WARNING: The Starsky and Hutch fan fiction of Alexis Rogers is homoerotic in nature and theme, and often contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between two or more men. If this adult content offends you, please go play some place else. If you are under the age of consent where you live, please go away. If you don't like the laws where you live, change them. Remember, one can make a difference.
RATING: This story carries the slash rating of "G" as it only presents the concept of a homosexual relationship. This story also carries a high sap continue, not my usual style. This story doesn't appear in print anywhere except in "The Collected Starsky & Hutch Stories of Alexis Rogers".
DISCLAIMERS: This story exists solely for the enjoyment of those of us who care, and is not intended to infringe on any copyright or other legality of "Starsky and Hutch", Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg, David Soul, Paul Michael Glaser, William Blinn, Michael Fisher or anydamnbody else that I might have overlooked. No money has been made from the story nor is there likely to be.
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I Don't Take Sugar in my Songs
The melancholy of an E sharp resounded in the empty room as Hutch idly plunked the piano keys. "Goddamn thing's flat," he grumbled. "Whole damn place's outta tune."
He stood over the keyboard, his fingers automatically fingering standard practice chords. The solemn notes of a Doric chord reverberated through the room and through his mind, stating his mood.
He roamed the apartment, twirling the plants, removing a dead leaf from the white African violet, lovingly caressing the Mexican pottery. "Oh shit, Hutchinson, everything in this place reminds you of him. Why don't you go open the closet and stare at his clothes -- that'll make you feel really terrific."
He picked up the newest book club edition, opened it, glanced over the first page, tossed it at the coffee table, watched it slide to the floor. Of all the girls for Starsky to take out, why did it have to be that blonde meter maid ... ah ... ah ... ah ... O'Riley? It was bad enough that he stomped out of here mad, but O'Riley. "That's hitting below the belt, partner."
Hutch opened a can of beer, lit a cigarette, and returned to the piano. Maybe he could lose himself in his music. Just don't seem to have time for myself these days. I'm always with you. We work together, play together, sleep together. Maybe that's the problem. We don't have any space. Hutch glanced at the two guitars leaning against the wall and sighed. It's been a long time since we picked them up and played together. He forced his hands to strike the notes on the keyboard, choosing Brahms, trying to calm his jangled nerves.
He slammed his fists on the keys, which sloshed beer on the Croce sheet music that was piled on the piano. "He'll kill me...aw shit, what do I care?"
He turned around on the piano bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his back resting against the keyboard, a beer in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. He watched the smoke curl slowly toward the ceiling. Of course I care. Wish I didn't. Christ, Starsk, you sure fucked up my life. You touched me like no other person I've ever known; you taught me to love you, to want you, to need you. But goddamnit, you push buttons better than Vanessa.
Oh God! Vanessa!
Vanessa lying dead on my floor, shot with my gun. And partner, you were there, you knew what to do. A Hutch without a Starsky is like a Romeo without a Juliet.
He laughed harshly. Lovers. Lovers who could not love. Lovers who preferred death to life without each other.
In an effort to push the agonizing pain from his mind, he shoved the sheaf of music off the piano and watched it flutter to the floor. A piece of yellowed, stained music paper floated belatedly to join the others. Hutch carefully lifted the page from the floor, reading the words, remembering the feelings, hearing the guitar chords in his mind.
You smiled that misty
way and something in me said
'Remember the last time. Don't fall in love.'
An unsummoned smile touched his lips. I remember when I was writing this. You slipped your arms around my waist, nuzzled the back of my neck before you pulled me to the floor and made love to me. And I never finished the song.
Oh Starsky -- David Michael -- you've saved my life more than once, in more ways than one. The mist of memory slowly lifted, exposing the horror and the pain and the happiness of the first time Starsky had made love to him. His relationship with Vanessa had been deteriorating as they spent all their time fighting. The emotional strain had left him exhausted. Starsky had had all he was going to take. That night Starsky had dropped him at the apartment building. His final words had been: "Don't come back to me until you get your personal problems solved. I'm not gonna get myself shot because your marriage is all fucked up."
The words had slammed him hard. His partner, his best friend, was throwing him out just like that. He needed a friend to stand by him, not tell him to take a hike. Tears stung behind his eyelids as he watched the Torino squeal away. They had been too much to each other for too long to throw it all away, but Starsky had issued an ultimatum.
Oh God, I'm tired. Hutch stood on the sidewalk until the car disappeared and he could control the overwhelming urge to cry. The walk up the one flight of stairs was the longest journey he had ever taken. A walk that should have led to another in a series of fights with his wife, a lady with too much beauty and too little love. Love. Ha. Just a fuckin' fairy tale.
But the apartment had been empty, the deadly silence closing around him like a shroud. There were no pictures on the wall, no drapes on the windows. Nothing. Only a single sheet of paper that contained words he did not remember. Van was gone. Starsky was gone. There was nothing. She had taken part of his life with her, Starsky had the other part of him. She wanted more from him than he had been able to give.
Again the harsh laughter surfaced. "Well, babe, you sure as hell didn't find it." Her dead body floated up to haunt him.
But Starsky had been there to put the pieces back together. He could not even remember what the note said. Starsky had burned it. Then the man had led him down the stairs and into a whole new life. I was so ready for you -- for us. I love you.
You came to me that night and held me while I cried. I needed you, but I never knew how much you needed me until I felt you against me. The feel of your lips pressed against mine, your hands trailing fire everywhere they touched, your body taking mine, healing all the wounds that Vanessa had opened.
Aw Starsk, it was so sudden and so good. Neither of us knew how to handle it...but we learned, babe, we learned.
He tossed the music on top of the piano and stalked to the kitchen for another beer. "And, goddamnit, we learned how to fight...how to hurt each other."
The walls repeated the words as the sound of Starsky slamming the door mingled with his screamed: "Motherfuckin' cocksucker!"
Hutch tried to stop the memory, but the pain was too fresh, too deep. Starsky's words came flying at him from inside his head. "Can't you ever clean up a mess?" The irritation was strong, harsh, cutting.
"Sorry, babe. I was repotting my violets. It's messy. In a minute, huh?"
Starsky stormed around the small apartment, ranting and raving. He laid his hands on the brass footboard of the bed and stared at the pile of clothes on it. "Goddamn it, Hutch, we do have a closet. Why don't you ever hang up your clothes?"
Anger rose in him. All Hutch wanted was to finish the gardening and relax. But Starsky seemed determined to start a fight. "I'll get to it in a minute."
"Oh stuff it." Hutch watched as his partner grabbed clean clothes from the closet and disappeared into the bathroom.
Hutch selected a cold beer with great care and lit a cigarette before flopping down in Starsky's cane chair. What gives with you? I can't remember you being this ticked off in a long time, especially at me.
He watched the smoke of two cigarettes before Starsky reappeared. "Where the hell are you going?"
Fire leaped from the sapphire eyes. "Go fuck yourself! I'm a big boy and I'll go anywhere I please. Anytime I feel like it."
Hutch was on his feet, grabbing for Starsky. "I just asked a simple question. I thought we were going to spend the evening together."
"I just don't like having to account to you for my every minute. Maybe my moving in with you wasn't a very good idea after all." He paused, then added hatefully, "I'm going out and if you don't like it...tough."
Hutch lifted his hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."
Starsky stared at him, cutting him in half. The words were delivered with definite intentions. "I've got a date with Dee O'Riley..." He left the words hanging.
Hutch glared at his partner, silence solidifying between them.
Starsky gleamed in triumph. "That's right, babe, O'Riley." Starsky turned, opened the door, slammed it in Hutch's face.
Hutch's words echoed through the room. "Goddamn motherfuckin' cocksucker."
It was long minutes before the anger turned to pain and then drained from his body leaving depression. The sounds of the piano transcribed his feelings.
This goddamn place...if it wasn't so small...if we had more room to spread out, you wouldn't have to get so upset about the way I am. Hell, you knew I was a slob when you moved in.
Oh shit, Starsky, you're right. I should have picked up that stuff when you asked me to, but damnit, it's my house and they're my plants. Shit, I don't complain about your damn pottery sitting on my piano, jumping up and down when I try to play. At least not very often.
Dumb. So damn dumb.
And then you had to make that crack about my clothes on the bed. You could have just tossed them off if you wanted to lay down. We could have made love on top of them or on the floor or in the shower. Oh, babe, where are you? Please come home.
Instead of making love, making each other happy, we hurt each other. Why? Don't you love me anymore? Don't you want me anymore? No. I just can't believe that. Is it me? You said I couldn't handle a lasting relationship. Hell, you even dragged Van into it. You said it was my fault the marriage didn't work.
You're wrong. That was different. Van and I began to destroy each other from the start. We're not like that. I can tell the difference. Why can't you? We may have fallen into this by accident, but, babe, we fell in love and that's what this is all about.
And goddamnit, love means giving...and I'm not much of a giver, am I, Starsk? I take. And that means you have to put up with everything I throw at you. And you do take it, don't you? And then you stand up for me, defend me, in spite of everything I do. Why Starsk? He sighed and let the warm feeling flow through him. We both know why.
His fingers ran lightly over the piano keys, the notes light and melodic. He lit another cigarette and picked up a pencil.
The smile refused to be banished. It played around the corner of his mouth. His muscles relaxed, his mind functioned. Everything's better since you came. I can't be alone again. I used to be gone for days at a time. This was only a place where I changed my clothes. Now it's a home. I never knew the meaning of that word before. Maybe we should have a home -- one of our own.
Time passed around him as the music flowed from his fingers, the words from his heart. The ashtray was overflowing. A pyramid of beer cans stood atop the piano. He jumped when the door squeaked. Without looking up, "You back?"
He met the dark blue eyes and matched the shy smile.
Starsky shrugged. "I live here, remember?"
Hutch lit a cigarette and watched Starsky wrinkle his nose in disgust. At least there was going to be a lecture. This time. Through the smoke, "Well?"
"Did you take what'shername out?"
"Yeah." The reply came from the back shelf of the refrigerator. A small explosion as a pop top opened.
Starsky drank from the can. Grinned. "Well, what?"
Before Hutch could get up from the piano, Starsky laid his hand on his shoulder, caressing. Hutch pushed, "I wanna know what happened." Please don't tell me.
Starsky's hand tickled the back of his neck. "Nothing happened. I took a lady to dinner. Then we went to a movie and then I took her home. Then I came home."
The silence was deafening.
Starsky leaned over to peer at the music. "What's this?"
"Nothing." Throwing his hands across it.
Starsky picked up the paper and read the words. Then read them again. "'I Don't Take Sugar in My Songs?'"
Hutch grabbed for the music, but Starsky whipped around holding it clutched tightly. Starsky's eyes rested on the paper, reading the words of the second verse in a muted whisper. "Did you write this for me?"
"No." A heartbeat. "For us."
"Sing it for me." Quiet command.
Hutch stood, stretched. He took the paper from Starsky, tossed it on the piano. He walked to the kitchen, stared at the wall, removed the last two beers from the refrigerator, tossed one to his partner.
He picked up his guitar and dropped into a chair. He sipped his beer. He tuned the instrument. He stopped, stared at Starsky. "You don't really want to hear this."
The man did not reply. He moved to sit at Hutch's feet, eyes fixed on his lover, hand resting on Hutch's knee.
Hutch drank from the love that flowed from dark sapphire eyes.
A hand squeezed his knee as he strummed the last chord. "Again."
There was no denying this man anything he wanted.
After the fourth time, Hutch set the guitar aside and flexed his fingers. Then he took Starsky's hand in his. "All I can give you is everything I am. Is it enough?"
Starsky's hand tightened its grip. Arms snaked around him, pulling him into a crushing embrace and onto the floor. Warm lips closed over his.
This song's never gonna be finished. Neither are we. I love you.