Title: Spinning II
Author/pseudonym: Morgan and Jadis
Fandom: Starsky & Hutch
Pairing: S/H
Rating: R
Feedback: Bring it on
Critique: Ya, you betcha!
E-mail address for feedback: m_jadis@hotmail.com or lefey_morgan@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Sequel to "Spinning"
Disclaimers: We don’t own ‘em. Wish we did. If so, there’d a been a lot less female guest stars!!! No money is being made, dang it!
Notes: Morgan and I write & "publish" in other fandoms. This is our first attempt (for public consumption anyway) in the S/H world. Constructive feedback/critique would be appreciated.

Spinning II

By Morgan and Jadis

Three hours and what seemed like three reams of paper later, Hutch followed Starsky across the well lit parking lot towards the red and white Torino.

"You mind drivin’?" Starsky asked as he tossed the keys to the car over his shoulder.

Hutch snagged them out of the air automatically.

"Nah –you beat?"

"Exhausted." Starsky confirmed, his voice devoid of his normal enthusiasm.

Concern for his partner overriding any caution remaining he might have had as a result from their tête-à-tête, Hutch lengthened his stride and put a steadying arm around his friend’s shoulder. "Did you drink any water Starsk? Maybe you’re dehydrated after all that coffee."

"I’m not dehydrated," Starsky answered dryly, but he made no effort to pull away. "And I don’t think it was the coffee either --I just need some sleep."

"Okay, okay." Hutch reached up and tousled the dark curls. "I’ll drive. Don’t worry buddy –I’ll get you home." He used his free hand to unlock and open the car door.

"No." Starsky shook his head and then turned to meet his eyes for what, to Hutch, seemed like the first time since they’d entered the precinct. "Venice."

A sense of foreboding ran down Hutch’s spine. "But your place is closer –wouldn’t you rather…?"

Starsky’s widened ever so slightly –a challenge.

‘But for what?’ Shrugging, Hutch pushed the smaller man in the car and the bounded around the back and got in on the driver’s side. "You go ahead and get some sleep, Starsk –it’ll do you good."

"I intend to."

Watching, as Starsky got comfortable, Hutch took a deep breath and then started the engine. In truth, he didn’t feel like driving. One, he wasn’t that crazy about driving Starsky’s car. Two, he, himself, was on overdrive. He had been all night –or rather, ever since that little scene in the bathroom. In fact, every nerve in Hutch’s body seemed to have been on fire for hours. He could actually feel the cotton of his t-shirt pull across chest, and he was more than just a little aware of rumble of the automobile’s powerful engine and the smooth upholstery of her seats beneath his denim-clad thighs. He was also increasingly tuned to each and every movement and or sound coming from the man next to him. An appealing mix of soap, leather, coffee, chocolate, and musk filled the car.

‘You’re losin’ it,’ he reprimanded himself ruefully, as he cracked the driver side window. Shaking his head, Hutch pulled out on to the city streets and drove.

The gentle rhythm of the car moving across the asphalt was soothing, and Hutch could tell by the even breathing to his right that Starsky was fast asleep. Concentrating on the sparse traffic and the feel of the wind in his face from the partially open window, Hutch began to relax. He actually enjoyed driving at this time of morning. There was something restful about the time just before dawn. In fact, the streets were oddly quiet, signaling to him once again that the hours between three and four were the only ones during which the people who haunted the streets seemed to sleep. It was peaceful.

That peace was abruptly shattered when Starsky, still sleeping, flung his arm wide and the back of his fingers landed softly against the tender skin above Hutch’s collarbone. Hutch jumped, the contact completely unexpected; every ounce of blood in him rushed to coalesce in that one spot where their flesh met.

"Hmph." Starsky, too, jolted awake. "Oh –sorry."

"It’s all right," Hutch assured him quickly. "Go back to sleep."

"No," Starsky yawned and stretched, his fingers leaving a trail along Hutch’s neck before burying themselves into his hair. "How you doin’?" Starsky asked as he dropped his hand easily on Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch could feel the heat of Starsky’s palm through the thin material; his own palms started to sweat. "I’m all right. Did you get any sleep?"

"Uhm huh," Starsky assured him. "Sure you don’t mind drivin’?"

"I’m sure." Hutch answered, his voice a little sharper than he’d intended.

"You sure you’re sure?" Starsky asked as he traced the contour of Hutch’s ear with his fingertip. "You sound a little uptight."

Just as he made the turn that would take them out to Venice, Hutch took one hand off the steering wheel and wiped his palm against his thigh. As Hutch resettled his hand on the steering wheel, Starsky reached over and placed his hand casually on Hutch’s leg.

"Got an itch?"

Hutch glanced over sharply. "What?"

"I just thought maybe you had an itch," Starsky repeated as he rubbed Hutch’s thigh with the base of his hand.

"No, I’m fine," Hutch lied, shifting uncomfortably. "It’s just a little warm in here, that’s all."

"Hmm." Starsky removed his hand and leaned back into the passenger’s door. "I hate lawyers," he commented absently.

"Yeah, me too." Hutch returned –his mind now focused on how cool the night air seemed against his leg where Starsky’s hand had been, rather than the road or the conversation. He almost sighed when Starsky’s hand returned to his shoulder –the touch was light, deceptively gentle.

"Thanks for lettin’ me sleep, partner," Starsky said as he plucked the neck of Hutch’s t-shirt.

"No, problem, buddy," Hutch replied evenly. "You looked beat."

"I was –but I think I’ve got my second wind." Starsky assured him as he reached up to caress the side of Hutch’s neck. ‘Caress?’ Hutch thought a little wildly. ‘More like explore.’

Indeed, Hutch sat quietly as his partner’s short, soft stokes mapped the topography of his skin. No pore, no mole –no imperfection was too small to escape the darker man’s notice. Acknowledging how good it felt –how different it seemed at this hour somewhere, now, closer to four than three, Hutch wondered what his skin felt like to his friend who had seen and touched so much of it over the years. He wondered if Starsky had wanted to touch it, like this, before, or if his partner was still abuzz with too much tequila and caffeine.

‘I’ll just hold onto your tequila –you owe me.’

Hutch shuddered involuntarily –he knew the shot glass of tequila was sitting right where Starsky had left it on the kitchen counter in Hutch’s apartment. Kissing Starsky during a game of spin the bottle in front of four other detectives –two of whom they had slept with—and kissing Starsky in the middle of his deserted kitchen were two entirely different things. Why, all of a sudden, did the former seem less frightening?

Starsky squeezed his neck gently. "Bet you can’t wait to get to bed, huh?"

Hutch swallowed and, again, wiped his right hand along the length of his thigh. Starsky released his neck, but then covered Hutch’s hand with his own.

"You sure you’re all right, Hutch?"

"Yeah, Starsk –maybe just a little too much to drink and not enough sleep." Hutch exhaled slowly as he pulled up in front of Venice Place. Without saying a word, he slid his hand out from underneath Starsky’s. Hutch’s felt his own pulse jump when Starsky’s hand came down once again to lay on his already super-sensitized thigh. Suppressing a shiver, Hutch clutched the steering wheel and maneuvered the Torino carefully into her normal spot. Concentrating on the task at hand, Hutch tried to ignore the weight of the other man’s touch, as well as the corresponding weight in his groin.

Switching off the ignition, Hutch turned to face his friend, who, in the fading moonlight, looked like a sleepy, overgrown child–his blue eyes cloudy and his dark hair rumpled. The warmth that spread through Hutch at that moment suddenly had less to do with his hormones and more to do with simple affection. He swallowed quietly. "Can you make it upstairs, Starsk?"

"Do I have another choice?" Starsky raised his eyebrows winningly.

Hutch smiled benignly before opening the car door and swinging his legs out of the car. "I could bring you a blanket."

"Thanks, but no thanks." Starsky yawned and then drug himself out of the car.

By the time that Starsky made it up the flight of stairs, Hutch already had the door unlocked and opened. "After you," he said with exaggerated politeness and a casual wave. "Thanks, Blintz," Starsky responded sarcastically as he pushed by him; the shorter man’s shoulder bumped up against Hutch’s chest as he passed. Hutch closed his eyes for a brief moment: curious as how an action performed so many times in the past could suddenly be filled with such danger –such promise.

Needing a minute to recoup, Hutch remained in the doorway. Knowing that Starsky would be suspicious if he didn’t come in soon, Hutch forced himself to open his eyes and watched apprehensively as Starsky tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter –the heavy bundle clattered noisily just inches from the still full glass of tequila.

Looking first at the glass, Starsky turned to meet his eyes. "You want that?"

Hutch searched his partner’s face –not sure what he’d find, or even what he was looking for. "I think I’ve had enough for one night. You?"

Starsky’s eyes glittered dangerously. "I said you could do it afterwards –it’ll keep."

Needing to appear braver than he felt, Hutch took a step forward. "What’ll keep? The drink or what I ‘owe’ you?"

Starsky matched his step and then raised him two.

Hutch called.

"You do owe me." Starsky’s steely tone surprised Hutch.

"What?" Hutch asked, his voice tight. "You mean now?"

"Why not?" Starsky laid his hand on Hutch’s abdomen, which contracted beneath the gentle pressure.

"I thought you were just trying to embarrass me –you know, in front of your ‘real’ partner." Hutch forced an emphasis on Meredith’s title that he didn’t feel. While he had been surprised to find out that Starsky had slept with his temporary partner while he was in the hospital –his feelings on the subject were nothing more than simple curiosity… he thought. He liked Joan Meredith –she and Starsky had worked well together. He and Starsky had been reassigned as partners –end of story. Or was it?

"And what about you?" Starsky moved even further into his personal space. "Would you have been embarrassed in front of Linda?"

When Hutch didn’t respond, Starsky slid one finger in the belt loop of Hutch’s jeans.

"Or maybe in front of Steve? Or Sheila?"

Hutch lowered his eyes then shook his head slowly. "Actually, Starsk," he admitted frankly, "I think I’m more embarrassed right now than I was then."

"Really?" Starsky asked, obviously intrigued.

Hutch looked up and nodded.

"Why?" Starsky laid his other hand on Hutch’s waist. "It’s just you and me. It should be easy."

‘Easy?’ Hutch thought incredulously. ‘There’s nothing easy about my feelings for you, babe.’ Taking a deep breath, he said, instead. "I don’t know if ‘easy’ is the word I’d use, Starsk."

"Do you know how beautiful you look to me right now, Hutch?" Starsky asked without preamble. "Do you have any idea what you look like standing there in the morning light, all blond and beautiful?" He reached out and untucked Hutch’s well-worn T. "You weren’t wearin’ this earlier, Blondie," he murmured softly, his voice as enigmatic as the shadows that covered his face.

Hutch backed up slightly. "What’s going on Starsk? Exactly what’s goin’ on here?"

Hutch gasped as, for the second time that evening, his partner’s fingers danced languidly along his ribs.

Starsky met his eyes levelly in the low-lit room. "I want you, Hutch."

"You want me?" Hutch shook his head in disbelief and then took two steps back. "Since when?"

Starsky turned away then leaned heavily against the counter.

"Starsk?"

"Do we have to fuckin’ talk this thing to death?" Starsky snapped irritably. "You do realize that if I was Linda Baylor –or half a dozen any other women-- you’d have had me up on the counter right now with my legs wrapped around your waist."

"You’re right," Hutch admitted abruptly, knowing that Starsky knew the routine perhaps better than anyone. "And you know that if you were Linda you’d probably leave an hour later and maybe –just maybe—if my partner was unavailable, I’d give you a call in about three or four weeks and we’d do it again. Is that what you want Starsky? Do you want to be Linda?" Hutch shook his head in frustration. "Do you want to be any of the dozens of women that I’ve slept with that I can’t even remember their names? Because if that’s the case partner," Hutch crossed the small space between them and then scooped Starsky up, seating his ass firmly next to the untouched shot of tequila, "let’s go."

"Hutch--"

Ignoring the warning in his partner’s voice, Hutch continued. "What was it you said earlier?" He asked, as if the words weren’t printed indelibly on his brain. " ‘There are options that maybe I haven’t considered?’" Hutch bit Starsky’s cheek warningly. "You want to fuck me, buddy?" He asked, deliberately crude. "Wanna be fuck buddies?"

"Somethin’ like that." Starsky answered softly. Seemingly oblivious to Hutch’s sarcasm, Starsky leaned back and attempted to pull Hutch even closer.

Allowing himself to bend only so far, Hutch buried his face into his friend’s brunette curls.

Starsky moaned, and for a moment, Hutch doubted his own ability to pull back –to wrest them away from this dangerous path.

"Is it something like that?" Hutch prodded coldly, his lips brushing the mop of unruly hair. "Or is it like that?"

Starsky gripped his waist tightly. "Hutch—"

"You lookin’ for options, Starsk? Cause if that’s what it is," Hutch kept his voice steely, even as his hands slid around the other man’s back, "then you can count me out. In fact," Hutch lied, "I’m not even tempted." Disentangling himself, he took three steps back. "What?!" Starsky demanded roughly as his eyes marked the empty space between them.

"It’s simple, really," Hutch stated flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I have plenty of options –I don’t need another."

"Hu—"

Hoping he could control the shaking, Hutch bared one hand and then shrugged casually. "What? You don’t think I have options?"

"Hutch," Starsky began, his voice carefully neutral. "I never said you didn’t have options."

Seeing the guarded look on his partner’s face, Hutch found himself unaccountably angry. Cursing himself under his breath, he crossed the kitchen and wrenched open a small drawer near the sink. Reaching inside, he pulled out a handful of papers and then cast them towards the ceiling. Turning, Hutch stared hopelessly as Starsky watched the tiny slips that floated through the air like snowflakes.

Starsky shrugged, not bothering to hide his confusion. "What are those?"

"Those, my dear Starsky," Hutch crossed his arms across his middle protectively, "are the phone numbers of about every single waitress, stewardess, hooker, waiter, and hustler this side of Palo Alto. Those, partner, are options." Hutch looked away –unable to hold Starsky’s piercing gaze. "Those," Hutch’s voice broke quietly, "are not you –but feel free to help yourself to a few if you’re well and truly short of your own ‘options’."

"Hutch, that’s not—"

"Do you really want to trade what we have –what we are—for that?" Hutch demanded abruptly. "Starsky." This time, his voice was soft –embarrassed and a little confused. "You are the one person in my life who I don’t ever have to doubt."

"Hutch—"

"Listen to me," Hutch cut him off sharply, determined to have his say. "When Linda –or whoever—calls, I automatically assume that the only reason they’re calling is that they couldn’t find anyone else."

"Hutch." Starsky slid off the counter then took two hesitant steps forward.

"Just like they assume that you’re doing something else if I agree to go out with them." Hutch looked up and met his eyes honestly. "I don’t want you to be an option for me."

"Hutch--"

"But more importantly," Hutch swallowed hard, "I don’t want to be just an option for you either. I don’t ever want to wonder if the only reason you’re here is because there wasn’t anyone else –I don’t ever want to feel like I’m your second choice."

Whatever response Hutch had been expecting, the soft explosion of Starsky’s laughter was not it.

"What?" Hutch demanded harshly as he crossed Starsky’s path and parked himself next to the keys and the shot glass. "What’s so damn funny?" Despite his sudden flare of anger, he couldn’t help but notice that the counter was still warm. Given the circumstances, he found it incredibly erotic that the heat that had emanated from Starsky’s body was now seeping into his skin. Viciously shoving the thought away, he reached down and gripped the edge of the counter until his fingers ached. Starsky turned, pivoting mindlessly on the dozens of phone numbers that littered the floor.

"You." Starsky chuckled, his eyes bright in the semi-lit room as he moved to close the distance between them.

Hutch noted, with fascination, the sheen of moisture on Starsky’s neck. ‘It’s not that warm in here, buddy.’ Needing to control his own thoughts, just as much –if not more so—than Starsky’s actions, Hutch sighed. "Starsky, this isn’t funny," he pointed out, as he pried one hand away from the counter, and then reached over and picked up the heavy glass. He took the shot; the tequila brought tears to his eyes as it burned a path down his throat that was suddenly tight with embarrassment and –if he were honest— desire.

"I thought I told you to wait." Starsky rebuked him gently as he took the glass out of Hutch’s hand and placed it back on the counter. Turning back, Starsky placed one leg between Hutch’s thighs and parted them suggestively.

Hutch straightened –not sure how their positions had reversed so quickly—though still determined to hold his ground. "And I thought I told you I wasn’t gonna play this game."

Starsky chuckled once again, and then closed his hand tightly around Hutch’s hip.

"Why are you laughing at me?" Hutch asked petulantly as he pushed up against Starsky’s smaller frame.

The other man wouldn’t budge. "I’m laughin’ at me –not you."

"You’d better explain, buddy," Hutch warned, "because I’m running out of patience and about this close to hitting you."

"Here I was," Starsky leaned forward and kissed the base of Hutch’s neck as if offering a benediction, "worried."

"Worried about what?" Hutch grumbled, his voice defensive. Nevertheless, he could feel his resistance crumbling with each breath. Starsky trailed a line of moist kisses along his jugular. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open; he had no doubt that Starsky could feel every crash of his pulse as his heart beat savagely against the wall of his chest.

Starsky’s hand wandered tentatively from Hutch’s denim clad hip to the bare flesh beneath his cotton shirt. "Here I was worried about all that mid-western morality," Starsky admitted finally, his questing fingers skimmed lightly over a responsive nipple.

Hutch’s knees buckled at the shocking intimacy of Starsky’s touch, and he sagged weakly against the counter. Trying to regain his equilibrium, Hutch breathed in sharply –only to have an unfamiliar, yet familiar, musk scent tickle his senses. Arousal. Was it Starsky’s –or his own? At this point, did it even matter?

"I’ve been comin’ up with counter arguments for months now about how you’re probably not even attracted to men –about what the bible says." Starsky continued slowly as he rained kisses –each one hotter and wetter than the last -- along Hutch’s flesh until Hutch could once again feel Starsky’s warmth breath against his already flushed cheek.

Starsky nipped at the fleshy part beneath his jaw, a gentle echo of Hutch’s previous attack. "Then all of that worry flew right out of the window when that bottle landed on you. I saw the look in your eyes, Hutch. I saw the heat in those beautiful blue eyes when you pulled all that blondeness up –we all did. You said it was time to pay the piper –do you remember Hutch?" Starsky nipped at his collarbone teasingly. "But you wanted me –and if that phone hadn’t’ve rung—"

Hutch ducked his head. "I didn’t have that much of a choice, if you recall –besides, we weren’t alone."

Starsky ignored him. "I saw the way your skin flushed when you went to answer the phone. Did you think I wouldn’t see it? Did you think I didn’t wonder what it would feel like pressed up against me –under my fingers, under my mouth?"

Hutch flushed again.

"There you go again, Hutch," Starsky laughed softly, his breath tickling Hutch’s skin –deepening the pink of his flesh to what Hutch was certain must be, at that point, a nice shade of burgundy.

"Quit teasin’ me, Hutch," Starsky admonished, "you’re making me wonder again, and I haven’t even told you how your eyes looked in the bathroom mirror. Remember how I told you once that your eyes flash beautifully when you’re angry? Well, they look like stars when you’re turned on." Starsky pulled back and touched his face reverently. "In fact, they look like that now –just like they did when I touched you in the bathroom. Did you look at yourself when I touched you?" Starsky asked as he explored Hutch’s lips with his thumb. "Do you want to know what you look like to me right now, Hutch?"

Unable to withstand Starsky’s touch or his words any longer, Hutch grabbed Starsky’s hips and pulled him forward until their pelvis’ ground together –somewhere in the back of his jumbled brain, he wondered at the fact that Starsky’s narrower hips seemed to fit perfectly against his wider frame. "What’s your point, Starsk?" He managed finally. "If I kiss you, will you shut the hell up?"

"My point is, Hutch," Starsky replied calmly as he rotated his hips against Hutch’s groin, "that I had come up with every logical argument that you might possibly have against why we shouldn’t be lovers, including what the hell we’d tell Dobey if he ever found out. But you –you come up with the one reason that ain’t no reason at all. Hell, it don’t even make sense."

Too far gone to even care about what loophole Starsky had found in his apparently faulty logic, Hutch tilted his hips forward, and then groaned out loud as he encountered the hard evidence of Starsky’s arousal for the first time.

"That’s right Baby Blue," Starsky bit his lip, and Hutch thought he looked like a man trying to stop a speeding train with a single hand. "It never even occurred to me, Hutch, that you’d think I’d love you less." Starsky leaned his head against Hutch’s chest, and Hutch felt his heart beat heavily under its weight. "D’ya really think I’d ever let you go once I had you, you silly blonde? I never intended to be one of your options, Hutch –try your only option."

Finding his voice, Hutch pushed Starsky back and searched his features openly "Are you serious?"

Starsky nodded. "You asked me if I’d exchange us for any of those little scraps on the floor and the answer is no. But am I am willing to exchange all those little scraps for this? Hell yes. So…." Starsky carded his fingers into Hutch’s hair and pulled him down until their lips barely touched. "You ever gonna pay up –or are you gonna make me beg?"

Hutch peered down into the expressive cobalt eyes of the man who had become his life. Unsure of how it had happened, he knew that the line they were about to cross could have –and perhaps should have—been crossed years ago.

Time slowed, and memories crowded his mind: himself –racked with need, craving the heroin forced into him. He remembered alternately shoving Starsky away, yet insistently pulling him closer the moment physical contact was broken. But worse still, he remembered Starsky: drugged, dying, and scared –clutching at him as the pain induced by Bellamy’s poison wracked his body. Then later, when Starsky effectively exchanged his own life for Hutch’s when he killed the one man who might have been able to save him.

This dark-headed sorcerer standing in his embrace meant more to Hutch than the person he had called ‘wife’. More than Gillian, Abigail – or any of the nameless, faceless women he had bedded.

Hutch took another ragged breath. "You realize that if we do this, this is not going to end with a simple kiss."

Starsky simply smiled. "Do it."

"Starsky?"

"What is it, babe?"

"Do you know what you’re asking for?" he whispered hoarsely.

"I’m not askin’," Starsky informed him, speaking directly into Hutch bottom lip. "I’m just tryin’ to give you the opportunity to get used to the idea."

Hutch watched, fascinated as the tip of Starsky’s tongue darted out and touched his lip invitingly. "You know, Hutch?" Starsky’s voice was almost conversational. "I never thought you’d be one to renege on a bet."

No longer willing, or even able, to resist the gentle dare, Hutch lunged forward –suddenly desperate for the contact he had been running from. The rumble of Starsky’s affectionate laughter and the feel of his mouth were indescribable. Not like any woman’s, Starsky’s lips were nonetheless soft, warm, inviting –his mouth a welcoming haven too long denied.

Lost in the beauty of the kiss, Hutch was only tangentially aware of Starsky’s hands that slid up and down the flesh of his back –a state that changed when Starsky pulled him forward just enough so that he could capture Hutch’s ass. As Starsky teased him through the thick denim, Hutch ratcheted up the heat of their kiss. Using his height to its full advantage, Hutch bent Starsky back and learned the secrets of the smaller man’s mouth –his tongue. Although he heard Starsky’s sound of inarticulate protest, he also noticed that his partner’s grip had only tightened –Starsky wasn’t going anywhere.

The tastes. The scents. The textures. The sounds. Starsky’s hands on his ass, parting his cheeks in a threat of things to come –or was it a promise? Starsky fully aroused, pressing against him –him pressing back.

It was unbelievable that it could have come to this so quickly. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around –how could it have taken so long? Suddenly overwhelmed by the implications of what they were doing –of what they were about to do-- Hutch forced himself to slow it down. "Starsk," he murmured into the warm, responsive mouth. "Starsk?"

"Hmmm?" Starsky answered softly, refusing to release Hutch’s lips. Hutch shuddered beneath his friend’s strong hands that now roamed freely over his bared flesh.

"Starsk – " Hutch growled impatiently as he tugged at the darker man’s shirt, pulling it out of the back of his jeans. Starsky’s skin felt like living satin beneath his palms, and Hutch’s mouth watered in anticipation.

"Oh boy," Starsky moaned.

"Starsk?" Hutch tried again, desperate at least to get out of the kitchen and into the bedroom.

"Jesus Hutch," Starsky complained, all the while managing not to break the connection. "Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?" Starsky sucked Hutch’s bottom lip into his generous mouth.

Hutch snapped back in surprise, and then looked down at his friend in amazement. He started to tell Starsky that he’d just been trying to get him to bed, but then, somehow, he wasn’t sure that he could say the words –at least not out loud.

Obviously misreading his hesitation, Starsky whimpered –sounding, at that moment, more like a disappointed child than an impatient lover.

Finding the familiar in the strange, it was Hutch’s turn to laugh. He leaned forward, and lightly touched his lips to Starsky’s nose, "You – David Michael Starsky – are incorrigible."

Starsky just grinned.

Hutch tilted his head to one side and surveyed his partner carefully –waiting just until Starsky’s cocky grin began to falter. Unable to maintain his distance in light of Starsky’s uncharacteristic vulnerability, Hutch dropped a reassuring kiss on his cheek.

"What am I supposed to do with you, Starsk?"

Starsky turned his head and recaptured Hutch’s lips shyly. "You’re supposed to love me."

"That," Hutch tilted Starsky’s head back and met his eyes honestly, "you can count on."

Finis