This story takes place immediately after the episode, Pariah. That's the episode that starts with Hutch tricking Starsky into drinking one of his morning health drink, made with goat's milk, desiccated liver, blackstrap molasses, trace minerals and other treats. Comments on this story can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org
Goat's Milk Delux
Hutch sighed and looked at the two leggy ladies as they waved goodbye at the airport. Once they were out of sight, Starsky pulled into traffic, and Hutch sat back and frowned.
"Too bad the girls got called in at the last minute," Starsky said, as he eased their way onto the highway.
"Too bad is right," Hutch complained.
"Hey, these things happen, partner," Starsky said cheerfully. "Granted, we're not often at the losing end, but how many dates have we had to break thanks to our dear Captain Dobey and the rising crime rate?"
"You're right. But I was kind of looking forward to more than a day of miniature golf, bumper cars, and daiquiris," Hutch admitted.
Starsky glanced over at him slyly. "Oh, yeah? Thought you were gonna get lucky again?"
Hutch shrugged. "Thought we both would. The girls are fun, and they like us. And after the whole thing with Prudholm, well, it would've been a nice way to relieve the pressure." He looked over at Starsky who was paying close attention to his driving. "I would've thought you'd have been more disappointed than I am, Starsk. I've scored lately. You left that last party early—alone—and ever since—"
"Yeah, I hear ya," Starsky said, cutting him off, obviously not needing any more reminders about the ugly experience with Prudholm and the death of Lonnie Craig.
Hutch looked at his partner. It had been a long time since Starsky scored with a lady. For that matter, it had been a long time since he and Hutch . . .
"Well, not only did the ladies leave us high and dry," Starsky said amiably, "but they also cut out just before dinner time. I'm starved. How about you?"
Hutch tried to hide his smile. "Great idea, buddy. Why don't you run us back to Venice, and I'll whip up a fresh batch of my goat's milks delux. It'll make a new man out of you."
Starsky turned to him, horrified. "Oh, no you don't! You conned me into doing that once. If you think I'd fall for that line again about my performance— That was a low blow, Hutch. Hittin' a man in his insecurities like that. That stuff was horrible!"
Hutch couldn't disguise his smirk anymore. "You've swallowed worse."
"Like hell I have, I—" As though he finally heard the innuendo in Hutch's voice, Starsky glanced over, as if to confirm his suspicions.
Hutch was smiling and giving Starsky a look only his partner could interpret. "You've swallowed worse," Hutch repeated, "and so have I. Maybe not lately . . . but I'd have thought you'd remember how it tasted. I'd say that was worse—"
"Cut it out, Hutch!" Starsky snapped, eyes rigidly forward. He shifted in the seat as if suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm drivin' for cryin' out loud. You want us to have an accident?"
"In the car?" Hutch said teasingly. He knew how susceptible Starsky was to the slightest sexual innuendo. "I don't know. Some kind of accidents can be . . . fun. Oh, but I know how you are about your precious seats. So, you're right. Can't have any 'accidents' in the Torino. Too bad we're not in my car."
"I mean it, Hutch, cut it out!" Starsky growled, his voice taking on a tone Hutch knew only too well. Starsky shifted again. "Stop changin' the subject. I need food, real food, to fuel this finely-tuned machine. Where ya wanna eat?" Starsky wouldn't look at him as he drove on.
Hutch thought about it, not willing to give up the game. He remembered not too long ago dumping an oozing chili dog in the trash because he could hardly bear the sight of it. He'd eaten his own hot dog ungarnished. He really owed Starsky for that chili dog—"Why don't you hit Henry's? It's near my place. We can grab something quick, then head home."
Starsky took a deep breath as if he were letting go of some tension. "Henry's? The All-Night Chili Dog Emporium?" He seemed to grow suspicious. "You never want to eat there." He glanced over, narrowing his eyes. "What have you got up your sleeve?"
"I figure I owe it to you," Hutch said innocently. "After dumping your dog in the trash a few weeks ago, the least I can do is buy you a replacement. Especially after . . . the goat's milk . . . Conning you into . . . swallowing it. All of it."
He watched Starsky blink and refocus on the road.
"My treat, partner," Hutch said. "Besides. For some reason . . . I've got this sudden urge for that famous nine-inch, warm, juicy, plump hotdog you keep telling me about."
Starsky swallowed and clenched his jaw. Glancing over quickly, then returning his gaze to the road, he said quietly, "Okay. That sounds fine, Hutch. But maybe I'd better warn you—not everyone can eat those special dogs. For some people—well, it can just be too much to handle."
"Sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one," Hutch murmured.
Starsky made it there in record time. It was late enough that he was able to find a dark slot to park the Torino in. Henry's lot never did have the best lighting.
Hutch insisted on buying the dogs himself, and promised Starsky he'd make sure Starsky's dog was just the way he wanted it. He had to laugh when he left the car. Starsky could barely answer him. Though he managed to call after Hutch to get some ice cream, too. Ice cream? After chilidogs? Only his partner.
Hutch watched Starsky's eyes glitter as he returned with the Styrofoam containers. Starsky quickly peered into his to confirm that Hutch hadn't sprung yet another culinary health-food surprise.
"Oh, man, this is beautiful!" Starsky said in awe as he surveyed the massive dog, nearly buried under its mound of pickles, onions, relish, chili, and cheese. "And I'm a starving man!" He looked over as Hutch surveyed his own spare meal. Starsky seemed appalled. "That's all you got? One sad-lookin' solitary naked hot dog?"
"Oh, this isn't just a hot dog," Hutch assured him. "This, my friend, is one of Henry's all-beef, special, high-protein, cooked-to-perfection hot dogs. All nine inches of it. It's kosher, too." He looked at it appraisingly. "I don't know, Starsk. I might not be man enough to handle all that meat."
Starsky sat against the Torino's door, one leg drawn up on the bench seat. His eyes had that smoky look that Hutch loved to see. "That'll be the day," Starsky said purposefully. "Can't believe you only ordered that single, sad-lookin' thing. I know you, Hutch. You're gonna inhale that dog before I get two bites into this and start climbin' all over me for some of mine."
Hutch smiled, realizing he'd been found out. "I can't help it, Starsk. Somehow, your food always tastes better. Specially after you've had your mouth on it."
Starsky returned the smile, able to enjoy the play now that he wasn't driving anymore. "Well, get started, boy. If you can handle it, I just might let you have some."
Hutch licked his lips and brought the hot dog to his mouth. He started to take a bite when Starsky stopped him.
"Not that way. You'll get too much bun. It's the meat you want." Starsky poked the end of Hutch's dog nearest him until more of it slid through the bun, toward Hutch's lips. "That's better. That's a man's mouthful. Go on, babe. Let me see you handle it."
Oh, yes, Hutch thought. It was always much better when they both played. He turned his head to the side and slowly took three inches of the dog into his mouth, closing his lips around it. Keeping his gaze locked on Starsky's, he ran his tongue over the hot dog, then pulled it out slightly only to slide more of it in.
Starsky's eyes dilated. "Don't play with your food, boy. Go on. Bite that thing. Eat it like a man."
Hutch did, carefully, deliberately, biting off a succulent hunk of the meat, then chewed it slowly, savoring it like the finest steak. He swallowed it then said, "You're right, Starsk. These are damned good dogs."
Starsky's mouth was partially opened, and Hutch thought he might be panting a little. The car was too dark for him to see Starsky's crotch, but he knew his partner would throw a rod at the slightest provocation.
And Hutch himself was simmering, half-hard. He wanted to adjust himself, but didn't dare move things to that level yet.
Starsky surprised him by shaking his head. "Yeah, the dogs are good, but plain like that—you're missing the best part. It needs—more." He glanced down into his Styrofoam container and found the plastic fork, knife and spoon. Staring at his own gastronomic disaster, he carefully spooned up a small portion. "But your taste buds, Hutch, why, they're practically virgins to real eatin'. They need more adventure. More excitement. More than just plain meat. They need a walk on the wild side." He held up the spoon. "This is just some relish, Hutch. Some good, kosher, dill pickle relish. Like my mother used to make in the old country."
"Starsky, Brooklyn is not the old country, and I know your mother. She buys her relish from the corner deli—"
"Details, details." Starsky carefully opened Hutch's bun, pushed the dog forward some more, and dabbed the relish on the exposed meat as thoughtfully as if he were spreading beluga caviar on a cracker. "Come on, Hutch. Those poor virgin taste buds of yours need some excitement, at least once."
"Starsky—" Hutch said admonishingly. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going.
"I drank the goat's milk," Starsky reminded him, in a no-nonsense tone. "I swallowed it all. Just like you wanted."
Point. Hutch nodded, and tentatively wrapped his mouth around the hotdog and relish. He bit down and chewed. The sharp sweet tang of the pickles combined with the savory meat burst into his mouth, making him salivate heavily. He made a small sound of agreement.
"It's good isn't it?" Starsky murmured seductively. "Go on, admit it. Don't be a little scaredy virgin afraid to say that it was good the first time."
Hutch nearly coughed out the food with laughter then nearly inhaled it trying to prevent himself from losing it.
Starsky, helpfully, held a napkin up to his lips. "Easy. Easy, boy. Go on, swallow it. There's more where that came from."
Hutch barely managed to swallow before gasping out, "That's what I'm afraid of."
"You started it," Starsky reminded him. He scooped up another portion of glop on the spoon. "The pickles are one thing. But you haven't lived till you've tried these sweet, raw onions on a dog." He pushed more of the dog out of the bun and placed the onions on it carefully. "Go on."
Hutch suddenly realized he'd lost complete control of this scenario. His cock came up harder. Staring at Starsky, he willingly bit into the food. The strong pungent onion overwhelmed his mouth, but the meat quickly tempered it as he chewed. He found he really enjoyed it and chewed for along time. He grunted, letting Starsky know he was pleased.
"Good. Real good. That's my boy." Starsky dug for a bigger spoonful.
Hutch knew what was coming next. He tried to figure out how things had gotten so out of hand so quickly. "Wait a minute, Starsk. Pickles and onions are one thing, those are . . . almost natural foods . . . but chili and cheese and all that stuff together—"
Starsky fixed him with a hard stare. "Goat's. Milk. Stuff that comes out of the tits of a goat. Something only baby goats should have to drink. Have you ever even smelled a goat, nature boy? And as if the milk wasn't bad enough, you actually put liver in it. Liver! Not decent chopped chicken livers like my mom made, but dried up old desiccated livers. That's really disgusting, Hutch. It makes me wonder about you. A man who'll drink something like that every day, a man like that should be willing to put anything in his mouth, swallow anything at all. You hear me, Hutch? Anything."
Starsky ladled the gooey concoction on the dog where it sat inside the bun. He spread it evenly, carefully, as if it were the finest pate de fois gras.
"Now you get to eat the bun, too," Starsky said, moving closer to him on the seat. "The bun, the dog, some pickles, some onions, a little cheese, and a good helping of the best chili in LA. This is gonna be like takin' those virgin taste buds of yours and puttin' them on a strippers runway. They're gonna be dancing around, and slidin' up and down the poles real sexy, and losing any of those silly little inhibitions they've got left."
Hutch felt heat in his face, knew Starsky could see it. "Starsk . . . I don't know . . . I d-d-don't know about this . . . "
Starsky pushed the dog closer to Hutch's mouth. Hutch looked down at it, tentatively opening his mouth. If he were careful, he ought to be able to get more bread—
"You got a mouth big enough to swallow a man's fist," Starsky said dangerously. "You can handle more than that. Lots more. And I know it." He took hold of the end of the dog and held it steady.
Hutch took a deep breath, and the strong aroma of the dog, the onions, and the chili, filled his senses. He let Starsky feed it to him. He closed his eyes as he felt the heavy portion of hot dog, bun, chili and all, fill his mouth almost to capacity. He bit down, nearly snagging Starsky's fingertip, but that only made his partner laugh. Feeling as if his cheeks were as full as a hamster's, he chewed hard, wanting to get this over with. The mélange of tastes assaulted him. First the bland bread with its soft, chewy texture, and then the burst of succulent meat. The cheese slipped over his tongue, coating it as he crunched on the relish and pickles. The combination of the two surprised him. And then the chili hit strong. Sharp, biting, savory, it filled his mouth and put it on overload. He actually moaned, and started chewing faster. The flavors merged, blended, turned into something else, something different, sweet and bitter, sharp and mild, textures both bland and vibrant. The heat in his mouth flowed over his tongue, then tempered and suddenly . . . felt good.
He opened his eyes.
Starsky was grinning at him, as he finally took a bite of his own dog and chewed. Without asking, Starsky brought his chili dog up and brought it to Hutch's mouth, demanding that he eat more of it. Hutch wanted to resist, wanted to act like he hated it, but he was too hungry, and his mouth wanted more. He took a huge bite, using his tongue to capture a clump of chili at the corner of his mouth, and Starsky chuckled low as he continued to eat.
They polished off both dogs quickly, together.
"Starsky, you bastard," Hutch swore half-heartedly. "My mouth's on fire."
"And that ain't all," Starsky said knowingly, digging in the bag that held the ice cream cups. "That's okay, Starsky knows what to do." He popped the top off one of the small vanilla ice-cream cups and took the little flat wooden spoon that came with it, and drew out a clump of the softly melting stuff. "Open."
Hutch complied like a well-trained dog. The sweet, cold vanilla ice cream put out the fire in his mouth instantly. He savored it, loving the contrast in flavors. It was pure pleasure. Starsky took a spoonful himself, then fed another one to Hutch. Hutch's mouth was returning to normal, so he made a display of sucking on the little spoon, hanging onto it with his teeth, making Starsky pull it free.
Chuckling, Starsky dipped his finger in the nearly empty cup and rubbed some of the melted ice cream over Hutch's upper lip. Hutch released the spoon in favor of Starsky's finger, sucking it into his mouth, running his tongue over it, forgetting all about word play and subtlety.
"Still hungry, baby?" Starsky murmured throatily. He'd dipped up another finger-full of the cold, nearly liquid confection. Hutch abandoned the first finger for the new one, sucking it in deep, letting Starsky push it in and out of his mouth gently.
Then pulling away, Hutch whispered, "I'm starved. Thirsty, too."
Without taking his eyes from Hutch's, Starsky reached for one of the bottles of soda Hutch had brought for them to share. It was root beer, Starsky's favorite. Starsky twisted off the top and fed the bottle to Hutch.
Hutch closed his eyes as his mouth surrounded the bottle top and he sucked the cloying sweet cold brew in, filling his mouth with flavor and carbonation. Starsky watched his every motion, the way his mouth wrapped around the bottle, the way he swallowed, the tilt of his head.
Finally, Starsky took the bottle back and took his share, and Hutch found himself just as mesmerized with the Starsky's mouth, his throat.
Finally, Starsky pulled the empty bottle from his mouth and dropped it in the bag with the other ice cream cup. Drawing his sleeve across his mouth, he said, "Well . . . if you're still hungry, we still have some ice cream."
"Oh, yeah?" Hutch said, quickly running out of patience. He took a quick glance around the dimly lit lot. Starsky, as he expected, had picked the perfect spot, next to a brick wall, and right behind the carry-out. They could possibly get caught by Henry's cook as he brought the trash out, but otherwise, they shouldn't be seen.
He reached into the bag and grabbed the last ice-cream cup and pulled the top off. "I'd love some more . . . cream. In fact, I'm dying for some." He tipped the little cup back and forth, watching the liquid cream slosh around the still frozen stuff in the center.
"Hey, Hutch, watch that!" Starsky warned.
"I know, I know," Hutch said, wearily. "The seats!" Without another thought, Hutch reached with his free hand and grabbed the tab of Starsky's zipper and tugged it down.
"Hutch!" Starsky gasped, as if it had never occurred to him that's where they were heading.
"I told you, I'm starving. For meat. You gonna show me what you've got, stud, or you gonna make me fight for it?"
Starsky started to chuckle as he shifted in the seat and reached for his own fly. "That's what happens when you let all those little virgin taste buds find out what the big city is like. They just lose all control—" He wrestled the taut zipper down until Hutch could see the crotch of the indecently tiny briefs Starsky always wore. This pair was red. Of course.
Undoubtedly, not unlike the color of Hutch's own face. "Damn you," Hutch growled, and boldly reached into Starsky's pants, latched onto his straining erection, and pulled it into the open. He gripped it in his fist, low, around the base.
"Ah, jeezus, Hutch," Starsky hissed, as if he'd never imagined such a thing, as if he thought Hutch had been leading him on all along.
Which, Hutch had to admit, he sometimes did just for the fun of it. But not tonight. He wasn't kidding. He was starving. For the kind of food only Starsky could feed him.
He licked his lips. "Looks too hot for me to handle, Starsk. Better cool this off." And without warning, he tipped the ice cream cup over the heavy crown of Starsky's swollen cock and watched the melted cream flow over the dark glans, down the shaft, and over his own hand.
Starsky lurched in the seat, gripping the back of the bench and the steering wheel. "Holy shit, Hutch, that's fuckin' cold!"
Hutch looked at him, grinning. "And after the ice cream and that soda, so is my mouth, lover." He bent over and ran his chilled tongue over Starsky's crown, lapping up the cream, chasing after it everywhere it went. He could feel Starsky's whole body go bow-string tight as he licked and lapped and tasted every inch of Starsky's amazing length. In contrast to the cool temperature of Hutch's tongue and mouth, Starsky's rod was blazing with heat, swollen and throbbing. Hutch's own organ pulsed in sympathy. He thought of drawing it out just for his own comfort but didn't want to stop what he was doing.
"Oh, God, Hutch!" Starsky gasped, lurching back in the seat. It was a good thing it was a balmy night or he would've cracked his head on the driver's side window.
Hutch licked faster, wanting to both clean all the sticky sweetness of Starsky's cock and excite him to a frenzy at the same time.
Starsky started to tremble, but kept gripping the seat and the steering wheel as if hanging on for dear life. "Hutch . . . maybe we shouldn't . . . we could get caught . . . "
Hutch knew damned well that was half the fun of it. He got tired of teasing and fed the sweet-tasting cock into his mouth, sucking on the head hard.
Starsky growled and thrust his hips. "Oh, damn, baby, that's it! Take it. You take it so good."
The praise went right to Hutch's balls and his cock decided to remind him that it was finally in pain. He shifted, but he couldn't reach for himself while he was holding the ice cream and Starsky's cock.
That's what partners are for. Somehow, Starsky realized Hutch's predicament, and leaned forward to unzip his cords. He slid his slender hand into Hutch's pants until he'd uncovered Hutch's cock and drew it out carefully.
Hutch gasped and in gratitude took half Starsky's cock in his mouth.
Starsky moaned softly, a sound that Hutch loved to hear. He'd been with Starsky when they'd shared a woman, and at other times when, as a foursome, they hit the sheets together. And Hutch knew that particular sound was for him alone. He'd never heard any woman pull that tone from Starsky.
Hutch suddenly realized Starsky had taken the ice cream cup from him just before he felt something wet and cold wrap around his own cock. He nearly jumped, but Starsky's hand suddenly clamped onto the back of his neck keeping him in place.
"I've got you now, baby blue," Starsky murmured in his ear. "You're not goin' anywhere. You like it cold, huh?"
The chilled ice cream that filled Starsky's hand nearly made Hutch go through the roof. His body shook violently, but Starsky kept a steady hand on him, making sure he didn't lose his focus. He took more of Starsky's cock in his mouth as Starsky used the ice cream to masturbate him.
"That's a real man's mouthful, Hutch, ain't it," Starsky taunted.
Hutch moaned and rubbed his tongue hard against the spot under Starsky's crown.
"Oh, baby," Starsky swore, "you are too damned good at this. Come on, a little more." He squeezed Hutch tight in his fist and stroked him slow as incentive.
Hutch gasped, and inhaled, trying to relax, and took Starsky in deep. Starsky made that sound again, deeper, lower in tone, and it rolled around Hutch's balls till he nearly came. But not yet, not yet. He was too busy feasting on his partner, making him tense and shudder, and thrust in a demanding rhythm.
Starsky had a fistful of Hutch's hair now and was pulling him onto his cock, taking control. Hutch loved it when Starsky got like this, out of control, needing him, his mouth, more than anything in this world. It made him dizzy with excitement. He felt his own hips pumping into Starsky's tight, wicked grip.
Starsky leaned over Hutch's bowed head. "You're so pretty like this, Hutch. With me in your mouth. It makes me so hot I can barely stand it. You made me swallow it this morning, Hutch. Now it's your turn. You're gonna swallow it all, now, aren't you? All of me."
Hutch pulled away instinctively, but Starsky's grip wouldn't let him. He had him imprisoned by the hair and his own cock, trapped in the circle of his passion, and that excited Hutch more than anything they'd ever done so far.
"It's your turn, Hutch. You're gonna swallow me," Starsky demanded now, as insistent as when he'd fed him the hot dog.
It wasn't something they did a lot, swallowing. It wasn't something they usually demanded of each other. But Hutch knew, after this morning, he had it coming. And he knew he really wanted it now, anyway. The resistance was just what Starsky expected, and Hutch knew it would turn him on even more. Starsky loved a good fight in bed.
Before he could think about it another second, he felt Starsky's cock swell, felt his balls tighten up as Starsky gasped, "Take it!"
Too late Hutch remembered how long it had been since Starsky had scored. His mouth filled with a torrent of pent up come, as Starsky kept him pinned in place ruthlessly. He gulped hard, shocked at the bitterness, the texture so foreign to his mouth. But the second he swallowed, he heard Starsky moan again, louder this time, almost loud enough to be heard in the lot.
Hutch realized he was humping mindlessly into Starsky's hand, but it wasn't enough, just not quite enough to get off. And still there was more of Starsky in his mouth. He swallowed and swallowed again, until finally Starsky stopped, and released his head to grasp his chin.
Starsky pulled Hutch's head up and heedless of their public location, kissed Hutch hard on the mouth, his tongue pushing past Hutch's lips until the found the flavor he was looking for on Hutch's tongue. Starsky's own flavor. He shoved at Hutch as they kissed, pushing him back against the passenger door, while his hand never stopped its steady stroke, and his kiss grew more frantic.
Then, just as Hutch grew desperate for air, Starsky pulled back. From somewhere on the dash, he magically produced the cup of melted ice cream. It was just about half full and Starsky poured it over Hutch's cock. The cold did anything but put the fire out and Hutch had to stifle a groan behind his teeth.
"Starsky, please," he implored, not really sure what he was asking for beyond relief, but whatever it was, he needed it now.
Instantly, Starsky leaned over the ice-cream coated cock and took as much of it into his mouth as he could, licking and sucking passionately.
It was too much. Hutch went into overload, buried both hands in Starsky's lush curls and fucked his mouth without thought, without reason. He was working on pure sensation at this point. All he knew was the tightest, hottest, sweetest mouth in the all the world was making his cock insane, and he just couldn't take it anymore. He lurched and came hard.
He expected Starsky to draw back and stroke him to completion as he usually did, but this time Starsky only made that sound again and swallowed around him. He felt like he was turning inside out and nearly blacked out. But then, suddenly, Starsky was beside him, murmuring things he couldn't understand, and pushing the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead. Hutch was gasping desperately for air. He was amazed to find that the world outside the car was still quiet, dimly lit, unpeopled with voyeurs watching his partner sucking his rocks off and sending him to heaven on a rocket ship.
"You okay, partner?" Starsky whispered.
Hutch rolled his tongue around his battered mouth. "If I'm still alive . . . yeah." He looked over at his bedraggled lover. "You?"
Starsky licked his lips and smiled shyly. "Yeah. Goat's milk was worse."
Hutch chuckled weakly. "I . . . I didn't expect you to do that . . . It was beautiful, babe. Just beautiful."
Starsky blinked at him and smiled. "You didn't think I was gonna let you come all over my seats, didja? The ice cream will wash off, but that stuff stains!"
Hutch laughed. Starsky really did hate soapy scenes. "Hey, there's another root beer in the bag."
"Oh, thank God!" Starsky breathed and reached for it. He opened the top then hesitated and thoughtfully offered it to Hutch first.
Hutch shook his head. "Not yet." He moved his tongue around his mouth, still tasting Starsky's unique flavor, and feeling some of the tender places. "I want to keep the taste awhile. Enjoy it."
Starsky actually gasped and looked dismayed. "Jeez, Hutch, you keep talkin' like that you're gonna have me throwin' another rod again." As if that reminded him, he shuffled around in the seat, tucking himself in and zipping up. Then he took a heavy slug of the soda.
"Well, I hope I was good enough for a rematch sometime," Hutch said, making himself sit upright in the car, and rearranging his clothes. He zipped up carefully, his cock still tingling with pleasure. "Say, in about . . . twenty minutes."
Starsky looked at him in dismay.
"I figure that's about how long it's going to take you to get to my place," Hutch reminded him.
"Oh." Starsky smiled wanly.
"I want you in my bed," Hutch murmured. "Gotta make up for that goat's milk, don't I?"
Starsky nodded. "And the chili dog. And the half a sandwich you stole from me Tuesday. And the meal I missed because you insisted we hadda—"
Hutch held up a hand. "Even I don't have that much stamina, partner. But I think I can make you forget all about goat's milk, at least."
"I think I already did that, baby," Starsky said softly, rubbing his thumb across Hutch's lower lip.
"You foolish romantic, you," Hutch chided. "Take us home. And give me that bottle of soda, will ya?"
"Sure," Starsky said, starting the car up, and pulling out of the quiet parking lot. "Uh, hey Hutch—"
Hutch watched the darkened scenery as they drove. He felt impossibly mellow and happy. He hoped Starsky did, too, especially after all the pain he'd been through this last week.
"You got any Alka-Seltzer at your house? I think the combination of chili dogs, ice cream, soda . . . and, uh, you know . . . is givin' me a little heartburn."