Hutch got in the passenger side of the Torino. "They say it's probably going to be two or three days."

Starsky grunted, then started the motor. "What else is new," he said flatly. "Piece of junk eats up more in repairs than you'd ever spend getting a decent car."

The blond looked over at his partner as they pulled away from Jake's Auto Repair & Tune Up. The words were familiar, but the tone was not. Starsky's heart hadn't been in the insult. Hutch didn't comment, but wondered if the other was just worn out. They both felt that way so much these days. Another murder in Sandstone Park and they weren't any closer than they had been a month earlier. Sometimes, it was difficult trying to remember what the point of it all was.

Darkness had long since settled over the city, and Hutch kept his eyes on the streets as, one by one, the Torino passed by them.

Still gazing straight ahead, Starsky asked, "Do you want to stop for something to eat, or should I take you straight home?"

It was difficult determining which answer his partner would prefer. Therefore, the blond stated his own preference. "Just drop me off. I have some leftover pasta." Starsky didn't reply, and Hutch tilted his head, trying to catch his friend's eye. "I think there's enough for two."

That caused a smile. The eyes were still on the windshield, but Starsky said, "Nah. Pasta sounds a little dull tonight."

"Suit yourself."

Silence settled over them once again. The streets were quiet, probably because most people were in their living rooms, watching Monday Night Football.

"You going to watch the game?" Hutch ventured.

Starsky shrugged. "I dunno. Who's playin'?" He finally glanced over.

"I don't know," Hutch admitted. "Thought I overheard someone at Huggy's saying something about the Vikings."

Starsky narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "I think that was last week."

Hutch shrugged. "Maybe it was."

Again, silence claimed them for the next few minutes.

Starsky smiled, but it was clearly forced. "We've lost touch, Hutch."

"Lost touch with what?" He thought he knew what his partner was saying, but wanted to be sure.

"With life." Finally, Starsky was growing more animated, gesturing with his body. "Our whole world is just murderers and rapists and pimps and pushers."

Hutch snorted with amusement he didn't feel. "Just because we don't know who's playing on Monday Night Football?"

"We don't know nothin', Hutch. We don't know who's playing football, who's being impeached in the government, what the leading show on television is, what the top-rated car is for 1980, or when's the next time we're gonna get laid."

Starsky's words had again been flat, and again Hutch found himself having to search for the underlying meaning. He settled for neutral territory. "Sounds like we need a vacation."

The smaller man glanced over. "That'd be nice. But with the holidays just around the corner, I wouldn't consider it likely."

Hutch tried humor this time. "Think maybe you're hitting mid-life crisis?"

"Hey, I ain't outta childhood yet."

The words had been dead-panned, and Hutch laughed out loud. "Ain't that the truth," he chuckled, not sure why he suddenly felt happy. Starsky was grinning, too.

The Torino pulled to a halt at the curb on Ocean. Hutch was in the middle of a yawn, and he was reaching for the door handle when he heard the motor turn off. For a moment, he thought Starsky had changed his mind about the pasta, but a glance in his partner's direction revealed a contemplative expression that focused on the dashboard.

Hutch turned to face his friend and relaxed back against the door. And waited.

Starsky blinked slowly a few times, then his face tilted toward his partner. "Hutch," he said quietly.

"What?" The blond's voice was gentle with intrigue.

The other swallowed, a tense smile lighting the near corner of his face. He looked toward the ceiling briefly, then turned, eyes lowering to meet his partner's. "I love you, Hutch."

The blond blinked slowly, feeling tendrils of emotion weave their way through his chest, blurring solid matter into something less defined. Possible replies danced across his mind -- "I know", "I love you, too", -- but stating any one of them would be redundant. So he forced himself to wait for more.

Another swallow, another glance to the ceiling, then Starsky sat staring at the dashboard. His smile broadened, and the bashful voice said, "That's all." A slight wave of a hand as he looked at Hutch. "I just wantcha to know that, that's all."

The other blinked again, voice thick with tenderness. "I know that, pal," he said with the barest hint of scolding. He tilted his head beckoningly. "What's up?"

"Nothing." Now a nervous laugh, eyes darting away, a catch in the voice. "Nothing, Hutch." Another solid glance at his partner. "I just felt like sayin' it, that's all."

Curiosity, mixed with concern, began to harden the soft edges inside Hutch's chest. He didn't like the thought of his partner driving off into the night when he so obviously had something else to say. And, more disconcerting, was having trouble saying it.

This time, Hutch's head tilted to the window, while his voice retained its gentleness. "Come on. Come up with me."

Starsky sighed heavily, a noise of indecision. Then, firmly, "Okay."

After getting out of the car, Hutch waited beside it; and when Starsky came around, the blond put his arm across the other's shoulders. Starsky didn't return the gesture, but they moved as one as they negotiated the staircase.

Upon reaching the landing, Hutch searched above the door frame for the key with his free hand. He found the key and inserted it into the lock. At that same moment, Starsky's arm suddenly came around him and pulled snug.

His reaction was purely instinct. Hutch left the key in the lock and turned just enough to take Starsky in both his arms, pulling the other against him. His hands met at the other man's back, and he basked in the warmth created as the smaller man's weight rested against him. For a moment, he rocked gently, loving the way Starsky's chin was planted against his neck, finding a familiarity in the smell of the day's dirt, sweat, and worn-out cologne.

It had been some time since they had embraced like this, for no particular reason. And that thought reminded Hutch that there may be a reason, this time. He hoped it wasn't something painful.

Then Starsky chuckled softly, almost as though embarrassed or amused at himself, and pulled back.

Hutch gave him a reassuring squeeze, then returned his attention to the door. Once inside, he flipped the light switch, and removed himself from his partner to head for the kitchen. "Have you decided yet that you're hungry?" he asked.

"Not for pasta."

The blond opened the refrigerator. "Got some weenies; I can heat those up."

"Yeah, sure."

As Hutch heated some water, he glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he watched the other wander over to a bookcase and gaze at its surface as though he'd never seen it before. While he continued to make dinner, Hutch continued to watch, and Starsky eventually moved over to the window, parted the curtain, and stared out.

Hutch gave him a moment while putting condiments on the table. Then he prompted, "Hey, pal, come on. What's bugging you?"

A weak smile lit the other's face. Then he shook his head once, still facing the curtain as his fingers brushed along the hem. "I don't know, Hutch." A quiet sigh followed. Then, "It's like there's this... I don't know... confusion or somethin'... inside me."

The blond tried resorting to humor. "Hey, when you've got short circuits in your head, it can be difficult seeing the world around you with any clarity." The weenies were boiling and he turned down the stove.

Rather than a long-suffering pout, the statement produced only a softening of the smile. Starsky turned away from the window, but now his expression became contemplative, eyebrows drawing together with such determination that Hutch thought the movement must hurt.

"It's not up here," Starsky finally said, touching his forehead a moment, then dropping his hand to his chest. "It's in here."

Hutch blinked. Matters of Starsky's heart were not something to be joked about, for they were too precious. He moved across the living area to where Starsky was standing. "Come on," he prompted gently, squeezing an arm, "keep talking."

As Hutch moved away to give the other space once again, the smile suddenly broadened into a grin. Then Starsky waved a hand. "It's nothin'. Not really."

The blond's eyes narrowed as he studied this man who usually spoke his mind with such ease. "It can't be 'nothing' if it's got your tongue all tied up in knots. Would it help if I asked questions?"

"No," Starsky replied after an uncertain moment. He sat on the back of the couch. "It's just...."

Hutch watched his friend while still tending to their dinner. "Just what?"

Starsky raised his forearms, then let them plop back down to his lap. "It's just... well, don't you ever wonder... I mean, don't you ever... you know, I mean...."

Hutch turned off the stove, chuckling softly. "Starsky, one sentence." He held up a finger. "Just put together one full sentence. Focus on that."

Starsky sighed dramatically and put a hand to his forehead, hiding his eyes. When he pulled the hand away, the eyes were closed. But when they opened, he slowly said, "Don't you ever wonder where our partnership fits into it all?"

The partnership. That sobered Hutch and caused his own eyes to narrow as he used a fork to remove the weenies. "Fits into what?" he asked cautiously.

Starsky gestured grandly with his hands. "Everything. I mean -- "

"Come eat," Hutch said quietly, placing the main course on the table.

Obediently, Starsky moved to the table and sat down in a chair to Hutch's left. His shoulders were slumped as he stared at the food before him. "I mean, it's like... as you go through your life... I mean, like when you're little, and everyone is filling your head with how it's gonna be. I mean," he looked at Hutch, resting an elbow on the table, "it's like you're supposed to finish school, get a nice job, find a nice girl, have kids, retire, all that."

Since Starsky was talking, Hutch took it upon himself to fill his partner's plate with two hot dogs, buns, pickle relish, and a good helping of mustard. "Yeah?" he prompted as he turned to his own food.

"Well," Starsky continued, "then you decide you wanna become a cop, and when you go to the police academy an' all that, you find out that cops have a real hard time makin' the marriage thing work. And then they start tellin' ya about this partner they're gonna give you, and all the things you need to know about that kind of relationship, but...," he shrugged, "they present it like you're gonna go from one to another. You know," another shrug, "they act like if you change your shift, or change your precinct, or change your rank... well, then there's another partner."

Hutch smiled as he pounded the bottom of the ketchup bottle. He and Starsky, once teamed up, had stayed together. He was real proud of that.

"I mean," Starsky went on after having paused for a bite, "through all of this, through your whole upbringing and young adulthood, and all this time that you're supposed to be learning about how to live and stuff, no one ever tells you about... about this... this other person that you have in your life."

Hutch felt a wave of warmth wash through him. He put the ketchup bottle down, smiling softly. "Ah, Starsk, of course they don't. No one's ever been able to explain us with a textbook. We're special together." His voice softened to a gentle scold. "You know that."

"I know," the other replied firmly. His hands were in his lap now and he stared at the table top. After a moment, he softly said, "I really love you, Hutch. A whole lot."

The blond put his food down and settled back in his chair. He draped an arm across Starsky's back, listened to the gentle quickening of his own heartbeat, then reached up Starsky's neck with a couple of fingers to rub at his partner's hairline. "I love you, too," he said quietly. "A whole lot." When Starsky continued to stare at the table, Hutch prompted, "Why is this suddenly bothering you now?"

Starsky looked at him. "It's not bothering me," he said with irritation. "I mean, I wouldn't give us up for anything."

"I wouldn't either," Hutch assured quickly.

"I mean, that's the point," Starsky finally declared. "I mean, it's like how are we supposed to be pursuing love and happiness and the American dream an' all that when -- when -- when --"

"When what?"

"When, you know, we aren't willin' to give each other up in the first place."

Suddenly, two and two equaled four. Surprised, Hutch said, "Starsky, have you been seeing someone seriously?"

The other almost rolled his eyes. "No. How could I be seein' someone steady without you knowing about it?"

Hutch shrugged, a sense of relief competing with increasing puzzlement.

"I mean," Starsky went on, gesturing frantically with his hands, one of which held a hot dog, "there isn't much point to getting serious with someone, is there? I mean -- I mean -- haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if one of us got married? What it would do to our partnership?"

Hutch thought about that. He wasn't sure why this conversation was so necessary, but honesty kept him from shying away from the analysis that Starsky demanded. "Yeah, I thought about it," he admitted, lowering his eyes. "I thought about it a lot when you and Terry were together."

Starsky seemed to take a moment to consider the answer. With a distant expression, he took another bite of his hot dog.

Hutch wasn't sure if he was supposed to speak again. When Starsky was still quiet, the blond went on. "I was so happy for you, buddy. But I was a little worried, about where I'd fit in." Of course, after the tragedy happened, he'd felt ashamed of his feelings, but he didn't see any reason to share that now.

The smaller detective chewed slowly, still staring ahead. After a long moment, he asked, "Do you remember what Gillian said, when you first introduced us at the bowling alley?"

From Terry to Gillian. Hutch supposed it was a logical leap. There had been serious relationships before those two ill-fated women, but none after.

Starsky looked at him. "Do you?"

Hutch tried to think, then knew it was hopeless. It had been over two years ago. He shook his head.

"You know, Hutch, when you seemed so happy, dating her -- before I'd even met her -- I just thought it was so neat that you'd found someone. But I was all worried, too. You know, if it got real serious, I was wondering how I was gonna fit into it, or even if I was at all. But then, you know, we were at that bowling alley and you introduced us. And she said," Starsky paused for breath, "'He talks about you all the time.'"

Hutch bowed his head, allowing a tiny smile. He did remember now. And remembered that he'd been a bit embarrassed and countered with, "Well, not all the time."

"Hutch," Starsky said in a hushed voice, staring at the table top, "I felt on top of the world when she said that. I mean," he glanced at his partner, "that's what told me it was gonna be okay. That I wasn't just gonna be a nobody when you were with her."

The blond was both intrigued and surprised by the sincerity of feeling. It had just been a passing statement, and he hadn't realized how strongly Starsky had been affected by it... let alone remember it two years later.

"But, I mean," Starsky went on softly, laying a hand on the table and gently clinking a knife handle against a fork, "lookin' back, I wonder how fair it woulda been. Not just Gillian in particular, but any woman." Timidly, his eyes darted to Hutch. "I mean, how can a woman be everything to you when it's your partner who's gonna be savin' your life day in and day out? When you're gonna be spending more time with him than with her?"

Hutch looked away, discomfort and confusion filtering through him. Brusquely, he demanded, "Starsky, why is this all coming up now? What's going on?"

Now a tiny, apologetic smile. "I dunno. Like I said, I just get confused sometimes." He stared at the table top again, then gestured toward his chest. "I got all these feelings... don't know what I'm supposed to be doin' with them."

Feelings for me? Hutch wondered, but found himself hesitant to ask. Shifting restlessly in his chair, he leaned toward the other, and demanded more gently, "Starsky, what do you need? What do you need from me right now?"

"I dunno," the other admitted, meeting his eye. "If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't be confused, would I?"

Hutch raised his brows in a "touche" motion. He sighed heavily and started gathering up the food, his appetite forgotten.

"Hey," Starsky said.

Hutch paused. "What?"

"You've got food or something on your mustache."

"Oh." Hutch ran his fingers along the fur with a bashful smile.

"That's better."

Since they were back to their usual banter, the blond wondered if Starsky's philosophizing was over. He wasn't sure if he hoped it was or it wasn't. But he did wish he could help.

"Want any more of this?" he asked of the remains that had been gathered.

"Nah," Starsky indicated his remaining hot dog, which he now bit into, "this is enough."

Hutch stood and carried dishes from the table to the sink, then put the condiments in the refrigerator. When finished, he glanced back over at his partner sitting at the table.

Such a mixture of playfulness and maturity, Starsky was. Usually, so free of contemplative thoughts or considerations. But so troubled when they snuck up on him from behind. And so willing to share when they did.

Hutch bowed his head, sighing quietly. He was glad at the very least that the declaration had been made yet again that what was most important to them was each other. Starsky had a point, he supposed, in that neither of them had much left over to offer a woman.

Starsky had just finished the second hot dog, and Hutch went over to the smaller man, leaned down and placed his hand on his back. He squeezed a broad shoulder, then lightly scratched across the spine.

The other looked up at him with a grateful smile, warmth dominating his features. For a moment, Hutch felt transcended to another plane, and all that existed was the connection between them -- the warmth, understanding, trust, tolerance, dependency... and, of course, the love. And Hutch suddenly felt he understood the confusion that tormented his partner.

He felt himself blink, and his hand drew back to the nearest shoulder, squeezing firmly. Hutch did not know how long they had been gazing into each other's eyes, but it was easy to speak, for the truth always was. "You're not alone in this, partner."

Starsky closed his eyes, grinned, and drew a deep breath, as though in gratitude. "I know." Then he sighed, looked at Hutch almost apologetically. "I think I'd better go."

Hutch nodded, squeezed once more, whispered, "Okay."

"See ya tomorrow, huh?"

"Yeah."

The blond watched the smaller man brush a few crumbs off the table, then get up and head toward the door. The quality of his footsteps was much lighter than when they had originally entered.

When Kathy called Hutch later that night, he said he would be happy to see her the following evening.

* * *

Hutch sat in the Torino, fingers rubbing at his mustache as he watched his partner. The car was parked just down the street from a printing shop, which Starsky was standing in front of as he talked to a couple of workers who had known the latest Sandstone Park victim. Hutch chose to remain in the car, as they were anxiously awaiting a call back from R&I about the past history of the best friend of the same deceased, as it was the first thing in the whole case that had the potential to be a hot lead.

The blond smiled as he saw his partner gesture with his hands, one of which contained a pencil and notepad. Even standing still, Starsky was incredibly animated, giving the illusion of action while remaining in one place. He was wearing his favorite assortment of blue, and the late morning sun was bright enough that he had retained his sunglasses. The man and woman he was talking to listened intently, as anyone would. One might detest Starsky, get annoyed with his antics, belittle the intelligence that lacked the polish of formal education, even hate him... but it was not possible to ignore him.

The woman was wearing sunglasses, too, and Hutch fantasized that her eyes kept drifting down to his partner's tight jeans. Hutch had always been able to appreciate Starsky's physical qualities in an objective manner. Though not handsome in the classical way that he himself was, Hutch was fully aware of the virtues that others saw in that tightly wound bundle of energy and flesh. He knew that Starsky had a nice butt. Knew that the other had a head full of exciting hair. Knew that the other's jeans sometimes seemed to shrink to outline every centimeter of those bragged-about genitals.

Hutch knew, and could appreciate, all of that. But he also knew he didn't respond to Starsky in the way a woman would. His observations were objective, nothing more than acknowledgement of fact. The things that made his heart turn over were the playful frivolity, the inner excitement, the blazing smile, the raw goodness, the self love and confidence, the street smarts that made Starsky so dependable, the willingness to share all of himself once you had earned his trust.

And that trust was what had allowed Starsky to speak of "the confusion".

You're not alone, Hutch had told him. The blond shifted restlessly now, wondering how long it would be before the subject came up again.

Wondered in what direction it had steered them.

His mind had touched on the possibilities... possibilities that, even if he were wrong, would not be thrown back in his face if he voiced them. There was nothing that either could not speak of to the other. But, at the same time, Hutch wasn't sure the thoughts that had been rolling around in his head the past few days were the same as Starsky had been thinking.

At some point, Hutch knew, these thoughts would have to be brought out in the open, discussed, dealt with. He rubbed at his mustache again, wondering when his share of the puzzle would be pieced together enough to present a coherent picture. For he didn't think it would be fair to discuss it without being sure himself of what he was willing to give, willing to take.

While shifting the pencil from one hand to another, Starsky suddenly dropped it. He bent down to pick it up, presenting Hutch with a clear view of that same rear which the blond had overheard many women at the station snickering appreciatively about.

Hutch wondered what those women saw when they looked at it; wondered, by the same token, what homosexuals saw when they looked at each other. What would one such man see, what would he feel, if he were to observe Starsky in that unguarded moment?

Hutch knew that, for himself, all he saw was the same rear he'd seen for years... the one he'd covered -- both literally and metaphorically -- patted, held to give a boost or moment of physical support, followed. Seeing it yet again did nothing for him, did not cause the stir between the legs that staring at the woman's tight sweater did.

He sighed and looked away, wondering at the feeling of disappointment he experienced. It wasn't new, for a similar feeling had existed last night, with Kathy.

Finally, the scream had emerged, yet another gush of juices against his chin and mouth, leaving his mustache soaked with the smell of her.

He had looked away, scolding himself once again for the ridiculousness of what he was trying to do. He loved women. Always had. The idea of sticking it into something coarser, hairier... only made him begin to deflate.

The back beneath his chest would be broader, rougher. He reached around her body, found the breasts that he so enjoyed and fondled the nipples, and then told himself that all he'd have in his hands were the tiniest of nubs. There would be no softness to fondle, but only a path of fur and muscle.

Hutch thrust experimentally, enjoying the tightness, even though it didn't contain the warm wetness that he was accustomed to. There shouldn't be any difference in terms of what his cock felt... male or female... the channel would be the same. He found that encouraging and thrust some more.

But what the rest of his body felt, even the sounds and scents, would all be different. The images and sensations mixed and meshed as he began pumping in earnest. His firm muscles... her smooth skin... his potent cologne... her delicate perfume... his masculine grunt... her soft cry... his cock rubbing against the pillow... her just lying there....

She turned onto an elbow. "Hey, baby, what's wrong?"

Starsky was tucking his notepad into his back pocket, and Hutch knew the other would be turning back toward the car any moment.

This time Hutch's fingers ran along his lips, as he tried to sort out what had happened with Kathy. He had tried it, and hadn't really enjoyed it at all, even when -- especially when -- thinking about his partner being the one beneath him.

Hutch's eyes narrowed as a new thought occurred. He watched intently as the blue-clad bundle of confidence and energy approached. Felt a certain breathlessness. One that, however subtly, he had always felt.

And he knew then who was his master.

CHAPTER 4