Starsky had denied it, but afterwards he’d tried hard not to step on Hutch’s heels. He’d even tried to find a steady girl of his own, but then Hutch had gone behind his back and slept with her. It really made him wonder about the hypocrisy of it all. Okay, fine, Hutch didn’t want him elbowing in on his relationships. He could understand that. But why’d he have to then go and wreck one of Starsky’s?

 

It wasn’t fair, but before they’d had a chance to settle it like gentlemen, Starsky got shot, and had died, even if only for a minute or two. And all of a sudden it was Hutch who was doing all of the watching.

 

Starsky worried about that. It wasn’t normal. And the one thing Starsky wanted above all else these days was to make things normal – for everything to be back the way it had been before.

 

He’d even managed to talk Hutch into shaving off that damn mustache, and kept after him until he lost the paunch he’d been working on for the last year and a half.

 

It was a good start, but it hadn’t erased the lines of worry and stress on Hutch’s face, and he didn’t quit watching. So Starsky decided they needed to start dating again. And when he played the ‘officer wounded in the line of duty’ card on Amber, he made sure to do it outside of Hutch’s earshot. There was no point in bringing up bad memories for Hutch. Not when the goal was normalcy.

 

Amber liked scars. She thought they were a major turn-on. Her hands kept running down inside his shirt all evening, and by the time they got back to his apartment, Starsky was happily imagining himself a romantic hero. Wounded in a chivalrous sword fight, maybe. The fair maiden had a bit of a mouth on her, but when it was applied in the right manner, who cared?

 

Right now, however, despite her enthusiasm, he had a feeling something was wrong. It was too quiet.

 

Not normal.

 

Amber lifted her head and asked, “Baby, what’s up?”

 

That drew his attention away from the puzzling silence in the other room, and he laughed. “I’m up, aren’t I?” Then he tossed her over onto her back, and returned the favor with enthusiasm.

 

In the living room, he heard Hutch murmur something to his date, encouraging and teasing her in his usual manner.

 

But Starsky knew the significance of that brief silence. There was no mistaking it.

 

Hutch was listening.

 

-oO0Oo-

 

Starsky’s bladder woke him sometime after midnight. The house was still, and he could hear the soft breathing of his house guests. Sliding out from under Amber’s arm, he sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

 

He had to pause, and wait until the vertigo faded and his vision cleared. He shook his head carefully, feeling the pressure behind his eyes competing with the tug of tired muscles and still-healing scar tissue.

 

Behind him Amber shifted, rolling over and pulling a pillow close to her chest. The sheet slid off her bare hip, and Starsky was tempted to wake her.

 

But then his bladder reasserted itself, painfully, and with a muffled groan he pushed himself up onto his feet and limped out of the bedroom.

 

He didn’t turn on the light in the bathroom. The thought of inflicting 60 watts on his too-sensitive eyes made him cringe, and he knew his own bathroom well enough not to need light to aim by, anyway.  He also told himself it was more considerate to leave it off, as the light might wake the sleepers in the living room.

 

Drying his soapy hands on a towel, Starsky paused in the door of the bathroom. The most urgent need taken care of, he could now appreciate the sight before him.

 

Hutch had pulled out the sofa-bed, and had bedded down with Veronica. Hutch was sleeping on his side with his back to the girl and his knees drawn up. Starsky grinned. His partner looked like an oversized kid; all he needed was a thumb in his mouth... and a few less lines on his face.

 

Starsky’s smile faded. He can’t stop worrying, even in his sleep.

 

He decided that Hutch had just been listening for trouble when they’d been making love to the girls earlier. Probably prepared to leap to Starsky’s rescue at the slightest sign of a muscle twinge or bruised ego.

 

Starsky sighed.  He couldn’t help but find this theory a little depressing.

 

-oO0Oo-

 

When morning came, Starsky’s first awareness was of the sound of whispers and muffled laughter. Then the smell of bacon and eggs filtered in.

 

He almost got up. Hutch was cooking, and Starsky was hungry enough to eat almost anything, let alone one of his favorite breakfasts. But then he heard Amber say, “Sssh, you’ll wake him!” Veronica giggled.  And Hutch -- Hutch laughed.

 

So, Starsky stayed where he was, eyes closed, listening.

 

It was good to hear Hutch being happy. Not hysterically happy, the way he’d been when Starsky had first woken up, when he’d managed to take his first steps during physical therapy, or when the doctor had said there was an excellent chance he’d make a full recovery and return to the streets. Not that kind of happy. Just the ordinary, everything’s fine, normal kind-of-happy. Exactly the kind that had been missing these last couple of months.

Starsky stretched, carefully.  He felt pretty good this morning. Not as sore as he’d been the night before. Rested, relaxed. Sex will do that for a guy, he thought, contentedly. Sex is good.

 

His only disappointment was that he’d overslept and missed the chance to get himself another round of it before Amber left.

 

Starsky listened as Hutch hustled the girls out the door, with promises of more dates and other times. Which might happen, or it might not. Amber and Veronica weren’t the sort of girls who wanted to stick around forever -- certainly not to become cops' wives, anyway.

 

Guys like him and Hutch were good for a tumble, but not for a long term commitment.

 

The latch clicked and he heard Hutch turn and walk back. His footsteps paused at the bedroom door.

 

Starsky held his breath.

 

“I know you’re awake,” said Hutch.

 

Starsky rolled over, grinning. “Thanks for not blowing my cover.”

 

Hutch raised an eyebrow at him. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Any particular reason why you didn’t want to say goodbye to the girl you just fucked?”

 

Shit, is he mad at me?

 

Concerned, Starsky tried to explain. “You all sounded like you were having so much fun. I didn’t want to spoil it.”

 

Hutch nodded, accepting the answer. “They’re nice girls.”

 

“But?” asked Starsky when he didn’t add anything more.

 

“I don’t know.” Hutch’s hand picked at the sheet, pulling it up into hills and then smoothing it flat. “I think maybe I’m getting a bit old for one night stands.”

 

Starsky tried to figure that one out. It was just sex, wasn’t it? How could there ever be anything wrong with sex? “You mean, you wanna get serious? Get married?” He didn’t say, ‘again’. He didn’t have to. He wrinkled his nose at the notion of Hutch marrying Veronica.

 

Hutch shook his head emphatically. “God, no! I’m not... I mean...” He stopped, looking frustrated at his inability to explain himself.

 

“Then, what? I don’t get it.”

 

“No, I didn’t think you would.” Hutch began to stand up.

 

That was the last straw. Starsky lunged and grabbed the back of Hutch’s pants, tugging him down onto the bed. Hutch fell onto his back, and Starsky scrambled over him, pinning his shoulders to the mattress. “Hey! You can’t blame me for not understanding, when you won’t explain!”

 

Hutch looked up at him, his expression unreadable. Suddenly, he lifted his head and kissed the tip of Starsky’s nose.

 

Startled, Starsky sat up and rubbed his nose. Hutch took advantage of his moment of  distraction by suddenly rolling to the side and dumping Starsky onto the bed.  Before Starsky could defend himself, he’d been flipped over onto his back, and now Hutch had him pinned to the bed, and was grinning smugly down at him.

 

“Hey!” bellowed Starsky. “That’s cheating!”

 

“Yeah? Then what’s this?” Hutch leaned forward and kissed Starsky again, this time on the side of his neck. His lips lingered there a moment too long, and Starsky felt a shiver travel the entire length of his body. He was suddenly, excruciatingly aware of the fact that he was naked, while Hutch was fully clothed.

 

And they were in bed.

 

And he could smell sex. On the sheets, on the covers, on Hutch...

 

Hutch pulled back.

 

Starsky wanted to say something, but even with a million things tumbling over in his brain, he couldn’t turn any of them into actual words. He stared at Hutch in mute astonishment.

 

Sex... and Hutch?

 

Hutch’s gaze dropped. “Sorry,” he said, his mouth twisting as he turned away.

 

He was going to leave, Starsky realized. He was going to leave and that’s all there would ever be between them, just a couple kisses and Starsky hanging forever on the edge of this precipice. Except that Starsky wasn’t a big fan of the agonies of unrequited lust.

 

“Hey!” Starsky protested, grabbing Hutch’s shirt. For a moment they both eyed each other warily, and then Starsky finally found the words he needed to say. “You started this, you can damn well finish it!”

 

Hutch’s laugh held more surprise than real amusement. But he leaned back down over Starsky, his face a few inches away, and Starsky breathed in the scent of bacon, and musk. He was expecting another kiss, this time maybe on his lips.  That would be okay, even if a little weird.  However, Hutch’s hand landed instead on Starsky’s lower belly, and Starsky felt himself immediately harden.

 

“Christ!”

 

Since the shooting, he’d been handled by Hutch in every manner conceivable. Hutch had bathed him, dressed him, held him when he’d cried and puked, and his stitches ripped and his meds messed with his mind, but not even once had his touch ever had this effect.

 

Hutch chuckled. “Nope, not Christ. Just me.” His other hand found Starsky’s side now, and his head lowered to the same spot on Starsky’s neck that he’d found before, his mouth teasing, tickling.

 

Hutch whispered, “Are you sure?”

 

Starsky drew in a sharp breath and turned his head, trying to answer by catching Hutch’s lips. They struggled for a few moments, and then Starsky had him. As their mouths mashed together, Starsky tried to get Hutch’s pants down over his lean hips. Because it wasn’t right that Hutch was fully clothed still, and he wasn’t. Especially if they were going to do this.

 

Sex with Hutch.  Jeez...

 

“Slow down!” commanded Hutch.

 

Starsky whimpered. Bastard always thinks I’m going too fast.  

 

“You rush things,” said Hutch, his hand traveling down until it reached the sensitive inside crease of Starsky’s thigh, causing him to jump. “It’s like you think that sex is all about getting on top and driving until you hit your climax. You act like five minutes of foreplay is doing your date some sort of huge favor.”

 

I knew he was listening!

 

Starsky lost his grip on Hutch’s belt and his hips thrust up helplessly. He reached for his own cock, desperate to relieve some of the torment. But Hutch caught his hands.

 

“Wait!”

 

Starsky grabbed the pillow behind his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt tortured, but was still determined to find out where Hutch planned to take this, to take him. Because surely he had no intention of stopping now.

 

Oh God, he wouldn’t, would he?

 

Hutch shifted, and his mouth moved down Starsky’s neck to his chest. Hutch hesitated with his lips on Starsky’s collarbone, and Starsky started to worry about his scars. Amber had thought they were sexy, but he doubted Hutch felt the same way. They probably brought back all sorts of bad memories for him...

 

Starsky’s arousal began to fade, but then Hutch’s tongue found the first of the scars, the one nearest his shoulder. Starsky gasped, as gently, carefully, Hutch traced every one of them with his mouth, leaving behind a sensation that destroyed all capability of telling pleasure and pain apart.  Starsky wanted him to stop, but not as much as he wanted him to continue. By the time Hutch reached the surgical scar that wrapped around his side, Starsky was ready to claw his way right out of his skin.

 

He knew what they were doing was supposed to be wrong, but it felt so right. Every one of his nerves was on edge, and yet he’d never in his life felt so cherished. Hutch was loving him, every square inch of him.

 

Starsky was as hard as he’d ever been in his life, and still Hutch hadn’t even touched him where it counted. Unable to help himself, he was thrusting rhythmically now, frustrated as Hutch avoided him, giving him nothing to rub against.

 

The briefest of warm breaths on his cock was the only warning Starsky had before he felt himself enclosed in warm, wet heat. He groaned and almost lost it right then. He would have, except that Hutch’s hand had seized the base of his cock, holding him tight, preventing his release.

 

It was inconceivable. Insane. Starsky’s mind babbled incoherently, unable to get past the simple truth that Hutch was giving him head.

 

And it was fantastic.

 

He wanted to last longer, he really, truly did, but then Hutch’s massaging tongue found the vein behind the head of Starsky’s cock. Fireworks exploded behind Starsky’s eyes, and he howled as he came, choking off the sound at the last moment, clapping both hands over his mouth as his eyes watered. Too much noise was a bad thing. There were neighbors, after all.

 

When he finally caught his breath and rubbed the tears out of his eyes enough to see again, he noticed that Hutch was naked.  Starsky wondered when that had happened.  He squinted, realizing that Hutch had come as well, and was now cleaning up, using his t-shirt. Hutch had a preoccupied air about him, but he smiled when Starsky met his eyes.

 

Then Hutch’s expression sobered. “I think -- I shouldn’t have...”

 

“I’m happy,” said Starsky. Sex was always good. Even when it showed up unexpectedly.  Maybe especially when it was unexpected.

 

Hutch looked doubtful. Guilty, even. “But, this isn’t...”

 

Starsky cut him off, before he said something they’d both regret. “I’m happy! You were great!” He rolled over onto his stomach, and tried to point to a spot between his shoulder blades. “Now scratch my back, right there.”