Disclaimer: Starsky and Hutch don't belong to me. This is just for fun and nobody is making any money.

Comments on this story can be sent to: jat_sapphire@fan.as


             Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
                 Call her one, me another fly,
            We're tapers too, and at our own cost die....
John Donne, "The Canonization"

                       Actually, watching Hutch sweat was the high point of Starsky's day, though he'd said at Frankie's gym that it wasn't. He'd climbed up to the top shelf of Tallman's steam room half to get a good look at the wiseguy's face, half to let Hutch get a look up the orange towel if he was so inclined. And half to look down at Hutch's damp hair settling against his gleaming skin.

            Hutch would say that was too many halves. Starsky didn't care. When you were nothing but a bug in a toilet bowl, fractions took a back seat to more immediate concerns.

            Jeezus, what a day. What a week. What a life. Start out in the morning with people still treating you like you rose from the dead and end up at the morgue, with stops on the way in a mansion, a motel swimming pool and a porn theater. Around midnight when they were finally on their way home, Starsky was so beat that his sweater dragged down his shoulders and he couldn't keep his hands away from his face--rubbing his eyes, down to his chin and up again.

            Hutch glanced sideways at him, smiling. "Maybe I should drive?" he asked.

            All day he'd been smiling like that. The Hutch house special, sweet as maple syrup, warm as ... Starsky was too tired to think of a comparison, actually. "Maybe you should," he said, and Hutch's fair brows rose in surprise. So Starsky felt he had to grumble, "Don't get used to it," as they got into the Torino.

            Hutch moved the shift, not far enough, and the gears scraped. The car bounced when he braked, which was too often anyway. Starsky grimaced and let his head fall back against the seat. Much more of this and he'd be too pissed off to appreciate being able to watch Hutch in the strobe of the streetlights.

            "I hate this car," Hutch said crossly, braking.

            "I know. The Torino knows. Everybody on the damn street knows, the way you're driving it," Starsky answered.

            "Oh, sit on it," Hutch said, but his lips twitched.

            And the lights did flare in the blond strands that waved a little at the ends--flared to gold and darkened to old oak, again and again, almost hypnotically. Hutch's hands gripped and moved on the wheel, his mouth tightening or curving a little as he checked an intersection or the mirror. They didn't talk. The silence was just fine.

            Hutch got them into the apartment building and Starsky's parking spot. Turned the key. Hesitated.

            "Oh, c'm'on," Starsky said, and opened the door. He didn't need to look to know Hutch was following as he walked away from the car.

            As propositions went, it was nice and efficient.

            He yawned in the elevator, though. Then Hutch yawned. And Starsky yawned again. They began to laugh a little, quietly, and Hutch threw an arm around Starsky's shoulders.

            "I should go home," he said, holding tight.

            "Uh-uh." Starsky shook his head and wrapped an arm around his partner's waist.

            Hutch pulled off his knit cap--Starsky grabbed at it, mock-indignant-- and they darted out of the elevator together, shoving and goofing around. Starsky poked Hutch in the side, where he was ticklish sometimes, and Hutch dodged and almost skipped, which made Starsky chuckle. Then he was dodging himself, neck craned to avoid Hutch's hands grabbing for the curls that must be sticking up every which way on his head by now, even after the haircut that was only a few days old.

            Before they knew it, they were at Starsky's door. He groped under his sweater for the jeans pocket, snaked his hand in, and Hutch leaned against the wall and watched, amused. Starsky bounced a little on his toes, his fingertips just touching the ring, and Hutch showed his teeth, head against the beige fake-cloth wallpaper.

            "O-kay," Starsky said as he fished the damn things out, flipped up the apartment key in what was nearly a bird, and wrenched the lock open, then the knob, shoved the door.


            Inside, the lead shifted almost imperceptibly, as it often did on the job, as it had in the bar where they found and grilled Rolly, or at the Narco stakeout at the motel. Starsky went for the light switch, but Hutch said, "Leave it," walking across the dark but well-known room to the big picture window. This apartment was small but pricey because it was so near the marina; Hutch looked out at the spiky masts of sailboats and wondered for the thousandth time what possessed Starsky to live here, especially since it would take deadly force to get him actually on a boat. He'd probably move soon, though he wasn't talking about it yet.

            The door clicked shut, and the lock snapped into place. Starsky's feet made no sound in the deep shag of the carpet, but Hutch knew how his partner was moving, and was unsurprised to hear the little clatter of keys against the coffee table's glass top. He did almost look, though, at the duller sound of--what?--oh, the holster. Starsk was losing no time. Hutch shucked off his jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the couch. Behind him, Starsky tsk-ed softly, but since he didn't scold in words, Hutch didn't reply.

            Then fingers scrabbled at the edge of his holster-- "Knock it off," said Hutch, his own hands busy on the buckles. But the fingers scratched underneath the leather at his shoulder, and that was an edgy, spiking-nerve kind of feeling. "Starsk!"

            His partner only chuckled, moving just enough to let Hutch peel off the straps and turn from the window.

            What little light there was outside hardly reached the edge of the coffee table, only a weak glow in the blunt greenish edge of the glass. Silhouetted against the night, Starsky seemed taller than he was in the daytime, too big to fit in the car or that hiding place in the bushes at the motel. Hutch was a little spooked and reached for the familiar beard-shadowed cheek. The same as ever, warm and rough.

            Starsky's touch on arm and waist drew them together. The nape of his neck was fuzzy with tiny curls. The dark wells of eyes and mouth made Hutch so thirsty.

            "You look," and Starsky's voice was hardly more than a whisper, a memory, "like--I don't know--the Man in the Moon."

            The near awe in the slow words was sweet to hear, but that mouth could give sweeter things than words, and Hutch moved in to get them. He smiled involuntarily at the first light contact, and Starsky reached up with both hands, framed his head, thumbs at the very corners of Hutch's mouth as if measuring its width.


            Hutch wasn't sure whether that was a request or one word of a sentence lost in the nibbling motion of their kiss, but since he could hardly see Starsky lately without smiling, it hardly mattered. The man felt so good. Looked good ... moved well ... tasted --Jesus.

            Starsky's fingers flexed in Hutch's sides, and he jumped. "Starsk!" Hutch slapped the sweet bastard's ass with both hands, and they were both laughing again.

            "I don't know why I do that." Starsky shook his head.

            "Liar," reaching, this time, for the bulge at Starsky's crotch, invisible but just as heavy and full as he'd known it would be. Hutch stroked up and down beside the fly and found his hand pinned against his own body by the sudden sway of Starsky's hips.


            "Yes?" Those jeans had been tight enough to notice even when he'd first seen Starsky that day. After being dunked in the pool and dried as fast as possible in the laundry room, they had stretched around his hips so firmly that the little dance to get his keys out had been no surprise at all. The only wonder was that the keys hadn't put a hole right through to where neither of them wanted an extra hole.

            Hutch could see in his mind how the zipper glinted at the edge of the denim fly, could feel the slight indentation as the swelling flesh inside pressed against the cloth and unyielding metal.


            "Right here, partner."

            Hard hands pushed Hutch's away, struggled with the button at the waistband; Starsky made a low sound of frustration that sounded like a growl.

            "Need help?"

            "Hutchinson, I swear to God--"

            So Hutch stepped back and pulled off his sweater and t-shirt, then his pants. Felt like he'd been in and out of these clothes a dozen times today. At least this time he didn't need to put the holster on his bare skin.

           < /span>

            Hutch's bare skin was glowing. Well, nearly. As if the light just soaked into him, hardly changing the ivory of his skin, just stored up for times like this when he should be just a shadow, but wasn't. Not at all.

            Starsky had never liked pale guys before, associating them with the bookworms and frail rich kids who'd looked down on him in his old New York days. But here he was in California, where nearly everybody was some shade from tan to black and even the fairest girls' breasts seemed just a little browned, like underdone bread--and there was Hutchinson, a moonbeam glinting through all the bronzed bodies around him.

            Too much now, too ethereal; the sight chilled Starsky. He'd never have the nerve to touch that almost ghostly figure.

            "I need some light, Hutch," he said, and heard his own voice sounding thinner and more uneven than he'd expected.

            "Hey," said Hutch, immediately in comfort mode, "hey." He pulled Starsky into a hug, stroked his back and hair, the big palms soothing, the body against him solid and warm.

            It wasn't really comfort Starsky wanted. He pushed his face into Hutch's neck, but when Hutch kneaded the back of his head, he opened his mouth and sucked that soft skin.

            First Hutch lifted his chin, swallowing, but then said, "Buddy," his voice torn between pleasure and faint rebuke.

            "What? You got more turtlenecks you could wear." And he went back to work, tongue circling.

            "Starsky." More forcefully. Hands on his shoulders. Starsky wrapped his own arms tighter around Hutch and moved to the tender earlobe, giving it a real bath. He liked it himself, and he knew the wet sounds made Hutch almost as crazy as the sensation.

            The fingers gripping his shoulder-bones loosened, and the hands moved lightly down his back; then Hutch drew light tickling circles on Starsky's bare ass, and that shifted the whole thing into higher gear.

            "What d'you want, Starsk?" Hutch was simmering, no doubt about it from that low raspy voice, like a tongue licking all the way down into Starsky's ear, the touch tingling in his spine and his cock. "Hmm? Light, was that it?" Hutch reached between Starsky's thighs--how did he manage that?--and tickled there too, up behind the nuts. "Or how about a bed?"

            Starsky bit a little and let go the earlobe, then took Hutch's mouth and grabbed his ass at the same time. Was there something he'd wanted? Something else than this? The rich cream skin in his hands, the slick, sweet-and-salt mouth--Starsky broke the kiss, and was instantly hungry for that taste again, right back to the Hutch buffet for more. The ultimate Chinese food.

            The floor was right here; the bed seemed far away, but when Starsky began to pull downward, Hutch stood like stone. Pushing into him, lifting one leg and hooking it more securely around the longer, smoother one, had no effect. "C'm'on," and it was too close to a whine, too close to a groan. "Hutch!"

            "Not in the shag," said Hutch, far too coherently, though he was breathing shallowly and fast. "Hate it ... like wool ... 'r grass ...."

            Starsky grabbed his partner's hard-on and rubbed himself against it while he pumped it firmly. "Picky," he managed to say.

            A bigger hand curved around his own, held and stopped it. Hutch's other hand was up on Starsky's face now, stroking slowly as if they'd just started--not even that. The palm against his cheek held still, felt warm, and Hutch said with another smile in his voice, "I want the best."

            "I'm right here."

            Hutch snuffled a bit. Laughing. Then grabbed one upper arm just as he might do at any time of day, anywhere, and towed Starsky like a boat out of water, right into his own bedroom.

            Without the big window, it was almost pitch-black here. And angry as his cock still was at the delay, pulsing and tight-skinned, he pulled out of the grip on his arm and felt for the emergency candle on the dresser, the one he'd installed because of the series of storms right after he moved in. There was just nothing to protect this building, almost nothing between the whole street and the Bay. Sometimes he liked that on-the-edge feeling, but not when it meant the electric power went down.

            So he kept the candle, and matches right beside it--in just a second the scrape and flare of the match lit his hand and the side of the thick wax column. He heard an indrawn breath from Hutch and smiled at the wick as it began to burn.

           < /span>

            Starsk had no idea how beautiful he looked sometimes. Oh, yes, the man's ego was bigger than his car, and he moved like he owned the world; the edge of his confidence would cut through other people's money and power and rank as if they were nothing at all. But he'd never know how the match and the candle gilded him, how the globe of light held his chin and throat and upper chest, hand and wrist and forearm, in a chiaroscuro moment that burned into Hutch's memory. The dent in his cheek as the wick caught, the movement of his lips, was like a painting moving, a statue bleeding--a miracle.

            The boy-saint icon turned toward Hutch, came to embrace him, and was abruptly Starsky again. Hutch blinked, feeling extra moisture in his eyes, surprised at that and at the way the dark eyes got a little rounder, the mouth solemn now--he'd never know what Starsky saw in him either. Their kiss this time was tender and slow.

            Never forget--Hutch didn't know why he wanted to say so, wanted to know that he wasn't the only one imprinting wet mouth and golden skin and springy hair, the solidity of bone and the sweet heaviness of his own and Starsky's rods brushing and nestling together. As if it would never be this way again, when there was no reason ... not really. No more than any other day.

            This was safety, the cool sheets and his partner's heated body, the quiet of the night and their voices murmuring and groaning, the faint stir of the candle flame and Starsky's energetic movement over Hutch--under Hutch--into his mouth, the slick cockhead pressing his lips to his teeth, shaping him around it even as the hips and thighs in his hands yielded. There was hardly time to know what he was doing, to suck and tongue on purpose, before Starsky was jerking helplessly, pumping, and Hutch's throat was full.

            The hands on Hutch's shoulders loosened their bruising grip and lay trembling and damp against him; the strong thighs were shaking still, and the cock still in his mouth was soft and so vulnerable he didn't want to let go of it. But his own cock was aching, hot, stabbing him with need, and after too short a time he had to move. He kissed his way up the lax body and Starsky put sluggish arms around him, caressed his ass with slow hands, smiled though his eyes were half shut.

            "Don't you fall asleep!" Hutch cautioned.

            Starsky's tousled head moved weakly, shaking. "Not b'fore the fireworks," he said, sliding one hand up Hutch's back and holding tighter. "C'm'on," the sleep pressing behind his voice, "C'm'ere ... gimme that thinga, th'ngamajig."

            The spirit was willing. The flesh was fucked out. Hutch smiled again, unable to stop--Starsky's eyes widened, his hands moved to frame Hutch's face, and he just gazed. A place in Hutch's chest tingled and stirred, but he could not, could not wait another instant, and pushed against Starsky, rubbed back and forth, while the callused fingers moved on his temples, through his sideburns, into his hair, and those happy eyes knew him, wanted him, gave him the hair and muscle and skin he thrust against until he came.

            His forehead was against Starsky's lips, and then a hand on the nape of his neck moved him over to the hard shoulder. His own eyes were closing. Starsky's had shut. The sweat on his back began, slowly, to cool, and suddenly Hutch shivered, moved his hand to push up and found some of his own semen, now clammy and chill in the sheet on Starsky's other side.

            Hutch blinked down at Starsky, who was dead to the world. "Better than acceptable," he whispered, "right?" But he got no answer, and knew he wouldn't until morning. Deciding to stay for it, he pulled at the covers they'd pushed aside. Even the bounce of the mattress didn't rouse Starsky, and Hutch pulled the limp form nearer to him, farther away from the wet spot, covered them both, and spared a thought to the candle--no, it would be fine. It wasn't burning at both ends. Then he went to sleep himself.

              ... thus invoke us: You whom reverend love
                 Made one another's hermitage;
            You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
                 ... Beg from above
                 A pattern of your love!

           < /span>