“Starsky, what the hell is this?”

 

Starsky reluctantly left off his perusal of the latest issue of Ahoy! and peered across the table at the scrap of paper Hutch was waving at him.  “It’s supposed to be a two dollar bill.  They were giving those out at the Golden Clam, remember?”

 

But Hutch had already moved on to next crumpled note.  “The Golden what?  I don’t remember...  Who did we meet?  And why the hell can’t you organize your own receipts?”  With a frustrated growl, Hutch upended the shoe box.  A year and a half’s worth of unclaimed expenses landed with a thud, compressed into a near-solid mass through the combined geological forces of time, pressure, and humidity.

 

Starsky put his magazine down.  The quick glance he gave the room before pushing his chair back and rising to his feet was more a matter of habit than necessity.  They’d commandeered an empty interrogation room in order to sort through Starsky’s neglected paperwork.  Hutch said it would give them more room to spread out.

 

Spread out.  Starsky had liked the sound of that.  It was inspiring, really.  Him and Hutch.  Alone. On a quiet evening without any other distractions, no pending cases, and Starsky was almost ready to graduate off of light duty and resume a full work-load.

 

Why waste it fussing over bits of paper?  They could be spreading other things out.  Like each other.  Somehow he had to get Hutch to realize that, so that they could go back home and put this evening to better use.

 

The major obstacle to this plan was Hutch.  The first thing Starsky had done after following Hutch into the room was pointedly lock the door.  His hopes had risen briefly when Hutch said, “Good idea, we don’t want any distractions.”  But sadly it had turned out that Hutch had meant distractions from the business of sorting all of Starsky’s expenses into quarterly piles.  Any kind of make-out session, leading to a mad dash for the parking garage and home, was not apparently on Hutch’s agenda this evening.

 

Still, Starsky was not the kind of guy to give up without a fight.  First, he tried posing devastatingly against the wall, all his best assets on display.  Shockingly, Hutch ignored him. Starsky then tried his previously infallible chair technique.  He turned it around and crossed his arms over the back, staring meaningfully at the top of Hutch’s head.  After a few minutes, Hutch pushed a stack of receipts across the table at him and told him to get busy.

 

Disappointed, Starsky pretended to work for awhile and then, when he could stand the boredom no longer, he went and got coffee, along with the latest issue of Ahoy.  Hutch might insist on wasting the entire evening on paperwork, but Starsky knew there were better ways to pass the time.  For the next hour, he regaled Hutch with tales from the letters section.

 

“Hey, Hutch!  How come every guy in these stories always gets an ‘impressive’ erection?  Couldn’t they get an unimpressive one, even once?  I’m sure it’s got to happen.  Not that I’d know from personal experience, of course...”

 

“Hey, Hutch!  They’re doing penis euphemisms this month.  Man Muscle, Purple Headed Custard Chucker, Wally the One-Eyed Wonder Worm, and ooh, a Nine-inch Python!  That’s one for you, Hutch...”

 

“Hey, Hutch...”

 

But none of this had any appreciable effect on Hutch’s libido.  Hutch continued to stoically ignore him. 

 

Obviously this campaign required a more hands on approach.  Starsky moved around the table to stand behind Hutch.  Leaning over his shoulder, Starsky picked up the Golden Clam’s fake two-dollar bill, while using his free hand to explore inside the collar of Hutch’s shirt.

 

“You might remember it better as the ‘Bearded Clam’,” Starsky said.  “We questioned one of the strippers in the joint while we were seconded to Robbery during the Remington Street extortion racket investigation.”

 

Hutch peered at the receipt, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his chest was being fondled.

 

With a sigh, Starsky withdrew his hand and added in his best martyred tone, “You know, keeping my receipts in order hasn’t exactly been high on my list of priorities this year.”  C’mon, Hutch, he thought.  Let’s blow this popsicle stand.  Take me home and tuck me into your bed. Only three days left until they had to hit the streets again, and for some inexplicable reason Hutch seemed to want to waste it all sorting out Starsky’s finances.

 

Not that they didn’t need sorting out.  But surely they could tackle them tomorrow.  Or the day after.  Starsky squelched the inner voice reminding him that he’d been telling himself he’d do them “tomorrow” for well over a year now.

 

A pained expression crossed Hutch’s face.  He took back the accompanying receipt and looked at it again, this time with comprehension.  “Oh, right.  Venus on a half shell.  She with the nipples like...”

 

“Frankenstein’s bolts,” finished Starsky.  He tried for the front of Hutch’s shirt again, hoping to find a much nicer set of pectoral accessories than those of the infamous Venus, but Hutch turned away, reaching for a stack of papers on the far side of the table.

 

“A classy dame.”  Hutch scowled.  “But don’t go giving me that ‘oh, I got shot and ended up in hospital for six weeks’ jive.  Your receipts have always been a mess!”

 

Starsky braced his elbow on the table in order to angle his head directly in front of Hutch, looking up at him with his best whipped puppy look.  “But I did get shot,” he said.  “And it hurt for a very long time.  And honest officer, I meant to sort through them, but with all the drugs I was on it was kinda hard to think straight, and after that all I could think about was getting through all that agonizing physical therapy and re-qualifying for the street, all so’s I could back you up, because I’m just that kind of guy--”

 

Starsky’s tale of woe was cut off abruptly as Hutch grabbed him in a headlock.  His forearm clamped around Starsky’s neck, yanking him off the table.  Starsky’s knees hit the floor beside Hutch’s chair.

 

“I am not one of your nurses, Starsky!  That whole ‘pity me’ routine doesn’t work on me!”

 

Starsky twisted ineffectually in Hutch’s grasp, the arm of the chair pressing painfully into his ribs and his face sandwiched against Hutch’s stomach.  So close, and yet so far..., he thought to himself.  His reply was muffled.  “Then how come you’re messing with my receipts right now?”

 

Hutch shoved him away.  “God knows it isn’t pity.”

 

Starsky landed on his rear, and immediately bounced to his feet.  It was an open question why Hutch was bothering with his receipts at all, instead of letting him hang himself with them.  Starsky liked to think it was love that motivated Hutch, but he sometimes worried that Hutch’s love was more maternal than romantic.

 

Starsky grabbed the arm of Hutch’s chair and yanked as hard as he could.  The rubber feet squeaked as Hutch was hauled around to face him.  With a hand on either chair arm, Starsky leaned over Hutch and stared down at him.  “Funny, I never would have taken you for a masochist...”

 

His lips pressed into a thin line, Hutch said, “You’ve been doing nothing but trying to distract me from helping you all evening.”

 

“Now I’m wondering if there’s a whole other side of you that I haven’t explored yet.”  Starsky leered as he quoted, “Whip me, beat me, make me write bad checks?”  He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“I never write bad checks,” said Hutch.  But there was a gleam in his eye that Starsky took as a positive sign.  Well, that, and the bulge in Hutch’s pants was a dead giveaway, too.  Starsky felt a rush of triumph at the incontrovertible evidence that all of his efforts hadn’t been in vain.

 

Starsky pressed his advantage, leaning closer.  “You sure about that?  Because...”  As he tried to shift around to stand in front of Hutch, his rear end hit the table.

 

The ominous sound of sliding paper was the first warning of catastrophe.  The second sign of Starsky’s impending doom was the sudden widening of Hutch’s eyes, just a moment before he hollered, “My receipts!”

 

Technically they weren’t his receipts, but Starsky wasn’t going to point that out.  He hastily tried to back off, intending to retrieve what he could of their evening’s work.  But at the same moment Hutch shoved him away, hard.  Starsky’s hip collided with the table again, and he lost his balance.

 

Starsky’s arms rotated wildly as he attempted to stay on his feet.  With one swing he cleared the surface of the table.  In the midst of an avalanche of small scraps of paper, Starsky hit the floor, landing hard on his rear end.  Again! Jeez …

 

Furious, Hutch pounced, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and hauling him up off the ground. Paper flew in every direction.

 

All in all, Starsky had been remarkably clumsy for a man who had been recently insisting that he was not only as fit as he’d ever been in his life, but fitter.  Possessed of cat-like grace, he’d claimed, without a trace of irony.  He’d even offered to take Hutch out dancing, just to prove it, but Hutch had turned him down, saying the world wasn’t ready yet for a public demonstration of just how big a dip Starsky could be.

 

Starsky hadn’t been overly insulted.  He knew Hutch loved him - was in love with him.

 

It was just that right now he was standing on his toes with his back pressed against the Interrogation room wall, and his shirt crumpled in Hutch’s fist.  Starsky trusted this man with his life, but presently he wasn’t so confident that he trusted him with his balls.

 

His voice only a little higher than usual, Starsky said, “Dobey’s gonna be ticked off if you put me back in the hospital.”

 

Hutch smiled, sending a shiver down Starsky’s spine.

 

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you,” Hutch said.  “I’m going to give you exactly what you’ve been asking for all day.”  And with that, Hutch’s mouth slammed into his so hard Starsky felt the back of his head bounce off the acoustic tiled wall.

 

Starsky opened his mouth, his protest cut off by the forceful invasion of Hutch’s tongue.  He barely had enough time to think, oh crap, when Hutch released both his lips and shirt and reached behind Starsky to grab him firmly by both ass cheeks.

 

Starsky yelped.

 

Somehow Hutch had discovered a direct connection from his butt to his groin, zero to sixty in way less than 6.6 seconds. Hutch’s smile was feral as he flexed his fingers.

 

Starsky squeaked helplessly, several more times, before collecting himself enough to protest.  “Stop, wait...”

 

“I thought this is what you wanted?”  There was nothing innocent in Hutch’s expression.  His hands slipped couple inches lower, finding the sensitive crease just under Starsky’s ass.  He squeezed.  Starsky felt his groin throb in reaction and hoped his zipper would hold.  He wished he’d worn looser pants.  Hell, he wished he owned looser pants because he could do himself an injury if Hutch kept this up.

 

“Yeah, but...  Yeep!  You keep that up, I’m gonna... cream my jeans!”  Panic, arousal, and an undoubted lack of oxygen were ganging up on Starsky, making his head spin.  “We can’t do this here!”

 

“You’re the one who locked the door.” Hutch pulled firmly, and their groins collided.

 

Starsky yelped again, and Hutch chuckled smugly, giving every appearance of a guy who’d just discovered a terrific new toy.  Catching his breath, Starsky tried to explain, “I didn’t...  Arrgh!  Mean we...  Ow!  I figured we’d kiss and then go home anddoitright – Quit it!”

 

In a desperate bid to regain some control of the situation, Starsky hooked his foot behind Hutch’s ankle and took him down to the floor in a rather less-than-Academy ideal manner.

 

They landed with a thud and skidded over the multi-colored litter.  Hutch ended up next to the table, on his back, with Starsky on top.  Straddling him, Starsky pinned his shoulders to the ground.

 

“We can’t do this at work!” shouted Starsky.

 

“You know,” said Hutch, still using an infuriatingly calm voice.  “If you yell loud enough, people actually can hear you though that door.  The sound baffling only goes so far.”  Then he grabbed Starsky’s ass again and squeezed his cheeks aggressively.

 

With a strangled sound, Starsky collapsed on Hutch’s chest.  Hutch began to laugh, and to Starsky it felt like an earthquake.  A seismic upheaval.

 

Not for the first time in their recently begun affair, he thought, I am so screwed.

 

He then felt a flood of happy anticipation, followed by an answering twitch in his much-too-compressed cock.  Definitely.  Screwed.  What a great idea.

 

Except he hadn’t thought to bring any lube, because who brings a tub of Crisco to work?  And where would he keep it?  Even if Dobey’d never suspect he wasn’t planning on baking cookies, not everyone in the squad was that straight.  So literal screwing was unlikely.  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t do other stuff.

 

And get caught doing it.

 

And lose their jobs.

 

And maybe even get arrested, ‘cause sex in public wasn’t exactly legal.

 

Hutch now appeared to be waiting for some decision on his part.  Starsky pushed himself up onto his hands, looking down at that gorgeous mug.  “What’s with you and my ass?”

 

“It’s a great ass,” said Hutch, massaging that portion of Starsky’s anatomy more gently now.  “I think it doesn’t get nearly the attention it deserves.”

 

“And you’re offering to fix that, uh, unfortunate state of affairs?  Here?”

 

Instead of answering, Hutch lifted his hips, grinding against him.

 

Starsky collapsed, ignoring the strangled sound beneath him, as he buried his face in Hutch’s collar.  Starsky needed to think.  This was the wrong place to be doing this.  This wasn’t some kind of cheesy porn flick, with bad actors and worse dialogue.  It wouldn’t be a joke if they got caught. They’d be worse than screwed. 

 

The right thing to do would be to get up and take Hutch home and do him on the bed, with the door double bolted and the curtains drawn.  There was no one around, and the door was locked … but anyone could bypass it with a credit card, not that anyone would, but maybe they’d installed cameras and somehow he’d missed the memo, and, and ...

 

Hutch’s mouth found his ear and delivered a precise nip to the outside edge.

 

“Oh baby, do me now,” gasped Starsky.

 

Because apparently this was a cheesy porn flick after all.

 

“You’re facing the wrong way,” whispered Hutch, his breath tickling Starsky’s ear.  Starsky scrambled to his knees, skidding on the remains of the receipts.  Sixty-nine, his favorite number in the whole world.  He’d always liked it with girls, but he loved it with Hutch.

 

Starsky fumbled with his belt, watching with near-painful anticipation as Hutch lifted his hips in order to skim his cords and boxers off in one easy move.  The thought popped into Starsky’s head, you are what you eat.  Which in the past was why he never got too ticked off when some whippo called him a pussy, but now it made him - what?  A health food nut, like Hutch?

 

Starsky was still struggling with his zipper when Hutch propped himself up on one elbow with his pants down around his knees.  He watched Starsky with unselfconscious amusement.  “You’re not wearing underwear.”

 

“Yeah, and thanks to you I’m this close to castrating myself!”  Frustration gave Starsky’s words an unintended edge.  Sucking his stomach in, he slid a protective hand down the front of his pants and tried to undo the zipper one handed.  Dammit, this hadn’t been a problem when he’d gotten dressed this morning.

 

Looking gratifyingly worried at the prospect of permanent damage to Starsky’s manhood, Hutch kicked his pants off and sat up.  “Here,” he said, “Let me do that.”  While Starsky held onto himself, Hutch carefully worked the zipper down.  Hutch went for one more quick grope, but the snarl that elicited from Starsky kept him on task after that.

 

Eventually, after various contortions which Hutch obviously found highly entertaining, Starsky was able to wiggle out of his jeans.  He pushed them down over his hips, feeling like he’d achieved something that should have been physically impossibly.  Hutch eyed the results with satisfaction.  “Now, how are we ever going to get you back into those, I wonder?”

 

Still kneeling, Starsky propped his hands on his hips and glared at Hutch.  “Well, hopefully you’re planning on doing something about that.  Soon.”  If Hutch piked out at this point, Starsky would be forced to first jerk off, and then kill him. Slowly.  Death by a million paper cuts not only sounded good, it would even be possible right now.

 

Hutch threw himself on his back and used his foot to shove the chair out of the way.  “Well, then, get your ass over here and sit on my face.”

 

“Oh, you sweet talker, you,” said Starsky, but he scrambled into position, his stomach pressed into Hutch’s.  With his elbows on either side of Hutch’s hips, he eyed his partner’s crotch.  Flushed, engorged flesh and damp blond curls, there was no doubt he was eager for this.  Still, Starsky had to try, one last time.  “We’re dead men if we get caught doing this.”

 

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s cock in his fist and settled his lips around the head.  “Oo th’fuh cahs?” he said, sending torturous vibrations throughout Starsky’s body.

 

Who the fuck cares?  Certainly not Starsky.  Tossing aside the last shreds of his common sense, he applied his mouth and hands to Hutch.  Starsky slid his fingers down behind Hutch’s balls and into the hot tight crack behind.  Hutch was sweating, his skin slick.  They’d done this before, several times, and yet Starsky had never been this aroused by it.  Despite committing to this act full throttle, he couldn’t help keeping one ear was cocked for the smallest sound from the hall outside.  Each innocent creak of the building sent electric shocks through his system.

 

Public sex had never been his thing, and there were more comfortable places to do it than on the cold tiled floor of the Interrogation Room. Then again, Hutch was getting the worst of it, and if he wasn’t complaining...  As Starsky tried to get his tongue around to that sensitive spot just behind the head of Hutch’s cock, he began to consider where else in the building they could have sex.  The supply closet would be an obvious choice.  The computer room was always empty after six.  The garage.  The locker room.  Dobey’s office?  Nah.

 

Although...

 

Right then Hutch grabbed his ass again.  Starsky almost choked himself.  Pulling free of Hutch’s cock, he glared over his shoulder.  “Quit it!”

 

He couldn’t see Hutch’s face, but he felt a silent quiver of laughter in the body beneath him.  Hutch released his cock and for a single, appalled moment Starsky thought he was going to stop what he was doing.  But instead, Hutch drew him deeper into his mouth and seized his rear in both hands, massaging him firmly.

 

With a groan, Starsky buried his face in Hutch’s crotch.  He had Hutch’s hair up his nose and Hutch’s rigid cock was pressed against his cheek.  Starsky’s hips began to pump, independent of his will.  He reached up and grasped Hutch with all the fervor of a drowning man, and felt him throb under his hand.

 

Somehow managing to collect himself, Starsky raised his head and fastened his mouth back around Hutch just as...

 

So good...

 

Mustn’t...

 

Oh, help...

 

It took every bit of willpower Starsky had to swallow and not bite down.  Because the last thing he’d ever want to do was hurt Hutch, but oh God, somehow in the coming and going it all had a kind of symmetry that he knew Hutch would appreciate if only he could remember to tell him after it was all over.

 

And then he didn’t think about much of anything for awhile.

 

When he came back to himself he was lying across Hutch, staring at his damply deflating... penis.  Starsky paused, a new thought occurring to him.

 

“Hey, Hutch?”

 

“Mmm?” came the response from somewhere near his nether regions.

 

Starsky rolled off of Hutch.  “How come in the magazines like Ahoy!, they never use the word penis?”

 

Hutch’s eyes were closed, and he looked as if he never wanted to move again.  Starsky had a brief image of the cleaning staff breaking into the room, and loading him up, bare-assed, to haul him down to the morgue.  But then Hutch said, “It’s not very romantic, is it?’

 

“And cock is?”  Starsky climbed unsteadily to his feet and began trying to pull his pants back up.  His ass cheeks were sore, and he wondered if tomorrow he’d find ten little round bruises in the shape of Hutch’s fingers back there.

 

“Sexier, anyway.”  Hutch rolled over on his side and reached for his pants.  His shirt had ridden up his chest, and most of the buttons had come undone.  His hair was standing on end, and he’d acquired a full-body blush.  He was so red and blotchy he almost looked sunburned. But definitely, thoroughly ravished.

 

Starsky found that funny, considering that it was Hutch who’d been doing the lion’s share of the ravishing this time.  He supposed it was that fair Nordic complexion of his.  He just couldn’t hide a thing.  Anyone they ran into tonight would be wondering who the lucky girl had been.

 

Starsky chuckled to himself.

 

Hutch looked up at him.  “What?”  He was trying to work his boxers up over his hips, still flat on his back on the floor.

 

Starsky pulled his zipper up half way and left the button of his jeans undone.  He hissed quietly as he squatted down next to Hutch, the harsh fabric of his jeans chafing tender portions of his anatomy.  He started to straighten Hutch’s shirt and then paused.  “Uh, you lost some buttons here.”

 

“Damn.”  Hutch pulled his knees up and finally got his boxers back in place.

 

While Hutch struggled with his cords, Starsky examined him at leisure, feeling a warm rush of affection.  “I’m glad you don’t have tits like Frankenstein’s bolts.”

 

Hutch scowled at him.  “I don’t have tits at all.”

 

Starsky’s hand found what he was looking for inside of Hutch’s shirt.  “Well, whatever you call these then.”

 

“I call them nipples, like everyone else does.”  With an emphatic yank, Hutch pulled his cords up the rest of the way and sat up.  He began tucking his shirt into his pants.

 

“You know, nipple’s about as romantic a word as penis.  It sounds like something you find on a baby’s bottle.”  Before Hutch could respond, Starsky continued, “Anyway, yours are more like little pink pencil erasers.”

 

“So what you’re trying to say is, every time you look at me you think of office supplies?”  Hutch stood up and looked down at Starsky.  “Well, that’s just great, because you’re going to be putting every last one of these receipts back in order now.  By yourself.  I hope you get a real charge out of it.”

 

Starsky overbalanced, landing on his much abused rear end, for at least the third time that evening.

 

“You’re not gonna leave me here?” protested Starsky, aghast.  Hutch wouldn’t just blow him off, would he?  Except... he already had, kind of.  Well, he’d blown him, anyway.  And gotten blown. So he shouldn’t be holding any kind of grudge over what had really just been an unfortunate accident.

 

Starsky tried to organize a coherent protest, something along the lines of how they certainly couldn’t give these receipts to Dobey now, not after they’d fornicated all over them. But then Hutch snagged the yellow pencil off the table behind him, and shook it at him.