believe how patient Huggy was being with them. It was the shooting, he knew. Most of their friends were being a little careful with them these days. It would wear off.

   Huggy called for a cab to return to the Pits and once more ran through proper bathroom procedure with Starsky before he felt confident that he could leave the two drunken men alone. "Yeah, you got it, Starsk. You don't piss on your friends. You don't piss on your enemies. You save it for the john. Still can't figure out how you two got that wasted that fast," Huggy grumbled, half-way out the door.

   "Ain't so wasted I couldn't handle Russo," Starsky reminded him triumphantly, then weaved his way into the bedroom, stripping off clothes, letting them drop. He launched into yet another chorus of "I Feel Good."

   "Take care o' him, will ya?" Huggy bid the swaying blond cop and let himself out.

   Hutch only nodded as he leaned against the kitchen counter, then wondered, Who's gonna take care of the caretaker?

   The fair-haired cop's head was floating, even though his equilibrium wasn't too bad -- as long as it was enhanced by the steadying presence of furniture, door frames and walls. And like most drunks, Hutch was convinced he was far more clear-headed then he suspected he really was.

   The first thing you lose under the influence of alcohol, he remembered from Academy lectures on drunk drivers, was fine motor co-ordination and judgement.

   Good thing! Hutch thought and giggled.

   That was when Gillian appeared.

   He blinked slowly, recognizing her instantly. It wasn't the first time his dead lover had appeared to him while he was in a drunken haze, but usually he had to consume a great deal more alcohol than he had tonight. In fact, he hadn't seen her vision since the horrendous binge he'd gone on when her killer, Albert Grossman, had been sentenced to life in prison.

   He'd sobbed all over Starsky that night, unable to understand how Grossman could get condemned to life when Gillian had been condemned to death. Starsky could only hold him, share the drunk with him, and weep along.

   Gillian had appeared that night after he and Starsky had both passed out on the floor after crying themselves to sleep in a confused tangle of arms and legs.

   She looked, that night, as beautiful as she did now. Just as she had then, she smiled at him, touched his cheek and said cryptically, "So lucky to be Hutch, and have two people love you so much."

   When he had told Starsky about the vision the next day, his friend reminded him that Gillian's statement had been something she'd said to Starsky. Starsky had relayed the comment to Hutch shortly after Gillian's death. It had hit Hutch like a blow when Starsky had first told him about it, but hearing it in Gillian's own voice had almost been more than he could bear.

   This second vision in Starsky's kitchen, though, worried him. As far as Hutch could tell, he hadn't passed out yet, which meant he was conscious -- in a manner of speaking. It bothered him, too, that Gillian's sudden appearance seemed almost normal to him. He felt a dull ache as he looked at her, but there was little left of the consuming passion he'd once felt for her. Of course, since Starsky's shooting, Hutch hadn't had much energy for feeling anything that didn't directly involve his best friend's well-being.

   He thought he should apologize to Gillian for that, but she disappeared before he could figure out what to say. He ran a hand over his face and listened to Starsky's off-key repetitive chorus.

   "I feeeeeeel good, nah-nah, nah-nah, nah -- Knew that I would. I feeeeel right! Yeah! Sugar and spice -- "

   That was the thing Hutch didn't want to examine much. How good he felt. How very good. Wouldn't think about it. No, not now. If he thought about it --

   Might remember. Feeling like this. Once before. So good. So damned good. He tried to shut down his brain before it told him something he didn't want to hear, didn't want to think about. I feel good. Feel so damn good.

   "Hutch, you okay?"

   The blond blinked, looked into worried blue eyes and a furrowed brow and couldn't help but smile. You're still here. Still alive. Healthy. In one piece. He felt suffused with love as his partner peered at him through a drunken haze.

   "You stopped singin' -- " Starsky complained worriedly, peering up through tousled curls, reminding him of a ten-year old. Ten year old on a bender, he amended, laughing at the image.

   Hutch's partner still had his jeans on, but his shirt, shoes and socks had been long since discarded. Hutch tried not to focus on the prominent scars hidden under the mat of dark chest hair, but he couldn't seem to look anywhere else. The rest of that chest was perfect, leading to a washboard stomach that Hutch knew he could take some credit for. But the scars were still there, would always be there, reminding him of his own personal failure. The day he wasn't there fast enough for his partner.

   "Don' wanna sing anymore," Hutch said softly, but couldn't stop grinning. Even though he was worried, he couldn't stop smiling. Why not? Starsky's still alive. Still my partner. Even if he is scarred. Impulsively, he reached out and placed his fingertips gently on the highest scar, outlining its whorled center.

   Starsky's beautiful heart-shaped face swam before his bleary eyes. "It don' hurt no more, partner," the Brooklyn-born cop said softly. "Betcha even Superman's got a few dimples where the bullets bounced off."

   Hutch's cheeks started to ache from his constant grinning. That was kind of weird since alcohol usually made him pretty melancholy. "Not Superman. Batman. Batman and Robin. You an' me, partner. Were you really gonna piss on Russo?"

   Starsky started giggling and pitched against his taller friend, slinging his butt out and spreading his legs for balance. Starsky buried his face against Hutch's chest, as if he needed to rest from the labor of standing upright. "Sure. S'what we did when we were kids."

   "What?" Hutch asked. The words were muffled in the fabric of his shirt, and Hutch wasn't sure he'd heard them right

   "Call a guy a faggot, beat his ass, then piss on him," Starsky said, looking up again through disheveled curls. His eyes had grown cold. He turned away from Hutch. "S'better if you got at least five dudes to help. That's how you cure a queer. You din't know that?"

   Hutch felt a chill creep up his back. "Guess we didn't try to cure -- gay kids in Minnesota. Starsk?"

   The dark, curly head wouldn't face him.

   "Did you do that to kids?" Hutch asked. Starsky didn't move, didn't respond, and then Hutch knew. "No, you wouldn't. But they did it to you. Shit."

   He heard the teeth grinding, felt the jaw work against his chest where Starsky's face pressed. "You callin' me a queer, Hutch?"

   "Cut the crap, partner," Hutch said gently. "This is me, here. I'm not the enemy. Did that happen to you?"

   "Just once," Starsky said tonelessly, but Hutch could hear a cold rage in his voice. "Happened to most of the smaller kids at one time or another. It was a long time ago."

   Suddenly, Hutch wanted to go back in time and find the kids who did that to his partner. Find them and hurt them bad. Now he understood Starsky's knee-jerk reaction to Russo. Russo was the classic playground bully, and Starsky had probably been waiting for years to pound him into the ground. Hutch's arms went around his friend, pulled him tight to his chest. Unconsciously cuddling the slouching, drunken body, he leaned his cheek against the top of Starsky's head.

   "Wish I'd known that before," Hutch complained. "We coulda both pissed on Russo." Then the two inebriated cops giggled some more.

   Now Starsky's arms rested easily around Hutch's waist as they stood together in the kitchen, swaying, trying to keep each other from falling over.

   "Hutch?" Starsky asked.

   "Ummm?"

   "Why we so drunk? I mean, how'd this happen? Can't remember. Feel weird."

   Don't ask me that, Hutch thought worriedly. Don't want to look at it, don't wanna feel the difference, put the name to it. "We're okay, Starsk. We're home." We're together, so wherever we are is home.

   "Man!" Starsky moaned. "I am fucked up. Can't remember feeling like this in -- ever!"

   "Just used to bein' healthy now," Hutch insisted worriedly. "We been sober for so long." No alcohol. No women. "Like a coupla monks." Don't make me look at it, Starsk. Don't make me analyze a simple drunk. He hugged his friend tighter.

   Then he caught sight of his mother over Starsky's shoulder.

   To Hutch, the kitchen suddenly looked two football fields long, and his mother stood at its farthest end. But he could hear her as clearly as if she stood beside him.

   "Just look at you, Kenneth," she said softly, sadly. "This is as bad as that day the dentist pulled your wisdom teeth when you were sixteen. I thought I'd never survive the embarrassment. You're a grown man now, Kenneth. I hope you've learned some self-control."

   He frowned as she faded away. Whatever chemical concoction the dentist had given him that day had completely eliminated his pain and left him convinced he was lucid, functional, and totally charming. His mother had had to hide the car keys from him and he'd propositioned the housekeeper so crudely, the woman had nearly quit. His mother had been mortified and read the dentist the riot act. He smiled sheepishly, remembering that.

   Starsky's head slid further down Hutch's chest as his slouch became more pronounced. "Stay with me tonight," Starsky said plaintively.

   "Couldn't very well leave now," Hutch reminded him.

   "Stay with me," Starsky insisted, pulling Hutch against him harder.

   He grunted a little, the air whoosing out of him. "'M right here, babe. Right here. Ya got a death grip on me, couldn't go anyway." He rested a cheek against Starsky's curly head. Where else could I go that would be home to me anymore? Hutch wondered, and had no answer except the one in his arms.

   Suddenly, Starsky stood up straighter in Hutch's grip, and as he did, his denim-clad groin brushed the taller man's thigh. To the blond cop's surprise, Starsky's considerable phallus was hard as rock. Amazing, Hutch thought with clinical admiration. I can never get it up when I'm drunk.

   "Come on," Hutch said. "We need to hit the john, then head for bed."

   "Funny," Starsky said in a throaty whisper, "I was thinking the same thing myself."

   Hutch rolled his eyes. Great. He's gonna get amorous in this condition. Huggy's right. I've been keepin' him too close to home. When was the last time Starsk got laid? For that matter, Hutchinson wondered, coming up short, when was the last time Hutch did? For the life of him he could not remember. Not since Kira? Almost a year, he thought. Before the shooting. For either of us. Christ, no wonder Starsky's throwin' a rod at a little body contact.

   Well, that wasn't a problem he could solve tonight. Tomorrow. He'd set something up tomorrow. Assuming every phone number in his little black book wasn't so old it was useless.

   Gently, he disentangled them and turned Starsky around. "First, bathroom. Then bed. Let's go."

   "Let's!" Starsky said cheerily, pointing toward the bathroom, as if his index finger would help him find the way.

   Hutch steered, and finally got his partner in the john. "You're not gonna fall in are you?" Hutch worried. It wouldn't be the first time either of them helped the other in their most basic needs.

   "Won't fall!" Starsky growled, as he stared at the bowl as if it were a moving target.

   Hutch gave him privacy, not worrying about his aim. They'd clean up tomorrow. Dobey wasn't expecting them in early. He could hear Starsky's steady stream as Hutch started fumbling with his own clothes, dropping them wherever they came off.

   He was proud that, despite being totally wasted, he was fairly steady on his feet, only barking his shins once on the massive, kingsized bedframe. He was more drunk tonight than the night they'd flooded Starsky's hospital room after he'd arrested Gunther.

   Hutch couldn't remember how much he'd had to imbibe on the plane back from San Francisco that night, but the stewardesses had kept his glass full. He had a moment of instant recall -- Starsky's slurred voice mumbling, "Had four pain killers. Feelin' no pain." -- and giggled as he struggled to get out of his cords. Hopping around on one foot with the pants wadded around his knees, he struggled to free the other foot before realizing he hadn't removed his shoes. Standing stork-like, he had to think about the problem for a minute before recalling that shoes had to come off first.

   No sooner did he remember that than he lost his precarious balance and saved himself from crashing to the floor by grabbing the door frame. He stared at his feet and tried to think the problem through. Blinking dully, it came to him, and, clinging to the doorframe, he kicked off his shoes.

   He was down to briefs when Starsky finally emerged from the bathroom. His tight jeans -- how the hell does he stuff all of himself in those damn pants? Hutch wondered -- were unclasped at the top and looked like the straining zipper had all it could handle trying to keep Starsky's half-erect rod safely inside.

   And then Hutch wondered, Why am I so worried about it?

   He felt hazy, woozy, his head reeling. And he knew, quite suddenly, that he really wasn't drunk.

   Stoned. Goddammit, we're stoned. On something. Something in the drinks. Oh, man. He struggled not to panic.

   Unbidden came the tortured memory of Vic Bellamy drugging Starsky senseless then injecting poison into him. That had happened in a bed very similar to this big, ornate four poster. Starsky had sold that bed after he'd recovered, never wanting to lie in it again, but ended up buying a near duplicate after coming out of this latest hospital stay. As if he'd once again been ready to celebrate life to the fullest, and needed the world's biggest and flashiest bed to do it in -- even though the only body he'd been able to share it with so far had been Hutch's.

   The blond cop made himself remember Bellamy's poisoning. They'd saved Starsky, but it had been a terrifying race against the clock. Could this perpetrator have similar plans? Hutch struggled to work through the problem, even as he was swamped with paranoia. He painstakingly locked the bedroom window for safety, without remembering that Huggy had deposited Starsky's key on the lintel over the front door where anyone could find it.

   He struggled to recall the details of Starsky's poisoning. The initial drug Bellamy had inflicted on Starsky that night had left his partner completely helpless, barely capable of punching out Hutch's phone number and murmuring a two word plea for help before passing out. Yet, earlier tonight, Starsky had defeated the sober Russo with no difficulty. Anyone attempting to harm either cop tonight would certainly have their hands full. So, if that wasn't it --

   Then -- why?

    Unless it's narcotic --

   Hutch had sweated out a heroin addiction forced upon him by criminals. If it hadn't been for Starsky, he'd be out there in the streets today knocking over stores for his fix. And now he could feel the sweet hum back in his body, the feeling he hadn't had in so long. And it felt good. Oh, no. Not again. I can't go through that again.

   "Whassamatta, Hutch?" Starsky asked softly. "Ya look scared."

   He was scared. But until he had a better grip on the problem, he didn't want to alarm Starsky unneccessarily. Even if someone were trying to re-addict Hutch, there was little point in bringing up all those bad memories now. If Starsky even suspected, he wouldn't get a wink of sleep worrying about his partner. And the one thing they both needed now was sleep. What was done was done. He'd just have to get through the night and try to deal with everything in the morning.

   But the sweet, narcotic buzz wasn't the most prevalent reaction Hutch was having to whatever they'd been given. Was the narcotic merely the carrier? He thought about the drug his dentist had used, how clear-headed he'd felt on it, how lucid he could be if he needed to. The more outragious his behavior, the more logical it had seemed. He tried to bring those memories into focus. His dentist had told him it was some drug they gave women in labor, that it was really safe. He clung to that memory, but that only confused him more.

    Who'd do this to us? And if the drug is safe -- why? He should talk it out with Starsky.

   Just then Starsky moved closer, touched his face gently. "You need to use the john, babe? You 'kay?"

   Hutch grew confused, tried to shape his thoughts into words, and couldn't sort them out enough to begin. The fact was, he really had no idea what was happening to them or why. How could he explain all these conflicting thoughts? "No, I, uh, don't need the john," Hutch said roughly. "Must be the champagne. Went right to my head."

   Starsky swallowed, the noise suddenly loud in the quiet bedroom. "Yeah. Me, too. Le's go to bed, babe."

   Hutch nodded, shivering slightly. Maybe he could figure it all out in the morning.

   Starsky led the blond cop to his big bed and sat him on the edge. "Hutch, you sure you're okay?"

   "I don't know. I feel -- really weird." But it's not heroin. Can't figure out what it is, though.

   "Me, too," Starsky said, his voice strange in Hutch's ears, sounding husky, different.

   Hutch suddenly looked up into the deep indigo eyes of his partner, the only person on this earth he trusted more than himself. "Starsk. I am scared. I don't know what's happening."

   Starsky's blue eyes were soft, full of caring, full of all the strong feelings that he carried inside him. "Don' be scared. I'm here with you. I'll take care of you. Hutch. I love you. You know that, don't you?"

   Hutch blinked, disoriented. Starsky suddenly sounded so clear-headed. Just like in the bar before he pulverized Russo. How could he do that, go from being drunk -- or stoned -- to clear-headed just when he needed to? And what was it that was making him so clear-headed now?

   Pulling his eyes away from Starsky's face, Hutch glanced at his partner's groin. With him sitting and Starsky standing, it was nearly at eye level. He tried to figure out how that zipper was keeping itself together with that heavy monster behind it trying to push its way out. The more he wondered about it, the more his own phallus nodded in sympathy.

   Starsky touched Hutch's face again, drawing his attention back to those warm, bottomless orbs, and the blond felt himself shiver as his friend murmured meaningfully, "You love me, too, don't'cha, partner?"

   Hutch closed his eyes. Oh, shit! The drug, whatever it was, was going straight to Hutch's groin, so it had to be doing the same thing to his friend. The two of them had been celibate too long. If Hutch let nature take its course right now, Starsky was not gonna be able to deal with this in the morning.

   And what the hell was Hutch supposed to do if his mother showed up again?

   Starsky's fingers traced a scar on Hutch's wrist, and the blond's eyes flew open. It was the knife mark he'd gotten fighting off Gunther's assassins while Starsky lay dying in intensive care. They'd both come so close to buying it that day.

   Starsky's fingers traced the line that sliced over his artery, then trailed his fingertips up along the inside of Hutch's bare forearm. The blond felt his body come alive at that touch, so familiar, yet so foreign all at once. His nipples hardened, and he could feel a blush creep across his skin.

   "Guess Robin's gotta have some scars, too, huh, Hutch?" Starsky murmured, as his hand continued trailing over the sensitive skin, up over the upper arm onto the shoulder. "Skin's so smooth, Hutch. Not soft like a woman, but smooth. Dif'rent. Never thought 'bout it before. Nice." The wandering fingers traced a path over the nape of Hutch's neck and tangled in the long blond hair at the back of his head. Starsky leaned closer, holding Hutch's head in position.

   "Don't do this, Starsk," Hutch begged, searching his face. He was pleading, plain-out, from the bottom of his heart. "Don't do this. The feeling will pass. We'll get through it. But if we do this now -- you'll never get over it. You'll never forgive it. Never forgive me. Don't do this to us."

   It was Starsky's call, Hutch knew, cause the drug was thrumming through his veins, waking up all those sleepy responses he thought were dead and buried. His friend's familiar, comfortable, secure touch was starting a fire inside him he'd never felt before, never dared let himself imagine. He knew his body, knew what it would do, knew how helpless he'd be to resist the lure of Starsky's passion. And he knew once Starsky kissed him, he'd be lost in the love and desire of the one human being on this planet he cared for the most.

   "Please, Starsk. Please."

   "It's okay, Hutch," Starsky promised, his thumb stroking the blond's pale cheek in a comforting gesture. "It's okay. We love each other, buddy. We can't go wrong together."

   Then Hutch knew they were finished. As his partner's mouth came down to claim him, as their lips met in their first real kiss after all these years of friendship, Hutch felt the pull of the drug as it excited him, pushed his cravings, woke his desires. A drug couldn't make you do something you would never have done, but he and Starsky were too close now, especially after this last year. They were too physical, too dependent on each other. They'd gone from spending seventy-five percent of their time together to a hundred percent. They knew each other's scent, each separate foible. They knew everything -- except this. And now, drugged to the gills, Hutch yielded to the pressure of Starsky's sweet mouth, and knew that tender kiss was the beginning of the end for them, yet was helpless to stop it from happening.

   Starsky's mouth bore down on him, full of tantalizing promises and delicious lies, and Hutch dissolved under the power of that mouth, opening his own with a moan. Starsky's tongue took advantage, sliding between Hutch's lips, tracing his teeth, discovering the new world of Hutch that was yielding to it. Starsky whimpered softly into Hutch's mouth, as if he couldn't believe his good fortune, and moved aggressively, confidently, the way Hutch would have himself had he made the first move. Starsky eased Hutch onto his back on the bed, putting one knee on the mattress beside him, then eased his body down gently against the blond's, as if a too sudden move would make Hutch bolt. Which it might.

   Gotta stop this. Still can, Hutch thought, only semi-clearly. He was light-headed under Starsky's assault, the man's mouth covering his, his tongue tracing patterns of pleasure on Hutch's lips, on his palate, against his own tongue which joined the battle joyfully. Whatever made him think Starsky wasn't a good kisser? When the darker man started to pull away, Hutch's arms came up, encircled Starsky's neck as the blond found himself following the departing lips until he saw the smile on his partner's face.

   "Tried to tell ya, Hutch," Starsky purred, all saucy confidence now. "I'm gonna make ya love this."

   Hutch shuddered, terrified his friend was right. "Starsky, wait. Listen -- "

   But the only thing Starsky could hear was the blood pounding in his veins. His mouth came down on Hutch again, and the blond groaned softly in joy and terror. Their tongues wrestled wetly as Starsky's expert hands started examining his victim, sliding over bare skin, leaving heat and need in their wake. Glancing up, Hutch looked in the mirror over the bed and watched himself getting handled. He hated that damned thing, hated waking up in the morning to find himself staring at himself, feeling as if the Hutch in the mirror might fall down on the Hutch in the bed and crush him. Only now, the Hutch in the mirror looked so different he stopped worrying about him falling. The Hutch in that mirror was so full of longing and hunger, so achingly hot, so alive under those searching hands, the Hutch in the bed wanted to reach out to give his other self relief until he realized that was crazy.

   "Starsky!" Hutch murmured around his lover's impassioned kisses. "Starsky!" They could still stop this. There was still a chance.

   "I'm here, babe," his partner said, pulling Hutch tight against him, possessively laying his slight weight over the blond's prone, helpless body. He levered a denim-clad leg between Hutch's bare ones, nudging his knee up to nestle against Hutch's tight, aching, brief-encased balls. "I'm here for you. Talk to me."

   Yes, thought Hutch. He'll listen now. He's sobered some.

   But then Starsky ran the tip of his tongue over Hutch's ear and the blond was wracked with desire; his resolution fled. He couldn't remember whatever it was he'd been about to say. "Oh, god, Starsk! Just love me tonight! I need you!"

   Where had that come from, from what well of loneliness and hunger? How long had he felt like this? He had no idea. But the drug had stripped him of his inhibitions and it was suddenly all in front of him, the raw, ugly truth. He wanted Starsky. Wanted him with a white-hot need he couldn't ever remember having before, not for anyone, not Van, not Gillian, no one.

   Then it was back, the clear-headedness, for just a moment. It was a weird drug, allowing you a moment of lucidity, only to snatch it away a second later, replaced with a gut-clenching desire. Starsky nuzzled his neck, nipped him lightly behind his ear, making him crazy, but Hutch pushed away by sheer force of will. "Wait! Wait! Starsk, listen, ya gotta listen -- "

   "Listen to this," Starsky growled, sounding angry, as he reached for Hutch's turgid cock, grasping it roughly through the briefs. "What's this for if not for me, huh? Tell me you don't want me, Hutch. Say it, and I'll stop."

   "Don't!" Hutch gasped, even as he thrust up into that perfect grip, that masculine, powerful hand that felt so different from all the others that had been there before it. Starsky's hand, touching him. The safety and security of Starsky's hand. Pleasure rocketed in his brain, lighting him up inside, like fireworks behind his eyes. It had never felt like this, not with any woman! Still, he protested feebly, "Don't!"

   "Don't stop, y'mean," Starsky insisted, and Hutch knew that was the truth. "It's always been so right between us, all these years. Everything but this. Me and thee. In the streets. In the car. In life -- and death. Me and thee. Ya chased after me, Hutch -- y'know that don't'cha? -- right into death."

   Hutch stared at him wildly, wondering where all this was coming from, but Starsky couldn't stop, he was babbling stream of consciousness stuff. "They tol' me later. It all quit. My heart. My lungs. Everything. No one home. I was leavin'. Saw the white light. Moved towards it. Seemed like it was time. I could see my father. The doctors wouldn't let me go. They kept shockin' me. Pumpin' my heart. But I didn't care. Time to die. No reason t'stay."

   No, Hutch thought. Not that.

   He hated remembering that. Remembering Dobey's voice over the phone -- "I think you'd better get down here right away, Hutch," -- and knowing exactly what that meant. Driving to the hospital at reckless speeds, down wrong-way streets, through alleys to cut time, abandoning the car without taking the keys or shutting the door, then racing into the building like a track star, his lungs bursting for air, so full of fear.

   His mind had been screaming, WAIT FOR ME, STARSKY! WAIT FOR ME! as if his ego had finally gone round the bend, as if Kenneth Hutchinson could have any control over any one else's life and death.

   Starsky hadn't removed his hand from Hutch's cock, wouldn't remove it, just gripped it tighter, taking ownership, giving a scary, intense pleasure as his thumb rolled over the crown. His mouth murmured darkly against Hutch's ear. "Dobey tol' me. Huggy, too. Doctor said, 'It's over. We've lost him.' Then you hit the floor, burst through the double doors, nearly knockin' nurses over, pushing people outta the way, like a big, klutzy avengin' angel -- runnin' to get to me. To me. To stop me. To pull me back. They tol' me all about it. Saw it all. Said as soon as you hit the floor, my heart gave a little thump after they had all given up on me, gave me up for dead."

   Hutch closed his eyes tight. Dobey and Huggy told him all that?

   "I was standin' on the threshold, Hutch. Saw my dad, saw the light, even thought I could see Terry waitin' on the other side. Figgered I should give up. I hurt so bad. Just wanted to rest. All the pain, all the fightin', it coulda been over. But you wouldn't let me. I heard you. Felt you. Runnin'. Comin' for me. An' you were so scared. So scared I was gonna leave you."

   Hutch shuddered, only this time not from Starsky's touch. From the memories. He'd never been that scared. Not by bad guys, not by car bombs, not by anything. He was losing Starsky. And that meant losing everything. He knew if it happened, he wouldn't have survived it. A half a man cannot live. He knew they would've found him dead as soon as he'd killed Gunther. He would've eaten his gun. He would've had to.

   "I turned around," Starsky continued, "turned away from the light, from my dad, even from Terry...and I could see you. You were so far away, like down this real dark hallway, but you were runnin' faster than I'd ever seen you move. You were tryin' to catch me. Tryin' to stop me. I turned back to Dad and asked, 'Can we wait up for Hutch?' And Dad said, 'No. He's not comin' with us. Not yet.' On the other side, Terry looked at me and just shook her head, then blew me a kiss and walked away. I looked back at you, still so far away. And I saw all that fear on your face. An' all I wanted to do was wipe it away. Make you smile again. See the light in that beautiful face I knew so well. So, I said to Dad, 'I can't come now. Not without Hutch. I'll see ya later.'"

   Hutch stared at him, realizing Starsky was only remembering this now, that the drug had freed this memory of his near-death experience. He'd always insisted he couldn't remember anything at all once he got shot. Hutch remembered sliding to a stop in front of the glass window outside Starsky's ICU unit just as the doctor exited and said, in complete amazement, "We got him back. He's alive. Still not out of it, but I'll be damned if he isn't alive!"

   It was the singular most terrifying moment of Hutch's life. He touched Starsky's cheek, fingertips grazing the familiar mole as if trying to ensure the man's reality here. "How could I let you go then? How can I now? You're half of me."

   "Time to put the flesh to this marriage, Hutch," Starsky told him, sober, serious, hungry.

   "No," the blond whispered plaintively. He thought of little boys in Brooklyn beating up a curly headed kid. Thought of Russo. Thought of the morning. "This isn't us, partner. I wish it was, but it's not. Starsk, we've been drugged -- "

   "Fuck that!" the darker man said angrily. "Think I don' know that? Think I care? I want you, Hutch. Not a pair of pretty women we pick up for a coupla hours to take the edge off. That's all it ever does. I want the real thing, and I want it now. Red meat. No -- blond meat. Yours."

   Hutch tried to look away from the fierce expression on Starsky's face, but the darker man squeezed his cock so hard, he didn't dare.

   "You're mine," Starsky told him clearly. "I'm yours. You pulled me back from death. That makes you responsible for my life. An' I guess I earned the right to be responsible for yours a time or two. We belong to each other. Now, I'm takin' what's mine."

   As Starsky's mouth claimed him again, Hutch trembled, wondering how a man as strong and as in as much control of his life as he was had suddenly become so passive. Starsky's aggression made him shake, but he loved it, even as their tongues battled furiously in a wonderful, wet war. Hutch heard himself gasping, sighing, making sounds of passion he'd never made before, feeling things he'd never felt before. How many people ever got this lucky, he wondered? How many would be prepared to pay the price he feared they might have to pay tomorrow?

   He had to stop thinking about tomorrow, or he'd never get through this. Maybe they'd wake up and it would all be just a sweet wet dream that they could get sheepish about when they changed the sheets. When Starsky's hand slid inside Hutch's briefs, any notion about dreams dissolved.

   "Oh, damn!" Hutch cried out, shocked and amazed at the effect Starsky's bare-handed grip had on him. "My god!"

   "Takes two hands for alla' that, Hutch," Starsky said, grinning, fondling him, getting his feel. "Or maybe a hand and a mouth."

   "No! Starsk, don't!" the blond entreated, digging a hand into the thick curls and hanging on roughly to the descending head. "Just -- kiss me. Touch me. It'll be enough."

   "You always ask for so little," Starsky said softly, his eyes sad. "So little from me. I want this. Want you."

   How much of me? Hutch thought, rattled. My body? My heart? My soul? What was the point of fighting, when Starsky had owned those for years? If he were going to add Hutch's ass to the list it seemed a small enough matter.

   Starsky slowed down as if to ease Hutch's worries, and planted little, gentle kisses against the corners of the blond's mouth, his chin, his cheek. He kissed Hutch's eyelids, his brows, then nuzzled his ears. His tenderness made the taller man crazy, as crazy as his aggression did, and before he could catch his breath, Hutch found his own hands fumbling with that tight, straining zipper. Once he unlocked the tab, the zipper parted on its own with a squeal.

   "Will you touch me, Hutch?" Starsky asked plaintively, that sound of a ten-year-old still in his voice. "I'd do anything to get you to touch me."

   "All you had to do was say so," Hutch assured him. "I've always given you everything you've ever wanted." He slid his hand inside the jeans under Starsky's briefs and stroked that beautiful high round ass. The cheek fit in his palm so right, all warm and smooth and pliant, it made his blood roar in his ears.

   "It's yours if you want," Starsky said, smiling. "Just for the askin'. I want yours so bad it hurts."

   Hutch just shook his head. How much thought had Starsk put into this? "One step at a time, partner. We just got here." He couldn't believe how good his best friend's ass felt. "Can't we get these pants off?"

   Starsky snickered, and rolled off Hutch, hitching his tight jeans off, and tossing them over the side of the bed. Hutch discarded his briefs and rolled back in time to be captured by his partner, now completely nude, erect, and ravenous for him. Starsky's downy pelt rubbed against Hutch's bare skin as the shorter cop gathered the blond up in his arms and hauled him close. The two men rolled around in the big bed, watching their erotic dance in the mirror overhead. Their mouths locked together, legs wedging between one another, and finally a heavy, dark shaft bumped against a long, fair one, creating a sizzling current.

   When the curly head started descending again, Hutch knew he'd be helpless to stop him this time. He'd run out of arguments, out of protests. Starsky's mouth was too good at its job as he licked a slick trail down Hutch's neck, over his golden skin, lower and lower, until he surrounded a small, copper nipple in a wet, hot furnace. Hutch arched, moaning as Starsky's mouth sucked, nursing at the tense, sensitive aureole. Hutch buried both hands in the thick lion's mane of curls and rode the pleasure out, going weak inside. Starsky worked on that nipple till it was raw, as if he'd never had one before, as if it were a rare and lovely prize. He lapped the sensitized flesh, nipped it when Hutch wasn't expecting him to, then kissed it when he'd hurt it too much, alternating pain and pleasure until Hutch was gasping, sighing, crying out his name mantra-like. "Starsky. Starsky. Starsky!"

   And just when Hutch thought he couldn't take anymore, that wonderful warm mouth trailed over to the other nipple and started the process all over again. By this time, Hutchinson was humping like a dog against his lover's hip and Starsky was encouraging him, as if he wanted his partner razor-sharp, so wired he couldn't think, couldn't object, couldn't defend. Hutch's head tossed on the pillow as he pulled Starsky's hair, clawed his back, arched his hips. The head moved lower, licking and nipping Hutch's abdomen, drilling a hot, wet tongue into his navel, placing a bruising hickey on the soft skin beside it.

   Hutch was cursing him now, nearly sobbing. "Damn you. What are you doing? Goddamn you!"

   Starsky only chuckled, and inched lower as slow as he could go. Hutch felt those talented lips kiss the junction of his leg and groin, run his tongue over the inner skin of his thigh, lick the underside of his knee. Hutch lost his grip on the thick, dark hair and had to content himself with clutching the sheets and staring wildly at his sprawled, spread-eagled image in the mirror overhead. Starsky was on his knees, torturing Hutch, leaning over his body so that his spine made a bow. Even in the mirror, Hutch could see the scars on Starsky's back, the exit wounds.

   "Damn, Hutch, you're blond all over," Starsky said, sounding amazed, as he rubbed his scratchy cheek against the downy hairs on Hutch's thighs.

   "You've seen me a thousand times, Starsk," Hutch reminded him. "There's nothin' new there."

   "Seein' it different, now," Starsky told him, his voice low. His tone made Hutch shiver.

   Then Starsky's warm breath blew over Hutch's bobbing, furious erection. The blond cop gasped and tried to remember where he was, who he was with, what his insane lover might be planning for him. Would he really -- ? Had he ever -- ? Hutch couldn't complete a single thought.

   "Blond all over," Starsky purred, staring at the pulsing flesh, so different from his. Hutch's cock was bright red, angry looking, while Starsky's was a dark, dusky color. Starsky was cut, like any good Jewish boy, while Hutch was intact. The spare hair clustered at the base of Hutch's erection was sandy colored, soft and fine, nearly straight. Starsky's pubic area was thick, dark, coarse and curly.

   A study in contrasts; Hutch watched Starsky examine his differences. "Blond meat. All for me." The blue eyes were dark now, shadowed, as Starsky looked up suddenly at Hutch. "All mine. Got that? I mean it, Hutch. You're mine."

   The possessive words were like a shock running up Hutch's spine. He knew Starsky couldn't mean that, that he'd be sober in the morning, and probably wouldn't even recall saying it. But right now, at this moment, he damn well meant it and Hutch knew that.

   "Answer me," Starsky demanded, when Hutch just lay there quietly. "Is it? Is it mine?"

   He's serious, Hutch realized, seeing them sinking deeper and deeper into this. But he understood the demand came out of deep well of insecurity, and it cut his heart out to think his partner wasn't sure of him.

   He reached down, ran the back of his hand over Starsky's cheek. "There's no one else, lover. There never will be. Just me and thee. Like it's always been. I'm yours." But how much longer will you want me? Hutch wondered. Tonight. Tomorrow?

   Then Starsky bent his head and Hutch froze in place, realizing they were on the cusp of something amazing. He watched, mesmerized, as Starsky pulled his foreskin down, then ran his tongue wetly around the head of Hutch's shaft. The sensation was like fire, like electricity, so startling and pure all Hutch could do was gasp, and wait expectantly for Starsky to do it again. Which he did. And again. And again. Until Hutch was staring and sighing in disbelief, as his partner laved this intimate part of him.

   "Oh, Starsk -- !" Hutched breathed, loving this, loving every beautiful second of it. He didn't dare move, didn't dare budge, for fear he'd break the mood of this wonderful moment. He was wracked with sensation as jolt after jolt of incredible pleasure raced down his legs, up his spine, till he thought he'd never breathe again. He touched his dark lover's beautiful face, stroked his brow, petted his cheek, then ran his thumb over Starsky's lower lip, right where that full mouth rested against his crown. Even as he did, Starsky's heavy-lidded cerulean eyes examined Hutch's face, searching for the pleasure there. And as he watched and gauged his blond lover's reaction, Starsky opened his mouth wide and deliberately took Hutch's cock deep inside.

   Impulsively, Hutch buried his hands into the thick curly hair. He ordered himself not to pull, not to push, not to try to control Starsky's head, but the drug wouldn't let him listen, and he did just that, forcing his lover to take more, more. He couldn't help it. He moaned, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow, his body thrashing, alive with the most intense sexual pleasure he could ever remember. From Starsky, his male partner. From Starsky's mouth.

   Starsky's tongue and lips never stopped giving, licking, loving, and Hutch thought he would die from the beauty of it. How long can he keep this up? he wondered as Starsky kept delighting him, taking the hyper-sensitive organ deeper and deeper inside him, then lapping its length, using his hand to excite what his mouth couldn't handle.

   Eventually -- maybe hours later, he thought -- Hutch was embarrassed to remember Starsky's plaintive plea for Hutch to touch him. The blond had been acting like the kind of woman he despised in bed, the truly beautiful ones who would sprawl before him, giving him carte blanche while contributing nothing but their presence. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done but Hutch forced himself to move, to slide around in the bed, and finally got Starsky to release him.

   "Did I hurt you?" Starsky asked worriedly, even as he licked his lips as if still tasting Hutch. His eyes never left the blond's face; the tall cop wasn't used to such intense scrutiny in bed and it rattled him.

   "Hurt me?" Hutch said, awe clear in his voice. "You were killing me. Destroying me. But hurt me -- ? You'd never do that." He smiled, and Starsky's face lit up, returning the joy he saw there. "Think all I wanna do is just lay there?"

   "Don't'cha just?" Starsky said naughtily, and moved to capture Hutch's shaft again.

   Hutch scooted his hips out of the way. "You wanted me to touch you, remember? Change your mind?" The blond was shocked to see his partner shudder just from the suggestion. Could he really want him that much?

   "No," Starsky said, his voice low, husky. "Ain't changed my mind. But -- only if you want to."

   "Want to?" Hutch had to chuckle. A sexually shy Starsky would be something new. "Think it's time you stopped assuming the lead in this scene. Just 'cause you taught me to dance, doesn't mean you need to teach me this." He moved quickly, before the smaller cop could react, took Starsky's shoulders, pushed him onto his back, covering the darker man with his larger frame. Let's see how you like being overwhelmed, lover. His mouth possessed the parted lips beneath him, his tongue piercing, claiming, fighting to steal Starsky's breath. When he raised his head, his partner's blue eyes were wide and a little scared. That pleased Hutch.

   "Damn!" Starsky breathed, but Hutch didn't want him to have time to think. He found an ear buried under thick curls and tongued it, found the lobe, caught it between his teeth. Starsky went rigid against him, his eyes rolling up in shocked delight. "Hutch!"

   He nipped the lobe hard, felt Starsky's whole body buck, and chuckled low, wickedly. This was fun. He released the ear, moved down the throat, licking then nipping. A bit of pleasure, a touch of pain, then pleasure again. Starsky was as rigid as a board, complaining, moaning, trying to escape. Hutch rolled on top of him, caught his wrists, pinned them to the bed.

   Starsky panicked a little, calling, "Hutch! Hutch!" The blond just laughed, his teeth flashing as they left a trail of small bites over Starsky's neck and shoulders. Damn, the man tasted good. Felt good beneath him. Felt right. His partner. His lover.

   Till tomorrow.

   Hutch wouldn't think about that, couldn't think about that. They could hide behind the drug, blame it on that. He didn't care. He wanted this man, the entirety of him, the promise of his body, his mouth, his beautiful hands. He nuzzled lower, not releasing the struggling wrists. Hutch's swollen organ pressed against Starsky's spread thighs and he rubbed it against him flagrantly, craving the contact. Starsky's double handful of manhood sat like a burning log between their bodies and if felt good there, pulsing, dripping hot liquid from the pleasure Hutch was giving him.

   Then Hutch's nose brushed through the soft, dark hair covering Starsky's chest, and bumped against the highest scar. Both of them froze. Their eyes met, and Hutch felt a chill wash over them. None of this would've happened but for that.

   Hutch saw it all again, and wished he didn't -- the police car coming towards them, his sensing something wrong with it, the gun coming out the window, Starsky with his back to the shooter, turning, reaching for his gun, but not fast enough, Hutch screaming his name again and again and again -- and getting no answer. He saw again with perfect clarity the shattered glass of the Torino covering everything like so many diamonds, the dark stain of Starsky's blood pouring onto the macadam, his partner's head nestled into the Torino's tire as if he were just resting a moment. The line of shots riddled across the back of the brown leather jacket.

   "It's just a scar, Hutch," Starsky said softly.

   "No. No, not just a scar," Hutch whispered, and bent to kiss it with all the gentleness he could. As he pressed his lips against the fur-covered ridge, he released Starsky's wrists. The smaller man's hands came up to cup his head, tangle his fingers in the long blond strands. Hutch's head moved lower, to kiss the next scar, touch it with his tongue.

   "When I called Dobey, and he told me to get back to the hospital -- I thought -- I just thought," Hutch began, having no idea what he was trying to say, "if I could just get to the hospital in time, I'd have one last chance to see you, be with you, before you left me. They kept telling me there was so much damage, there was only a slim chance you'd survive. Huggy and Dobey kept saying that there was still a chance. But I -- I didn't believe it. I'd already lost you in my mind. I was already -- planning to join you. Soon as I got the one's who'd killed you. I was already shutting down. I couldn't have stayed behind without you, Starsk."

   "It's okay," Starsky whispered, his eyes glittering. He stroked Hutch's face.

   "I just had to get there," Hutch continued, not really hearing him, "to say good-bye. I just wanted you to live long enough -- to let me say good-bye."

   "Just good-bye?" Starsky said, clearly disbelieving him.

   Hutch shook his head. "No. Not just good-bye. Wanted to say -- to tell you -- "

   Starsky touched Hutch's mustached mouth with his fingertips. "I know what you wanted to tell me. I know."

   They'd said it to each other so many times, why was it sitting like a stone in Hutch's throat now? Because it wasn't quite the same anymore, was it? I love you, Starsk. And you love me. A thousand times, a thousand ways they'd said it over the years. But never like this.

   Then Starsky pulled it into the light. "Tell me now. The way you wanted to then."

   It fell out of his mouth so easily, Hutch knew the drug was still working in him. "I love you, Starsky. I love you. Like a mate. Like a spouse. Like the best part of me. Maybe I always have. I don't know. But I knew, the day you were shot, exactly how I felt. And I had no intentions of being left behind without you. I love you."

   Starsky's eyes were gleaming in the low light of the bedroom. They seemed endlessly deep to Hutch, and happier than he could ever remember. "And I love you. In every way. Make love to me, Hutch. Put the flesh to this marriage."

   Oh, we're gonna pay, Hutch thought miserably, suddenly terrified, half expecting lightning to strike them both dead through the mirror over the bed. We're gonna pay big. The price, what the hell will the price be for this?

   More than they could afford, he knew.

   They kissed again, their need for each other now ferocious, their tongues fighting, their teeth clicking in their wonderful, unique joining. The edge of one of Starsky's teeth caught Hutch's lip and they tasted blood, but just kept kissing. Then Hutch remembered what he'd started, and slid his mouth down Starsky's body again. He kissed and tongued the scars, every one of them, then unearthed a dark nipple hiding under hair and had to restrain himself from chewing it off. Starsky groaned, thrashing, loving Hutch's mouth, and the blond just wanted to give him more.

   His teeth came down so hard on the other nipple, Starsky shouted, "Shit! Hutch!" and pulled his hair hard, but even that felt good. Hutch bit the rippled stomach he'd helped shape, got hair caught in his teeth, and laughed at that. Not usually a problem with a lady.

   Sliding his hands under Starsky's ass, Hutch grabbed both cheeks, stroking, holding, enjoying their plushness. He bit the tight skin over Starsky's hips, rode the flailing body as it bucked in protest. Starsky wouldn't release his head, tangling his hands deep in Hutch's long hair, but he still couldn't control the blond. Hutch's teeth found Starsky's big thigh, left a trail of nips all along its length, until Starsky was finally forced to give up his hold on the blond's hair. Hutch kept traveling lower, aching to kiss, lick, bite, touch those sweet, bowed legs. He couldn't believe how easily Starsky parted them for him, leaving himself so vulnerable. Was it trust or just passion? Hutch's tongue tasted Starsky's narrow knee, and nearly got hit in the teeth by it for his trouble.

   "Tickles!" Starsky protested, giggling, so Hutch anchored his leg in place and did it again, making the man shriek, "Quit!" Then he slid his tongue wickedly down Starsky's calf making him moan. He'd never heard Starsk make sounds like this before, even when the two of them had made love to women in the same room. They were delicious, throaty, animal sounds, full of delight and wonder, and Hutch was making them happen.

   When Hutch reached Starsky's feet, he ran his tongue over the top of the finely arched foot as tenderly as he could. Starsky gasped, pleaded, "Not that, Hutch. You shouldn't do that. Don't kiss my foot." He really meant it, the blond knew, meant he didn't deserve that kind of attention from his lover, and the humility of that statement almost broke Hutch's heart.

   The blond shook his head. "Every part of you," Hutch said raggedly. "I want to kiss every part. Every inch. I love you." And gently, he pressed his lips against the ball of Starsky's foot, then his ankle, then over the joint of his big toe.

   The sky blue eyes bore into him, Starsky's expression as intense as Hutch had ever seen it. "Hutch! Hutch!" His body went rigid, and he gasped, "Your mustache -- tickles!" And the mood was shattered as Starsky jerked his foot away and convulsed in uncontrollable giggling.

   In an attempt to escape the mad oral attention of the blond, Starsky flipped onto his stomach and tried to crawl away, but Hutch caught him all too easily, laying his long body over the strange masculine curves of his lover. They wrestled clumsily, completely uncoordinated until Hutch's heavy cock fell into the deep valley of Starsky's plush ass, the sensation, the suggestion shocking them both.

   "Go 'head," Starsky whispered, without taking time to think about it. "Do it. I want you to."

   It was the drug talking, Hutch feared, even as his cock pulsed and nestled deeper. He feared his own desire. They'd been playing with each other too long after such an extended stretch of celibacy. The drug was probably keeping them both from orgasm, but Hutch knew if he allowed himself this pleasure, he'd be too impatient, too rough, too wild to consider Starsky's needs, never mind his pain. No. They were too stoned. And it would be too good to control.

   The fact that he could think this clearly about it told Hutch the drug must have already peaked in him and was wearing off. Not that it mattered. Their own desire would carry them the rest of the way.

   He eased off Starsky's back, placed gentle kisses on the scars there, then rolled him over so they were face to face. He touched the beautiful face before him with his knuckles. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever offered me. I love you for it."

   "So?" Starsky asked, and Hutch could see the glimmer of fear along with a deep desire.

   "Next time. When we're sober. Ask me then."

   Starsky swallowed. "There may not be a next time. I don't know how I'm gonna feel tomorrow when this stuff wears off."

   "I know. Same here. But we're not ready for that. There's so many other ways. Let's take it one step at a time. We can't squeeze a lifetime of loving into one stoned experience."

   Starsky wet his mouth and it was everything Hutch could do not to go after that tongue. "But, I want you."

   Hutch grinned. "God, I love hearing you say that. I'll never forget it, Starsky, how you look at this moment, how you sound, telling me that."

   Starsky smiled and said it again, as if to imprint it on both their memories. "I want you. I love you."

   They met in a slow, lazy kiss that just stoked the fire higher.

   When they pulled apart, Hutch scolded with a ragged voice, "Stop distracting me. I gotta do something."

   Starsky collapsed dramatically against the mattress, flinging his arms out, watching himself in the mirror. "I'm putty in your hands."

   "Oh, yeah?" Hutch murmured, smiling. He kissed his way quickly past hardened nipples and a tempting navel. "Putty, huh? Well, if that's what you are in my hands -- " he moved lower, poising significantly over the pulsing, dark organ bobbing out from his lover's groin, " -- what'll you be in my mouth?"

   Starsky stared at him, mesmerized, swallowed and said, "What d'ya think? Lava. Runnin' to the sea."

   With a sigh, Hutch lowered his head and pressed his lips to the base of Starsky's impressive phallus.

   "Oh, shit!" the dark cop swore, his body going tight as a bowstring. Hutch planted another kiss lower, on the heavy sac swollen with seed. The coarse hair there tickled him, making him smile. He nuzzled the gravid sac with his nose, inhaling a scent familiar to him, yet new -- male scent, Starsky's musk. He could smell sweat, peppermint soap, baby powder -- all so familiar to him from years of sharing clothes, beds, car seats with this man. But now it was all raw pheromones, igniting an unquenchable desire in Hutch, an appetite as primitive as any he'd ever known. Forcing himself to be gentle when he wanted to devour, he extended his tongue, licked the sac, sending Starsky into a frantic convulsion.

   Was it the drug that was making them so sensitive, or was it the newness of it all? Or could it be the depth of their love making everything so special, so perfect? Hutch knew he could send most women into shuddering, shrieking climaxes -- was proud of that, in fact. But here, now, all of this was so different, so special, it was like no previous experience.

   He licked the sac again and Starsky went boneless with a low, throaty moan. His tongue danced over the sensitive orbs, tracing patterns, writing his name, until finally the tongue tip inched its way back up the heavy shaft. Starsky was clutching the bed sheets as if he might tumble off the edge of the world. He was trying not to move, but his head thrashed back and forth wildly, while the rest of his body alternated between being tense as a stone, or as limp as a rag. Hutch loved this, loving having this power over this strong, capable man. Watching Starsky was igniting him, making him crazed so that he wanted more and more.

   He moved his mouth along the handsome column, licking, sucking, kissing. He didn't dare bite, though he wanted to. He wanted to take big chunks out of it, devour and swallow it. He wanted to make Starsky scream, make him die. He wanted something more. And suddenly he knew what it was. He wanted to make Starsky come. Inside him. Inside his mouth.

   It was the most alien notion; it was for most men. They always wanted someone to do it to them, at the same time that they found the act itself somewhat repellent. It always amazed him when women would do it for him willingly without being asked. And Hutch never asked.

   He remembered the curse Russo spat at Starsky -- cocksucker -- the worst thing one man could call another. And he didn't care.

   He took hold of Starsky's dark flesh and the strong cop whimpered when he did. In the last moment of hesitancy, Hutch brushed his cheek against the hot crown, feeling its smooth, dry, velvety texture. A bubble of liquid sat like thick nectar at the slit. Curiously, Hutch touched his tongue to it. It was warm, viscous, thick like honey, but almost tasteless, with a hint of bitter tang and salt. Starsky's fluid.

   "Hutch!" The smaller man suddenly sat up, buried his left hand in the blond's long hair. "Tell me again. I gotta hear it. Tell me there's no one else -- 'specially...no other guy. I gotta be sure. It's makin' me crazy. I gotta know you're mine."

   It was the drug, Hutch decided, making Starsky so insecure, so paranoid. "No, babe, no. Who else? When? I'm yours, Starsk. You're mine. You think I could do this with anyone else? Don't be crazy."

   "Okay," the darker man said, doubt thick in his voice. "Okay."

   Pulling his eyes away from Starsky's tormented expression with an effort, Hutch knew he had to give his lover something else to concentrate on. Taking a deep breath, he moved over Starsky's groin and in one smooth move, took his crown deep into his mouth.

   Starsky's body was wracked with shuddering, as Hutch, too, shivered, reacting to the heavy male mass in his mouth. There was so much of him. Was this what it had been like for Starsk? He tightened his lips, moved his tongue, tasted his lover. Starsky's cock was so hot in his mouth, Hutch couldn't believe it. He salivated, just like he had over the steak, and took the man in deeper, deeper, till the heavy head was rammed against his throat threatening to gag him.

   Technique, Hutchinson! he scolded himself, and used his lips, his tongue, added some pressure, started moving his head up and down. Starsky cried out in helpless pleasure and the sound was like music to the blond. Yes! Hutch thought. He could get good at this. He could learn to love it, if Starsky kept sounding like that. He used his hands, grasping the rest of the heavy phallus, fisting it, lightly petting the tense sac. Starsky was babbling, thrashing, losing it completely. Oh, it felt good to please someone you loved this much.

   That must have occured to his lover as well, because suddenly Starsky moved against him, inching around, prodding him to shift his hips, until Hutch, finally, in his dim fog of desire figured out what was going on. That was just before Starsky captured him, inhaled him into the furnace of his mouth, swallowed him alive. Hutch nearly screamed around the bulk in his mouth as the two of them picked up the pace, carrying each other along on a tide of frantic desire. They were on their sides, each at the other's groin, sucking, licking, stroking, moving like a single organism devoted to one purpose -- intense, soul-wracking pleasure. A pleasure that was finally drawing closer to completion.

   They rode each other hard, their mouths growing raw, their hearts pounding. They both knew what was happening, and both struggled to be the first to get the other one off. They'd never been such a perfect team, each of them in sync, coordinated. Hutch was dizzy, struggling for air, for the exact right contact with Starsky. He'd never wanted anything, never yearned for anything the way he did for Starsky's completion. It was his only goal. He didn't care if he never came as long as Starsky did.

   Suddenly, Starsky's organ swelled even larger, taking Hutch completely by surprise. For one scary second he thought his jaw would unhinge, as the flaring crown filled the back of his throat. Then Starsky's whole body went taut, he growled, and someone unleashed a fire hose. Thick, ropy, searing fluid filled Hutch's mouth, his throat, his sinuses, so suddenly the blond didn't have time to react. The shocking realization of what it was barely had time to register. It was drink or drown, and Hutch gulped. It scalded him, the sharp bitterness of Starsky's semen burning his throat, making him shudder in surprise. And it kept on coming, a year's worth of celibacy drowning him as Starsky's cock pumped his essence into Hutch's mouth. He drank till he couldn't bear it anymore, and felt it flow down his chin, over his hand before the flow slowed then ceased. He pulled his mouth away, coughing, gasping for air, wiping his chin on Starsky's belly. For a scary moment, he thought he'd puke.

   Shuddering, he collapsed against his lover's abdomen, even as he realized Starsky was still working on him, pulling him to orgasm right after him. Hutch hovered on the cusp, and tried to pull away, not wanting Starsky to have to deal with what he just did. He didn't think his partner could handle it. But Starsky knew him too well, and wouldn't release him. His mouth and hands worked their magic, and in seconds, Hutch felt his orgasm travel up from the soles of his feet, through his thighs and ass, into his balls and up, up, out through his cock right into Starsky's mouth. He roared, the sensation was so intense, his whole body coming, ejaculating, pulsing again and again in the sweetest release he'd ever had. But, god, he wanted to spare Starsky this.

   Starsky wouldn't yield, taking Hutch in loud, gulping swallows that were so erotic, Hutch spasmed again, amazing himself. Finally, Starsky was pulling on an empty bottle, and Hutch had to beg to be released.

   Starsky freed him, and collapsed on his back. Rubbing a hand over his abused lips, he groaned, "Man, that was horrible!"

   Hutch could only laugh, rich thick laughter that shook his entire frame. "You're right about that, partner."

   "All these years, those women -- how do they do it?" Starsky asked the mirror. "That had all the culinary delight of snot mixed with Drain-o." Then the sparkling blue eyes glanced guiltily at his lover. "I mean -- nothin' personal, Hutch. That is -- I'm sure it wasn't too great for you either. I came like a flood, too. You okay?"

   Hutch couldn't stop laughing. "Yeah, I'm okay. Better than that. And you're right -- it was rough. But, I gotta tell you, partner, when you did that -- it was incredible for me."

   Their eyes met from different ends of the bed, and Starsky reached out to touch Hutch's mouth. "Incredible doesn't touch what it felt like, Hutch. I can't believe you did that for me. Felt like I lost a gallon. I'm drained."

   "So I guess that's the secret," Hutch said softly, clasping the fingers and kissing them. "I'd do it again, just to please you."

   Starsky smiled wearily, then asked, "Tonight?"

   Hutch shook his head. "No. Not tonight."

   Starsky crawled down to be closer to Hutch. He gathered the taller man in his arms and pulled him tight against him. "It was wonderful, Hutch. Made me love you so much."

   "Yeah. But will you respect me in the morning?" There was humor in his voice, but the concern was real.

   Starsky nuzzled the long, tawny neck. "Oh, I'll respect you even more."

   If I could only believe that, the blond thought. Suddenly, morning seemed moments away.

   "Will we remember this, Hutch?" Starsky asked softly, and Hutch knew he was worried about it, too.

   "I don't know. No idea. I don't see how we can forget it, but -- Won't know till we wake up."

   "Makes me not wanna sleep," Starsky murmured, his voice already thick with fatigue. "Just 'member Hutch. You're mine now. Only mine. No one else. Me and thee. All we gotta do is remember that. Remember how much I love you. We'll get through this. Find the fucker who slipped us the mickey and -- " he giggled lightly, "and kiss them full on the mouth."

   "I chased you into death, babe," Hutch said, feeling sleep steal over them. "Now, all I gotta do is chase you into life."

   As Starsky drifted into sleep in Hutch's arms, the blond wondered if he could possibly stay awake all night to ensure his memories, but knew that was impossible. The narcotic hum was still thrumming through him, if subdued, and the need to close his eyes and fall asleep was hypnotic. He touched Starsky's shoulder with his lips and blinked tired eyes.

   That was when he saw Gillian again.

   She was reflected in Starsky's bedroom window, against the darkness, and her image wasn't very clear. Still Hutch knew it was her. She still wore that same smile. She was still beautiful. He waited for her to tell him how lucky he was.

   Instead, she said, "No matter what happens Hutch, don't forget. He really loves you. No matter what he says to you later, he really loves you. More than I ever could. So lucky to be Hutch, and have two people love you so much."

   Hutch felt good to hear that, and, smiling, promised to remember. As he yielded to fatigue, he felt at ease for the first time since they arrived home. Starsky would always love him. Gillian promised. And Gillian wouldn't lie -- would she?

   The two men slept entangled together blissfully unaware of the way the world was changing around them.

Came on so fast
Whenever did I feel this fine
Oh, yeah,
On white lightning and wine
Drinking white lightning and wine
        White Lightning and Wine -- Heart.

CHAPTER 2