DISCLAIMERS: This story exists solely for the enjoyment of those of us who care, and is not intended to infringe on any copyright or other legality of "Starsky and Hutch", Aaron Spelling, Leonard Goldberg, David Soul, Paul Michael Glaser, William Blinn, Michael Fisher, Freddie Mercury, Queen, Polygram or anydamnbody else that I might have overlooked. No money has been made from the story nor is there likely to be.

by Alexis Rogers

"Goddamnit," Hutch gasped as the weed's razor sharp leaves cut into his palm, then threw the plant to the ground. The crease turned bright red before he put his hand in his mouth, gently sucking on the wound.

The sun beat down on his bare skin, the heat sweating out the physical aches of the brutal week's work. Maybe the job was getting harder, he shrugged his shoulders, maybe he was getting old. The continuous encounters with the messed up kids, the junkies, the hookers, the endless stream of broken, bloody bodies were more than he could handle. It was bad enough fighting the criminal world, but fighting the system was totally debilitating.

Officer Fred Southall had been forced to resign on some minor infraction dreamed up by IA because the Department was looking for a way around Affirmative Action's new homosexuality clause. A good cop tossed out like yesterday's newspaper because somebody upstairs did not like his sexual inclinations. Hutch's stomach tightened in a knot. He wondered how long it would be before he and Starsky were tossed out. But they can't find us here.

Standing and stretching, Hutch raked the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the perspiration. Pushing the depressing thoughts aside, he decided that nothing was going to ruin his weekend. It was rare that they had both Saturday and Sunday off and they had promised themselves something special.

As he surveyed the results of his weeding, he viewed a row of green ashes inside a redwood fence which cocooned their home, the leafy branches shutting out prying eyes. A neat, trim yard surrounded a small split-level house that faced the Pacific Ocean. He smiled as he thought of Starsky bitching while he cleaned the smoked glass that was the west wall; as much a domestic chore as his weeding.

Hutch's eyes roamed the yard, lingering on the Jacarandas, whose tiny mignonette leaves looked forlorn without their soft lavender flowers, but the August heat had already claimed the last of the delicate petals. In the middle of the yard, standing tall with vibrant purple blossoms, was his Buddleia davidii, Starsky's butterfly bush. The one his partner impishly called "Davy". It's dark majestic beauty attracted flitting gold and blue butterflies the way Starsky attracted him.

A sharp bark announced the arrival of Starsky's gangling black Doberman, who ran across the yard and through the sprinkler, chasing a sea gull. Hutch took a step toward the puppy, but the animal was gone, probably back to his master.

Catching the sunlight, the water threw it back in a myriad of sparkling colors and tiny rainbows. Soft blades of grass tickled his bare feet, bringing a smile to his face at the images of other times when nature had cushioned his bare skin.

A football sailed by his ear and landed with a splash on the soggy lawn; his daydream evap-orated. Stepping to retrieve the ball, he stopped cold at the sound of two young voices:

{"Now what're we gonna do?"}

["Climb the fence and get it."]

{"Can't. My dad says two fuckin' queers live here."}

["Fuckin' queers? Oh yeah? Let's go see."]

{"No. He said not to ever go near this place. They kidnap boys and lock 'em in a closet."}

["Yeah? Big deal. So what's a fuckin' queer anyway?"}

["You know. Fairies. Fags. Guys who like boys instead of girls."]

{"Oh...ah...well...ah... How does your dad know all that?"}

["He saw 'em down on the beach--kissin'!"]

Pain. A spear through the heart. Was he never going to find peace? Were the narrow minds going to follow him all the way to his bedroom? Hutch held his head in his hands as his carefully constructed world dissolved into a surrealistic painting: colors too bright, totally meaningless, vivid impression of a nightmare.

Bile rose bitter in his throat as a shoe scraped on the fence. He wanted to take something in his bare hands and squeeze the life from it. Instead, he picked up the ball.

Furious, he poked his head through the tree branches and found himself facing two boys who could not have been more than nine or ten. The taller of the pair was sun-bleached-blond and golden from carefree days on the beach; the other was a redhead with an ample sprinkling of freckles. Two pairs of clear blue eyes met his, but the childhood innocence Hutch wanted to see was absent.

Despising the flush he could feel rising on his face, he asked, "You fellas lose this?" He balanced the ball in his left hand. "You live around here? Haven't seen you before." Just give 'em the ball, you ass, and let 'em get out of here. You don't have to prove your manhood to a couple of kids.

"Yeah." The blond swallowed nervously. "Sorry about the ball. It kinda got away from us."

A shock-stream of cold water sluiced his overheated back as a voice behind him shouted, "Hey, Hutch, whacha doin'?" Starsky plowed through the trees, and draped an arm playfully around Hutch's shoulders. He knocked the hand away savagely, ignoring the bewilderment that was plain in his partner's eyes. "Starsk. These guys are neighbors...I think." His thoughts were jumbled. The electricity of Starsky's touch had the power to short-circuit him.

The boys stared at them like they were freaks in a circus side show. Christ, why did he feel so dirty?

"This is my partner, fellas. We're cops. You know, L. A.'s finest." His words were too loud, accenting the phrase *fuckin' queers* as it reverberated through his head. He felt dizzy and cheap.

"You don't look like cops." The eyes were cold, accusation strong in the boy's statement. "Cops carry guns. And badges. You got a badge?"

Unable to face the questions in Starsky's eyes, Hutch stared at the ground.

"We really are cops, but we generally don't carry a badge when we're mowing the lawn." Starsky's voice was strong and authoritative as he took the ball from Hutch, turning it over in his hands. "We're plainclothes and it's a little hard to hide a gun when you're only wearin' shorts." Starsky tossed the football skyward, caught it with ease and then continued. "You guys play Pop Warner or just horse around?"

"Just horse around...." the redhead answered as the blond poked his ribs.

"Tommy, we gotta go." The first kid reached for the ball; Starsky handed it to him.

"See ya," Starsky called as the pair scurried away. Hutch slumped against the fence, his head spinning, his knees weak. As he saw Starsky disappear through the trees, he pushed himself upright and followed the man into the yard that had only moments ago been his haven.

"Cute kids. Maybe we can get together with 'em sometime and play football on the beach."

Hutch stared at his partner, hating the bubbling enthusiasm. "Are you crazy?"

"Huh? They're nice kids. It oughta be fun playin' ball with 'em."

"Aw fer chrissakes."

"What's the matter?"

Hating the whole world, Hutch turned his anger on a dandelion that had the nerve to invade his lawn. "Never mind." He hurled the offending weed through the row of trees, hoping the hot sun would take a long time draining the life from its yellow petals. He walked to the side of the house to turn off the water but his energy was gone. The weight of the world, *his world*, dropped on his shoulders, and the wood siding scraped his skin as he wilted.

"Hutch. You okay? Hey babe? What's wrong, too much sun? Hutch?"

Starsky's fingers grazed his bare shoulder; the tingle they caused frightened him. *Not safe. Never safe again.*

Anger and pain raged as he pushed himself away from the wall, and from Starsky. "Do you know what those kids said?"

"No, I don't." Starsky held out his hands, palms up. "What did they say?"

"Oh, forget it."

Crooked grin. "Okay. Wanna beer?"

Stalking toward the back door, Hutch mumbled, "I sure as hell need something."

Starsky grabbed his arm, pulling him around to face those penetrating blue eyes. "Tell me what's wrong." Starsky's hands clamped around his arms.

"No." Something precious had been fouled. He wanted to fight, but did not know who to hit; he wanted to run and did not know where to go.

"Maybe it's just too hot out here." The sudden spray of cold water hit him as Starsky inquired, "An' how'd you get so dirty? We'll never get those white shorts clean."

"Cut it out, Starsk." He stomped into the kitchen, heading for the refrigerator.

"Hey! I just mopped that floor and you're dripping water...get back out here and get those wet shorts off."

Oh Christ, Starsky, can't you see that's the problem? Listen to us. You sound like a fag queen. And I'm just your big, blond boy toy. He turned his back as he obeyed, slowly peeling the cloth from his damp skin. Starsky's eyes burned through him and he hated the color that stained his face. "Just leave me alone."

Starsky threw the orange robe at him "Either tell me what's buggin' you, Hutchinson, or shut up your goddamn bitchin'. This is *our* Saturday. Or have you forgotten?"

Bitchin'?! "Do you know what those kids called us?" Hutch belted the robe savagely.

"I would if you'd tell me." Starsky marched passed him.

"I'm so fuckin' mad I could...."

The refrigerator door slammed. "Here. Catch." He looked up in time to stop a brown bottle from colliding with the papered wall whose muted greens, browns, and yellows of herbs and spices had been his choice for their kitchen.

Starting to speak, he noticed that Starsky had already plopped down on the sofa, so he muttered to himself. "Whole goddamn weekend's ruined. Why can't people mind their own business? Why do they have to follow us home?" Gulping his beer, he wandered into the living room and he perched on the ottoman, but could not sit still. Everything in the neatly arranged room underlined exactly what he had become: Starsky's pictures properly framed and hung neatly on the wall; Starsky's magazines stacked on the polished coffee table; Starsky's presence in every aspect of his life. Hutch stared out the clean window, walked to the piano, plunked several keys, then dropped the sheet music on the floor.

"Tell me what's wrong."

Ignoring the words and the speaker, Hutch returned to the kitchen for another beer and flipped the top toward the sink. It pinged as it hit the floor. He stood at the window, looking out, but not seeing; absently he stroked the long trails of green and silver Wandering Jew. "Nothing you can make right."

"Oh."

Hutch turned to face his partner. "They called us fucking queers."

"Who?"

"Those kids. Starsk...goddamn it, they called us fucking queers...didn't know I could hear. Said their old man had seen us on the beach. Our beach! It's supposed to be private. We pay enough for the goddamn thing...." He rolled the bottle between his hands.

"Is that all?"

"Fucking queers, for Chrissakes. Two dumb little kids like that. What do people teach their kids these days?" He hurled the bottle against the wall, watching it splinter into a million tiny pieces.

Starsky left the room and returned with broom and dustpan. "Look, babe, you've heard it all before."

Getting himself another beer, Hutch went back to his window. "Fuckin' queers. Fairies. Fags. They don't even know what it means! Had a pretty good idea though. Guys who like men instead of girls. Makes it sound so simple." He sucked on the bottle neck, sipping the foam that ran down its side. "Is that all we are? Just a couple of fuckin' queers?"

"Forget it." Starsky finished sweeping the last of the glass. "You've heard all the words before--used 'em a few times yourself. Remember? Queer, motherfucker, cocksucker, buttfucker...." He shrugged.

Pacing the length of the room, Hutch watched his partner trash the glass and return the broom to its closet. A cold panic turned his blood to ice; he shivered.

Starsky walked back to him, draped an arm around his shoulders, and patted his belly with his free hand, creating sensations he could not handle. "Don't touch me."

"Hey." The word was soft, laced with confusion, but Starsky did not move.

"Don't touch me!" Hutch spun out of Starsky's grasp. "I can't take it right now." A bone weary sigh shook him. "Doesn't it hurt you when people pull this shit on us?"

"Not any more."

"Goddamn it! You didn't hear them. Starsky, they've seen us." He flopped down on the sofa and, with calculated precision, set the beer bottle on the floor.

"Look, we've talked about this before. We knew it had to happen sometime. This is our home, and I'm not gonna hide here."

Hutch covered his eyes with his forearm, his nose in the crook of his arm. "They've invaded our privacy. The next thing you know the orange juice lady will be counting the tubes of KY. They've gotten in here! Now they'll always be here, and I just can't take it."

Quiet prevailed as the darkness he had created covered him, then the coolness of damp fingers forced his eyes to open. Starsky was kneeling beside him. "I hate it when you do this to yourself. To us." Soft kisses on his hands frayed his nerves and he shoved Starsky back, toppling him over.

Starsky glared at him, eyes hard. "That's enough." And then the man was towering over him.

"Just leave me alone. I don't want it right now."

"The hell you don't."

Starsky's mouth was hard and cruel as it covered his. He hated the fire that curled in his belly, he hated Starsky for loving him, and he hated the world for hating him. He forced himself to relax and lie perfectly still, eyes closed. Powerful hands gripped his shoulders as his mouth was released. Then the pressure, and the presence, were gone. He did not open his eyes; afraid his beautiful world was gone.

The speakers crackled softly as Starsky flipped on the stereo. The loud blaring rock of Queen screaming "tie your mother down" blasted the room. "Give me every inch of your love," the music taunted.

Hutch turned, eyes opening, an obscenity on his lips. But the sight of his lover slumped against the window, shoulders sagging, forehead pressed against the glass, stopped the words. Before he could compose his thoughts, the breathy, sensual voice of Freddie Mercury floated into the room. It was a favorite song of theirs and he listened to the words, understanding what Starsky was saying.

"You've captured my love, stolen my heart, changed my life."

*Have I? As much as you've changed mine?*

"Every time you make a move, you destroy my mind. And the way you touch, I lose control and shiver deep inside."

You taught me how to touch you, how to make you purr, then you taught me you could give as well as take.

"I could give up all my life for just one kiss."

Yes, you could, couldn't you? You've always been so possessive, demanding and needing an ownership that I've never quite been able to accept or understand.

"I would surely die if you dismiss me from your love."

How could I? You are so much a part of my life that I couldn't survive without you. And that scares the hell out of me.

"So please don't go. Don't leave me here all by myself."

Starsky faced the pain written in those blue eyes--eyes that could seduce him and reduce him to quivering passion. And where, my beautiful dark lover, would I go?

"I will find you, anywhere you go. I'll be right behind you, right to the ends of the earth. I'll get no sleep till I find you to tell you when I've found you..."

Three beats. Eyes holding his with unveiled tenderness, hungry emotion. Simple chord. Last words, first words, only words:

"I love you."

Single button pressed and the stereo arm swung slowly to its resting place. Silence enveloped the room, holding each of them suspended in unreality. v The sofa depressed as Starsky dropped beside him, taking his hands. "It's not simple and it's never easy, but it is worth it."

"I know, but...."

"No 'buts' babe. I can't live with you like this and I can't live without you."

Cool lips skimmed his eyelids as fingers slipped from his to travel through his hair. He moved his hands to hold his lover by the back of the neck, fingers tangling in dark, silky curls. Warm mouth opened, taking him.

"I'm sorry, Starsk," he mumbled into soft breath.

"Shhhh."

Starsky's mouth brushed his, then returned to claim him, tongue thrusting deeply inside, taking his breath. His robe was opened and slipped from him as fingers traversed him knowingly. His nipples were kissed, aroused to pebble hardness; shivers ran through him. His hips lifted off the sofa only to be anchored by strong hands.

"Don't be in such a hurry. You're not punchin' a time clock. I'm gonna start a little fire...here...like this...."

Kisses, wet and succulent, followed an erotic path across the planes of his stomach, tongue plunging into his navel.

"ummmmm...ohgod...ummmm...."

Hutch reached out, but Starsky took his hands, kissing the fingers, then pushed them away. One hand was placed on the back of the sofa, the other on a cushion. "You better hang on tight," fingers clamping his onto rough fabric, "'cause I'm gonna blast you through the ceiling and fuck you through the floor."

One leg was lifted and hooked on the sofa back, the other shoved aside. Fingertips outlined the muscles of his legs while a scalding mouth left a trail of tiny marks that would darken with time, then fade only to be replaced by Starsky's touch.

Warm, slick fingers entered him at the same moment a moist tongue lapped at the first droplets of fluid. His hips gyrated under the delightful pressure and he moaned helplessly. "Does this...."

Tongue skimming the engorged head, sliding across satiny smoothness.

"...make us fuckin' queers?"

Flames danced as the tongue teased.

"And this...."

Rigid flesh engulfed by velvet wetness, spreading fire.

"...make us cocksuckers?"

Dry palm cupped over slick, sensitive tissue, rotating slowly, while fingers worked themselves further inside, driving him wild.

"David." Love, life, breath, hope, sanity. Hutch remembered something his partner had said a long time ago, at their beginning: "Since man first discovered sex, he's condemned it with one hand and perverted it with the other. And ten'll get twenty, it's them that ain't gettin' it doin' the condemnin'." Maybe it was true.

Starsky's soft laughter bubbled over him. "You keep squirmin' like that, babe, and you're gonna fall off the couch." A hand skirted across his chest, pinching his nipples, while fingers thrust deeper, harder, faster.

Secured more tightly than if he were bound with rope, he could only writhe and moan under Starsky's ministrations. Hands and tongue and lips explored and caressed, tortured him with pleasure.

"Take me. You bastard. Fuck me. Oh please Starsky, goddamn you...love me...."

And he was lost in the maelstrom of Starsky's control, flying, soaring, falling only to climb again as time stopped. He traveled planes of delirious joy, knowing nothing except the hands and mouth that held him, dismantled him, rebuilt him.

"Christ...Starsk...please make me come...let me explode...please...." And there were blinding colors, crashing, blending, fading, flaring, dissolving, reappearing. A Chagall painting: colors too bright, totally meaningless, wild impression of fantasy. He rocketed skyward to the highest levels of ecstasy before spiraling downward to his own reality: Starsky's hands that held him securely; Starsky's mouth that milked him gently, thoroughly; and Starsky.

Hutch drifted outside the regular flow of time, until strong hands eased away the last smoky traces of rapture. Whispered command: "Open your eyes. Hutch...look at me."

The image was blurred as the solid masculine form stood, stretching voluptuously. "Look at me, babe. Look at what you do to me."

The crotch strained against the thin denim of Starsky's cut-offs as his thumbs circled the inside of the waistband. "You make me want you so fuckin' much...."

Hips wiggled as the shorts dropped to the floor, the glistening cock pulsating desire, need, power. "Hutch. This is what I am. For you. All that I am."

Sun-browned hands skimmed over the bare bronze chest, skin glowing, dark silky hair curling under tantalizing touches, nipples hardening under sure fingers. Hutch ached to hold the man, to feel his lover quiver, but he could not move; limbs languid from loving, mind mesmerized by the man.

"You just watch. I'll do it all." Starsky's voice was slurred and husky as his cock jumped and surged, his own hands stroking the full column, caressing the inside of his thighs, cupping heavy balls. Drops of desire oozed forth, urgent need manifested from within.

Kneeling on the sofa between spread legs, Starsky's hungry mouth retracing the line of faint dark circles. "I'm gonna fuck you and I want you to watch. Know what you do to me."

Throbbing hardness pressed against the tight ring of muscle while brunette curls entwined with blond.

"I want you. All of you."

Starsky leaned over him, electricity arcing between them as a savage mouth took his, all gentleness gone, replaced by harsh, driving need. Starsky's lips bruised his, Starsky's hands clawed his flesh. The pain forcing action from Hutch's sated limbs, he encircled his lover with crushing arms and clasped powerful legs around slim hips. Passion seethed anew as teeth cut sharply into his neck. Moisture trickled slowly across his throat; he did not know if it was blood or sweat. Did not care.

Starsky's weight dropped vehemently onto him, pinning him down, driving the breath from his straining lungs. Blackness threatened as he struggled to remove the burden from his chest. As his strength failed, the pain eased and his eyes focused on the blood-smeared lips of his lover. Then his mouth was seized, devoured, consumed, the taste of blood sharp while Starsky's nails gouged deep furrows down both arms. Pain gripped Hutch and he threw Starsky backwards. His thoughts were seared in red as each wound inflamed him, propelled him into another dimension. "Now, you son of a bitch, take me!"

"Look at me! Goddamn you! Watch me fuck you!"

As if he could tear his eyes away. Somewhere deep inside of him the pain intensified into pleasure and Hutch surrendered.

Raging need inscribed in glazed sapphire eyes. Commands shouted. "Move, you motherfuckin' cocksucker! Show me how much you want me!"

The smell of sex, blood, and sweat assaulted his nostrils as rock hard flesh rammed into him. Hutch wrapped his legs securely around Starsky's waist, lifting his own hips to pull his lover deeper inside. "Let me feel you! C'mon. All of you." Hutch clawed the bronze skin, blood staining his greedy fingers. Muscles tightened as he moved in rhythm to the ever increasing tempo.

Coherent thought was replaced by scarlet, vermilion, rust splattering across glimmering black, colors slowly dripping away only to return more forcefully. Abstract painting: color too bright, totally meaningless, explosive impression of sexuality.

Starsky's eyes rolled back in his head, pupils huge, obscuring the blue; mouth agape in soundless cry; vise grip closed on Hutch's cock. A gushing stream of fluid seared Hutch's body and his own scream rent the air as the life force jetted from him.

Starsky dropped across him, exhausted, emptied, limp. The viscous substance sealed their bellies and their bond. The combined rasp of their breathing echoed the thunder of blood that pounded in his ears. Hutch tightened his shaking legs when he felt his lover slipping away. "No. Don't go. Not yet."

Time ebbed and flowed in crazy currents around him. Blackness came and went, weaving him in and out of awareness until the vertigo finally disappeared and the room returned to normal.

Pushing Hutch's legs aside, Starsky rolled to the floor. Bottles clinked together and a hoarse voice offered. "Here. It's hot, but at least it's wet."

Hutch opened one eye enough to see his partner's outstretched hand. He focused on a brown bottle containing the remains of his last beer. It was flat and tepid, but he drained the contents in one swallow. His whole world had narrowed and broadened at the same time: David Michael Starsky.

Fingertips stroked Hutch's face, traced swollen lips, wiped blood from one corner. Hands trailed down his throat, gingerly caressing the fresh bruises and lacerations. He forced himself to look at the bites on Starsky's neck and shoulders, knowing they mirrored his own.

Sly smile curved the red-tinged mouth and smugness gleamed in the dilated eyes. "You see, babe, I'm all those things you hate."

Sudden suction at his groin made him wince.

"...I am a fuckin' queer and...."

His limp cock was licked by Starsky's gentle tongue; Hutch stirred in response.

"...and a cocksucker...."

Eyes rose to meet his, easy laughter crinkling the corners.

"...and a damn good one, wouldn't you say?"

Tentative fingers tested the battered orifice and he groaned at the unexpected spasm of pain.

"And a buttfucker and all the other dirty names."

Light kiss painful on his lips. "But I'm your lover, too...."

Eyes holding his. Hands splayed across his stomach.

"...and I can do things to you like nobody else on this whole fuckin' planet."

Hutch's throat was so dry he could not speak. He found that he could not move or take his eyes from his partner's.

"So you decide, my beautiful, gorgeous, golden lover...my favorite, talented cocksucker. Make up your mind. You wanna guilt trip over a couple of dirty words from some ignorant little kids, or...."

In the silence he could hear both hearts beat. Starsky's hands were still as the deep blue pools of life looked into him and through him.

"...all the lovin' you'll ever need?"

High-pitched children's laughter bubbled through the open window, touching them like the butterflies on the purple blossoms. Hutch smiled, then reached to touch the dark face. Gently he tugged Starsky to lay atop him as he guided the lips to cover his.

*** The End ***