Hutch was greeted by an overcast sky as he trotted out of Venice Place and reached to the door handle of the Torino.

"Mornin'," Starsky greeted.

Hutch's reply went straight to police work. "Who's first in line for questioning this morning?" The best friend of the latest victim had turned up a string of leads that kept getting colder with each person questioned. It was disheartening, but still more than they'd had in the four months since the first murder.

Starsky pulled away from the curb. "I thought we'd talk to the guy who runs the laundromat first, then talk to the girlfriend of the guy who knew Terranova's brother of the best friend, and then maybe grab lunch at the Fresh Crab, where a waiter there saw Sally Terranova two nights before she was murdered."

"Okay," Hutch replied as he reached for the morning paper that rested between their seats. "Did the Lakers win yesterday?" He picked up the paper and began leafing through it.

"Lost by two," Starsky told him.

Hutch turned to the sports section and held it up. He frowned when he found a hole in the lower left corner of one page. "Hey, what's this?"

The other glanced at him, then grinned. "Partner for Life won again yesterday -- a big stakes race. A hundred thousand dollars or somethin'."

It was annoying missing part of the page, but the blond found something endearing about his partner's soft spot for that horse. "So you cut it out?"

Starsky shrugged.

Hutch decided not to tease. "I bet no one gets eighteen to one on him anymore."

"Nah, those days are over," the other confirmed. "You know, the article was sayin' that he's won something like four of his last six races, and he's earned over three hundred thousand dollars." Starsky presented a grin of utter pride and affection. "He's really something, Hutch. It'd be nice to see him run again sometime. Not to bet, but just to see him again."

The blond looked over at his partner. "If you'd ever follow through with your plans to get us a getaway weekend sometime, maybe we could drive up to Santa Anita when he's going to run. Or even just one day."

Starsky sighed, a depressed sound that pulled at his partner's heart. "Not until this bastard quits murdering people."

Hutch sighed, too. "Yeah, I hear ya." But he brightened a moment later. "Hey, I got the bank statement yesterday on our account." Though the money market fund was in both their names, Starsky had set it up so that all correspondence was mailed to Hutch instead of himself, as he acknowledged his partner as the financial genius between them.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's up to $4800 dollars." Hutch wasn't sure why it felt so good saying it. He'd had far more money than that tied up in various investments and trust funds from relatives, before he'd rejected it all upon leaving Minnesota. But that was all money that had originated from his family. Maybe this $4800 was special because it was his and Starsky's. Exclusively. Something tangible that belonged only to them.

And, finally, he thought he understood why it had meant so much to Starsky to put it away in both their names. "Hey," he said.

Starsky looked at him. "What?"

"Good morning."

* * *

The crab sandwiches were expensive, but tasty. "Okay, Todd," Hutch told the waiter, who looked barely out of high school, and whom they'd encouraged to take a chair beside them, "I know you've already given a statement, but we'd appreciate it if you could go through it one more time."

Todd nodded.

Starsky said, "When did you first meet Sally Terranova?"

"That day," the waiter replied.

"The day she was murdered?" Starsky asked with puzzlement.

"No, the day we went out. See, she came in, and I liked how she walked and smiled, and I noticed she wasn't wearing a ring, so I asked her out. And she said 'yes'. So, we made a date for seven o'clock that night."

"Where did you go?" Hutch asked.

"We went to the movies."

"What movie?'

"I think it was The Getaway. Then we went to a burger joint. Then I took her home. That's all."

"What did you talk about?" Starsky asked.

Todd shrugged. "I don't remember anything in particular. We both liked the movie. We both liked the burgers. We both liked each other."

"Did you schedule another date?" Hutch asked.

"No. I said I'd call her on Wednesday. Then I hear on Tuesday all about how she's been found dead in this park." He shuddered. "Creepy, man."

"And while you were on your date," Starsky pursued, "she didn't say anything to you about people she knew, or Sandstone Park, or anything at all like that?"

"Oh, yeah, she mentioned Sandstone Park. Said she jogged there every night."

The detectives exchanged glances. "Every night?" the smaller man clarified on a high note.

"Yeah. She was into physical fitness."

"Wasn't she afraid to jog there?" Hutch asked. "Because of the murders?"

"I don't know. We didn't talk about it."

Starsky leaned forward. "Did she mention anything about people she met in the park, people she may have talked to, or been bothered by?"

"No. But I remember her saying something about there being a lot of creeps in parks. But she didn't sound afraid or anything."

"Did she mention any particular 'creeps'?"

"No. We didn't talk about it very long. We just went on to something else."

"What else?"

Todd shrugged. "Dumb things. You know, like we were laughing about how the burger joint we went to and the camper parked across the theater were the same as ones that had been in the movie."

Hutch sighed, pulled a card out of his pocket. "Todd, if you remember anything else, anything at all -- even the smallest detail -- please give us a call."

"Sure," Todd said as he took the card, "but I've told you everything I know."

Starsky patted the pocket where Todd had placed the card. "Keep it handy, just in case."

Todd left and the two detectives worked at finishing their sandwiches.

"That's the first victim that's been a regular jogger," Hutch noted.

"Yeah, and to be dumb enough to keep jogging every night when there's a murder happening every two to four weeks."

Disgust at human stupidity fought with belief in human rights within Hutch's mind. People had a right to do what they wanted, even if it cost them their lives. He took a deep breath, shook his pencil at his partner. "You know, the only string that ties these women together is that none of them were involved in serious relationships. Coincidence?"

"Not necessarily," Starsky replied after a moment, having taken a bite of his crab. "How many women involved in serious relationships are out walking alone in a park in the middle of the night?"

"Not many," Hutch conceded. "Which means the killer may not know that they're all unattached. It may not have anything to do with how he chooses his victims."

"It's got to be a spur of the moment thing, Hutch. I mean, the guy goes after pretty young women and slaughters them in the middle of the night. He's got to be going to the park and just doin' it."

With frustration, Hutch said, "We just don't have anything concrete to go on."

Starsky put down the unfinished portion of his sandwich. "Yeah. I think I just lost my appetite."

Hutch's crab wasn't tasting all that good to him either, but he worked at it, albeit more slowly. "There's a lot of money in that sandwich, so tell Todd to get you a doggie bag."

Starsky made a face, but did as he was told. When the box was brought, he placed the remaining sandwich inside, then brushed the crumbs off his hands with an exaggerated motion, slapping against his legs and then his shirt.

The taller man frowned. "What's eating you?"

Starsky paused. "Huh?"

"What's got you so uptight?"

"You mean other than the obvious?"

Hutch assured, "We'll catch him, buddy. Sometimes these things take time. But we'll get him."

"Yeah," the other agreed with a heavy sigh. Then he put his chin in his hand and studied the far wall. "I feel like I haven't been laid in a million years," he muttered.

The blond's heart twisted in sympathy. He was about to make a crack about the virtues of celibacy when his partner's sapphire blue eyes suddenly darted from the wall to meet his gaze.

Hutch blinked, feeling he was expected to say something, something that would be a solution to the other's problem.

Then Starsky glanced away.

It was a moment before the taller man found his voice. Cautiously, he asked, "Kathy hasn't called in a while?"

Starsky shrugged. "I've put her off the past few times, so maybe she's given up on me."

"Oh." Hutch hadn't realized that, and wasn't sure why Starsky wouldn't be interested. He felt a vague sense of the unknown closing in.

Starsky looked at him. "You ever give her the brush-off, like you said you were?"

Hutch shrugged, wondering if he'd imagined the expectant aura of a moment ago. "Not exactly. But I haven't heard from her in a while, either, so maybe I was more successful than I thought." God, would any woman want to see him again after his behavior that last night? He decided to change the subject. "Where to now?"

Starsky drew a deep breath. "I think we should re-trace our steps, and ask everyone who knew Sally Terranova if she ever specifically mentioned anything about 'creeps' in the park."

* * *

No one recalled any such statements by Sally. Hutch turned in his seat and rubbed the back of his neck as Starsky pulled next to the curb at Venice Place. It was dark, past seven o'clock. The smell of rain was heavy in the air, but it hadn't yet fallen.

Hutch made no move to get out of the car. Even if the nuances filtering from his partner earlier in the day had only been his imagination, it was all the more reason to get the subject into the open. Ever since the possibility had first entered his mind, he hadn't been able to let go of it, nor had he wanted to. And if he was going to start imagining his partner having the same thoughts... then the least they could do was deal with it, one way or the other.

He turned in his seat, facing Starsky, who glanced at him curiously. He felt his heart accelerate, but was fairly confident that the dark road ahead would prove friendly once brought into the light.

Starsky smiled a little, as though suspecting his partner's intent, and turned off the motor. Then he looked at Hutch, and waited.

The blond lightly clasped his hands together. "We need to talk, buddy."

Starsky bowed his head to stare at the floorboard. "Yeah, I guess so." A slight glance Hutch's way, and a timid smile. "You go first."

Hutch supposed it was fair enough. He looked for a way to circle around, while gathering courage to come to the heart of the matter. "Are you still ... confused?"

The tiny smile broadened momentarily into a grin. Starsky nodded while looking out the windshield. "Yeah." A pause, then, softly, "But in the most wonderful way, Hutch."

Little butterflies flapped their wings against the inside of the taller man's veins. He found himself looking away. "Yeah." When he looked back, his partner kept exchanging his glance between the floorboard and the windshield. Gently, the blond said, "Those feelings probably aren't just going to up and go away, pal."

Starsky nodded.

"I guess," Hutch ventured slowly, "if nothing else, we're both curious."

A thick swallow outlined the other's throat. "Yeah."

"And we aren't going to know... until we try."

Slowly, Starsky blinked. He was now staring at the steering wheel, head cocked to one side. "You know, Hutch," he whispered around a deep breath, "it's like standing on a cliff, trying to find the right moment to jump. 'Cause, once you jump, there's no goin' back. There's no second chance."

"We don't have to jump right now, buddy," Hutch assured quickly. Then, tenderly, "I just don't think there's any reason to wait anymore."

"There isn't," Starsky confirmed, eyes somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. "It's just...." He looked at Hutch. "What if we're wrong? It would change everything, and there would be no going back to the way it was."

"Maybe not," Hutch replied after a moment, "but I think we would forgive each other... if there was truly anything to forgive."

"Yeah," Starsky replied heavily. With his keys, he drew little lines across the hard surface of the steering wheel. After a long moment, he nervously said, "You know, it's crazy sometimes, thinking about it. I mean, does this make us like... homos... or bisexuals... or what?" He glanced at his partner, as though desperately seeking reassurance.

Hutch snorted with a smile.

"I mean," Starsky went on earnestly, "I try lookin' at other guys, trying to see if I feel for them what I do for you and... and it's just crazy. It's like it's nauseating. Or a bad joke." He slowly shook his head, voice softening. "It just doesn't fit."

The blond head tilted toward the floor. "Nothing about us has ever fit, has it?" he whispered.

Starsky thought about that. Finally, he asked, "What makes us so different, Hutch?"

The other had asked it with such faith that Hutch could provide an answer, that the taller man found himself searching for the correct one. And the one that came to mind seemed almost too simple. And yet, saying it produced a soft pounding of his heart that made life worthwhile. "We love each other. On every level imaginable."

The smaller man closed his eyes, the lids pinching slightly. He made a brief "Umph" noise, as though suffering pain... or the most intense pleasure. Finally, the eyelids eased, and the face revealed was heavy with the weight of emotion. Staring out the windshield, he said, "You know, some days, after we've been driving around all day, or sittin' in the squadroom all day, I drop you off at your place, or you drop me off at mine, and sometimes I think, you know, I'm glad to be away from you, have some space of my own. But then," Starsky's head bowed as the words grew rougher, "within a matter of hours -- sometimes minutes -- it seems like I wish you were around." He shrugged limply. "It doesn't matter what I'm doin'." A key drew one particularly long line on the steering wheel, then dropped off. "I just like sharin' things with you, Hutch."

The blond closed his eyes a brief moment. It was indeed a daunting cliff they were facing. He took a deep breath, then asked, "You want to come up with me?"

A timid smile lit Starsky's face. "I think I've been starin' down that cliff so long that I don't know if I'll ever get the courage to jump... or to back away."

Hutch wondered why his own fear had a quality less raw than Starsky's. Perhaps, he decided, it was because he was more fed up with the status quo, with loving one person while making love to others.

"Hey, buddy," he offered after a moment, "coming upstairs with me doesn't have to mean anything specific. And maybe we should both agree right here that we each always have the right to say 'no'."

There was a brief hesitation, then Starsky responded with a thoughtful nod. Then he asked, "Think you know how to go about it?" He glanced up sideways.

It was an honest question, and Hutch replied, "I think we'll be able to figure something out. We always have."

Another nod, this time with a more serious air. "We might really be awkward, you know. No matter how much... how we feel about each other."

Hutch reasoned, "Has it ever been great the first time you did it with someone new?"

"No," Starsky admitted in a near whisper. "But you're hardly anyone new, Hutch." His head tilted thoughtfully. "Sometimes I feel like I've known you a million years."

Hutch ran his fingers along his mustache. "Yeah? Maybe we knew each other in a prior life."

This time Starsky looked at him with a scolding grin. Then his facial muscles pulled together into a sobering frown. He placed a key on the ashtray and gently scratched along the surface. "How do we decide... you know... like who's on top?"

"You can be on top."

The key paused, and Starsky looked at him sideways. Seriously, he asked, "How come we can't take turns?"

"We can," the blond replied gently. "But you can be on top first." He was hesitant to let Starsky know just how badly he wanted that, for he doubted he would be able to explain it, since he didn't understand it himself. But he did shift in his seat and caution, "We're getting ahead of ourselves, partner. We don't have to try everything at once."

Another tilt of the head, another small grin, as Starsky stared once again at the floorboard. Then he whispered, "'Kay."

It wasn't until silence followed that Hutch realized Starsky had intended the answer to be a conclusion to the discussion. But the other was still in the same pose and, in a lighter tone, the blond asked, "Want me to get out first?" He listened to his heartbeat as it quickened, felt the butterflies struggle for flight.

The other stirred, bashful smile broadening. "No, that's okay." Starsky straightened, then pulled the lever on the door, the separating metal sounding loudly in the quiet of the night. In one swift move, he was out of the car.

Hutch got out, too, wondering when the rain was finally going to fall. He stood beside the door after closing it, waited while Starsky walked around the car, then beckoned him with a sideways glance. They started, side by side, up the staircase.

Hutch placed his hand behind his partner's neck, felt the other shiver.

They didn't speak as the blond felt for the key, and then unlocked the door with hands that were unexpectedly steady. He started to reach for the light switch, but warm fingers gripped his wrist.

"No," came the breathless request, "let's leave the lights off, 'kay?"

Hutch was willing to do anything Starsky wanted, especially anything that was going to put the other more at ease. "Okay," he replied softly. While closing the door with the hand that was gripped, he used his other hand to find the nearest limb, and found himself squeezing Starsky's forearm.

There was a moment of adjustment, in which they both made a conscious effort to relax. Then it was Hutch's hand that held a light grip on Starsky's wrist as the blond led the way around the furniture, the other following so closely behind that their jackets occasionally brushed.

Hutch paused at the back of the couch, thinking that they needed to keep moving forward, or hesitation would become a factor. He turned to his partner, focusing on the silhouette directly in front of him that seemed to become more breathless with each moment.

He used a tone that he was sure Starsky was most likely to trust, his vocal chords vibrating with tenderness as he felt for the zipper of the other's open jacket. "Here, pal, let's get this off." Starsky let Hutch remove it, and as the blond laid it across the sofa, he was glad to hear the unsnapping of the shoulder harness. He let go long enough to remove his own jacket and holster, placing both weapons toward one end of the couch.

Hutch straightened, knew the other was watching him, arms lax at his sides, waiting for whatever direction Hutch was going to give next. The blond felt the trust... and the weight of the responsibility. But it was a burden that was always carried willingly, for it was always so powerfully returned whenever the need was there.

With one hand, Hutch reached for the face pointed up to him. He outlined the nose, brought his finger down past the brief, firm whiskers, felt for the softness of the lips. They, too, were outlined. He felt and heard the other swallow, and instinctively took a half step closer.

Slowly, Hutch brushed one hand back through the incredible thickness of hair. With the other, he tilted the chin up slightly, making sure he knew exactly where it was. He bent his head, held the chin steady, felt the other's quickening breath just before contact was made.

And when his lips brushed Starsky's, Hutch wondered why they had never kissed before. For it seemed that they settled upon each other perfectly, and a lightning bolt went through his body, causing his hand to drop from the hair to the back, drawing the other closer, his lips pressing more firmly.

There was the taste of onions from a hamburger consumed earlier in the evening, a flavor of salt from the fries, a coolness from having sucked on the remaining ice in a glass of cola, and a sweetness that Hutch couldn't quite define....

His partner seemed to melt within his grasp, and Hutch's concern that only liquid would remain if they kept this up caused him to slowly pull back.

A thick swallow was heard in the dark. "Hutch?"

The blond's fingertips squeezed reassuringly at the spine they held. "Hm?"

"I think we just dived off that cliff."

"I think we did, too."

The voice was definitely breathless, but also pleased to a degree that made the blond wonder if his heart might swell past the ability of his ribs to keep it enclosed.

"I think I'm gonna like havin' ya all to myself."

Hutch closed his eyes, smiled in an attempt to give an outlet to the tenderness that washed through him. He hadn't anticipated a possessive streak, but he was hardly going to argue.

"All to myself," Starsky repeated, and he reached up and stroked along Hutch's mustache, tracing it over and over.

If Starsky were going to be so fascinated with that little strip of hair, Hutch wanted him to enjoy all of its benefits. He kissed the hand briefly, then nudged it out of the way before taking his partner in both arms and settling his lips upon the other's once again. He made a special effort to rub his mustache against the other's flesh, all the while amazed at the sensations his body felt, as though it might start to rise from the ground and float away.

Suddenly, Hutch's arms were taken in a vise-like grip, pinned at his sides, as Starsky's limbs wrapped around him. The other squeezed tight, broke the kiss to press his entire upper body against Hutch, his legs leaping off the ground and wrapping around the taller form.

The unexpected weight forced a grunt from the standing man, and he quickly leaned against the sofa's back, resting one hip upon it. That eased the pressure, and he realized that a bubble inside his chest was expanding, for his partner's arms were wrapped solidly around him, his face buried in Hutch's neck with such a childlike trust that the blond momentarily wondered if he were committing an act of incest.

"Love you so much," Starsky whispered heavily. "Love you so, so much." The arms squeezed even tighter. "Got you all to myself. All to myself."

The breath against his neck made Hutch shiver, and he wasn't sure if he had the strength to keep holding the other up, for he was weak with the knowledge of just how much he was wanted... how much he was loved. He squeezed Starsky back, and the firmness of the other's groin, pressed against his own, reminded him that the childlike innocence was only one quality that his partner possessed.

Starsky kissed him firmly on the neck, then brought his legs down to support his own weight. Then, with a tenderness in stark contrast to the intensity mere seconds ago, the shorter man reached to take Hutch's face in his hands, stood on his toes, and kissed Hutch with a gentleness that made the bubble burst.

Hutch closed his eyes. It was happening now. Starsky was taking over, the yielding trust giving way to assertive strength. His partner kissed him again... and again... each touch an act of deliberate intent. For a moment, the blond was frozen with uncertainty, afraid that responding would make the other think he was competing for dominance, but also afraid that not responding at all would give the erroneous impression that he didn't like what Starsky was doing.

With concerted effort, Hutch placed his hands on the back of the sofa to show his submission, while at the same time groaning with pleasure to encourage the other on.

His face was still held in the gentle hands, the lips still meeting his with kisses that were brief and firm. But Starsky was moving closer, pressing his body tighter against the blond, making Hutch aware of every nerve involved in the contact. He could feel the quiver in his belly, felt the confinement in his groin, and whimpered with need.

Starsky's hands released his face, sliding down his head and neck until they rested on his shoulders. They squeezed then, and the next kiss was firmer, more demanding, tongue darting out to part the opposite lips.

Hutch suddenly gripped Starsky by the rear, expecting to feel the same puzzlement... the same confusion... that had been plaguing his partner. He didn't expect the feel of the denim-covered flesh to please him the way feeling a woman would. But Starsky groaned against his mouth the moment the contact was made, and it encouraged Hutch to squeeze harder, massaging with his fingers.

The darker man whimpered, dragged his mouth away, then arched back to press his groin against the blond, rocking .

Hutch felt his own groin about to burst, but he reached first to relieve his partner's. He unsnapped the denim with trembling fingers, forced down the fly, was consumed by sympathy with each soft cry and groan that emerged from the other. He reached inside the slit of the underwear; felt the smooth, moist heat; squeezed it as he drew it to freedom. Starsky let out a deep cry then. His hands were on Hutch's shoulders, as though for balance, squeezing desperately.

Hutch thought he should try to put his mouth on it. But he didn't want to kneel and lose the closeness with the other, and was afraid he would be awkward and provide more frustration than pleasure. Instead, he gripped the silky hardness, moved his hand forward, felt the hiss of pleasure against his neck. Starsky undulated once on his own, and Hutch decided to simply let his hand serve as a sheath and let Starsky do the rest.

And yet his own groin ached with wanting, and Hutch closed his eyes against it, burying his face against Starsky's shoulder, thinking how much easier things would be once they were past the first-time awkwardness.

Starsky's breath was gasping as he undulated harder, sweat breaking out along his forehead and neck. And then suddenly, as though realizing his selfishness -- or needing something more -- his hand flailed about Hutch's waistband. It quickly found the snap, parted it, dived inside. Hutch gasped, "God," as the digits brushed across his hardness. The determined fingers gripped him, and as a reward he awkwardly stood and brought his other hand down into the fly of Starsky's briefs, finding the plump testicles. He massaged them while his other hand continued to squeeze in tune to his partner's thrusts.

And then both Starsky's hands were inside the blond's jeans, mirroring each action of Hutch's hands, and both men grunted against each other's neck and shoulder, the harsh sounds gradually building to a higher-pitched cry.

Starsky almost seemed to choke when he came, the high-pitched noise melting into a deep-throated growl. And as the fluid burst forth, he gripped Hutch so tight that his partner's release was triggered.

They collapsed to the floor, hands falling away, Hutch on his knees and Starsky on a hip, his weight resting on an arm braced against the carpet.

For nearly a minute, the only sound was their panting. Then Starsky stretched out on the floor, rolling onto his back. After a moment, he tucked himself back inside, zipped up his fly.

Hutch lowered himself on an elbow, then lowered further to the carpet, stretching out beside Starsky, facing the other. His zipper had only come down part way, and he merely reached inside to adjust his softening flesh to a more comfortable position.

He wondered what Starsky was thinking, reached over with the flat of his hand and came into contact with a cotton-clad stomach. He realized then that it was the same hand that was covered with stickiness, and he quickly took it away and brushed it against the carpet.

"S'okay," the other assured in a gentle whisper. "It's not exactly a foreign substance, ya know."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed softly, wondering why he'd felt self-conscious about it.

"Okay for you?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Not bad for a first time. I figure it can only get better from here."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed again, then rolled onto his back. It had been okay -- an orgasm was an orgasm, after all. But despite his reassurance about lackluster first times in the car earlier, he couldn't help but feel there should be more.

"I love you, Hutch."

The blond closed his eyes, knowing the bubble had burst earlier, and wondering where this new cloud of feeling was coming from. Starsky seemed so emotional tonight, like people are when they're in love; yet Hutch was sure they didn't love each other any more or any less than they had thirty minutes ago.

He found Starsky's hand -- it was sticky -- and squeezed. "Love you, too." The short sentences weren't enough, and he felt emotion color his voice as he asked, "Want me to count the ways?"

"Nah," Starsky replied after a moment. "It'd just over-inflate my ego."

Hutch snorted softly then, feeling a smile spread on his face. Then he sighed contentedly and closed his eyes.

"Hey," Starsky was suddenly on an elbow, "you aren't goin' to sleep, are you?"

Hutch kept his eyes closed, found that the smile was still there. "What's it to you?"

The compact body was along his in an instant, pressing against his right side, hands on his chest. "I've got news for you, partner. We aren't gettin' any shut-eye tonight. Neither of us. There's too many other things we're gonna be doin' instead."

Being covered by the firm muscle and bone of the other roused Hutch like an amphetamine and he wondered how he would ever be able to communicate his desire for domination to Starsky. He decided that he could not. He could only hope to demonstrate with action... or the lack of such.

Slowly, Starsky maneuvered himself on top of the long body. "Got plans for you," he muttered, kissing the chin, then pulling back. "Got a whole agenda."

Hutch placed his hands on the other's waist, liking the compactness of it, even though it wasn't curved like a woman's. "Oh, yeah?" he asked, feeling unaccountably happy. "What's item one?"

Starsky got on his knees, then bent so that his face was close to his partner's. "Item one," he breathed against the smooth features, "is to tell you how much I love you."

As if Starsky hadn't already done that tonight. Hutch closed his eyes and swallowed.

A thickness was in the other's throat, as well. "I love you," Starsky kissed one side of Hutch's neck, "very, very," kissed the other side, "very much."

Hutch's eyes remained closed. Say it again.

"Know why," a kiss on his nose, "I love you," on his left cheek, "so much?" on his right.

"Because," Starsky settled on top of him now, so that Hutch felt the brush of the whispered words against his chin, "you take very, very, very good care of me."

Hutch felt the smile broaden.

"Because you love me enough to let me be me."

A swallow.

"Because you are always, always there for me."

The blond's eyes opened lazily, trying to find the other in the darkness.

"Because you're usually the first person I see in the morning, and the last person I see at night."

He could make out the outline of the silhouette.

"Because you're so passionate about the things you believe."

He focused on the shimmer of light that could be the eyes.

"Because you're big, and strong, and tender."

Hutch's hands moved from the trim waist to the small of Starsky's back, their palms pressing against the other's shirt.

"Because I feel," the voice faltered a moment, then whispered in wonder, "so loved, when I see you standin' back, watchin' over me."

Hutch closed his eyes again.

"Because you're such a bright spot of... of hope... when you're happy about somethin' and you're smilin'."

Another bubble was starting to build.

"Because you're so smart about so many things."

"Because," a brief choke, "you're not afraid of how much I love you."

A finger pulled gently at his upper lip. "Because you have the most interestin' little mustache." A pause. "And you're just so damn beautiful, Hutch."

The new bubble burst, and Hutch moved his hands so he could embrace his partner, pressing Starsky against him, then rolling them onto their sides.

After a moment, Starsky's hands reached to take the blond's face again, their fingers stroking along his forehead and cheeks.

It was difficult talking when he felt so light and carefree. But Hutch was curious about the rest. Softly, he whispered, "What's item two?"

"Item two," Starsky replied, "is this." He moved his head the brief distance to touch his lips against the blond's. "See," he explained, pulling back, "we're gonna do this the whole entire night. All night long. Just kissin'. Except, when it gets close to mornin', we're gonna move to item three and make things a little more interestin'. But still nice."

Hutch smiled, eyes slitted. He reached across the small space between them, having adjusted to the darkness enough to see the outline of the other's features, and rubbed a thumb along an eyebrow. With distant laziness, he replied, "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Starsky confirmed with a nod. "Any objections?"

Hutch made an effort to shake his head, eyes closing yet again.

He felt the other shift closer, get on an elbow, lean over him. This time, when Starsky's lips touched his, Hutch felt hands in his hair. They moved about, massaging, while the lips were undemanding, yet firm.

Hutch wallowed in the loving feel of the hands. He didn't like it when women touched his hair, because it made him conscious of The Bald Spot, as well as the various other patches of thinning. And he always imagined their disappointment, even when they gave no such reaction. But Starsky knew all about his bald spot, knew all about the little things that aging was doing to his once seemingly-perfect features. And still loved him anyway.

Hutch made a conscious effort to kiss back, loving the sweet, surprisingly innocent feeling the contact produced. He was encouraged further as Starsky kept kissing -- moderately-timed pecks that were an end in themselves rather than a means to an end -- and placed a hand on the waist, squeezing with careful pressure, not wanting Starsky to think he was trying to take control.

At some point, between the kisses, Starsky reminded, "We're gonna do this all night, 'cause I really like kissing you, Hutch."

That makes two of us, pal. Gently, he suggested, "Think we ought to move to the bed?"

Lips pressed against him once again. "Good idea."

Hutch acted on impulse and put his arms around the other, squeezing tight.

"Isn't this great, Hutch?" the other managed after a grunt. "We can do this all the time, anytime we want, won't need no one else."

Hutch petted up and down the cotton of the shirt, long strokes that wanted to love and comfort and protect. He really didn't want them to talk too much, but he finally had to whisper, "How long have you had your 'agenda' in mind?" His hands continued to stroke, fingers massaging now.

"Put it together sometime in the past hour." Starsky was hovering over his partner, their chests pressed together. Then he asked, "Whatdja think, I've been thinking about this longer than that?" The question consisted of curiosity, flavored with surprise.

Hutch's grip eased. "I wasn't sure." He reached up to push back a still-damp curl. "I think we've both been thinking about it a while without really coming out and saying it."

"Yeah," came the thoughtful agreement. Then, after a moment, "It just seems to make a strange kind of sense, you know?" And, more gently, "It's just so nice bein' together like this. We won't ever have to hold nothin' back no more."

Hutch stroked Starsky's hair again, feeling his brows furrow. "Have you been holding back, partner?" He had thought these particular feelings of Starsky's hadn't existed much longer than his own.

"Well, you know," Starsky shrugged, finally shifting to one side, "there were certain things I was tryin' not to let myself think about. I mean, it seemed so out in left field an' all. And then it made me feel like a hypocrite, because of Johnny Blaine and how hard it was swallowing that he was what he was."

Hutch smiled softly in the darkness. "It doesn't make you a hypocrite," he said tenderly. "I don't think you were bothered so much by Blaine being gay as you were by the fact that he simply wasn't as wholesome has you'd been led to believe. Really, Starsk, wouldn't you have been just as upset if he'd died in the company of a female prostitute?"

"Not quite," the other replied after a moment. "But I see your point. 'Cept, you know, I felt kind of threatened, the idea of him bein' gay, because it made me think that maybe he had the hots for me or somethin' when I was younger."

"But he never gave any indication of that, right?" Hutch pursued, wanting to put Starsky's mind at ease about it. They had already talked about it in the days following Blaine's death, but Starsky had never come right out and put a name to his fear.

"No, of course he didn't."

"Well," Hutch continued, "don't you think it's highly likely he didn't see you like that? I mean, don't you think a homosexual man is just as capable of having non-sexual feelings of love toward young boys as a heterosexual man is capable of having non-sexual feelings of love toward young girls?"

Another moment of silence, then a soft snort. "When you put it like that, it makes sense." Starsky wriggled even closer to Hutch, and the blond's hand drifted from the hair down to the shoulders.

They were quiet a little longer, then the smaller man said, "You know, Hutch, I've had a lot of non-sexual feelings of love toward you over the years. I mean lots."

Hutch loved the way his heart swelled at moments like this. "I know. Same here."

"I just...," Starsky trailed off a moment. Then, "Well, you know, I don't know when they changed, started becoming sexual." A brief chuckle. "I know this sounds really crazy, but, even now, after what we just did, there's a part of me that's still kinda wonderin' if they really are sexual."

Hutch turned so that his forehead touched the other's hair. "Still some confusion, huh?"

"Yeah," the other admitted. "In a way. A nice way." A moment's pause, then, "Why, have you got it all figured out?"

Hutch laughed softly. "Not hardly. But I'm not sure figuring it out really matters so much. It'll come with time."

"Yeah. And, in the meantime, we should just enjoy ourselves, right?"

Another chuckle. "Right." Hutch pressed Starsky close, kissed his hair. "Love you."

Starsky kissed his chin.

"What do you say we move to the bed?"

Fingers stroked his mustache, touched his lips, dropped down to his chin, tickled along his throat. "Oh, yeah, we were going to do that, weren't we?"

In one swift move, Hutch was in a partial crouch, one knee on the floor. He gripped Starsky's hand, pulled as he stood, and the other was also on his feet a moment later, shirt brushing against his partner's.

They were so close together that it seemed only natural for Hutch to put his hands on the smaller man's waist. He held Starsky within the light grip, then bent his head. The other's face tilted up, waiting. Soft flesh met soft flesh, and the blond's hands tightened slightly as the most wonderful sensation of floating circulated through his veins.

"Mmm," he said, their lips still together.

"Mm-hm," Starsky agreed.

It made Hutch wonder then if Starsky felt the same as he -- that the other was just as anxious to be swept off his feet by someone strong and muscular and firm -- and perhaps he had been unfair by expecting Starsky to initiate everything.

They were going to have to find their way -- perhaps stumble and even fall on occasion -- but Hutch was somewhat cheered by the recollection that Starsky hadn't objected to the idea of being on top first. He wondered if that was because the other relished the idea of domination, or if he was merely afraid of the idea of being submissive.

If so, it was a fear that Hutch did not share, though he did not understand why. But what he did know was that now was not the time to ponder it. Instead, he put an arm around Starsky's waist, guided them both toward the bed with slow, deliberate steps. The motion made him aware of the uncomfortable dampness in his shorts, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to discard his clothing just yet. There was something very appealing about the idea of spending the entire night learning to love each other... though he really didn't think they were going to last that long.

Starsky seemed to be of the same mind, for once they were beside the bed, he didn't pause to undress, but sat down upon it. He took Hutch's arms, beckoning the blond to lay on top of him, as they lowered themselves to the mattress. Hutch leaned on an elbow, so the other didn't have to support his weight.

"Buddy," the taller man whispered, "is it all right if I turn on a lamp? I'd like to see you."

"Sure." Whatever shyness had caused the darkness in the first place was apparently gone.

Hutch reached to the stand beside the bed, felt a moment, then the room was illuminated by a weak bulb. He turned back, smiled when he saw the familiar blue eyes watching him. "You still look the same," he noted softly.

"Whadyja think? We both were gonna be transformed into something else?"

Hutch didn't answer, but lay back down on the mattress, leaning over his partner, studying the other, looking into his eyes.

Starsky looked back. Then he reached up with a finger, lightly brushed the mustache, moved up to trace around the pale eyebrows.

Hutch closed his eyes, savoring the feel.

"I love you, Hutch. You're just so beautiful. I mean -- I mean I'm not talkin' just about you bein' blond and all. I'm talking about all the ways you're beautiful -- just big and strong and masculine and beautiful and a thousand other things."

Hutch had to duck his head then, feeling that a well which had already been filled, seemingly hours ago, was seriously overflowing. His eyes opened. "You've already counted the ways," he scolded tenderly. And he placed his hand on Starsky's forehead, wanting badly to touch.

The curly-haired man turned his face into the arm, kissed whatever flesh his lips could reach, then gazed back at the blond through the corner of his eye.

Hutch thought he might collapse, from sheer feeling if nothing else. With his other hand, he stroked a cheek, then cupped the other's face. With soft wonder, he said, "You're so full of love and life." His brows furrowed. "Sometimes I'm not sure why someone like you would even want to get mixed up with someone like me."

"You love me, don't you?" Starsky asked in answer, eyes bright with the childlike innocence.

Hutch felt the emotion spread to his voice. "Who couldn't love you?" he asked, shaking his head.

Now, it was the other's expression that seemed to pull together into a tight wall of withheld emotion. With a voice that held a quiver, Starsky whispered, "But it means more, coming from you."

Hutch couldn't imagine why, but it was hardly something he wanted to get into a discussion about. He decided it was time to shut them both up, and bent his head.

When the contact was made this time, he let his hands, which were on Starsky's shirt, spread out in opposite sides, rubbing as they moved, feeling over the ribs, then moving up and down the sides in a slow massage.

"Mmm," Starsky approved, and reached to lock his arms around Hutch's back. He moved as though wanting to roll them over, and Hutch yielded easily, taking them onto their sides. Then he moved onto his back, pulling Starsky on top of him. Their lips hadn't parted, and now the smaller man pressed more firmly, while gradually hoisting himself onto his knees, as though wanting to make sure he didn't press particularly sensitive areas against each other.

Starsky kissed Hutch again, then again. The touch was still light, an undemanding demonstration of sweetness and feeling. But having his partner on top of him made Hutch all the more aware of the warmth created by their closeness. He reached up, felt along the front of the other's shirt, rubbing firmly enough to feel the fur beneath. When he'd been with Kathy, he had found the thought of hair and muscle less than appealing; but that had just been an image of fantasy. This was Starsky. His hands had felt this body many times... to comfort, heal, support, and be supported by. He knew it almost as well as his own. And there was nothing unlovable about it. He liked the masculine feel of it, the safety and assurance... and the tenderness.

Hutch reached to the buttons.

"Hey," Starsky said, a gentle twinkle lighting his eyes. "You gettin' a little anxious?"

"No," Hutch assured, wondering if he were lying. He parted the two top buttons, then the next. "What are you being shy about?" he teased. "It's not like you can show me anything I haven't already seen before."

Starsky grinned at him then, but it was filled with passion more than humor. The smaller man lowered his face again, while also arching his back, so Hutch's hands had room to move. The kiss this time was slightly more heated.

The passion increased as each closure was parted, and when the last button was undone, Hutch rubbed his hands up his partner's entire length, then slipped them around the back, inside the shirt. No, indeed, there was nothing unappealing about this man's body.

Starsky's kisses were deeper now, though still brief. He wormed his own hands between their bodies, then paused to mumble, "No fair," when encountering the buttoned shirt.

Hutch wasn't sure he wanted to drag this out all night. His heart was thundering and his groin was coming to life once again. He dropped his hands and used them instead to brace against the mattress and hoist his own body up, causing Starsky to shift to one side.

Hutch looked his partner in the eye while quickly undoing the buttons to his own shirt, parting the flaps with an aggressive motion.

Starsky got the message. He straightened and removed his shirt, too.

Their lips rejoined with the new areas of flesh exposed. Hutch felt the other had forgotten the "all night" vow as well, because now Starsky made it a point to press his coarseness against the opposite smoothness as though he could no longer wait; and, as before, Hutch found himself wondering how they had spent so many years together and never done this.

He could hold back no longer and thrust his groin against the firmness of Starsky's body. This time, when the curly head pulled back, the voice was trembling. "I don't wanna come in my pants again."

Hutch responded to the concern, thrust with his legs, and tipped them both over to their sides. He pressed against the other, fingers frantically feeling for the jeans. With a sense of deja vu, he unsnapped the denim and both hands worked on each side of the hips, trying to force them off.

Starsky groaned against his mouth, and the vibration excited the blond further. He found the damp, sticky heat... not nearly as erect as before, but growing into his touch.

Starsky's kisses became more demanding, lengthening in duration, tongue thrusting. The darker man's hands were also busy, petting frantically up and down the smooth chest, and when Hutch thrust his hips forward with a whimper, the hands finally moved down there, first grasping the crotch from the outside, then working to open the jeans.

When they finally parted for breath, Hutch panted, "Let's get them off."

They angled away from each other, each man working quickly to rid himself of the barrier of clothing. They came back together, tan skin against pale white, and as they kissed this time, still on their sides, Starsky managed, "Wanna do a sixty-nine?"

Hutch's desire was such that he felt compelled to say "Yes" to anything that was suggested. But past experience made him hesitate, for that particular act was best performed by partners who were familiar with pleasing each other. He didn't like the idea of Starsky sucking him while distracted, nor did he want to return the same favor for his partner unless he was able to give the act his full attention.

The blond shook his head. "I'll do you." He raised on an elbow.

Deep blue eyes captured his own. "You sure?"

Hutch managed a slight smile. "I'm sure." He let his feelings show on his face, while placing a hand on the bare, trim stomach. "I want to please you that way."

Starsky reached down to his erection and squeezed it soothingly. "It might be kinda gross," he noted hesitantly, "since it's all yucky from before."

Hutch's hand moved from Starsky's stomach up to his face, and he brushed his fingers with a feather-light touch along one cheek. "There's nothing gross about you," he said tenderly. "Besides, it all ought to taste the same, wet or dry."

"Okay," the other said through a deep breath, settling back against the mattress and spreading his legs. "I'll do you afterwards."

Hutch's smile softened as he made a noise of "Okay". He got on his knees, hoisted himself over his partner's bare legs, glad that they had the light on so he could see the other lying there so expectantly.

Just as he bent toward the straining maleness, he glanced up at his partner. He found the other staring at him with hooded eyes and the bare hint of a smile. Then a hand reached out, brushed along Hutch's mustache, then his lips, then his chin.

"You're so damn beautiful," Starsky whispered.

Hutch ducked his head, usually not bashful about his looks, but feeling so now. He distracted himself with the reminder that his partner was so fascinated by the mustache. So he ducked his head further, pressed his lips to the soft skin of an inner thigh, then dragged his upper lip along it.

Starsky giggled, flexed his leg. "That tickles."

Hutch mentally filed that fact away for later use. For now, he focused back on his partner's center, thinking he was about to do something that he'd never seriously thought of doing before... until recent weeks. He was sure that he could, and the more he allowed his gaze to rest on that cylinder of flesh and blood, the more excited he became by the idea of manipulating it to his will.

In one swift move, he hoisted himself onto his forearms, which rested on either side of his partner's pelvis, and placed his mouth over the head.

The flavor of semen hit him immediately, its bitter tang surprising in its potency. He heard a groan of delight from his partner, felt his own maleness hardening, but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He began sucking, thinking about what he liked best, and found himself with a degree of confidence that was surprising. He knew how he liked it done, and it suddenly seemed so obvious that all he had to do was apply what he knew to the cylinder within his mouth. Starsky's thighs spread further, and Hutch took in more of the shaft, also surprised to find that he genuinely enjoyed the spongy texture, which was becoming more and more turgid. Starsky was continuing to make vocal noises, which encouraged him on. Hutch was so intent on his task that he almost flinched when a hand brushed along his cheek. But then he closed his eyes at its tender feel, and felt his heart swell when the hand slid around to his chin, feeling along his throat. Hutch understood the gesture -- the fascination with feeling your bedmate's throat while they worked on your cock, wanting to feel with your hand those muscles that created such wonderful suction. It encouraged him all the more, and he settled more comfortably against the mattress, not wanting to hurry, but wanting Starsky to know that he was enjoying pleasing him.

"Oh, man, Hutch," the darker man whispered. "That's nice. That's really nice. Gettin' kinda close."

Somewhat reluctantly, Hutch released the firm column. Gently, he asked, "Want me drag it out, or want me to make you come?" He liked the feeling of power it gave him, knowing he could do either.

Starsky was looking down at him with slitted eyes. His hand moved from Hutch's throat up into the blond hair, fingers entwining in the strands, and Hutch felt his heart beat with tenderness, for there was such a loving feeling in the gesture.

"You're beautiful," Starsky whispered. "You know that?"

Hutch thought the non-answer meant that Starsky didn't want to have to make a choice. So he decided to enjoy himself and turned his attention back to the erection, it having softened slightly after being exposed to the air. Hutch pressed his face beneath it, letting his skin feel the tight plumpness of the testicles, the wiriness of hair, and rubbed his upper lip against the wrinkled skin there.

Starsky giggled.

The blond grunted with amusement, then licked leisurely at the delicate flesh, using long, firm strokes of his tongue. Starsky's legs spread further, and Hutch dipped lower, darting at the small area beneath the scrotum, wondering how long it would be before he would have the nerve to lick lower still. He had no doubt that he would at some point, but it wasn't going to be tonight. He liked the idea that some discoveries still awaited.

Hutch paused for breath, then kissed back up with firm, quick motions. His mouth followed up the shaft, kissed the very tip, then continued into the pubic hair, this time his tongue darting out to lap along the curls.

"That feels funny," Starsky noted, but he remained still. Then his hand clutched a shoulder when Hutch kissed across the soft skin of his stomach. A moment later and the hand was at the back of Hutch's neck. "Come 'ere. Come up here."

Hutch responded with enthusiasm, hoisting himself forward to plant his lips across Starsky's. He pressed with a side-to-side motion, and both men groaned against each other.

When the blond pulled back, he kissed the bridge of Starsky's nose, then his forehead.

Starsky's hand traced the full, soft lips. He looked into his partner's eyes, swallowed, then whispered, "If you were a woman, I'd turn us over and slip into you."

Hutch felt more tenderness flare inside him, for he knew the confusion was with them again. Gently, he noted, "You still can."

The swallow this time was very thick, and fingers danced across Hutch's forehead, then nestled in his hair again. "Don't think it's gonna be that easy."

The blond smiled softly and bent closer. "Easy or not, I'd like you to do it." He liked the casualness in his voice, for he hoped it communicated his confidence and belief... and desire.

The fingers tightened their hold on the palomino strands. "I'm just not sure it's gonna feel very good to ya. Ever know a woman who loved getting ass-fucked? I mean, besides in the movies?"

Hutch lowered his eyes. He understood the fear, the concern, and wondered how he could convince Starsky that he really didn't care whether it was physically enjoyable or not. He looked up again, whispering, "I'd like knowing I was pleasing you." He placed his hand on the furry chest, rubbed back in forth with a brief, gentle motion. "I like the idea of us being able to have that kind of closeness, sharing that kind of intimacy." Hutch's brow furrowed as a new thought struck. "I think it would be a special thing, just for us, since no one's ever done that to me before." Hutch felt his tone intensify. "And you're the only one who ever will."

Another deep breath, this time of a peculiar defeat, as Starsky rolled to lay on his back, his hands dropping to the mattress.

Hutch scratched at the center of Starsky's chest with a thumbnail. "There's Vaseline in the john. I'll go and get ready."

Without looking at him, Starsky grabbed Hutch's hand, kissed it, then released it.

Hutch went into the bathroom. His heart was pounding with excitement as he opened the medicine cabinet. He hadn't thought they'd do it right away, but now that the moment was here, he didn't want anything to make Starsky hesitate. He applied a liberal helping of the ointment, hoping that Starsky would attend to that task in the future. He took the jar in one hand, grabbed a couple of hand towels with the other, and returned to the bed.

The curly-haired man noted the jar. "Did you put it in?"

"Yeah. But I need to put some on you, too."

Starsky stroked his length, as though soothing it, while looking away from his partner. "I hope it feels okay, Hutch."

Hutch knelt on the bed. "Hey, we're a couple of virgins, so to speak, trying to get it on. I'm not expecting fireworks, pal."

"Don't see how it can feel good at all," the other noted glumly.

Hutch shrugged as he scooped out the Vaseline with a trio of fingers. "I imagine it's like lapping up your lady's juices. You wouldn't want it by itself, but you love it when it's proof that you're pleasing your woman."

"Yeah," the other agreed with a sigh, "but I think fucking should be a mutual enjoyment. Not just a sacrifice by one so the other can feel good."

Hutch settled between his partner's legs. He gently took the swaying penis in one hand, covered the head with the grease from the coated fingers. Firmly, he said, "Pleasing you is pleasing me, pal."

Starsky closed his eyes and sighed gratefully. "That feels good," he said in a whisper.

The taller man reached to place the jar on the nightstand. Then he picked up a towel and wiped his hands, then moved to one side. "All ready."

The other swallowed, then reached to the lamp. "I gotta turn off the light," he said nervously.

The room went dark, and Hutch gently teased, "So you can pretend I'm Raquel Welch?" But he realized a part of him wondered if it were true.

"No," Starsky replied firmly. "I just like havin' the lights off sometimes so I can focus on the sensations."

"Maybe we're going to need to blindfold you sometime."

"Hey, I've had a few girlfriends do that to me," came the casual reply. "It was no big deal. Not like a special turn-on or anything."

Hutch was tired of talking. He felt for the other in the dark, found the chin, then held it as he lowered his face and pressed their lips together. He darted his tongue out, then reached for Starsky's crotch with his free hand. When he felt the stickiness of the grease, he reached lower to the firm plumpness, then pressed with both his hand and his mouth.

The body beneath him squirmed, and Hutch pressed a final time, then drew back. He felt intensely excited -- in his groin, in his stomach, in his chest -- and asked, "Do you want me to get in a crouch? Do it doggy style?"

A hand was on his waist, and the reply was firm. "No, you shouldn't do it like that the first time. You've got to lay on your side, and I'll spoon myself around ya. It makes it easier to be careful."

He really wished Starsky wouldn't worry so much about being "careful", but Hutch knew that he couldn't change the gentleness that was such an ingrained part of the man he loved so much... nor would he want to. And he knew too that, someday, when their positions were reversed, he would be as gentle as he'd ever been with anyone.

Hutch obeyed, turning onto his right side, and wondered how it was that Starsky sounded so experienced. He'd known practically every time the other had done it, of course, for Starsky would usually tell him about his sexual conquests the next morning... that is, as long it was with "just a girl". Hutch never heard any of the details of Starsky's love-making with Helen, or Terry, or Rosey Malone. That was always the clue that Starsky really cared... when he wasn't willing to share.

Hutch felt the other get behind him. A finger touched his anus, barely pushed against the ring of muscle, then pulled at the edges, trying to stretch and open it. The finger felt as though it took up all the available space, and Hutch couldn't imagine that there would be enough room for anything larger. Yet, he did not fear the upcoming penetration, for he knew if women could handle it, then he could, too. And none of them had probably ever yearned for it as badly as he, from the one person who meant more than all others combined.

The muscle was stretched further with two fingers, then the digits were removed. Hutch felt the brush of the moist phallus against his buttocks. His head angled back over his shoulder. "Really, Starsk, I don't mind if it hurts. I just want to feel you... all around me, inside me...."

"All right, blondie," the other breathed heavily, "you got it." Starsky reached to pet Hutch's hair. "Love you." His voice softened. "Love you so much."

Hutch reached back, found a hand, squeezed it. "Love you, too." After that, there was only the sound of their thick breathing. Hutch felt the tip of firm hardness between his buttocks. He shifted his hips, trying to help it find its goal. After another moment of searching, it nestled against his anus. Then a hand squeezed his upturned buttock, beckoning it to hold still.

"'M gonna push it in," Starsky warned breathlessly, "so you know how it's gonna feel, then I'm gonna pull it right out, give you a moment to get used to the idea."

All of Hutch's impatient protests died without ever being voiced. He swallowed thickly, thinking shamefully of how he had treated Kathy that last night. Obviously, Starsky was head and shoulders above him in the consideration department. He wondered if his partner had always been this gentle, or if perhaps hurting someone once had made him particularly careful ever since.

There was pressure against the opening, the feel of a hand lifting the hardness, aiming it more accurately, and then more pressure that bordered on pain. Then suddenly the slick barrier yielded, and the head popped in. The pain was scorching this time, the muscle stretched unbearably wide, and Hutch couldn't stifle a desperate gasp. He silently admitted his relief when the pressure was suddenly gone.

A hand rubbed up and down his shoulders. "Gonna be okay, babe?"

"Yeah, it's okay," he replied heavily, feeling the sweat on his forehead. Then an honest, "That's one big monster you've got, partner."

"It can be tamed," Starsky noted gently. "All it wants to do is please you." Then softly, "Let me know when you're ready to try again."

Hutch felt himself relax more, knowing that he wouldn't have to face the pressure again until he was ready. He breathed deeply a few times and felt his body calm. Another moment, then he nodded. "Okay."

The flesh was placed against him again, and he felt his body's instinctive, defensive response. He took another deep breath, forcing himself to relax, to accept. "Starsk, keep it in this time... no matter what."

The push was there, the pain again as strong, but not as difficult because Hutch knew to expect it. He let it wash through him, focused on the fact that it was a part of Starsky that, until very recently, he had never expected to share. That, perhaps, Starsky would never again share with anyone else.

Hutch closed his eyes.

There was another push, and a different sort of pressure as the hardness reached deeper. He felt Starsky move back slightly, then push even farther in, and this time when Hutch gasped it was a noise of surprise that he could be penetrated so deeply.

There was a quiver in the Starsky's voice as his front pressed all along Hutch's back. "Feels good, babe. Feels so good." A hand went around Hutch's penis, and the blond realized then how much it had shrunk. It nestled gratefully against the warmth.

There was a strange sort of comfort in lying against the mattress, his partner surrounding him and inside him. Hutch started to move. "Let's shift so you have room to pump."

He felt the other's smile. "It's kinda nice just like this."

"I know, but I want you to fuck me." Hutch heard the firmness in his own voice, the determination. He wondered if, someday, he would understand it. "Stay with me while I roll onto my stomach."

He didn't give Starsky a chance to respond, but shifted with a slow deliberate movement. The other tried to follow, but between the slickness and lack of coordination, they came apart. Hutch took the moment to grab a pillow and place it beneath himself. Unhappy with the angle, he grabbed a second pillow and placed it on top of the first, then lowered himself upon it. His penis hardened when it encountered the soft firmness of the mountain of cloth, and when Hutch spread his legs further, he realized he could not hear or feel his partner.

He reached back. "You okay, Starsk?" It was difficult to see in the dark.

A hand was immediately on his right, upturned buttock. "Yeah." The reply carried the tone of curiosity and bafflement. Gruffly, the other whispered, "You really want this, don't you?"

There was a moment of silence, while Hutch tried to find a reply that would explain it... to his partner and to himself. But all he could come up with was honesty. "Yes."

"Okay," Starsky replied, as though reaching a decision within himself.

The pressure was again against Hutch's anus, but the muscle had been stretched from their earlier joining, and it presented no resistance to the hardness that pressed its way in; in fact, the blond felt a novel satisfaction in being filled once again with his partner's flesh.

The satisfaction, he realized, came not only from the penis within. It also came from feeling the powerful thighs against the back of his legs, the firm stomach against his back, the masculine chest against his shoulders, the heavy breath near his neck.

"Fuck me," he demanded.

Hands gripped his shoulders. The phallus pulled back, then shoved in further, and Starsky groaned.

"Ah, yes," Hutch encouraged in a hot whisper. "That's it, Starsk. Fuck me. Fuck me."

A noise that sounded like a cross between a groan and a defeated cry emerged from the man above him. Then, suddenly, Starsky was pumping in earnest, his hips jerking in brief, rapid strokes. The rhythm reminded Hutch of a machine gun, and even as he felt a rawness in his anal walls with each forward and backward motion, he relished the feel of the powerful pelvis against his ass, the steel-hard cylinder that seemed to reach deeper and deeper inside him. Even his own penis was responding, and he had to restrain the urge to reach beneath to stroke it, for he didn't want anything to disrupt Starsky's rhythm.

A shiver went through Hutch's spine when he heard, and felt, a deep groan of pleasure build within his partner's chest. He wanted to give this to Starsky so the other never had to look for it anywhere else, and he suddenly understood his partner's possessiveness earlier in the evening.

"Oh, God," Hutch encouraged. "God, Starsk. Fuck me, buddy. Fuck... fuck... fuck me."

The speed of the hips increased to an incredible pace, and Hutch felt himself shiver from a deep place that had nothing to do with his groin, for he knew his own penis wasn't getting nearly enough stimulation for orgasm. Yet there was pleasure soul-deep, and it seemed to be yet another well that was spilling over as his partner started screaming.

Hutch never knew exactly when it was that Starsky's ejaculation occurred. He only knew that the scream went on for a long time, was raw and masculine and deep, and then transformed into a near sob. And then Starsky collapsed onto Hutch's back for half a second before falling to the mattress, leaving Hutch feeling alone and cold.

"God," Starsky whispered, almost as though in pain. "God... God..."

The taller man started to move, found his groin muscles ached from his legs being stretched so far apart, and he was careful about dislodging himself from the pillows. When he spoke, his voice emerged with a soft quality. "I'm going to get the light." When he didn't receive a protest, Hutch reached to the lamp, groaned from the soreness at having been in such an awkward position.

Suddenly, the bed was illuminated. Starsky was lying flat on his back at the lower end, his legs draping off one side. He had already found a peach-colored towel and was using it while staring at the ceiling. His chest was still heaving, and the hair on his forehead was damp.

While Hutch searched for something to say, for he felt an uncharacteristic awkwardness, Starsky took a moment to glance at the wash cloth as he drew it along his shrinking length a final time. Then his hand suddenly froze. With a degree of alarm, he said, "Hutch, you're bleeding." He twisted to look at the blond, mouth open.

Their eyes met and Hutch saw the concern in those sapphire blue depths. He smiled gently. "It's all right. I'm a virgin, remember?"

Starsky's forehead wrinkled with distaste at the joke. Then a guilty, "I got carried away. You could be really hurt or somethin'."

"I don't think so," the blond replied. He had a strong urge to cover himself and stood to find his robe. "Be back in a minute."

While in the bathroom, he took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror, trying to see what had changed, what characteristic would explain the desire for domination that he had acquired. The mirror held no answers, and when he returned to the bedroom, he focused on reassuring his partner. "I'm okay."

Starsky was sitting against the headboard, the covers drawn up to his waist, watching Hutch with wide eyes. Though the other was bare chested, Hutch could see the hint of pajama bottoms through an opening in the arrangement of bedding. "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Hutch chuckled softly, wanting to put them both more at ease. He bent to a dresser and found a clean pair of shorts, put them on beneath the robe. He shrugged. "I'm a little sore, but otherwise...."

Now those eyes narrowed in curiosity, and the voice was quiet and serious. "What did it feel like?"

Hutch gingerly got into bed, only partially sitting up. Words were difficult to find, so he settled once again on raw honesty. "Like having something big and powerful shoved up my ass." His voice softened as he looked at the man beside him. "Like sharing something with you." Softer still, "Like giving you something special... and making me feel special."

Starsky blinked, looked down at the sheets a moment. Then, "But it didn't really feel good, did it? I mean, you didn't come or anything, did you?"

Hutch thought about that, let his mind study the memory of the sensations that he hadn't been able to analyze while they were happening. After a moment, he replied, "It was starting to feel good just behind my nuts. I think if the angle had been different, it might have started to feel really good." After a moment, the answer presented itself, and he casually said, "You know, the good ol' prostate gland."

From his partner's expression, Starsky was still doubtful. But, firmly, the smaller man said, "Then next time we're gonna adjust the angle."

"Okay," Hutch laughed softly. He looked over at his partner, waited until the other turned to meet his eye. "Hey," he said, "thank you... for giving me what I wanted."

The confusion was there again on the other's face. But then Starsky shifted slightly and pressed himself against his partner's side, and the warmth that resulted, physical and emotional, was no different than what they had experienced a thousand times before. And it felt like home.

"Felt real good, Hutch," the smaller man said in a barely audible whisper. Then, "What are we gonna do now?"

The tenderness was there again, full force. Hutch put his arm around Starsky, drew the other closer against him. "Just keep loving each other, like we always have."

The phone rang, and both men jolted apart.

Starsky pressed a hand to his forehead. "Damn, I hope that's not Dobey with another body."

Hutch swallowed, picked up the receiver. "Hutchinson."

"Ken?" came the cheerful voice at the other end.

Hutch relaxed, nudged his partner. "Kathy. Hi."

"Hey, sorry it's so late, but it's been a crazy day."

"That's okay," Hutch assured. Starsky had straightened and was now on his knees beside him.

"Listen, baby, I'm going to be in L.A. all day tomorrow. I know there's probably no chance of you getting off work, but maybe we can get together later in the evening?"

"Uh... uh...," Hutch glanced at Starsky while searching for the right thing to say. He felt silly for hesitating, then made a decision and firmly said, "Uh, look, Kathy, I'm seeing someone right now."

"Oh." Her voice was suddenly flat. She'd ridden out his relationships before. Then the sweetness was back. "I wish you the best then. Maybe I'll call back in a month or so and see how it's going?"

"Uh, yeah, if you'd like. But I think this is pretty serious."

"This might be the one, huh?" she said in a friendly manner.

"Yeah, uh, I think it could be the one."

Now she snorted with exaggeration. "Well, if that David ever gets home, maybe I can spend tomorrow evening with him. You don't know if he has any plans, do you?"

Hutch now felt guilt start to intrude. "Uh, Kathy, David is seeing someone steady, too. It's pretty serious." He met Starsky's eye, and thought he had the other's approval, for there was no protest, though Hutch thought his partner probably could handle this conversation better than himself.

Now she sounded suspicious. "You both got snagged at once, huh? That's pretty incredible."

Hutch forced a chuckle. "That's just the way it turned out, honey. Maybe spring fever came a little early."

"Well," she said levelly, "if either of you ever need to be cured of your 'fever', I'd like to play nurse."

The blond felt uncomfortable, forced another laugh. "Yeah, we'll keep you in mind."

There was an awkward pause, then she said, "Guess I definitely am going to have to start a little black book again."

Hutch didn't know what to say to that.

Her voice softened. "Ken?"

"Yeah?"

"If this is the one, I hope you'll be happy. Really I do."

"I know. Thank you. I'm sure there's someone special out there for you, too."

Now she seemed uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, listen, I won't keep you. Say hello to David for me."

"I will."

"Bye."

"Goodnight." Slowly, Hutch hung up the phone.

Starsky searched his face. "Is she okay?"

"I think so. Disappointed, obviously."

Starsky sighed and settled back against the mattress. "Yeah, well, losing us both at once is probably quite a blow."

The other had said it so seriously that Hutch found himself amused. "Braggart." The humor felt good, and as he, too, settled into bed, he said, "She always liked me more than you, anyway."

"Yeah?" Starsky countered. "So says you."

Hutch switched off the light. A moment later, his partner was snuggled against his side, with the same trust that was so prevalent before any of this had ever happened. Hutch put his arm around the smaller, broader form, pulled it tighter against him. Voice slightly strangled, he said, "Love you so much."

"Love you, too."

Outside, the rain began to fall.