Title: Cupid and Psyche Revisited

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted: December 10, 2001 at Love of Me and Thee

Summary: Starsky is provided with an unusual means of acquiring a spouse, but will he be able to accept the reality of that life-mate's identity and handle the consequences when he breaks the rules to find out who has been entrusted with his love?

Cupid and Psyche Revisited

December 11, 1979
5:30 PM

David Starsky walked aimlessly through the seaside park and allowed memories and feelings to wash through him gently, caressing his mind with glimpses of love that faded in curls of soft, gray smoke. Other memories assaulted his senses, blocking out the sounds of children's laughter as an impromptu kick ball game intensified. For five minutes a friendly Golden Retriever nipped at his heels, nuzzling the backs of his legs as he turned down the path that led to the shore. A woman's shrill voice commanded the attention of her pet and the dog, feeling a bit neglected by his newfound friend, woofed a farewell and turned to obey his mistress. Starsky never noticed the dog's approach and was equally oblivious to his departure. The ocean called him and Starsky chose to ignore the faint hint of Minnesotan drawl in the sound. He felt consumed with a throbbing ache. His nights of late were characterized by fitful sleeping, nightmares punctuated with the waking sensation that he would die alone, having never found the true love like that which had given his mother's life meaning even though her love had been wrenched from her tragically and prematurely. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.... Where had Starsky first heard those words that now haunted his mornings and returned to deepen the ache when he stretched out, alone, in bed at night? He didn't know; couldn't remember.

December 12, 1979

Hutch had abandoned all hope of communicating with his partner. Christmas spirit spread like brushfire through Bay City but Starsky's usual holiday festive spirit lay dormant under the overall malaise he suffered that manifested itself in a strange vow of silence. Hutch had taken the drastic step of wearing a Santa's hat to work only to watch Starsky's moderately depressed expression sink into outright dejection. With a mumbled apology that sounded nothing like the youthfully enthusiastic detective, Starsky left the squad room ostensibly to run an errand for Minnie. Hutch only had minutes to ponder the situation before Dobey's door opened harshly, slamming into the wall and silencing all activity in the outer room. Hutch glanced up from his study of the squad room doors and stared into concerned brown eyes. Dobey scanned the room and crooked his finger at Hutch, who felt ridiculous walking into his superior's office wearing the Santa hat and removed it quickly, flinging it over his shoulder in the direction of his chair as he followed Dobey into the inner sanctum. Dobey gestured wordlessly at the chair, shut the door and, deviating from his normal pattern, leaned against it as if determined to protect their privacy with his very bulk.

"I want to know what the hell is wrong with Starsky. He hasn't spoken three words together in a sentence—except regarding strictly police business—to any of us in days. No putting his feet on my desk. No stealing my food. No hassling Harper about the coffee. Suddenly I can actually get a candy bar out of the machine. Yesterday I walked in on Minnie teasing him about lovesickness and Starsky turned whiter'n a sugar-donut. I thought it was about time I consulted the expert."

Hutch forgot about posture and appearances and allowed his body to demand the full support of the chair, extending his legs, and letting his head hang back wearily, a hand shading his eyes. The actions provided Dobey with more information than a detailed case study from a psychoanalyst.

The captain took that opportunity to study the blond member of the team. Starsky had successfully completed a month of full-time active duty without incident. Hutch had participated in, overseen, arranged, and coached every aspect of his partner's recovery process following the shooting that should have ended the partnership permanently. As Starsky grew stronger, healed, and miraculously reclaimed many of the attributes he exhibited at twenty-five years old and fresh out of the Academy, Hutch drank from the same elixir and one by one the effects materialized in his appearance. His leaner, clean-shaven face was bright with a rosy hue absent, some would have said, since his forced encounter with a highly addictive drug. The physical therapist responsible for Starsky's amazing recovery of mobility, range of motion, and muscular tone had also helped Hutch pinpoint specific exercises that strengthened the blond's quirky back. Dobey smiled, remembering the day his detectives showed up, as always, as a team to face the reinstatement committee. The stunned silence when Starsky and Hutch walked in the room exploded quickly into loud and lengthy applause, and their captain had known the ovation was directed at both of his men. No one on the committee doubted the abilities of the two youthful, vigorous men anxiously awaiting the panel's approval. The meeting lasted ten minutes. Within half an hour, Starsky had his badge and holster and the blessing of the Bay City PD to protect and serve. Hutch wore the face of a brand-new father, the smile of a soul promised eternal life, and the spring in his step for once exceeded Starsky's bounce.

Then, the last two weeks ushered in a change. Starsky arrived at work each morning increasingly worn and distracted, and Hutch seemed to age a little more with each decrease in Starsky smiles on any given day. Dobey had watched the phenomena, at first, as an interested but uninvolved observer. Their work performance and partnership had not suffered so he found no justification for prying into their affairs, but the captain, though lenient with unorthodoxy when it produced results, didn't sit quietly when gears slipped in the well-oiled machine that comprised the men under his command. Though he would never admit it under electric shock or water torture, Dobey had always suspected that Metro's reputation for enthusiasm and camaraderie lay squarely at his curly-haired 'twelve-year old' detective's feet. The last few days of ice and darkness permeating the entire squad room gave him empirical evidence in support of that hypothesis.

"I—I think," Hutch spoke softly, his voice a pale imitation of the usually confident tone, "Oh, hell. We've been so focused on his physical recovery, so intent on passing all the medical tests and blowing the doctors' diagnoses out of the water that we haven't paid attention to his internal scars. I could be way off base here, but I think now they're exacting their due. Somehow... he's just not h-happy." The final break in Hutch's voice spoke of rigidly controlled emotion threatening the integrity of the dam Hutch constructed to hold in his own demons inherited that May morning. 

"You talk to him about it?" Dobey decided his damn desk might be able to pose more insightful questions than the one that now hung in the air ashamed of its own stupidity. Hutch merely offered one uplifted eyebrow and a barely noticeable shrug that packed more force than a backhanded slap. Dobey sucked in sharply. "You haven't?"

"I've tried," Hutch snapped, the throaty baritone revived by the detective's irritation and despair, and his abrupt return to a professional posture in the chair indicative of his desire to wall-in his private worries. "We haven't had a multiple-sentence, meaningful conversation in ten days. I haven't seen him like this since his third week out of the hospital when we hit a rough patch in the recovery. Even then he didn't go 'all quiet on the western front'. No matter how severe the bronchitis, he managed to croak paragraphs of speech at me whenever I was in the room."

"You think it might have a physical cause? You've been on the streets with him—Any hesitation, pain, or difficulty keeping pace? Psychological? Signs of shellshock? After...what he went through, that would be understandable—"

"Jeez, Captain, that's a more stringent interrogation than the reinstatement committee gave us. And I can answer all your questions in the negative. He endured a recovery from the lower pit of Hell, but he acts now like he shed ten years. Physically, he's in great shape. On the surface, everything is normal except for that damn silence.... Hell, he's even gone running with me several times this past week, but he talked as much as my socks. Came over to my place last night hauling all the fixings for a homemade spaghetti dinner.  I can list for you the words out of his mouth. He said, 'You out of oregano?'; 'Pass the salt.'; 'Need more sauce?'; and 'How about we catch some of that Jimmy Stewart Western marathon on channel 6?' in that order. Didn't even whisper anything else the entire evening. Does that answer your questions, Captain?"

Dobey shifted his eyes from the pain and fear screaming at him in appallingly calm shades of baby blue. "You think he's talked to anyone else?"

Hutch laughed out loud and the sound was singularly devoid of amusement: the kind of laughter usually succeeded by racking sobs. "Someone professional, you mean?"

"Yes; why not?"

Hutch sank forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hanging his head and staring into his corduroy lap as though the grass stain from a recent pick-up football game in the park could whisper words of wisdom to him. I held him in my arms and rocked him when his joints reacted to the aggressive physical therapy and made him feel like a rheumatic eighty-year old. We wrote this stupid little song together that we sang whenever he felt the overwhelming need to cry, so he wouldn't have to shed tears he couldn't handle. This time he won't let me breach the inner circle of his pain. Do you think if I can't get a full sentence out of him, some stranger with a damn wall full of diplomas that don't mean jack-crap to Starsky will crack the code?

Aloud, he said simply, "Come on, Captain, you know Starsky." He looked up from the grass stain and saw Dobey's convulsive swallowing, strained jaw, and hands folded tight over his expansive girth. The subtle signals of deep concern in his superior officer induced a lump in Hutch's throat that turned his eyes to the window behind the captain's desk.

"I—I'd better get back out there. Starsky won't be too fond of us having a private chat about his personal problems."

"Hutchinson, you let me know the minute you get anything concrete out of him. So far the two of you are working as efficiently together as you did five years ago. No slip in your performance. Until that changes, I can't force his hand or sideline him to see that he gets his issues straightened out. But I know something is wrong and I don't like sending one of my men into the field with unresolved personal problems. Emotional handicaps can be as deadly as decreased speed and reaction time. Do you catch my meaning?"

Hutch filled the silence with another uneasy sigh and rose to his feet in stages, sitting up in the chair, brushing the hair out of his eyes, rubbing his knees as if to ask their permission to unfold and stretch. "Since when have you been anything but straight-forward, Captain? If I have any flashes of inspiration, or he does me the honor of opening up, I'll type you a damn written report, okay?"

"Hutch, I just want to help."

"And I just want to see him happy again!" Hutch said in a strangled mixture of moan and restrained shout. Dobey stepped quickly aside and opened the door. Hutch shook his head, smiled a sheepish apology in passing, and returned to his desk, feeling the eyes of his captain on his back for a full minute until the door closed with a muted snick and Hutch was distracted by the sympathetic stares from the uniformed officers working on their reports. He knew he might as well offer his head to a dragon for lunch, but he couldn't talk himself out of going in search of Starsky in RandI.

To the wary detective's sputtering amazement, Starsky did not reprimand him for hovering or make caustic remarks about leashes; he greeted his worried partner in the hall with a smile pitiful in its lack of life and suggested they stop for lunch before cruising their territory. Hutch reached out and patted the sweater covered stomach in a gesture of old times and was overwhelmed by the healing heat that rushed through his veins when Starsky seemed to lean into the friendly caress, the corners of the lifeless smile lifting slightly and matched by an answering grin on a fair-complexioned face.

Lunch was edible and comfortably peaceful if not a laugh riot, but the rest of their shift offered no distractions and the unusual silence threatened to mutate into quiet hostility on the ride to Starsky's apartment. Hutch tapped the steering wheel in a relentless cadence until Starsky's hand hovered just above the fingers and signaled a rap on the knuckles if Hutch did not cease the annoying activity. When Hutch pulled in front of Starsky's place, the passenger mumbled a request that they drive in separately the next morning and departed the car with the rapidity of escaping a timed explosion. Hutch's grip on the steering wheel gave way and he slipped forward without bothering to check his movement, slamming his face into the wheel with a force that raised stars behind his eyelids. He released a string of curses and waited as customary for the lights to go on in Starsky's apartment before he drove away.

On the way to Venice, a route he could have driven blindfolded and wearing earmuffs, Hutch considered the one possibility that he could not offer Dobey by way of explanation for his partner's metamorphosis. Had Starsky noticed an alteration in Hutch's behavior pattern over the last couple of months and finally interpreted the cause with his unerring instinct?

Hutch's social calendar had followed his physical appearance in time travel to 1975, filled with dates in a quantity unheard of for Hutch in the last several years. But the string of women who occupied his nights and weekends had nothing to do with a desire for female company. Their presence in his life stemmed from one evening sharing kitchen chores with Starsky, who had actually tackled a recipe book and wrestled it into submission, producing a lamb dish that shocked Hutch speechless through most of the meal. His stunned appreciation lingered while they washed and dried the dishes side by side but that sensation was blasted into non-existence by Hutch's subsequent desperate need to adjust his jeans. The desire's activation by the sight of his fully clothed, whistling partner engaged in such a commonplace domestic activity slammed home the import of his feelings with the impact of a train collision. Hutch complained of a headache and left Starsky with the rest of the cleanup. His fiercely repressed instinct had been to shove Starsky against the sink, run sudsy hands through his curls leaving trails of dishwashing liquid bubbles, and cover the unsuspecting face with kisses. The very next evening Hutch called the first of his 'celibate' one night stands. Women he wined, dined, took to plays or movies, met for drinks in a bar, but did not bed. They provided him with a safety shield while he worked feverishly to self-lobotomize these insane feelings for Starsky. But he was no lying lover. He would not take love—even casual affection—when he couldn't return it. He would not take advantage of these women beyond asking them to share some otherwise empty hours.

Hutch arrived at Venice Place and parked in his usual spot, sitting in the still twilight and analyzing Starsky's recent behavior. Starsky's wits were both sharp and quick. Quite possibly, he'd been able to see through the whole sham and pick apart Hutch's motives. Was Starsky's reaction to the discovery of Hutch's hidden feelings this unnerving combination of sadness and silence? Starsky digging a foxhole and waiting for the first shell blast rather than confronting his partner to discuss the subject? Letting his inability to deal with Hutch on these terms affect his treatment of everyone in the precinct? A terrifying thought gave Hutch pause as he opened the outer door to Venice Place. Was Starsky finally listening to rumors about the blond half of the famous partnership that had nipped at Hutch's heels throughout his career as a cop? Rumors that were now, ironically, well founded? Hutch climbed the stairs in the same amount of time he could normally run a mile and let himself into his apartment with stone in his chest that teetered dangerously close to crushing his heart.

December 12, 1979
9:00 PM

Starsky sat in front of a model ship in progress and drained the can of beer, lost in the waking, nightmare-grip of a spirit that had been his roommate for over a week. A filmy, tulle veil always obscured her features, and the style of gown she wore, an off-the-shoulder candlelight satin affair with cream velvet piping, never varied. But the color and length of her hair shifted along with the method of her disappearance. The bride with straight, honey-brown hair flung a bottle of liquor against the wall and collapsed in a heap of satin as the shattered bits of glass rained to the floor. The woman with soft, chestnut curls sank to her knees and disappeared to the backdrop sound of a gunshot. A tall, thin blonde merely waved repeatedly, backing slowly away into nothingness. A fourth, ridiculously, wore sunglasses over the tulle veil. She laughed and removed the glasses, vanishing instantaneously. Sometimes one came to visit. Other nights he watched the disappearing acts of all four. Tonight had been one of those occasions and as the blonde lifted her hand in the final wave, Starsky destroyed the tedious work of three weeks' spare time in one howling arm brush across the table, cracking the delicate woodwork of the nineteenth-century clipper ship's masts, and leaving the entire project in ruins on the floor to keep company with the empty beer cans.

The bedroom offered him no solace because someone had maliciously erected a tombstone at the foot of his bed, the epitaph of which stated succinctly: Here Lies David Starsky: Beloved of None, Mourned by None, Forgotten. He kicked viciously at the monument only to have his foot connect painfully with the bed frame.

Starsky's first impulse was to call Hutch, but he gave the bedside phone the same consideration he would offer a coiled, hissing rattler. No, his new-and-improved, healthy partner would only berate him for demolishing a six-pack in solitude and hallucinating phantom brides and intangible grave markers. Starsky stripped down to boxers and curled up on top of the covers, hugging his abdomen with intensity more common to preventing blood loss from a gaping wound. The night hours crawled past mercilessly, providing him no comforting sleep, and by morning the forces at war inside his skull poised for nuclear attack. He called Dobey and must have sounded sufficiently awful that the captain required no concrete excuse for his taking a sick-day.

Stumbling through to the kitchen with the vague notion of coffee's soothing warmth, Starsky noticed the telephone directory on the table. The book had been too heavy to go the way of the ship and remained open, askew, pages fluttering in a breeze of unknown origin. Starsky approached the book, trolling his memory for the purpose in its presence. Oh, he had been looking up the number for that new hobby shop, having come up short on two ship pieces the kit neglected to include. But the page that greeted him when he reached for the book to return it to its proper location said nothing of hobby shops. One multicolored ad attracted his attention solely because it dwarfed the other black-and-white entries. "Drs. A. and E. Romano, Relationship Therapists-- Miramar Square, Pacific View Boulevard, Bay City California. Free Introductory Consultation. 555-8976."

Starsky laughed out loud and his mother would have been shocked at the grating, bitter sound. Relationship Therapists! Relationships. Wasn't that his problem? No...His problem was lack thereof.  Or, rather, his problem was that he couldn't form a lasting bond with any of four veiled females who died, drank into oblivion, walked away, or laughed at him every night.

December 13, 1979
9:30 AM

Starsky watched the flight of mated sea gulls over the white-capped waves and catalogued the inventory of his internal resources. His supply of patience wouldn't fill a demitasse but his determination stores remained virtually untapped. He had made the phone call just an hour ago. At eleven a.m. he was due to meet with Dr. E. Romano. The sea breeze carried the calls of the gulls to him but their screeches seemed to form words just on the edge of his hearing: You know I love you... but our tastes in wheels don't exactly match; you know...I love you, I understand what you're going through, I love your caring, but man I just think it's a bum rap to wash your life down the drain on a guilt trip; You know I love you, but I'm not going to let you weasel out of this P.T. session; You know I love you, but...I love you BUT... Starsky clenched his fists, shoved the fists into his pockets despite the characteristic tightness of his jeans, and kicked a spray of sand for the hell of it, turning back for the walk to his car. Maybe Dr. Eros could point him in the direction of a love relationship that didn't require conjunctive qualifiers.

December 13, 1979
9:45 AM

"Hutchinson!!"

Hutch winced and set down the empty coffee mug, his taste and need for coffee less important than preventing another bellow reverberating around his weary head. He poked his head in the doorway and said, "Yeah, Cap'n?"

"You're late!!"

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, I called it in...my car broke down on Fifth. Had to tow and wait on an officer to pick me up—"

Dobey's expression gentled. "Get yourself some reliable wheels, Hutchinson. Why don't you buy a new car for a change? There are some really nice 1980 models out."

Hutch smiled wryly, "Yes, sir, Captain, I'll let you know when I win the lottery—"

The exasperated frown reappeared. "Hutch, the city does pay you."

"Right. I'll uh, look into the matter, Cap'n, and meanwhile my current car will be fixed by tomorrow. Just talked to Merle on the phone and he promised." Hutch gestured behind him at the squad room. "Where's Starsky?"

"Called in sick this morning."

"Funny; he didn't call me."

"Asked me to tell you when you got in," Dobey said, not quite looking Hutch in the eye. Hutch stared, mouth slightly open. Dobey sighed. "Hutch, take a squad car or an unmarked job out of the motor pool and go check on him if you want. Then get your ass back here and ready for work!"

Hutch saluted with a tilt of his head and tap on his forehead, "Aye, aye, Captain. See you in a few."

Hutch decided he liked the late-model Buick he signed out of the motor pool and enjoyed the drive over to Starsky's apartment. His mood hit the skids when he noticed the absence of the indestructible Torino. Taking the outdoor steps in two full-length strides, Hutch banged on the door out of courtesy before he pulled out his spare key.

The emptiness held a morbid overtone, Hutch reflected, feeling instantly foolish for being a melodramatic idiot. So Starsky wasn't here. So what? He might have developed a cold. He could easily have driven to the nearby drugstore for a basketful of over-the-counter remedies and a large supply of chocolate. Wouldn't be the first time Starsky had called in sick just to have some time to himself. He did it only in the most pressing of circumstances, but that didn't mean he was in danger. Calming his drive to track down and protect his partner, Hutch wandered farther into the living room and noticed a completed, painted ship on the floor. Hutch scratched his chin. A trireme. He had not known Starsky was interested in ancient Greek ships. Hadn't Starsky just recently bought the kit for an impressive clipper? He lifted the small vessel from the floor and set it carefully on the table by the closed phone book. Emitting a lonely sigh, he told himself in two languages to avoid the bedroom, but his feet carried him in that direction of their own accord.

The bed sucked him in like a whirlpool and he satisfied his craving by sitting on the side where he knew Starsky slept. For a minute that sufficed and then he found himself clutching Starsky's pillow, face buried in the material, breathing in the scents his groin, brain, and heart all agreed signified passion and devotion. "Oh, God," he breathed raggedly. "Oh, Starsk. Starsky..."

Ten minutes later Hutch left the apartment and returned to work. Not two minutes after he burst through the squad room doors, Dobey's voice shouted, "Hutchinson!!"

Hutch rolled his eyes, repeated a mantra of patience, and walked over to Dobey's open door, "Yeah, Cap'n?"

"How is he?"

Hutch paled and looked over Dobey's head at the window blinds for inspiration. Finally, he surreptitiously crossed his fingers behind his back and said quietly, "Ah, you know, Cap'n. Big baby as usual when he's only got a little head cold. He'll be up and around by nightfall, just and wait and see."

Dobey nodded. "Good. Maybe that means I'll actually get some work out of you today."

December 13, 1979
11:00 AM

Starsky stood in the marble and crystal foyer of the therapists' office and whistled in appreciation. Whoever these docs were, Starsky was sure he probably couldn't afford more than the free, initial consultation. Actually, come to think of it, he hadn't realized that therapists offered free first consultations...wasn't that a legal practice?

A tall, slender redhead dressed in layers of white velvet offered a perfectly manicured hand and brilliant smile, "You must be Detective Starsky. Dr. Eros' eleven o'clock?"

"Dr. Eros?"

"Yes. Dr. Eros Romano?"

"Oh, yeah," Starsky said, feeling his head spin with the music in her voice. His mouth adopted the patented come-on smile without his brain giving the order and she met his eyes squarely, caressing his hand lingeringly with her fingertips before withdrawing her hand and turning to lead him across the empty waiting room to a closed door.

"I'm his only patient this morning?" Starsky asked, glancing around at the lushly upholstered but vacant seats. She smiled.

"This morning, yes. Dr. Eros is alone in the office today and his next appointment isn't until two this afternoon. You'll have plenty of privacy and no distractions."

Starsky looked away from her knowing eyes and the implication that he was here to discuss intensely personal topics. What else does a guy discuss with a therapist but personal issues, Starsky laughed at himself. "Terrific."

The redheaded beauty left him in a large, airy room divided in the middle by Grecian columns. Starsky rejected the ultra-feminine cream velvet fainting couch in favor of a plush, white leather armchair with ottoman. The massive, carved marble desk caught and held Starsky's attention until the door opened and Starsky's jaw connected with the tops of his Adidas.

The doctor was tall, willow slim, and golden-haired with the clearest blue eyes Starsky had ever seen except in one very familiar face. The resemblance grew fuzzy from there, but Starsky unzipped his windbreaker to combat an inexplicable stuffiness in the room. The therapist removed his dark blue suit jacket, flung it onto the fainting couch, and sat casually behind the desk, kicking back in the chair and propping his feet up on his desk planner with a bright smile. "Detective Starsky, good morning," he said in a clipped, regal, and yet strangely inviting tone.

Starsky sat up straighter in the chair. He opened his mouth to ask a question but decided against it. Dr. Romano smiled, "Now, Detective, you have to feel comfortable in here. That is our primary objective. Why don't we begin by calling each other by our first names? I'm Eros."

"David," Starsky answered, unable to wrap his mind around this therapist calling him "Dave."

"Well, David, I'd like you to ask me anything on your mind."

Starsky decided those eyes were cool, hypnotic blue lasers targeting the depth of his soul. "I—You look too young—" Starsky didn't finish the sentence but he did not shrink back against the chair or turn his eyes. He assumed his interrogating detective posture and folded his arms across his midsection, tapping his wrist with the rings on his opposite pinky finger.

Eros' smile changed and Starsky's mind flashed briefly on climbing vines and prosperous fields, the strains of blues by moonlight, and the scent of bottled sunshine. "I got an early start, but I'd venture a guess that I'm not nearly as young as you think. Any other questions before we start our talk?"

"The other Dr. Romano is a relative, I presume?"

"You certainly do your profession credit, David," Eros answered without a hint of sarcasm in his kind expression. "Yes; my mother and I share this practice."

"Why do you only list your last name in the directory?" Starsky's left eyebrow rose a bit with this question, his detective's nose eager to sniff out any hint of something shady or unusual. Eros laughed out loud.

"You'll find this hilarious, I'm sure. We simply couldn't advertise our full names. My mother's parents were antiquarians and named her Aphrodite. In a fit of familial spirit, my mother decided to continue the tradition when I was born. Could you imagine people taking seriously two relationship therapists who advertise themselves as Aphrodite and Eros...especially a mother and son pair?"

Starsky flipped through his mental rolodex of trivia and little-known facts until he came to the Greco-Roman mythology section and the smile on his face turned into a fit of chuckles. "Yeah. I get your point."

"Now that we've laid your concerns to rest, would you like to tell me what has prompted you to seek relationship counseling? Are you currently involved with someone? Or is this a non-romantic, family issue? We do deal with more than just battles between the sexes." Eros finished with a laugh that floated through the room, swirled around Starsky and smelled of granola and fresh fruit.

He kicked back in the armchair and crossed his legs, right ankle propped on his left knee. "No, this is the whole love thing. Been on a few dates over the last few months, but nothing promising. I—I guess that's my problem."

"I see. I believe you are the detective who has returned to the police force after an extended medical leave?" At Starsky's incredulous expression, Eros nodded. "Yes, I do try to stay abreast of important community current events. One never knows when such knowledge might prove useful."

"Yeah, I was shot back in May. Touch and go for a couple months. Long recovery. Been on active duty a month now. I've had the time of my life being back at work...and then I dunno...I just started feeling like there's a big hole somewhere. Looking back and analyzing everything I've done or said in my relationships...which isn't like me. I'm wondering if something isn't wrong with me, keeping me from...having someone serious and steady in my life."

"Was there a special person in your life during that time following your attack?"

Starsky smiled. "Yeah, my partner. Hutch. He practically sewed himself to me. If he weren't a couple inches taller, I'da sworn I grew a second shadow."

Eros' face resumed the probing intensity and he leaned forward. "Let me rephrase my question. Was there someone of a romantically special nature in your life before or after the shooting?"

Starsky's face dimmed. He looked at the columns for guidance but they stood cold and aloof. The suit coat on the fainting couch refused to be of any help either. "No one special after. Someone...before...not important."

"David. If you hide pieces of yourself, I won't be able to help you make sense of the puzzle. Are you able to solve cases effectively when witnesses or suspects leave out important details?"

"Point taken." Starsky took a deep breath and related the events involving Kira. Eros listened quietly, drumming fingertips on his sculpted chin. When Starsky's narration faded into silence, Eros smiled his approval.

"Very good, David. I can tell that wasn't easy for you. So, you feel this Kira hurt you? Would you say, in the vernacular, that she 'broke your heart'?"

"No," Starsky said unequivocally. "Wounded my pride, yeah. Made me mad. I don't think she hurt me. He hurt me. What we had between the two of us was so much bigger'n what me and Kira—"

"Yet you told him you loved her."

Starsky shifted uncomfortably in the seat. "Yeah. That was kinda stupid, I've realized.... Actually, Doc—I mean, Eros, I think this was already going on back then."

"This? I'm not following you."

"This throbbing, godawful ache inside that makes me want to find someone—almost anyone—who can be the one, you know? Fill up that big hole. I thought I could make Kira into that person."

"By the one, I'm assuming that you mean a life-mate. A spouse."

"Yeah."

"David, have you and your partner ever been romantically involved?"

Starsky's face matched the chevrons on his green-and-red Christmas sweater, his only concession so far to the approaching holiday. "No, 'course not."

"Why do you say, of course not?" Kind, gentle voice. Open, questioning face. Relaxed body posture.

Starsky's discomfort eased somewhat but he frowned nevertheless. "Just don't go that route." He'd said it before; the words should work again. Eros smiled.

"Haven't ever, don't, or won't?"

Starsky's frown deepened into a wary scowl. "Look, Doc, is this really normal...asking me about my sexual preferences?"

"Normal for a relationship therapist, yes. Wouldn't you say your sexual identity has a lot to do with building relationships, contributing to trouble within relationships, et cetera?"

Starsky sighed. "Yeah, right. This is your turf. You know the lay of the land. Look, I've tried stuff, okay? Way back. You don't go the places I've been and not end up experimenting. Hell, 'Nam was just one great big jungle laboratory, all right? And we, the grunts, were the rats. Sexual exploration wasn't the only thing going down over there. So, yeah. Been that side of the street coupla times. When I landed back in the real world, I went back to just women and have been happy to stay there. Plan on staying there. Does that answer your question?"

"From your body language and tone of voice, I'd say that experimentation was a traumatic experience for you. Perhaps we should discuss that."

"No! Look, I knew this was a mistake. Thanks for the appointment, but I'll be leaving now." Starsky rose quickly but Eros coaxed him back into the chair with a smile that soothed him beyond words, a smile he was certain he'd seen before.

"My professional instinct is to probe away at a part of your life that has resulted in such unresolved pain, but I think continuing our discussion is far more important. We'll work into the more difficult areas later. Right now I'd like to know how you would describe your relationship with your partner currently? Have you and he resolved your differences?"

Starsky sighed. "Can I ask what this has to do with me finding a...what word did you use...life-mate?"

Eros grinned. "Unresolved interpersonal relationship issues can impede your ability to offer someone romantic love, David. I find it fascinating that you like the word 'life-mate'. Interesting that you don't say 'wife.'"

Starsky laughed, "Hey, I can be a liberated man. Women might even dig that 'life-mate' terminology with all these new, modern ideas about marriage floating around."

"You still haven't answered my question about Hutch, David."

Starsky stared down at his shoes and contemplated the benefits of purchasing a new pair of sneakers. The silence in the room turned into a living entity and stalked him. He looked up into a crystal blue gaze. He knew that look. Suddenly he was sitting in the chair in his apartment. How's it going?... What you been doing?... Starsky, what's going on?... You know, I've had more intelligent conversations with a turtle.

"Hutch is my best friend, but that's an understatement. Sometimes I think there's more of him in me now than me in me. Yeah, we got over the Kira crap. He's the single reason I'm a cop again. Wouldn't have made it without him. I haven't been talkin' much to him—or anyone-- lately 'cause I got all this junk in my head about dying alone and I can't shake this chill I've been walking around in for days. But there's nothing else wrong between us."

"Dying alone? A chill? Would you explain what you mean by that?"

So Starsky launched into a description of his sleepless nights, nightmares, waking visions, and overall depression. Eros scribbled notes furiously on a legal pad.

"These women...bride figures. Do you recognize them? Are they women you were seriously committed to at some point?"

"You could say that for at least two of them. The other two—if they're who I think they are—might have turned into something special but circumstances kept us from even getting off the ground."

"Why don't you outline your history with each of these women for me? Starting with the most serious relationship and continuing in order of declining importance." Once again Eros scribbled while Starsky stammered his way through a choked-up monologue on his time with Terry, pounded fists rhythmically on his knees as he described his abandonment by Rosey Malone, and concluded with information about Sharman and Emily.

Eros' next question caught Starsky off guard. "David, what would you say is more important to you: happiness or convention?"

"I don't follow you," Starsky said, brow furrowed.

"Are you looking for someone to complete you as a person or are you more interested in fulfilling an ideal, a conventional relationship you may have been told to seek, or may have decided on your own is the only option?"

"You mean...do I want a woman who matches me or am I just looking for someone to plug into the wife, house, kids, and household pets equation?"

Eros laughed. "In essence."

"Before this year, I might have said—no, I probably would have said I just wanted a perfect fit and screw the conventional scenario, but I'd've been lying. Now, I mean it when I say I just want that person in my life regardless of how unusual our relationship might turn out. Like kids, for instance. I'm not as hung up on that. If I met someone and—and she didn't want kids, I could handle that. Not a problem. The kind of cop I am doesn't leave much time for fatherhood. Not real, dedicated fatherhood. I know that now. My pop did a good job, but even he had trouble at times before he—he died...and he wasn't even an undercover cop. I'll be lucky enough if I can find an adult who'll want to put up with my lifestyle. I don't have to force kids to live with it."

Over the next half an hour, Eros probed Starsky's childhood, relationships with his parents and brother, and questioned his beliefs regarding love bonds. After a pause following the last bit of conversation, Eros stood and stretched, adjusted his colorful tie, and walked over to lean against one of the columns, focusing intent, determined eyes on Starsky.

"David, let me ask you something vitally important. Just how much does all this mean to you? How crucial is finding this one person above all others? Where does it rank on your list of priorities?"

Starsky covered his face with his hands briefly, blew into his palms, and pushed the hands back through his hair. "I—I feel like I'm on a collision course with something beyond me. I—I can't go on much longer feeling like this. It's gonna affect my work. Even worse, it'll put distance between Hutch and me. I can't...I can't afford that. I—do you understand?"

"Perfectly," Eros smiled. "You, David Starsky, have reached the point at which you are concerned about your quality of life. Next question. Do you trust me?"

Starsky coughed and tugged on his earlobe. Eros' words transformed in his brain and the voice whispering them no longer belonged to the psychologist. Who do we trust? His own inner voice answered: Same as always. Me and thee.  "Yes."

"Do you trust me enough that, if I give you some simple instructions and promise you that if you follow them, you'll have the life-mate you so desperately need, you'll believe me and accept my help?"

"Who are you?"

Eros grinned. "You know, David, your being here today tells me you don't really care who I am. You're interested in results, not the origin of those results. At any rate, what's so amazing about my proposition? Men place personal ads all the time. Go out on blind dates set up by buddies who have no idea what they really need in a life-long relationship. Why is what I propose so difficult to swallow compared to those alternatives?"

"Well, when you put it that way...."

"Third question. Do you believe that in a lifelong couple there exist one soul and one heart...and while they are apart, until they've found each other, one carries the soul and one carries the heart and neither are complete?"

Starsky smiled softly, "God, I'd love to believe in that. Used to be, I'da laughed at you. But now, after where I've been and what I've seen...God, yes, I want to believe you."

The soft answering smile on Eros' face made room for the piercing gaze. "Do you trust me to find that heart, that love, to go with the soul you carry?"

Who do we trust? Like always. Me and thee. "Yes." Starsky paused. "Look, why don't you tell me what I'm gonna owe for this? Any papers I have to sign in my own blood?"

Eros laughed out loud. "Remember that advertisement, David? Free initial consultation. If our experiment is successful, you won't need to see me again. And, no, I'll be drawing no blood from you. You must accept that some things in this world are done out of benevolence, innocence, and good."

"Okay. Sign me up. What do I have to do?"

"I'm going to give you an address. Starting tonight, I want you to spend your nights there for one week. You can be anywhere you need to be during the day, but when you are ready for sleep, you should head to this address without fail for seven nights. Is that much clear so far?"

"Umm...look, you know I'm a cop. I've got people who need to know how to reach me."

"You can give a contact number to your superior officer, but your partner can know nothing of this."

"Wait a minute. I can't keep this from Hutch. It'll—it'll drive him crazy if he needs to get hold of me and can't find me."

"David, I asked you where this need ranks on your priority list. Has your answer changed?"

"No," Starsky said grudgingly, scuffing his feet on the floor.

"Fine. Now. Once you're at this address, you go straight to the bedroom and sleep, read, play Solitaire. Amuse yourself any way you like, but you cannot under any circumstances leave the room until daylight. If your captain calls with a police emergency, there is an outside exit in your bedroom. Use it. Do not return to the living room once you've shut yourself away, understood?"

"Crystal clear. But why?"

"Your heart, your life-mate will come to you each night. You'll feel the presence, feel wrapped up in the love, but you cannot look on the physical form of your spouse-to-be during those special hours until a week has passed. The physical form will rest on the sofa in the living room, keeping guard over your soul. Don't question the instructions. Accept them at face value."

"Man, she must be something else!" Starsky grinned, anticipation quickening his blood flow and warming him, eating at the inner chill.

Eros smiled sagely. "You'll know in a week. Do you accept the terms of our agreement?"

 

"Cops deal with rules all the time...and we know what happens when they get broken. What's gonna happen if I break your rules?"

"Simple. If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you'll lose that heart forever."

"Jeezus. So we're dealing with a capital offense here?"

"Basically."

Part Two:
Discovery

December 13, 1979
12:30 PM

Starsky left Miramar Square feeling like he'd won a tax-free ten million dollar super lotto. Without analyzing the accompanying haste to be in his partner's company, Starsky turned the Torino toward Metro. Spending the day with Hutch would ease the bite of his curiosity and impatience to see what changes the night could usher into his life. The brilliant afternoon sun, warm even in the middle of December, couldn't match the fire igniting in every inch of Starsky's body, including the skin beneath his fingernails. Starsky was grateful for the beautiful weather and rolled his window down, turning the radio on and singing along to the most upbeat song he could find.

The street-wise and nearly impossible to con part of his brain yelled at him to pull over and re-think his acceptance of the crazy scheme. Yeah, blind dates. He'd gone on a few to please his sense of adventure in the romance arena. But personal ads? That was a completely different and less appetizing taco. He personally felt deep pity for anyone reduced to putting his or her heart in the hands of a newspaper column or the back pages of a tabloid. More than that, he doubted a person's sanity if he or she thought any love forged under those circumstances wasn't a bit suspect. Yet, here he was going out even farther on a limb than that. The limb he clung to now had a crack at the other end and he faced freefall into a swamp alive with alligators. He finally listened to his conscience's howling. Why had he linked Eros' offer with such violent danger? The whole idea was to promote love, benevolence, and good, Eros had said in no uncertain terms. If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you'll lose that heart forever.

Starsky shook off the nagging alarm bells like a dog frustrated with bath water and lounged in the seat, driving with one hand flat-palmed against the lower curve of the steering wheel. This is gonna be great!

He blew into the squad room, a fresh spring breeze after a long winter, and the officers involved in their various tasks glanced up with shared expressions that told Starsky his cold silences had been the source of station gossip. The door to Dobey's office opened and Starsky inhaled jerkily at the palpable joy and relief on Hutch's face. Starsky cocked his head speculatively and said, "Where's your Santa hat, partner? Suited you."

He expected a snide remark and a semi-nasty look, but Hutch merely ducked back into Dobey's office, reaching, Starsky could tell, in the general vicinity of Dobey's coat and hat rack, and when he emerged from the office, he brought to life L. Frank Baum's idea of a young, svelte Claus. Starsky covered his mouth and bit back a snort of laughter. Hutch lifted one index finger in the air and shook his head. "You wanted it. You got it. No comments from the peanut gallery. Can't believe I'm wearing this damn thing."

"Don't worry, Hutch. Wearin' a Santa hat two days in a row will not make you 'part of the overall diseased consumerist lifestyle of post-modern America'."

"Not used to those big words are you, Starsk?" Hutch retorted.

"Starsky!" Dobey bellowed. Starsky cringed.

Hutch whistled, and twiddled his thumbs, but when Starsky walked by, glaring, Hutch snagged his elbow and whispered, "Head cold."

Starsky flashed a neon smile and dashed into the office.

"See you've decided to join the other honest, hardworking souls around here," Dobey commented dryly, mouth a few inches removed from a dripping roast beef sandwich.

Starsky tried not to ogle the sandwich and ignored the reference to honesty. "Yeah, Cap. Not dying or anything drastic. Figured I could come and get some real police work done around here for a change."

Dobey coughed and lowered his sandwich. "What'd you recover from so quickly?"

Starsky met his gaze head-on and grinned. "Aw, you know...one of those head things," he sniffled experimentally and stroked his forehead. "But I got bored hanging out in bed."

"So you're going to give it to all of us, thanks, Starsky. When one of my men is sick, I expect him to stay home and fully recover before he puts himself out on the street."

"Don't worry, Cap. I'll try not to get too close to Hutch's face—"

"Heard that!!" yelled blond indignation from the squad room.

Starsky didn't miss a beat, "...and we'll be out on our rounds, so I won't leave the station full of germs. 'Kay?"

Dobey seemed to decide his sandwich required his full attention. Waving one plump hand, he growled, "Yeah. Get on out there."

Starsky backed away from the desk and swiveled when he reached the door. Words halted him. "Glad you're feeling better, Starsky."

Starsky knew Dobey meant more than the 'head cold'. He smiled over his shoulder. "Thanks, Cap'n."

Hutch lowered the file he was reading and contemplated Starsky's pleased smirk. "I don't know how you get away with half the things—" he began when Dobey's door closed.

"Couldn't without you," Starsky said brightly and Hutch fought to keep his eyes open under the rush of affection sweeping over him. Starsky edged closer and lowered his voice, "'Sides, how do you know I'm not really sick with something?"

"Because you don't have that adorable little 'Why me?' pout—"

Starsky laughed, eyes teasing, "Adorable, huh?"

"And just how did you manage to miss the sarcastic flavor of that sentence?" Hutch deadpanned. Starsky slapped him on the back. "Also because I went by your place and you weren't there," Hutch said, probing Starsky with his eyes in a manner that called to mind a marble desk and lounging therapist. Starsky flushed.

"Just out clearing the air. Um...what's on the agenda?"

Hutch acknowledged his partner's reticence on the subject of his whereabouts that morning with a slight nod and shoved the file folder against Starsky's chest. "Guess we should try tracking down Luis and see what he's willing to give us on Cheatham."

"Do you really think Cheatham's the one behind that tainted shipment?" Starsky asked, thumbing through the file.

"Best hypothesis we've got right now. One way or another, I'd place all bets on Luis knowing more about the shipment's origin than we do."

"Can't argue with that logic. All right. Shouldn't be too hard to find Luis. Let's go reel him in, Blondie." Starsky stuck the folder neatly under Hutch's arm and walked away, hand in his pocket in search of keys.

Hutch stood still, staring into space, folder unnoticed.

Starsky paused a few feet away when he didn't hear the distinctive sound of Hutch's boots following him. He turned and clapped his hands. "Hutch? Buddy, doors are this way."

Hutch moved and the folder fell to the floor, papers scattering. Starsky observed the humorous stares of their fellow officers and said pointedly, "Hutch, you forget breakfast this morning?" The men laughed and returned to their work and Starsky sidled up to Hutch, kneeling down and helping him gather the papers. "What's up, pal?"

"First time you called me that in eleven days," Hutch muttered under his breath and snatched the papers out of Starsky's helpful hands, shoving them into the file with needless force.

"Huh?"

"Blondie," Hutch clarified, face reddening as he rose and dropped the file on his desk. Starsky stared as Hutch shifted his stance with a wince of discomfort and then rushed from the room.

They didn't catch a glimpse of Luis, but they interrupted an armed robbery in progress at Morty's Girl-O-Rama and hauled in a stoned vagrant who had been stalking homeless girls behind one of the auto-parts warehouses in the old industrial district. All in all, a good day's work, Starsky gloated, feeling at least seven years younger and giving his foot extra leeway on the gas pedal in reward. Hutch accepted the increased speed with indulgent silence and cast a sideways glance at his best friend at every turn.

"Say what's on your mind, Hutch."

"You seem in better spirits."

"Noticed that, huh?" Starsky grinned over at him, knowing he should apologize to Hutch for walking around in the doldrums but uncertain how to proceed.

Hutch looked out the window. "You've met someone," he said flatly. "When? Last night after I dropped you off or this morning while you were playing hooky?"

Starsky's head jerked around and the Torino swerved despite Starsky's expert instinctive handling. Trust Hutch to grasp the heart of the matter if not the precise reason for his lift in mood. "Why do you say that?" Starsky evaded and knew immediately it was a mistake.

"Come on, Starsk. You're a book I've read cover to cover twenty times. You've got a classic case of your patented infatuationitis. Gonna tell me about her?"

Starsky swallowed and mentally cursed Eros. How could the good doc expect him to keep things under his hat for an entire week around the Wizard of Oz? Starsky decided on shy hedging. "Uh...well, I ain't exactly snagged her yet. Working on it, though. And, man, Hutch, when it all comes together, I think this is gonna be the end of the line. No more one-night stands, near misses...." he said, offering Hutch a bashful smile.

Hutch's eyes widened and he gripped his hands in his lap, turning to stare at the road ahead. "Oh? That serious, hm? Do I get a front seat at the nuptials?"

Beyond skilled at one-handed steering, Starsky reached over and tousled Hutch's hair before grabbing the Santa's hat off the seat between them and throwing it in his partner's lap. "Trust me, when she gives in to my irresistible charms, you'll have a chance to give her your seal of approval. And you know you're the only person who would ever be my best man, Santa."

Hutch gaze moved again from windshield to his window.

"Feeling okay, babe?" Starsky couldn't see the expression on Hutch's partially averted face, but he could tell that his partner's eyes were closed.

"Of course," Hutch answered too quickly, words pushed through tight lips. "I'm fine. Helene's hosted this bash last night that seemed endless. Kept me awake half the night."

Starsky laughed. "Damn. I should have been over at your place. We could've crashed the party. Free food. Some Christmas music. Dancing, probably." Never mind that I was battling some freaked out visions in my apartment last night. That's all over now. Got to be. This thing with Eros is going to work.

"Sure, Starsky. We'd have had a blast. The Bay City Gay and Lesbian Association Holiday Banquet would have been right up your alley, I'm sure." Sarcasm sharpened by some emotion Starsky couldn't identify turned Hutch's voice into a snarl.

Starsky's hand faltered on the steering wheel. The rest of the drive to the station passed in silence.

December 13, 1979
8:00 PM

Hutch curled up on his sofa and covered his face with his arms, unable to resist the trembling that spread from his shoulders to his knees and down his legs. He would not call some willing lady tonight and lose himself in meaningless conversation and food he wouldn't even taste. He was beyond that now. When hearing one of his nicknames for the first time in days could painfully tighten his pants, he should just admit defeat. He sat up too quickly and swayed with the resulting dizziness, informing his coffee table and the ridiculous cherub statue, "I'm in love with him. So help me God, I'm really in love with him. Haven't ever even kissed the guy and I'm--"

Damn. Hadn't courtly love slipped out of vogue with the fall of Arthur and the advent of the Middle Ages? Hutch pictured Starsky in Guinevere's role opposite his own Lancelot and reveled in a cathartic chuckle when the analogy splintered. The humor subsided as truth ascended. Love. Oh, God. Lust he could combat. Misplaced desire, no problem. Love? He didn't stand a chance. He preferred another bout of the plague to standing in front of a crowd of people and watching Starsky give his heart...to someone else. He was amazed by the change in his attitude. Several years ago he'd have given his right kidney and spleen for a chance to watch Starsky's eyes light up as Terry walked down the aisle. Now the thought of some other woman, however wonderful, replacing her in Starsky's life left him shuddering. Hutch stretched out again and stared at the ceiling. He wouldn't survive this.

December 13, 1979
9:00 PM

Starsky collected the newspaper, comic book, and novel off the passenger seat and marveled at the seaside house in front of him. What the structure lacked in size, it compensated for with elegance: grey stone with accents of half-timbering and diamond-paned windows, unusual architecture for this geographic location. Well, if he had to be visited by an anonymous lover he couldn’t even see then he could at least enjoy the comforts of class.

The interior of the house matched the outside level of sophistication. The sofa he should avoid at all costs could sit five adults without discomfort. The living room furniture set included wing chairs framing a fireplace out of place anywhere other than in a Sussex country estate. Starsky wandered around the house to orient himself and ended up in the kitchen where he found a stocked refrigerator and quickly fixed a sandwich and snatched a bag of potato chips from the pantry. He juggled the food, two cans of soda—unwilling to let his guard down with alcoholic consumption—and his reading material as he went in search of the bedroom.

Oh, now this was a room that made confinement a pleasure. Expansive, decorated in lovely shades of cream and blue, boasting a bed larger than some efficiency apartments, an arm chair with an afghan throw...and yes, the outdoor exit. Starsky checked the veracity of Eros' claim and felt instantly reassured when he poked his head into the cooling night air, catching a whiff of salt from the departing tide. With a contented sigh, he returned to his sandwich and ripped open the bag of chips with one hand and his teeth as he spread out the newspaper on the comforter.

One empty bag of chips and cleaned plate later, Starsky yawned and glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. Way too early for sleep, but he had experienced an unusual warmth and comfort for the last half hour that seemed to be lulling his body into slumber. He dumped his personal possessions in the armchair and extinguished the light. The warmth was so complete that he decided to sleep in the nude. He waved away the twinge of uneasiness at the vulnerability of his position and hushed his cop's instincts. Wrapped in the sheets, a soft blue cotton cocoon, Starsky closed his eyes.

He did not know how much time had passed, but he woke with the sensation of warm lips traveling the curve of his shoulder and descending his left arm. He rolled over as best he could in his cocoon and strained his eyes in the darkness. He saw no one. His heart beat rapidly but his entire body hummed with...joy. Sheer, screaming, jump-up-and-down joy. For a brief moment, the cop in him took over again and left him with a sour taste in his mouth, wondering if the food had been drugged somehow with a euphoria-inducing agent. He flung the covers back and laid still, his nudity proudly exposed to whatever phantom shared his room.

The lips returned. He could feel them just behind his knee. The whisper of a voice, unrecognizable in its muted distortion, surrounded him, but the words ran together and though he could pick apart one or two, the overall meaning eluded him.

Takeiteasy...easyeasy...yeah,babe,righthere...I'mhererighthere... Starsky reached his arms out to the emptiness, "I want to see you...I can feel you, sweetheart...."

A soft chuckle penetrated the darkness, rich in timbre but too distant for Starsky to conjure up a mental image of the woman who produced the sound. Starsky thrilled to the whispery laughter, but thought it odd that his mind's eye supplied him with the Venice Canal house and a table spread with blank business cards and stamp pads. Shaking his head slightly, he turned all the way over onto his back and rested his head on his clasped hands. Fingertips danced across his chest....

"I want to know you," Starsky said in mid-yawn.

His eyes popped open. Sunlight streamed through the room's window casting prisms on the wall and Starsky experienced a sense of exhilaration he'd never known...but along with the joy and refreshed spirit he also knew that he was suddenly, definitely alone. The presence responsible for his uplift had vacated the premises. That meant it was safe for him to do so as well. He noted the early hour, grateful for a chance to go by his own place for a shower and change of clothing before reporting to work.

December 14, 1979
8:00 AM

"Damn, Starsky. You look like you won a trip to Hawaii, met the girl of your dreams, and got an income tax refund in December," Sergeant Gregory said when Starsky sat down at his desk.

Starsky beamed. "What can I say? Some people just have all the luck."

Hutch glanced up from his phone call and controlled the urge to wince at the blatant elation on his partner's face. If she can take him from the pits of silent hell into this state of walking sunshine, who am I to wish her out of his life? "Hey, Smiley Face, ready to hit the streets? If we don't find Luis today, I'm going to pull my hair out."

"Can't let that happen," Starsky laughed, winking. Hutch glared at the implied joke about his fine hair, finer in some hidden spots than others.

Hutch tugged on his lengthy blond strands, "I've got plenty to spare, wise guy. You, on the other hand, won't, if you keep annoying me. Now get up and let's go."

Starsky jumped to his feet, slapped his hands on his hips, and said in a mocking falsetto, batting his generous eyelashes, "Oh, Hutch, I just love it when you boss me around."

The squad room erupted in laughter that died quickly when the essentially hard-skinned Hutch, who normally put on a show of being ruffled by Starsky's teasing but would retaliate by throwing a wad of paper or tapping his dark-haired friend on the back of the head, simply flushed a vivid red and shot out of the squad room. Starsky stood and stared for the second day in a row.

Hutch sat in the passenger seat of the Torino, fiddling with the tiny moon and stars on his necklace, and avoided looking at the doors Starsky would come through on his way to the car. He didn't want to see his best friend's puzzled approach. There would be questions for which he didn't have answers...or answers Starsky couldn't possibly want to hear. God, if he couldn't even handle their usual playing around.... What, should he cut his losses? Bow out gracefully like a man and have Starsky hate him for abandoning their partnership and their friendship instead of allowing him to endure the pain of discovering that his best friend could want...could want...

His hands all over me, but especially there...gripping me, pumping me, until I have nowhere to go, nothing to do but scream his name and cover his hand with all that I am...but that's not all I want. I want to fix him breakfast in bed, sing him to sleep, walk on the beach holding his hand and kicking at the lapping waves, go to a Dodgers' game with him and stay seated while everyone's up during the seventh inning stretch so I can put my hand on his knee and caress his cheek without anyone noticing...

"Hey, partner, wanna drive my car?"

Hutch jumped so violently that he nearly banged his head on the roof. He glanced down at the keys now resting in his lap and then up at Starsky, who leaned half-in the driver's door and grinned at him.

"W-why?"

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I'd like being chauffeured around today."

He decided that driving the Torino would at least provide a distraction from Starsky's nearness and a reason to concentrate, holding the fantasies at bay. If he was to survive the shift, those fantasies had to stay behind closed doors. "Uh, yeah, sure."

Once on the road, Hutch focused on traffic and ideas for tracking down the small-time drug dealer.

"Why don't we swing by Huggy's? He might have been able to scrounge some info from that friend of his—"

"Yeah," Hutch said blankly, turning the steering wheel obediently and swinging through the left turn.

"Hutch? I know I'm kind of a hypocrite asking you this after I acted like a weirdo, but...is something bothering you, buddy?"

"No." Great. Now I'm lying to him. What next?

"Right. Like there wasn't anything botherin' me."

"Fine. Tell me the secret behind your madness and I'll tell you mine."

Starsky sighed and assumed a more comfortable position, toying with the laces on his right sneaker. "I—I was just lonely, I think." He caught Hutch's side-glance and rushed to intercept his partner's apologies. "Hey, don't look like that. You were there for me just like always. Don't think I didn't notice. It was just a funk. Nothing to do with you."

The emphasis on the 'you' also demanded a reciprocal explanation. Hutch cussed under his breath for depending on Starsky's continuing reluctance to come clean on personal, emotional problems. "I—"

Hutch thought he had never been so glad to hear the telltale crackling of the radio. "Zebra-3. Come in, Zebra-3."

"Zebra-3. Starsky here."

"Possible sighting of suspect Jose Luis, Monty's Bar, 5^th Street. Informant says to use front entrance."

"Hear ya loud and clear, Dispatch. Responding."

"You know, Starsky, we should have closed that joint down years ago when we had a chance."

"And blow our rep on the street for playing fair?  We 'forgot' the address, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Hutch sighed. "But if it's starting to attract really classy specimens like Luis...."

"We'll close the doors with a padlock," Starsky finished, grinning.

Hutch pulled the Torino, with precision even Starsky could appreciate, into the last available parallel spot between a Camaro and a camper-covered pickup truck. He killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and looked up at the sign that still proclaimed in big red letters: Monty's Girls Cocktails Games. "You think they could have changed their sign in over four years," he commented.

Starsky smiled. "Why fix what ain't broken?"

"Such a winning combination," Hutch laughed, falling into stride with Starsky.

Hands resting on their concealed holsters, they sauntered past the nearly empty bar where only the hardcore alcoholics filled the early morning hours with drink and approached the same imposing black man who seemed to never tire of guarding the back room's privacy for illicit activities.

"We can do this the hard way or the easy way," Starsky said firmly, flexing his arms. Hutch remained silent, an impressive monolithic threat that wasn't lost on the hired muscle.

"Be my guest," the black man said with a sneer, waving a hand in a gesture that said he'd learned his lesson during the previous encounter with these cops.

Even before nine a.m., the back room betting operation buzzed and at the entrance of the recognizable cops, patrons dashed to and fro in the room, scattering papers and hastily turning off radios, hanging up phones. One man in particular jumped from his seat and swung around, his eyes and mannerisms proof that some dealers do sample their own goods. Starsky and Hutch had their weapons drawn but not in time to prevent the dealer's pulling his own piece, waving it ominously, screeching at the two bookies behind the main desk.

"You finked me out! I—I he-heard a rumor th-this place was in th-the pigs' pocket, but....didn't believe it...you're gonna pay, man...."

"Luis, you've got two guns on you," Hutch said in his cold, frightening voice. "The only way you're walking out of this one alive is to drop that piece and take a little ride with us."

The tall, heavyset and agitated dealer scanned the room like a cornered rat. "You ain't getting nothing out of me," he spat.

"Aw come on, Luis. I know you're swinging on a thin thread, but use your last remaining brain cell, willya? Right now you've got something to bargain with. You put holes in somebody and we won't be able to help you one bit. What's it gonna be, huh?"

Luis' instinct for self-preservation combined with Starsky's persuasive skills to lower the gun. Hutch finally allowed himself to swallow as they took charge of Luis and made their exit.

Starsky glanced in the backseat at their cuffed suspect and then smiled at Hutch. "I'd say we're the winning combination, partner."

"Yeah," Hutch grinned, pulling into traffic. Oh, yeah, Starsk. We are...and we could be in more ways than one...oh, God, Starsky. I'd wrap you in friendship all during the day and then make you sing at night with love...

December 14, 1979
9:00 PM

Hutch collapsed on the sofa and danced around with the idea of getting plastered. The rest of their day had worn him to a frazzle. Luis tap-danced for hours in the interrogation room until they were forced to ship him off to the holding cell and let him cool his heels.

Starsky's good mood remained undaunted. "You knew he wasn't gonna roll over on somebody like Cheatham right off the bat. Don't worry, Hutch. We'll turn him. Just takes time," he had said, rubbing Hutch's back between his shoulder blades with strokes that were just on the safe side of a caress but still prompted a hasty trip to the john where Hutch flung cold water in his face and counted to a hundred backwards slowly in Spanish.

After their shift concluded, Starsky had insisted they pay Huggy a visit and unwind. Hutch was wary of the prolonged contact but couldn't think of a reasonable and convincing excuse for declining that didn't involve telling the truth. Truth...a commodity he'd always held in high esteem. They had enjoyed the relaxing hours, ganged up on Huggy in teasing banter, and parted with mutual wishes for a good night. Hutch had watched Starsky bounce and swagger to the Torino and flashed on a mental image that rocked him to his soul...

He waited until Starsky was occupied in unlocking the driver's side door. Using every ounce of stealth he could muster, he crept up behind the curly-haired cop and pushed him up against the car, forcing his arms onto the top of the car. "Spread 'em."

Starsky laughed with heat and spread his arms out on the roof, assuming "the position." Instead of patting him down, Hutch leaned in close, wrapped arms around Starsky's chest and erased the distance between his groin and the body quivering in front of him. Starsky glanced back over his shoulder. "You gonna pull that piece, officer?"

"No," Hutch whispered, kissing Starsky's neck. "Not here. Just didn't want you to leave without kissing me good-bye..."

The roar of the Torino's departure from the curb had shocked Hutch out of his daydream and, tumbling back into reality, he felt a complete fool. Worse, an adolescent fool. Now he sat on his sofa wondering what destination he should put on his plane ticket.  Eventually, he stretched out in exhaustion and closed his eyes.

December 14, 1979
9:30 PM

Starsky found a prepared spaghetti dinner waiting for him in the fridge when he hunted for a snack to take to the bedroom. Once again he declined the chilled wine no doubt intended to top off the Italian feast. No matter how much he might trust Dr. Romano, he could not entirely relinquish his control. A third of his brain still berated him for investing his time in this ridiculous enterprise. The other two-thirds, totally freaked and unwilling to go through any more bride and tombstone hallucinations, held onto the majority vote with a bloody grasp. He carted his steaming plate into the bedroom and locked the door.

An hour later he decided on a nice, warm shower, thankful that the bedroom contained an ensuite bathroom. When he emerged, not bothering with the robe he found hanging behind the bathroom door, he felt the indescribable warmth and comfort from the previous night suffusing the room.

"You're here," he whispered, feeling a bit silly talking to an empty room in the glare of several lamps.

I'mhere...righthere...yeah,babe,righthere....

"I don't mind so much not being able to see you...but I feel you got me at kind of disadvantage, with me like this..." Starsky looked down at his bare skin and shook his head when heat singed his cheeks. "This is nuts. I'm standing here blushing 'cause I'm naked in a room by myself. Sorry, not completely by myself.  Jeez...."

"Just wish I could...I don’t know...get to know you...learn something about you....That's even more important to me right now than what you look like, believe it or not."

Starsky staggered under a rush of memories. A warm hand on his shoulder while federal agents questioned his brother's presence across the street in the bar of a known gangster. A blur of brown and navy dodging into the teeth of danger to push him out of the path of a truck. Guitar duets and basketball games. Dueling sandcastles on the beach. Arms holding him while he wept at a gravesite. Starsky gripped his forehead and frowned apologetically at the bed.

"Sorry, honey. Know a guy for ten years, work with him for over seven, and you're going to think about him at the strangest times. Can you put any scenes of you in my head? I mean, I don't how this scenario works and I'm not supposed to question it, but I'm used to picking away at something until I totally understand it. Seems to me if you can be here invisible to my eyes, then you're capable of planting images in my brain."

Another soft chuckle in the emptiness.

"You have a beautiful laugh, sweetheart. Feel like I've known it all my life. Just wish you'd laugh a little louder. Ma always said you could tell a lot about a person by their laugh."

"What was that? Didn't quite catch it."

Cometobedbeautiful....

Starsky yawned. "I don't know what's wrong with me. This damn room puts me to sleep or something."

SoIcanbewithyou....

Starsky pulled back the comforter and sheets and crawled beneath their softness. The minute his head hit the pillow, he felt fingertips caressing his brow, his forehead, running down the length of his nose, circling his lips.

"Such a soft touch, honey."

And to the faraway sound of a lullaby in a voice that hovered just on the edge of familiarity and soothed his last doubt, Starsky's eyes closed and his breathing steadied with sleep.

He woke in quasi-darkness. Glancing at the window, he decided dawn must be just around the corner. The warmth and comfort had not receded. "You're still here," he mumbled happily.

"Do you...do you like what you see so far?" Starsky hated the slightly self-conscious question once it left his lips. This strange method of courtship opened the door to insecurities he didn't know he had.

YouknowIloveyou....

The light increased, the pool of sunlight under the window growing. "Looks like the morning has arrived."

The warmth evaporated and Starsky shivered in the sudden chill. "God, I'm addicted to her already and I haven't seen her, can't touch her, and don't even really understand a word she says. What the hell's gonna happen to me when all is revealed?"

December 15, 1979
7:00 AM

Discordia stalked the streets of Bay City and fumed. Damn that Eros to the pits of Hades' worst torture chamber...if he could ever be damned, that is. Since his syrupy reunion with Psyche and the sickeningly sweet little girl's promotion to immortality, the son of Aphrodite was determined to put together every true heart and soul in the universe. He'd made it his personal cause in the last few millennia. Next thing you know, there'd be an end to warfare, a drastic drop in the crime-rate, and hatred would disappear off the face of the earth, leaving Discordia where? Relegated to the has-been section of Mt. Olympus, that's where. Well, she wasn't having any of that! No, sir. Time that Eros was put in his place. He'd managed to save Psyche's adorable little tail when she broke the rules, but David Starsky wasn't in love with an immortal. One little shove in the wrong direction and Eros would have enough egg on his face to make omelets for the entire Olympian breakfast crowd. And Aphrodite had already been warned by the High Throne to quit pulling her son's...um...chestnuts out of the fire when he went off on one of his half-cocked schemes. The trick would be convincing ethical little cop and all around good guy Davey to kiss off the terms of his agreement. She had to go through someone who couldn't be accused of having an ulterior motive. Someone above reproach. Discordia smiled, visited by a flawless idea.

December 15, 1979
7:30 AM

Hutch rolled off the sofa and connected painfully with the floor. Why the hell had he started sleeping on his damned sofa when he had a perfectly good, comfortable, and non-back threatening bed? Another night like that one and he'd be calling Starsky's physical therapist for a refresher course on those exercises. He stretched, listened for telltale creaks and when he heard none, smiled broadly. Okay. All the hard work and clean living of the past seven months was paying off in sizable dividends. Now he had to shower and psyche himself into spending a day with Starsky. The thought that spending a day with his best friend required special mental and emotional preparation left a leaden weight in Hutch's gut.

December 15, 1979
8:30 AM

"How the hell did this happen, Cap'n?" Hutch shouted, shaking off the soothing hand that touched his side. Starsky sighed.

"One of those things, Hutch. From what we've been able to piece together, Sloane made the mistake of getting too close to the bars and Luis grabbed him, broke his neck, stripped off his shirt, and proceeded to hang himself with it."

"All under the watchful eye of a security camera?" Hutch did not bother to moderate his voice.

"Apparently there was a malfunction," Dobey said wearily, rubbing his temples.

"This is ridiculous, Cap," Starsky spoke up finally. "Nothing like this has ever happened in our holding area."

"Tell me about it!"

"God, Sloane had two kids."

"Yes, thank you, Starsky, I'm aware of that. What I don't understand is why Luis—"

Reading the captain's mind, Hutch said, "Oh, Captain, that's the easiest question. Can't blame Luis for debating his options and not liking either one. He gets sent up holding the bag for the tainted drug deaths, or he can roll on Cheatham and end up dead later in any number of highly unpleasant, lingering ways."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed. "Coming down off his high, his desire to live was probably down around his ankles, too. He saw the quick and easy route as a better alternative to years of hard time or a torturous organization execution."

"Quick and easy," Hutch said, frowning. "I wouldn't say hanging qualifies as...wonder why he didn't go after Sloane's gun—"

"Too noisy," Starsky said. "A shot probably would have brought somebody running and if he managed to botch the deal, medical attention might salvage him. No, he wanted to be sure he'd go out. With hanging, he figured nobody would find him until the deed was well done. Luis wasn't a total idiot."

"Fine detective work, but it's not getting us any closer to Cheatham," Dobey growled, pushing back from his desk.

"Luis was our only link to Cheatham," Hutch said, arms outstretched, palms upward in a gesture of frustration.

"Well, you're gonna have to get to him another way!" Dobey roared.

"Yeah, we got that much, Cap'n," Starsky said calmly, latching onto Hutch's wrist and tugging him backward to the door.

"Someone's head needs to roll over this, Captain. Sloane should still be alive, dammit, getting ready to go to his daughter's school Christmas pageant."

"Thanks for the commentary, Hutchinson. Exactly who would you like me to fire? How about you and Starsky for not convincing Luis to roll instead of turning a shirt into a permanent necktie?"

"Point taken, Captain," Starsky said as Hutch raised a hand and prepared to hold forth on the captain's remarks. Hutch closed his mouth and let Starsky pull him from the office.

The squad room was empty and when they reached their desks, Starsky turned to Hutch and clasped both of the blond's shoulders. "Hey, buddy, you're bowstring tight. What gives? I know Sloane's death is a tough blow. For all of us. But you haven't been getting into tussles like that with Dobey since before...since May."

"I—I'm fine. Just mad as all hell. This whole thing should've been preventable." Hutch ducked from under the comforting grasp of Starsky's hands and sat down at his desk.

"Hutch? You holding my silent treatment against me? I'm sorry I was—"

"No," Hutch looked up quickly and shot Starsky such an approving smile that the curly-haired detective's mouth curved immediately into a responsive grin, his eyes bright and flashing. Starsky reached out and brushed golden silk away from the upturned leather jacket collar.

"Letting your hair get awful long, Blondie."

"You got a problem with it?" Hutch asked, and bit his lip, glancing away.

"'Course not. We're partners. You wanna grow it all the way down to the floor with a beard to match, I'll stand behind you all the way."

Hutch snorted. "Oh, yes. I can see that going over real well with the people who cut our checks."

"Blondie, the people who cut our checks know almost nothing of what we do in a given day on the street. Who the hell cares what they think? Or are you tryin' to be a rebel?"

Hutch grinned. "Not exactly." Inwardly, he came to a realization that chilled him. Oh, jeez. Long hair, no mustache...what's next, Hutchinson, are you going to try to grow breasts for him, too? You don't want to be his woman, for God's sake...but you know that's all he'd accept. That's it. You're getting your hair cut this evening time you get off work. Period.

"So, what's the word?"

Hutch blinked and had to think for a minute to get back on track. "We hit the streets. Scare up a few snitches and see if we can't get a line on Cheatham. Somebody has to be whispering in corners."

Starsky frowned. "Maybe it's just me, but I'm getting the feeling we're chasing another Waddel."

Hutch trembled at the reminder of Starsky's poisoning and the suspect who had taken up their valuable investigation time while residing in the county morgue. "No, Cheatham's not in cold storage. He's just smarter than the average smack distributor. You know his rep. He's all shadows, puffs of smoke, mirrors and optical illusions. Come on, Dobey'll be out for our blood if we don't turn up some results."

December 15, 1979
7:00 PM

Starsky dropped down into the large rattan chair and tried to make sense of the phone call. It wasn't that his mother never called him, and when she did, she was definitely interested in his activities outside of the job. That much was normal. But how in God's name had he managed to keep the details of the "love experiment" from Hutch, Dobey, and Huggy for over 48 hours and during one fifteen minute call with Rachel Starsky let the whole enchilada out of the takeout bag? Not only that, but her questions unnerved him. What would Hutch think, she had nagged at him, if he found out that Starsky was involved with some sort of monstrous woman of ill repute instead of the lovely, comforting angel he seemed to think rested on that sofa each night? Could he really stand the heartbreak of going through this night after night only to find out that he'd been led blindly to the edge of a cliff? What about his sworn duty as a policeman to remain above reproach? How did he know what kind of people were really involved? Had he run any sort of background check? Starsky ended the phone call feeling like he'd had a conversation with an Academy instructor rather than his ma. Strangest of all was her reaction to his half-hearted suggestion that he pull out of the entire project.  Mrs. Rachel Starsky, who had taught him from childhood never to go back on his word without life-or-death cause, laughed off his noble impulse to bow out of the agreement, thank Dr. Romano, and move on with his life. No, Rachel's suggestion was one tiny peek in the living room during the restricted hours. What could it hurt? Did Davey really believe he'd lose everything in an instant just for acting on his good cop's instincts?

Starsky debated calling her back and questioning her take on the situation, but decided against it. He'd figure out his course of action on his own.

December 15, 1979
7:30 PM

Hutch slammed the door to his apartment and growled, the sound reminiscent of a wounded, trapped grizzly. His preferred barber's shop was closed due to a death in the family and Hutch elected to give up on the haircut for the time being. He wandered into the bathroom and faced the mirror. "Take control, Hutchinson. You did not start growing your hair for him and you are not going to start changing your appearance and normal habits now. Your life is your life. Be a damn man about this, for Christ's sake. You were friends with him for years without letting him drive you crazy—well, at least not like this. If you can't work with him, talk to him, be his friend, and conduct yourself in a professional, intelligent adult manner, you will leave. You will go away. Understood?"

His reflection sneered at him. He scowled. "And what the hell's wrong with you, anyway? You've been in love with him for several months now and you were managing. Okay, you weren't happy, but you weren't falling apart either. What's different now?" The answer flowed across the screen of his mind and was so shocking that Hutch would not have been surprised to see his reflection's lips move and lecture him. "He's happy." Hutch informed the pale, unhappy face in the mirror. "He's happy now and you're not the reason. Good God. You're jealous of someone else being able to make him smile, make him feel loved and appreciated. Well, invest in some humanity, Hutchinson, and be glad for him, you selfish prick. You're bigger than this. Smarter. Better."

The pep talk dulled the stinging in his heart but the anesthetic faded quickly. When he failed to distract himself with music, botany, or cooking, Hutch hurled his empty plate and glass against the nearest wall and stomped over to the sleeping alcove. He located a framed picture of Starsky making an absurd face for the photographer. Starsky had given it to him as one of his famous birthday gag gifts, but Hutch stubbornly insisted on valuing that picture over any of the normal snapshots he had of his vibrant partner.

The spiked eyebrows, cockeyed protruding tongue, and laughing, purposefully bulging eyes mocked him and Hutch crushed the picture against his chest. "Go ahead and love her, Starsky. Go ahead and blessings to you both. But if she...if I get the slightest impression that she's hurting you, I swear to God, I'm stepping in...and I'll win you, dammit. I promise you that. Somehow."

He felt exhaustion in body and soul. Fishing his pocket watch out of his cords, he acknowledged the passing of two hours and decided that sleep was preferable to a date with something strong and fermented. After tossing and turning for half-an-hour on the bed, Hutch gave in to the inexplicable magnetic pull of his sofa and carted the framed picture with him. Stretching out, he hugged the picture close as a teddy bear and his eyes closed instantly.

December 15, 1979
9:30 PM

Starsky's blood ran cold when he pulled a plate of linguine with clams out of the fridge. To a mind already besieged with doubts, this prepared dinner was anything but a positive omen. Nevertheless, his appetite won the argument and he located a bottle of root beer to wash down the meal. He indulged in a lingering look at the sofa on his way to the bedroom for another night of benevolent imprisonment. Can't think of it like that, Starsky scolded himself as he shut the bedroom door and stood still, listening for any sound. Crashing waves attracted his attention and he deposited the food before peeking out the exit door. The ocean was active tonight, the scent of brine heavier in the air, and the breeze beckoning. Starsky thought favorably of shedding his sneakers and taking a walk on the sand.

The sudden arrival of the mind-numbing warmth and joy pushed the door closed of Starsky's own volition and he turned around with a sheepish smile. "Leave you? 'Is that what you said, darlin'? No, I don't want to leave you. Just never have been too fond of being cooped up for long."

He still couldn't quite make out the meaning of the words, but the kindness in the masked voice wrapped him in peace and he smiled broader. "Glad you're early tonight, beautiful. Normally you don't show up until time for bed."

"Looks like I've got Italian again tonight," Starsky said by way of conversation, digging into his plate of seafood linguine with gusto. "Wish you could eat with me."

"Shay," Starsky said with his mouthful. He chewed and swallowed. "Wonder if we could develop our own code? You know...I ask you a yes/no question and you tap something once for yes or twice for no? How about it?"

"Interrogate? Did I hear ya right, baby? Oh, don't think of it like that. I guess—I guess you know I'm a cop, huh? Does that bother you?"

Starsky sighed, immediately relieved. "Well, that's nice to know. Jeez, I thought... Sorry, schweetheart. I won't push you to answer a buncha questions. Especially when you probably feel even weirder than I do about this current arrangement."

"Seem to be understanding you a little better tonight. That's nice. Feels nice."

Around ten thirty, Starsky was engrossed in his novel and enjoying the companionable presence when the room went dark. He waited patiently for the lights to flicker back on but when the electricity failed to return, he frowned and fidgeted.

"Not scared, beautiful, just itchy," Starsky reassured his invisible beloved. He felt his way over to a closet in the room and rummaged in it blindly, delighted when his hand connected with a candle. He had hoped for a flashlight, but he wasn't picky under the circumstances. Now for matches. Hands out in front of him, feeling his way, he located the nightstand and rifled through the drawer. Ah, success. Within a minute, the candle flame glowed bright and Starsky glanced around. "Listen, I know I'm supposed to stay put, but I really need to check things out, look for the breaker box...."

"Honey, there's no storm out tonight and I know all four of these lamps didn't blow a bulb at the same time. Now, it's probably nothing. Someone hit a transformer, most likely. But in my line of work, I can't sit here and take chances. I'll do my best to avoid the sofa—"

Noyouwon't...youwon'tbeabletoresist....

"Don't worry. I'll be right back...and we can hit the sack together. How's that sound?"

Beretta in his left hand, candle in the right, Starsky made it to the door with the candle leading the way when the voice, somewhat clearer, issued one more appeal.

Starsk, don't.

Starsky turned around, almost dropping the candle. "W-what did you call me?" But only silence greeted him. Starsky shrugged and turned to the door.

The darkness outside the bedroom was pervasive. Starsky clung to his intention of finding the circuit box against an overwhelming draw toward the living room. He flashed on memories of a day at the beach with Hutch when he'd given in to an impulse to disregard his dislike for the water and join Hutch in a swim. He'd promptly fallen victim to a section of nasty undertow and without Hutch's expert help, might have fared poorly. As it was, he swam beside Hutch to the shore and delivered a diatribe on the lack of any signs indicating danger. Hutch had smiled, ruffled through his wet hair, and squeezed his shoulders until the rant subsided. Starsky felt the same undercurrent now, dragging on him, grasping him by the ankles until his brain surrendered. What could one tiny peek hurt? He hadn't come out here with the purpose of breaking the rules...if he just happened to bump into the sofa in the dark...surely that wasn't the same thing?

Eyes wide open for any indication of everyday criminal related danger, Starsky moved slowly down the hall and came perilously close to dropping the candle again when he noticed the living room's roaring fire, which had not been laid when he arrived earlier.

The fire cast the living room in a lovely, golden glow and mesmerized Starsky, who stared at the high sofa back and swallowed hard. His eyes closed involuntarily and he stepped around the sofa, utilizing his body to maneuver around obstacles. When he faced the furniture, he demanded his heart stop pounding like misplaced thunder and opened his eyes.

His breath caught in something approximating a sob. Doors locked for years swung violently open as almost worshipful admiration sliced through chains and snapped padlocks like plastic. An ongoing internal battle concluded at an armistice table, the jungle ghosts bowing in surrender and taking their hypocrisy with them. 

A man lay on the sofa clothed only in the innocence of his birth. Long, graceful lines...strong arms and shoulders relaxed in slumber...soft, golden hair fanned out over the sofa's end cushion...a rosy flush on the pale cheeks that owed its presence to the fire.

He was without doubt the most exquisite, insanely beautiful creature Starsky had ever seen half a million times without this blinding sense of staring at immortal perfection. The warmth and joy of the bedroom intensified exponentially and Starsky panicked momentarily that his heart was not up to the challenge.

Starsky stood immobile, lost in disgust at his own blindness. The meshed, whispered words of the last two nights ran through his mind with amazing clarity. His body relived the loving touches. How had he not noticed that those fingertips were larger than any female's? Shouldn’t it have dawned on him immediately that the warmth and joy oddly mimicked the way he'd felt when Hutch cradled him in an alley; brushed his lips over his head while Starsky clung to the lapels of a leather jacket; tied a tablecloth around his shoulder; smiled at him as he completed his first treadmill exercise after leaving the hospital in June.... Oh, God. He wasn't ready for this...he couldn't...he didn't....

"Hutch?"

The form on the couch stirred lazily and then blinked flashes of crystalline blue at him and reached for him with eager arms. Starsky produced a strangled moan and took a step forward.

A strange, thundering, imperious voice interrupted the stillness and the magical moment: "If you look upon the physical form of your life-mate during those night hours before the week is up, you'll lose that heart forever."

The smile on Hutch's face vanished and Starsky's throat turned to sandpaper at the ashen, stark fear visible on the features he knew better than his own. Starsky watched, frozen in place, as Hutch extended his arms, and his blue eyes closed, soft voice pleading, "Help me, Starsky," before he disappeared from sight.

"NO!" Starsky screamed, raw and painful in the deceptively cozy, firelit room.

"HUTCH!" A draft of chilling air whooshed by him, extinguishing the candle, and Starsky dropped his gun, crumpling to the floor in an unconscious heap.

Part Three:
Consequences

December 15, 1979
11:15 PM

Starsky's awareness grew in stages. He knew he wasn't at home in his own apartment because he felt the fire's warmth on his back. He remembered the seaside house next and rubbed at his side. He connected with hard floor instead of yielding mattress. What the-- Remembrance brought swift agony. He looked up at the empty sofa and sprang into action, leaving the harmless candle on the floor and giving the fireplace no more thought as he grabbed his gun and raced for the front door, grateful that he'd remained fully clothed.

Dizziness swept over him as he gunned the Torino out of the driveway, but he didn't question his own health. He turned without cognizant thought toward the nearest Venice-bound route. The radio speared his troubled thoughts.

"Zebra-3. Code Three."

Lights and sirens. Starsky snatched the mike. "Zebra-3. Code 3. Go ahead."

He knew he didn't imagine the audible relief in the dispatcher's voice when she said, breaking the dispatch protocol, "Finally. Respond to Captain Dobey immediately at

1027 ½ Ocean."

Starsky's voice trembled as he acknowledged the message and replaced the mike. He managed through agility born of desperation to flip the siren, roll down the window, seize the mars light and attach it to his roof without swinging off the road at his crazy rate of speed.

He didn't think about the coincidence of the radio call and the events of that evening. He couldn't and retain his sanity. He let his practiced hands drive for him as he spun in a maelstrom of memories, despair, frightened prayers, appeals, and pleas directed at anyone who might listen. He embraced the tiniest shred of hope. Hutch wasn't dead. The dispatch code would have been different. Not dead meant alive. Alive and salvageable. He didn't linger on the memory of the sofa...of Hutch's smile, of his arms outstretched and reaching for him with more than friendship sparkling in the clear blue eyes. Separation from friend, partner, and brother scraped painfully enough on the walls of his heart.

Turning onto Ocean, he coughed and wrinkled his nose as the acrid haze of smoke invaded the car. Sickening gray-white plumes and the pink-orange tint in the night sky compressed his chest with terror. Venice Place seemed to shrink in the leaping, devouring flames, the sturdy stone façade disguised by billowing smoke from the roof and windows. Ignoring the shooting pain in his knuckles from his grasp on the steering wheel, Starsky drove like a man possessed until forced to pull over behind the barricade of emergency vehicles. Jumping out of the car and leaving the door swinging open behind him, he dodged through the maze of fire engines and squad cars.

"Hutch! HUTCH!"

Uniformed officers dashed to the side to avoid the human battering ram and Starsky might have made it all the way past the struggling firefighters had Dobey not grabbed him by the shoulders, forcefully holding him back.

"Lemme go, damn you! Good God, HUTCH!"

"Starsky! Hold still!" Dobey shouted over the exaggerated crackling of the fire and the crashing spray of water mingled with disembodied voices delivering instructions via bullhorn. Starsky squirmed and fought the captain, and the expression on the detective's face indicated his intention to bite his way free if necessary. "Starsky, don't make me hit you! Martin, get over here and help me hold him! Starsky, listen to me. The interior went up like a paper dollhouse. Fire battalion chief said there was no pulling anybody out—"

"No...lemme go get him. Hutch, I'm coming, buddy! Hang on, HUTCH!"

But Starsky wasn't strong enough to combat two grown men's determined arms. He hung limp in their protective grasp and for a worried minute Dobey thought they supported dead weight. Then Starsky straightened and his face wore a chilling mask. "What happened?"

Dobey sighed, "Where have you been, Starsky? I tried that contact number you gave me about fifteen times until the dispatch officer relayed the message that you were on your way."

Starsky refused to turn his eyes away from the blaze. "In heaven...until it turned to hell," he muttered. He touched a finger to his lips. He'd spoken the words aloud! Starsky shook violently free of the policemen's hold and straightened the jacket Hutch always referred to as 'safari-esque'. "I was told I could be reached at that number, Cap'n. I had no reason to doubt it. Now—what do you know?"

Dobey nodded at Martin. "Get him a cup of water, Martin. Thanks."

When the officer rushed away, Dobey gently but firmly turned Starsky away from the burning building. "That restaurant's owner gave us some valuable information. He showed up about ten minutes ago. He was in the restaurant working on his ingredient inventory and came up front around 10:15, he says, when he heard a car pull up outside. Three men got out, laughing, looking friendly with each other, headed for the entrance. Owner didn't think anything of it at the time. He decided to call it a night and left less than ten minutes later. The car was still there. Then at approximately 10:45, a black-and-white driving by spotted the fire and called it in to the fire department and got hold of me. The place was an inferno by the time I got here. Now, Starsky...from the description we've got of the three men, they sound like Cheatham muscle to me."

Starsky's knees liquefied and Dobey gripped his detective's elbow. "Retaliation for Luis," Starsky breathed. "But—but why Hutch? Why not ME?" Starsky's voice was tragically wistful and Dobey heard the words that remained unspoken: I'd rather be dead than standing here watching this...

"If it's Cheatham, you know he has a weird sense of honor. His beef is with you and Hutch, not a lot of innocent people. A fire like this at your place would have probably resulted in numerous civilian deaths. Starsky, do you know anything about the people who lived in the second apartment up there?"

"I-it was for rent. Empty," Starsky mumbled, and then experienced a twinge of shame that he couldn't spare a sigh of relief that no one faced a hideous death in the other apartment. Not when Hutch was.... Hope flooded him. "No! No, he wants both of us. Cheatham wouldn't settle on Hutch alone. Cap'n, Hutch isn't in there."

"Starsky, we don't even have proof that those men—"

"No, Captain! Hutch is not in that apartment."

"Starsky, how do you—"

"I'd know! Do you understand? I don't care if you don't understand. Hell, I didn't understand until tonight and—"

"Starsky," Dobey's voice climbed an octave. "Would you stop speaking a foreign language and make sense?"

"The restaurant owner. Girard. You said he didn't see the men leave, right? Left before they did?"

"Right."

"All right. Ten'll get you twenty, they had Hutch with them, because Cheatham knows I'll come looking for him. He won't be happy until he has both of us. He's thorough. Precise."

Martin returned with a styrofoam cup of water and Starsky drank it down in one gulp, handing the cup back to Martin with a nod of gratitude. Dobey frowned.

"Starsky, this is all conjecture. I can't let you go running off—"

"I'm going to find Hutch whether you 'let' me or not, Cap'n—"

"Starsky!"

"Aw, come on, Captain!" When Martin moved away again, Starsky said harshly, "Ain't no way I'm gonna stand around while Hutch is in the hands of somebody with access to truckloads of heroin. You know you agree with me. I know you don't believe Hutch is—is—" Dobey shot him a questioning, speculative look and Starsky sighed. "You haven't started calling me 'Dave' yet."

That produced a small smile on the captain's face. "All right, Starsky. What are your intentions?"

"Can you handle things at this end? I'm hitting the Pits first to get Huggy on the task of putting it on the street that I'm lookin' for Hutch and open to bargains. Street's been quiet on Cheatham so far, but there are mouths that'll suddenly open when a cop's life is in danger...specially one that's been square with 'em in the past. Then—"

"If you think Cheatham has Hutch as bait to get you, won't Cheatham contact you on his own?"

Starsky faced the captain with a crafty, fierce, veteran smile of many years in the trenches. "Oh, no. Cheatham's no fool. He won't give me enough heads-up that I can bring the cavalry with me. I'm gonna have to work my way into this one, Cap'n, and when I do, I'll probably be doing a solo act."

"No!" Dobey raised both hands and shook his head vehemently. "How many times have I said—"

"No private parties. I know. I also know I will do whatever will keep Hutch alive. No questions asked." Starsky spared another moment to imprint the sight of Venice Place alight in his mind and turned to leave. Dobey's clasp on his shoulder stopped him.

"Starsky," Dobey whispered, mindful of the officers milling closer. "Cheatham doesn't know about Hutch's past."

Starsky sighed and in an equally low tone countered, "Yeah? We can't bank on that, Cap'n, and even if he doesn't, Cheatham could get creative on his own. Ben Forrest ain't the only lowlife out there who thinks it's cool to string out a cop."

Dobey's grip tightened briefly on Starsky's shoulder, "Good luck. You keep me abreast of what's going down at all times, you got it?"

"Done, Cap'n," Starsky said. He located Chez Helene's owner long enough to get a firsthand description of the three men and left the distraught restaurateur with a few words of support. With a long, pained final look at Hutch's decrepit car, Starsky turned his back on the scene, running back through the cluster of vehicles to the Torino.

 

Starsky burst through The Pits' door and made a beeline for the bar, oblivious to the crowd, laughter, and music around him. One glimpse of his friend's face and Huggy abandoned the attractive Oriental girl he'd been giving a lesson in flirtation Huggy-Bear style.

"Starsky, m'man. The Bear is here and all ears. I don't know what's got you lookin' like that, but it ain't good." Huggy pulled his chartreuse silk vest closer over his lemon yellow T-shirt and shivered like a man trapped in a snowdrift.

Starsky glanced around and then leaned in close. "Hutch's place is a giant bonfire right now—"

Huggy's face competed with his vest for weirdest color. "A-and H-Hutch?"

Starsky hung his head and tightened his fingers' clutch on the bar's edge. "Fire department couldn't get anyone beyond a certain point. His car's parked outside. But I'm going on the assumption that—"

"That you'd know if he was still in that apartment," Huggy said meaningfully. Starsky lifted his face and offered Huggy an appreciative smile that almost knocked the slender black man backward. "What can I do to help? You name it."

"I—I think Cheatham's got his filthy paws all over this one, Hug. You know what that means."

"Oh, damn. Damn," Huggy whispered fervently, crinkling his nose in a peculiar mixture of disgust and horror.

Starsky nodded. He gave Huggy a description of the three suspects and said, "I want it on the street that I'll be in anybody's debt who can help me, Huggy. Emphasize the fact that I always pay my debts. Anything from my car to my soul on this one, Hug, you know what I mean? But the info has to be legit. I don't have time to chase down dead ends."

Huggy reached over the bar and patted Starsky's forearm. "Man, you know I hear you. I'll have the word all over the city in less than an hour. You can count on it. What're you gonna do meantime?"

"All I can do right now: drive by some of Cheatham's old haunts and see if I spot any activity. I can't just sit around and wait."

"Been down this road before, bro, I know it's gotta be bringing back some unrighteous memories."

Starsky heaved a ragged, wobbly sigh and grit his teeth, turning his eyes from the warm, brown-eyed concern washing over him. "Yeah."

"Starsky, I—I have to ask...how do you—"

"Know they'll keep him alive?"

"Yeah."

"Their boss want me too, Huggy. They know I'm not gonna put my head in a noose without some proof that my partner's still breathing. But that—that doesn't m-mean as much in this case. I—I didn't tell Dobey, but Hutch—Hutch won't go through all that again. He won't. He'll do something stupid and get himself killed before he bows to a needle. If they choose to play with him--"

"No, he won't," Huggy said firmly, something unidentifiable in his tone. Starsky glanced up from his study of the bar top.

"What?"

"Sorry," Huggy said lamely. "Not the time or place. Just—just don't worry about Hutch out there with some suicidal tendency."

"Huggy, you got something on your chest about Hutch, now is the time I wanna hear it."

"Not this, you probably don’t, unless I've read your tendencies wrong for years. Shouldn't've opened my fool mouth. Now scram and lemme put the huge hole under my nose to use finding our Blondie." Huggy gave the trembling arm another reassuring pat and turned to face the telephone.

"Huggy!"

Huggy swung around at the insistent growl and frowned. "Starsky, I just—I just meant, the man lives for you, dig?"

"We live for each other. Always have."

"'Less I'm much mistaken, not like this. He ain't gonna pass on the chance to see your face again. And that's all I'm gonna say right now, so don't give me the cop's stare."

Starsky ran a hand through his hair, around to rub at the nape of his neck, and back over his forehead. He released his other hand's death grip on the bar, looking lost in a desert as he walked away. He stopped halfway to the door as Huggy said his name.

"You don't think you oughta be manning your phone?"

"Nah. Cheatham knows how Hutch and me work. He knows I won't be sitting around. If he tries to contact me at all, and I don't think he will, he'll use a flunky and go through dispatch—or through you."

"Gotcha. Good luck, m'man and you watch that skin of yours, you hear?"

"As always, Hug. Thanks."

December 16, 1979
2:45 AM

Exhausted and despairing, Starsky drove slowly past the port authority restricted access sign he and Hutch had honored four years ago and cruised along the docks, his final stop in the Cheatham-real-estate tour. He did not want to stray beyond earshot of the radio and patrolling the waterfront solo and on foot in the middle of night could result in Dobey's filing two missing officer reports. He banged his fist against his door and bit down hard on his lip. Cheatham made Amboy look like a five-and-dime pusher. Amboy's inherent stupidity and desire to protect his ostentatious lifestyle had been his own undoing. His successor Cheatham lacked both. He kept a low profile in California and enjoyed the high life only when tucked away at a nearly untouchable island resort in the Pacific. He left almost no paper trail. He had a taste for imported heroin and wielded enough power to smuggle it repeatedly under the port authority's nose. He was a phantom who had made the mistake of allowing dead hypes to pile up in the back alleys of the inner city. Starsky stopped the car just a few feet short of the dock's edge and leaned low over the steering column, seized with a sudden idea.

The numbers didn't add up. Cheatham didn't make stupid mistakes. He'd sooner cut off his right leg with a dull knife than let a tainted shipment out in his territory...and to go after a pair of cops because a small fish in his pond committed suicide in a holding cell? No. What had he been thinking, dammit!? Not Cheatham. Not his technique. The man had next to no heart and even less soul but he could hold his own against a Stanford rocket scientist. He wouldn't willingly sign off on activities that risked his whole operation and made him look bad. That made him look bad!!

Starsky jerked back from the steering wheel and banged his knee as he reached for the mike. Rubbing the offended kneecap, he said breathlessly at the first human response, "Zebra-3. Patch me through to Dobey. Try the station first."

"I'm gonna trade in my damn brain for a new model!" Starsky screamed at the empty passenger seat while he waited.

"Starsky?"

"Cap'n?" Starsky was surprised. "I thought I'd have to wake your whole house."

"Couldn't go home...not while Hutch—"

"Yeah," Starsky interrupted, voice choked. "Thanks."

"What you got, Starsky?"

"Cheatham's not behind this."

"What?!"

"No way. You want to tell me a smart man like Cheatham is responsible for a morgue full of non-OD drug related homicides, and then, to top off his fun, decides to openly go after a high-profile cop just because someone at the bottom of his food chain chooses to swing from a shirt rather than talk to us? Don't add up, Cap'n. We should have seen it from the start."

"All right," Dobey conceded. "Let's hear your new theory."

"Someone's sabotaging his organization."

"And who we got running around Bay City with both the brains and clout for that little caper?"

"Uh-uh. Just hang with me here, Cap. I think—I think someone on the outside is masterminding the scheme and the clout's being supplied from behind bars."

"You mean—"

"Amboy."

"But, why? Amboy's not going to see the light of day for another—"

"What, three or four years? You and I both know he won't serve his full sentence. I think he has someone reviving his contacts, setting up his network, and he wants the main source of competition out of the way. Racking up a bunch of tainted drug deaths and an attack on a cop under Cheatham's name will do the job nicely. Plus, he's in a position to infiltrate Cheatham's organization, because Cheatham took over the rest of Amboy's operation. Bet you a year's salary some men in Cheatham's organization never lost their loyalty to Amboy. He was a stinkin' rat, but his men seemed to really like him. Go figure."

"Sounds nice and pat, Starsky, but why now?"

Dobey's blatant skepticism only encouraged Starsky. "Because I think his handpicked head honcho might not have been ready until now. And as for coming after us now, I think Luis' suicide provided them with a motive to pin on Cheatham. We know it isn't his style, but a jury buys into all that drug dealer revenge crap. Hell, even I did at first."

Dobey sucked in his breath and Starsky could hear him tapping fingers on his desk. "You thinking what I'm thinking? About Amboy's chosen manager?"

"He's old enough to have a kid fresh out of college. Wasn't he married early on?"

"I'm on it, Starsky. Good work."

"Yeah," Starsky said bitterly, squeezing the mike in his fist. "I'll call it good work if it helps me get to Hutch."

"Starsky...." Dobey's voice lowered into the gentle tone Starsky and Hutch both hated because it signaled bad news that required kid gloves. "You know if this wasn't some sort of genuine revenge deal...if all they want is—"

"No, Captain!! Hutch was not in that apartment!"

"Son...."

"No! If I have my way, I'll be kicking Hutch's ass for getting into this fix before the fire investigators even have a chance to prove me right." A metallic, accusing whisper floated in the loneliest corridor of his mind... And when are you going to admit that you got him into this fix by breaking the rules? No! Starsky shouted back within his own head. This wasn't some supernatural screw-up. This was about money, drugs, and power. Hutch's sofa disappearing act had to be another one of his weird hallucinations. Yeah, and you hallucinated his lips on your body and his fingertips on your face, too?

Dobey had heard the crack in the voice behind the false bravado. After the silence dragged on, he cleared his throat. "Where are you now?"

"Had a look around the docks. Heading back over to Huggy's now to let him try some of this new info on his sources. Odds are he's sitting on top of the phone at The Pits."

Dobey grunted. "I suppose there's no use telling you to get some sleep."

"No use."

"Well, at least stay away from the edge of that damn dock!"

Starsky gave a half-hearted laugh at Dobey's gruff concern. Then he grew serious. "Jumped off this dock for him once, Cap'n. Complained like a brat about it afterwards. You want the truth?" Starsky's voice broke completely and he lowered his head, his words barely recognizable, tangled in a swallowed sob. "I'd—I'd go to hell and get him if I had to, Cap'n, and be grateful for the chance."

Silence. A cough. More silence. Dobey's voice shook, "Starsky, at least have Huggy make you something to eat. I'll get back to you as soon as I've tracked down any leads on Amboy's relatives."

"Sounds good, Cap. Thanks."

"Starsky? You've always had hope where Hutch is concerned. Think about all the times you were right and keep the hope you’ve got now."

"Yeah."

December 16, 1979
3:30 AM

Starsky's hunch received swift validation when Huggy opened the door to The Pits on the second knock. "Get in here, m'man. Air's got a bite in it tonight. Ain't nothing wrong with your timing. I was just about to track you down."

Starsky's face brightened immediately. "Got something for me, Hug?"

"Get inside first," Huggy urged, stepping back and gesturing for Starsky to follow.

Starsky frowned and lingered in the doorway, "Huggy, just—"

"No! What I've got to say can wait long enough for me to put a bowl of soup in front of you. Now quit being a mule."

Starsky acquiesced and followed Huggy into the bar, but when Huggy headed for the kitchen, Starsky reached out and caught onto the tail of Huggy's vest, pulling him back, "Huggy, the soup can wait. Just tell me—"

"Curly, it's gonna be soup first and news later. Don't you think if I had something you needed to rush out and take care of, I'd tell you straight off? You look like five minutes away from turning into a puddle on my floor, so sit down!"

Starsky sighed and dropped down onto the nearest barstool. "I don't know who appointed you Florence Nightingale, but—"

Huggy paused halfway into the kitchen. "Hutch, that's who!" he called back. "You think I want him kicking my highly sensitive rear end for not takin' care of you while he's...out of pocket?"

"Out of pocket?" Starsky muttered to himself, doodling with fingertips on the bar top. "That's what they're calling it these days? Guess it's better than MIA."

Starsky appreciated the steaming, hearty beef and bean soup when it arrived. Once Huggy watched him put away five heaping spoonfuls, the chef walked around the bar and sat down beside the hungry detective. "All right. Now what I'm about to tell you is gonna sound really out in left field."

Starsky just stared at him and Huggy caught the meaning. "Yeah, I know," he nodded. "It's gotta really be out there before I issue a disclaimer." He patted his knees. "Good news first. You were right. Hutch wasn't in the apartment when it went up in flames."

Starsky dropped the spoon with a loud clatter in the nearly empty bowl and Huggy placed precautionary hands on both Starsky's shoulder and knee. "You all right?"

"You—you're sure—" Starsky whispered.

"My source is legit. About an hour ago three men matching the description of our dudes showed up in the much less than respectable establishment where he bartends. You should thank your lucky stars some places stay open later than yours truly. Anyway, these cats were in one hell of an agitated state and jabbering to each other about what to do next. From what my source could piece together, they'd chloroformed this cop and kidnapped him only to have him vanish into thin air right in front of their faces less than a mile down the road." Huggy waved a hand at Starsky's gaping mouth. "Wait; you ain't heard the punch line. These dudes were trying to figure out how to save their skins. See, they had strict orders to bring the cop alive to this guy they kept calling 'Boss.' So they couldn't show up empty handed. But then my source heard one of them say something about having to avoid Cheatham because he 'knew by now'. That make any sense to you?"

"Yes!" Starsky shouted, gripping Huggy by the shoulders and shaking him with enthusiasm. "Yes, I knew it! Cheatham knows by now that his trusted musclemen are really working for Amboy. So they'd be signing their death warrants showing up anywhere near his turf. That's gotta be it."

"Uh, Starsky, need I remind you that you and Blondie sent Amboy on an extended trip to the place with three squares a day and afternoon yard privileges?"

"Yeah. He's got somebody on the outside pulling his strings. Dobey's checking into it, but we think Amboy might have a son who fits the bill."

Huggy pursed his lips in a prolonged whistle. "Well, well. The old gut 'em from the inside routine, huh? Hang Cheatham out to dry with a slick frame-up and move in on his territory."

Starsky pushed the bowl aside and smiled at his friend, "I swear to God you should've been a cop."

"Nope. Not enough money and too few women. I'm satisfied being the dynamic duo's not-so-secret weapon. But you still haven't explained the first part of my revelation."

Starsky grinned, joy whizzing through his veins and doing more good than the soup. "Aw, that's just some whacked out spiel they're gonna lay on the Boss when he catches up with them. What've they got to lose, right? They can't tell him the truth: that Hutch managed to get away from them. Hell, he got away from Forrest's goons when he was swinging between up and down on heroin. He probably gave them the slip not long before they hit the bar. He's safe, Huggy. Probably groggy from the chloroform, but he's tough. He'll be calling in soon as he can. I just need to get out there and find him."

Huggy shook his head. "I don't wanna burst your bubble of hope, bro, but that won't wash. My man insisted that these cats looked like they'd been presented with proof that there is a devil and he's much nastier than the guy with the pitchfork and horns. See...uh...they didn't set the fire. Their job was just to knock out the cop and haul him off to the Boss. I don't know how to tell you this part, but...Venice Place turned into a bonfire the very instant Hutch vanished. Big sandy-haired dude was looking out the rear window when it happened. I mean, come on, do you think these idiots would be talking all this trash in someone's earshot if they weren't wet-their-pants scared?"

A fine tremor started in Starsky's shoulders and migrated south, and Huggy watched with increasing alarm as Starsky closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and proceeded to mumble through chattering teeth, "L-look upon the p-physical form of your life-mate during those night hours and you'll l-lose th-that heart f-forever. Him and e-everything as-associated with him. Oh, God, Hutch. Hutch! HUTCH!"

"Whoa, man," Huggy said, voice strained, and pushed his barstool closer to Starsky's, yanking Starsky up against his chest and rubbing warmth into the shivering detective's back. Huggy kept up the ministrations until Starsky calmed and his body stilled. Pushing him back gently, Huggy said, "I'm going to pour you something with a kick to it and you're gonna tell me what has the toughest street cop in Bay City in outright hysterics, dig?"

Starsky nodded, silent. He stared into space while Huggy departed on his errand of mercy and when the bar owner returned bearing a shot glass of some mystery liquid, Starsky gulped the contents back neat without asking questions. He hacked violently and shuddered. "Jeezus, what was that stuff?"

"Never you mind. I'm all ears, Starsky."

Starsky put the glass on the bar and rubbed his eyes with balled fists. "All started when I went to see this therapist in Miramar Square."

"What?" Huggy was incredulous.

"Miramar Square. You know, that big office building behind the hotel."

"I have a friend who runs a talent agency in that building. There ain't no therapist's office."

"'Course there is," Starsky thundered. "I was there. And they've got a damn ad in the phone book. That's how I found out about 'em."

"This year's phone book?" Huggy asked, standing again.

"Yeah, dummy. This year's."

"Be right back."

He returned with the identical phone book Starsky used and said, "Okay. Find me their ad, Detective."

"No problem. It was big—and colorful." Starsky flipped through the yellow pages and frowned, brow wrinkled in confusion, when his hands came to rest on the page that... "Wait a minute...I—I know it was this page. I remember thinking... I—"

Huggy deftly removed the phone book from his friend's grasp and set it on the bar beside the empty shot glass. "Starsky, why don't you start from the beginning and tell me just what kinda craziness you done got yourself into."

Part Four:
The Rescue

December 16, 1979
8:00 AM

Starsky curled up in the Torino's passenger seat with his cup of coffee and stared at the Miramar Square office building. His true blue cop's heart should be thrilled, pumping with feverish intensity, but he felt worse than the cement-glop coffee tasted. He had to make sense of the last four hours. He had to figure out what to do with the next few minutes.

Shortly after Starsky finished relaying the details of his 'love experiment', Huggy's phone had trilled and they both scrambled off the bar stools, practically fusing by force of impact on their mutual dash behind the bar. Huggy had grabbed the phone first, shooed Starsky back with the inimitable Huggy glare and then studiously ignored the agitated detective through the remainder of the call.

The caller had been another of Huggy's limitless 'sources', who incidentally had a soft spot for the blond member of the Bay City buddy brigade. Hutch had talked his aging mother into seeking professional help for a broken leg that knit badly without medical supervision and the son vowed eternal gratitude...though not to give up his fairly harmless but illicit activities. Now the source was paying old debts by fingering the three men wanted for questioning in Hutch's disappearance. They had established residency in one of the smallest, rattiest rooms in the St. Francis Hotel, if anyone cared to remove their filth from decent society.

Someone did want to do just that. Within half an hour Starsky and Dobey combined with several backup units to storm the St. Francis and haul the surprised and still petrified suspects away in cuffs.

Oh, yes, Starsky should be euphoric. Dobey, who flatly refused to allow Starsky to question the men without his direct supervision, commented afterward that his detective had conducted one of the most professional, effective, and textbook interrogations he had ever seen...especially considering the circumstances. Faced with Starsky's acute guesses about their true employer and the reason for their activities, and backed up against the corner of Cheatham's wrath, the men had rolled onto their backs like cockroaches and sung an entire musical. No going the Luis route for them. The information flowed in a steady stream through the proper channels for distributing search and arrest warrants.

Starsky knew Cheatham would not be caught with his pants around his ankles. The information gleaned from the 'terrified trio' as Narcotics had already dubbed them was by now obsolete and the search warrant not worth the paper. But the cooperating divisions of the ninth precinct hoped to stop one Ronald Wesley Amboy, aka The Boss, in his tracks and deliver him gift-wrapped to a family reunion with dear old dad.

No one dared congratulate Starsky for his success. Even Minnie offered him a fresh cup of coffee, a brief side hug, and a silent, hopeful smile. The stony mask he wore around the station through the whole process now showed signs of cracking and no one wanted to be present for the unveiling. Captain Dobey cornered his suffering detective in his office and ordered him with a no-argument frown into a chair.

"You need sleep. We've got an APB out on Hutch. As many men as I can possibly spare are practically crawling through every back alley and side street looking for any sign of him. What good will you be to him as a partner and a friend, when he's found, if you crack up in the meantime?"

"Cap'n, just how much luck would you have talking Hutch into taking a break if I was out there, God knows where, hurt, alone, in who knows what shape?"

"Absolutely none," Dobey groaned.

"Now, how much luck do you think you're gonna have with me?"

"Absolutely none."

"Good answer."

"This is hitting you harder than Slater's attack or the Forrest abduction."

"Hell, yes! Those times, I didn't know, dammit! Not until he'd been gone a lot longer than this. I thought he was with Jeanie having the time of his life... or having that home-cooked meal with what'shername instead of lying under a damn car! I didn't know. I've known from the get-go this time and it's driving me out of my friggin' mind! Jesus. Now I understand what he—what he went through when Marcus' freaks had me."

Dobey propped his elbows on the desk and leaned his upper body's weight against them, head tilted to the side and eyes droopy with fatigue. "Starsky, I think the strange circumstances in this case are taking their toll. We don't know what to make of that crazy story...and they're sticking to it. They'll squeal high and low about Cheatham and Amboy Jr. but they won't tell us the truth about Hutch. Why not?"

Starsky squirmed in the chair and crossed his legs, gripping his ankle to steady the tremor in his knee. He stared down at the dark denim. In an overwhelming, almost adolescent urge to impress his mystery, phantom lover, he'd worn what Hutch teasingly called his 'best pair' of jeans. Hutch's reasoning had been that this pair remained bloodstain, mud-stain, taco sauce, and hole free. Had Hutch ever noticed that this pair of jeans had stayed in Starsky's closet until after he'd regained enough weight and muscle tone post-shooting to do them justice? Had he ever noticed the results of all that physical therapy, training, and strength conditioning with more than the eyes of a concerned coach, partner, amateur physician, and friend? Could he believe any of what he experienced in that seaside house or was it as non-existent as the office in Miramar Square? Starsky gripped his forehead with his free hand and then jumped up and fled to the door where he leaned back and let its solidity strengthen him from head to crossed ankles.

"Cap'n, why tell us that story at all? They don't have Hutch. We found no proof on their persons or in the hotel room at the St. Francis to indicate any connection to Hutch. Sure, we have a witness to their arrival at Hutch's apartment, but no one saw them leave with Hutch in their 'custody'. We didn't reveal Huggy's source or suggest that we knew anything beyond what we put together with straight-out police work. If they want to evade a pretty heavy rap, why not say they went looking for Hutch but he wasn't home? His car's there, but he could have gone off with someone. Why admit to knocking him out and taking him with them?"

Dobey's eyes shifted from droopy to alert in seconds. "Are you suggesting—People don't vanish, Starsky! Buildings don't suddenly erupt into flames without a trigger."

"You were in there with me, Cap! Didn't you get a good look at those men? We're talking star prospect material for the Turbos, here, and they never stopped quivering the whole time we chatted 'em up. You want to tell me I'm that intimidating? I don't think so. And you weren't exactly playing the heavy either."

Dobey harrumphed and looked away from the cold, calculating blue gaze. "Well, the arson investigators will have the final say. If you're going to believe their twisted fairy tale, we really are in trouble."

Starsky sighed from the depths of his gut. "I don't know what to believe. I'm just saying there's a reason behind their terrible case of the shakes...and it has something to do with Hutch. I'm saying Hutch is still missing, dammit, and I'm standing here helpless!"

Dobey nodded at the door. "Go home. Get some rest. That's an order, Starsky. You've only been on active duty for one month—"

"Don't!" Starsky shouted. "Don't use that against me! Especially not now. I'm the same cop I was a year ago. No...I'm a better cop than I was a year ago." He opened the door with a quick, angry flick of the wrist and kicked it shut behind him with his foot.

He ignored the quiet, worried atmosphere in the squad room and refused to make eye contact with the other officers. He left the room hurriedly and relaxed in the silence of the hallway until he heard voices just around the corner.

"....No sign of Hutch. No, the place is a disaster area. Supposedly he wasn't there, though."

"You don't believe that. Where the hell is he if they didn't stash him somewhere and he didn't go up with the apartment?"

"Oh, I think he went up. I think they overdid it with the chloroform and left him there to burn and now they've got to cover up a murder rap. Cop killing no less. And Starsky can't face it. He should pull himself together and come to terms. Act like a cop, for crying out loud instead of a—"

The speaker didn't get a chance to finish his sentence because his shoulders and neck were forced painfully against a wall and the length of a forearm connected with his Adam's apple and shoved his chin up. "Hutch is not dead. Do you hear me? Am I getting through to that robot's brain of yours, McCauley? Huh? How about it, Avery? How do you like having a partner who thinks I should give up on mine when he's been missing less than twelve hours? And Hutch and me have a decade of history between us. You and McCauley have known each other, what? Six months? Guess he'd give up on you in about fifteen minutes."

"Let him go, Starsky," Officer Avery whispered, backing away from the two men. McCauley had a reputation for facing down hardened felons with a lethal grin. Right now his expression had more in common with a soul facing the Great Seat of Judgment.   "Just take it easy, Starsky. No one wants you to give up on Hutch."

"Yeah, well, you two better not give up on him either. You're gonna be out on your beat today and I want you knowing there's a cop out there you gotta find. A cop who'd put his life on the line for any one of you. You with the program? Or do I need to pound it into McCauley's head like Morse code?"

"Y-yeah, S-Star-Starsky, we hear you," McCauley squawked, and stepped aside quickly the minute Starsky's arm pulled back even two inches. 

Avery gripped his partner by the arm and escorted him firmly down the hall and Starsky caught the exasperated comment from the cooler head of the pair, "McCauley, you don't know how close you came to getting your tonsils rearranged from the outside. Next time you decide to act on your death wish, wait until I'm out of harm's way, all right?"

Now Starsky sat in the grayness of the morning contemplating Miramar Square and trying, oddly enough, to follow McCauley's ill-phrased advice and 'come to terms'. Come to terms with the knowledge that he'd been a blind, selfish idiot who was directly responsible for his partner's disappearance. Oh, not so much because he'd broken some con artist's stupid rules, but because he'd taken the greatest love of his life for granted too long and fate had finally come collecting dues.

How long had he lied to himself about his feelings for Hutch? Starsky rolled down the window, flung the remnants of the cold coffee outside, and then squished the cup in his hands. Damn Vietnam and all its psychological rape to friggin' hell! He'd wrapped every experience, each memory, and any part of him that grew out of 'Nam's little school of torture into a bundle and shoved it as far back in a closet as he could. His shame at what he'd seen, what he'd been forced to do all for a country he loved but in the name of a war he didn't even understand, destroyed his ability to accept the valuable lessons he'd learned about himself while in-country. Including the knowledge that he could form a lasting, precious bond with another man that crossed the 'safe' border of friendship.

But there had been one time when his mind tried desperately to break through the wall. The Cabrillo State case should have been a turning point. His dependence on Hutch as his one tie to sanity, real life, and the outside world had pounded home to his heart how wrapped up in the blond his life really was. His body screamed with ecstasy whenever the white-clad figure showed up in his room. He'd wanted to pull the 'orderly' down on the hospital bed and show him just how crazy 'Skyler' could get. Standing face to face with Hutch in the doorway to his temporary 'hospital' room, inches away from the comforting presence of his best friend, he'd wanted to say everything, to express all the feelings whirling inside. Suddenly that blonde reporter was no longer beautiful and worthy of pursuit. What did she have that Hutch did not have in twice the measure? Starsky could still remember the burning, straining, almost physically painful joy he'd experienced holding Hutch against his side, nestled close, while training the gun on Matwick. Knowing the lengths Hutch would go, even under the influence of strong medication, to protect him had left his heart on the dangerous side of tachycardia and the pulse in his cock trying hard to catch up.

Doubts about Hutch's reciprocating those physical and emotional urges weren't responsible for Starsky's burying the newborn truth about his love for Hutch. Oh, no. Starsky pounded both fists on the steering wheel. No, he'd have braved Hutch's heterosexual fury and rejection if he had not still been fighting demons within himself that had nothing to do with Bay City, California. The demons won and Starsky locked the desires in a maximum-security cell in the back of his heart and tried to exorcize the memory of his response to Hutch by romancing a woman with more baggage than a transcontinental flight. Rosey Malone had been the first of a string of women, culminating in Kira, whose sole purpose was to substitute for what he couldn't admit to already having in Hutch.

Starsky's shoulders quaked and he grabbed tufts of hair fiercely between his fingers, his mouth stretched in a silent scream. What the hell good did all this self-reflection and clarity do him—do Hutch—now?  Starsky groaned out loud and looked at his watch. 8:30. Time to quit wallowing in memories and do something constructive.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, he wasn't alone in the car.

She sat calmly in the passenger seat. Petite in figure, soft chestnut curls framing her face perfectly, her button nose and sweet smile unchanged. She wore crisp jeans and a sweater. As always, no frills, no pretended elegance could ever match the beauty of her spirit...just pure...Terry.

"T-Terry?"

The sweet smile turned into a loving grin. "Didn't I say I'd always be there when you needed me? When it seemed like your world was falling apart? When you're scared?"

Starsky's stone mask crumbled and he buried his face in his hands. "You—you're not real. I'm—I'm just losing my mind."

"No you're not." And Terry's voice was gone, replaced by the musical voice of a stranger encased in Terry's body. Starsky looked up quickly, moisture clinging to his lower lashes.

"You've already met my son."

Starsky stared. "Excuse me?"

"Eros. I'm sure you remember him. Tall, blond, gorgeous creature."

"I—I don't understand. You—you look like—"

"We are love, David, Eros and I. To you, true, abiding love in masculine form is a tall, golden, blue-eyed Midwesterner. True, abiding love in feminine form is—"

"Terry."

"Right." Aphrodite beamed at him through Terry's eyes.

Starsky shook his head, "I'm insane. No wonder I'm thinking about Cabrillo State. You—you don't exist. You're—you're just part of a bunch of stories I had to read in school."

Aphrodite sighed, "Well, thank you for clearing up the tiny matter of my existence for me. I was so worried about that. So good to finally know that I don't exist." Starsky flushed, looked acutely uneasy, and turned his eyes to his window. Aphrodite took pity and squeezed his knee gently with Terry's tiny hand.

"Look. I know I'm not a part of your belief structure, but that doesn't mean I don't exist. Why is it so difficult for humans to understand that there are many faces of Love, Goodness, and Benevolence...just as there are many faces of Evil, Strife, and Hate? Take for instance, my fairly unappealing relative Discordia, which is why I'm here right now."

"Wanna speak my language? I'm afraid I'm still hearing Greek when you speak."

Aphrodite laughed out loud. "Very funny. If that David Starsky sense of humor is still intact, we do have hope." She sobered. "You know, you have Olympus in an uproar. Some would say leave you to your fate. You broke the rules. Live with it. But Love is above all things forgiving...and Eros and I have pleaded your case repeatedly. See, we didn't count on Discordia showing her ugly face and toying with our plans. You can't be blamed for her talent for mayhem."

"I—I'm not following...."

"David, your mother hasn't called you for two weeks."

"No, she called just—Oh."

"Has anyone ever told you how incredibly sexy you are when the light bulb comes on over those luscious curls?"

Starsky gulped. The raw verbal seduction emerging from Terry's lips threatened to overload his strained circuits. Aphrodite must have realized he couldn't handle one more incongruity, because her smile softened and she released his knee.

"The problem is Zeus warned Eros the next foul-up would result in Hades getting his hands on his pick of the mortals involved...and Hades' tastes...well, he thought all that golden virtue would brighten up the Underworld immensely. Truth is, I think he's bored with Persephone, but that's neither here nor there...."

Starsky's eyes widened and his fists clenched of their own accord, "Do you mean he'll—he'll—"

Aphrodite gasped. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn’t mean to give you the impression that...no, he won't physically approach Hutch. No, no. He's just enjoying having something bright and beautiful to look at. Like an original Monet. Or a personal sculpture by Michelangelo."

Starsky visibly relaxed at her reassurance, but the import of Aphrodite's other words churned in his stomach. "Are you saying H-Hutch is—" He couldn't say the word.

"You told your captain just a few short hours ago that you'd be grateful for the chance to fetch Hutch out of hell. How serious were you?"

Starsky frowned, found he couldn't frown at Terry's face, whoever inhabited her body, and turned his gaze away again. "You're supposed to be some kind of immortal. You tell me."

"Oh, I apologize. I was off fooling around somewhere with some unsuspecting mortal man when Zeus gave the lesson on omniscience. Now will you answer the question, Detective? This isn't child's play we're dealing with here."

"I—I'd go to the deepest pit of hell for him. Gladly."

Aphrodite smiled. "All right, Mr. Starsky. You're going to have your chance. Not hell, of course, but my uncle's domain. Before we start the proceedings, let me ask you another question. Would you still face any torture the Underworld might subject you to for Hutch even if you knew that once the two of you reach Bay City again—if you're able to get back—you will be separated forever?"

"Wha-at?!" Starsky shot up straight in his seat and turned to completely face his companion. Surely he'd heard wrong. No one...no one wearing Terry's clothes and her smile could talk about separating Hutch and him forever. But there was a mournful light in her eyes now.

"You broke the rules. No denying it. Some are having a hard time getting around that fact. Olympus is in an uproar worse than when a certain golden apple rolled into a wedding feast—and you know what that little fiasco brought about!—except this time everybody's in on the voting. You and Hutch are far too interesting to leave in the hands of some mortal's judgment. The choice is simple: wipe your slate clean and let you and Hutch decide where to take your relationship or break the two of you apart for the rest of your lives here on earth and throughout eternity. So far despite Eros' eloquent arguments on your behalf—which is where he is right now, by the way, filibustering for the two of you—we have a tie straight down the middle. I can't promise you the last remaining vote will fall on your side."

"Um...I'm not up on all the theology and stuff, but if you're not in my—er—belief structure, how the hell do you have jurisdiction over Hutch and me?"

Aphrodite laughed. "Once a cop; always a cop. Jurisdiction. That's cute. We have jurisdiction over you, dear heart, because you sought Eros' counsel and agreed voluntarily to his offer."

Starsky opened his mouth but two full minutes passed before he could formulate speech. "Who—who's the last vote?"

Aphrodite glanced away from the cutting grief staring her in the face, but she lifted an unerring hand and wiped the moisture away from his lashes with a gentle sweep of her fingers. "Why don't you just answer my question and let us get started...or I can let you go back to your regularly scheduled life with the BCPD?"

"Who has the final vote?"

"Persistent mortal, aren't you?" Aphrodite sighed. "Just turn that interrogation tone off, Detective. I'm not your enemy. The final vote belongs to Ares. He's far more interested in war than love and though he and I were once lovers, I cannot guarantee his support. So, is it worth the pain and anguish you may endure to bring Hutch back to the land of the living when you may lose him the moment you set foot on mortal ground?"

Starsky did not hesitate. He opened the car door and said, "Let's go. Now. Tell me what to do."

Aphrodite halted his movement with a soft touch on his jacket sleeve. "You—you really do love him."

"I've always loved him."

"No," Aphrodite said knowingly. "I speak of a love above all loves. Above all others. Above the woman whose form I have taken."

Starsky turned around and traced the cheekbone, the dainty nose on the face that had represented lasting love and marriage for him in the past. "I—I loved Terry. I really loved her. But, I've never loved anyone the way I love Hutch. Not—not even Terry. That's the raw truth. Can we go now?"

"I—I feel pained and reluctant to drag you into a mission that may well have no happy ending," Aphrodite said sadly, and the eyes that had only filled with tears on Terry's death bed, gleamed moist once more.

 

Starsky felt a responding lump in his own throat and choked it into submission. "A happy ending for me is having Hutch safe and back where he belongs. Got that?  

"Hutch is a lucky man," Aphrodite said, breathless, her fingertips sliding along the curve of Starsky's shoulder. "I've watched you for years...visited you in the hospital, though not visibly. Oh, well, even the goddess of love can't always get what she wants. Come on, Detective, before I break into a Rolling Stones medley."

In spite of his overwhelming anxiety for Hutch, Starsky laughed and felt the bands around his heart loosen. He exited the car and followed her across the parking lot to the office building.

They entered the same office suite Starsky remembered from his appointment with Eros, but someone had remodeled. The expensive lobby furniture and other doctor's office trappings were absent and no lovely redhead greeted them. Aphrodite led him into the room where this adventure began, and Starsky quickly catalogued the differences: the fainting couch he'd consciously avoided was now the only piece of furniture in the room.

"Lie down, Detective," Aphrodite commanded softly and Starsky complied without question. Aphrodite knelt and lifted him gently against her shoulder, and with some cooperation from Starsky removed his jacket, which she draped over his upper body like a blanket.  "Now this is what will happen. I'm going to put you into a special and quite deep trance, because this is a battle only your soul may fight. Placing you in the trance will cause you no pain...that is, unless you absolutely can't bear my kissing you."

Starsky discovered he could still grin and for a moment Aphrodite looked dazzled.

"I'll guide your soul's flight to a special cave. Directly outside the cave, Charon waits by the River Styx. I'm placing a coin in your jeans' front left pocket. You must have a coin for Charon to ferry you across the river. If you please Charon, he will help you pass safely by Cerberus. From there, you are on your own and have only the strength of your wits and soul to fight your way to Hutch. I cannot advise you on what you'll encounter or what you must do when you reach Hutch. If your love for him is sufficiently strong, you'll find him and you will know how to plead for his return."

Starsky smiled, extended his arms in an offered embrace, and said, "Pucker up, schweetheart, I'm ready to go."

Aphrodite sighed wistfully, "Oh, must you be so tempting? I have the desires of a human, you know. One more thing: I cannot remain with you while you lie in trance. I must return to Olympus and fight beside Eros for your cause. You should not be left alone. Is there someone you trust, who will believe in what we are doing?"

"Huggy Bear," Starsky said without hesitation.

"Ah, yes. Mr. Bear. Lovely gentleman. All right. I'll collect him, explain the trance to him, and send him here. He'll arrive alone as I'll have already left for the Mount. Time is wasting...once Hutch has been in the Underworld for twelve earthly hours, securing his return will be virtually impossible."

"You're gonna show up at Huggy's looking like Terry? That—that might not be such a good idea." Starsky could only imagine Huggy dropping to the floor in a dead faint.

"Oh, no. I'll appear to him as his idea of true, pure love in feminine form."

Starsky laughed, "Huggy has an idea of—"

"Don't be a love snob, Detective!" Aphrodite interrupted with a snap. "You think you're the only person capable of deep feeling? Poor Huggy has carried a torch for over a year."

"Sorry," Starsky mumbled, chagrined. Aphrodite smiled.

"Ready for your kiss, Detective? It won't take effect until Huggy is here to sit with you."

Aphrodite lifted her hand and the leather armchair complete with ottoman appeared at the foot of the fainting couch.

Starsky raised his arms again. "Gimme all you got."

Aphrodite leaned into those arms and covered his mouth with her own. Swept away in sensation, Starsky maneuvered his arms around the blanketing jacket and crushed her tight against his chest. When she pulled back, her eyes overflowed and she sniffled. "Haven't felt this way about a mortal since Adonis...."

"That was...wow...." Starsky breathed, eyes closed.

Aphrodite grinned. "I'm glad you appreciate my gifts, but I must tell you the truth. If you ever experience true love's first kiss, you'll forget all about this one. Nothing in the world compares and even I can't imitate the sensation...."

"With Terry—"

"No, Detective. You spoke the truth yourself. You loved her and you would have made her happy, but she is not the heart that matches your soul." Aphrodite stood and spread her arms wide, palms upward. "Time for me to fetch Huggy."

Starsky stared, openmouthed, as Terry gave way to another familiar female. Detective Joan Meredith blinked at him.

"What? Don't tell me you didn't know."

"I—I thought he was kidding when he said he'd just met the future Mrs. Bear...."

"Oh, no," Aphrodite laughed. "If he could drum up the courage to offer her his companionship, he would find he could make her very, very happy. But that's a project I'll have to reserve for another day. Best wishes, Detective. Love is counting on you to succeed."

She vanished from sight and Starsky lowered his head to the couch, closing his eyes and resting his hands over his jacket-covered chest.

"Starsky?"

Starsky's eyes opened and he stared down the length of the fainting couch at Huggy, who lounged in the armchair. "You jush ge'ere? Didn' hear ya come in...."

"You're about to go under, m'man. Words all slurry. Yeah, just got here. It's 9 o'clock. Not much time left, but Aphrodite said that time slows in the Underworld so you should be able to reach Hutch during the twelve hour window. You ready, Curly?"

"Hell, yes. I'm—I'm bringin' him home, Hug."

Huggy nodded solemnly. "I hear ya, man. She said for you to pat your left pocket. Feel the coin?"

Starsky rubbed over his pocket and smiled. "Yep."

"Bon voyage, bro. I'm gonna be here the whole time."

Starsky didn't have a chance to say good-bye. His eyelids fell involuntarily and the movement of his chest slowed.

Nothing prepared Starsky for the bone-throbbing chill that settled over him in the dank, dark cave. He looked down at himself and stumbled backward in amazement at the thick,

golden fleece cloak that draped over his shoulders and chest in odd combination with his jeans and faded denim shirt. Grateful for the cloak's warmth, he pulled it close about him and shuddered. His eyes slowly adjusted to the oppressive darkness and he spotted a shaft of light up ahead. Trying not to think about what the cave's dim light might hide, Starsky steadfastly rushed forward, eager to be in the open, wherever that might lead him.

The minute he set foot outside the cave, he wished himself back in again. Hunched, emaciated old men tore at each other with teeth and lengthy fingernails over a piece of crusty, molded bread. A young woman with empty eye sockets stood in a pool of blood and screamed incessantly. Two warriors danced around each other like boxers, gaping wounds and nearly severed limbs proclaiming the ferocity of their battle. And on an ancient couch upholstered in silk reposed a frightful woman, hair of Vipers tied back with bloody lace. She rose from the couch and approached Starsky, her smile revealing blackened teeth.

Sliding her hands over his chest and back she cooed, "Age...Hunger...Fear...and Hate. My eternal companions, Detective. Welcome to the realm of Hades. I am Discordia." Her fingers slipped stealthily into Starsky's left pocket. "Charon waits for you. Never mind my beauties. They won't harm you. Your path has been cleared beyond this point."

Starsky gulped and maneuvered free of her prying hands. Discordia! The main reason behind his presence here...behind Hutch's falling into Hades' hands. His mouth opened in a fierce growl and Discordia only smiled again.

"My, my, a spunky human. Even the great Aeneas passed by here without daring to show his distaste for me. I should reward you for your courage." And with that pronouncement, she raised her hands and hissing serpents coiled around Starsky's legs. He jumped and yelped. "Oh, don't worry, Detective. Charon will rid you of them. Do enjoy your stay with us." She turned and slithered back to the couch.

Starsky walked cautiously, staring straight ahead and desperately fighting images of a peeved rattlesnake in a country cabin. He approached the bank of a large, black river, the waters incredibly calm except for the soul-shredding howls emanating from beneath the surface. A sturdy old man wearing a ragged tunic and tattered cloak turned away from pleading, shrieking ethereal shades that resembled human beings and gazed meaningfully at Starsky. He ominously waved his gnarled hardwood staff.

"Charon, sir?" Starsky asked, voice small and uncertain.

Charon did not speak, but he extended a cupped hand. Starsky knew he wanted the coin and thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for the token. Emptiness greeted him. With a sharp cry, Starsky patted the outside of the pocket but only felt his fingers. "I—I—"

Charon's face suffused with dark fury. He raised the staff and held it above Starsky's head. Starsky closed his eyes, expecting a fatal blow, and was seized with inspiration. He gripped his leather necklace and dangled the coins for Charon's inspection. The old man nodded silently and lowered the staff, stretching out the cupped hand instead. Starsky pulled the necklace over his head and dropped it into the waiting hand.

Charon gestured with the staff at the boat waiting. Starsky surveyed the shallow, tri-masted vessel with some trepidation. He glanced down at his legs and the persistent reptiles and sighed. The lesser of two evils. "Uh...Charon, sir, could you do something about my...um...anklets here?"

Charon did not smile but moved his lips in the approximation of one and stretched out the staff, tapping Starsky's legs. The serpents vanished and Starsky sighed deeply. "Thank you, sir," he said on the way to the boat. "I really hate snakes."

Charon climbed in behind him and waved the staff at the human shades that tried to press their way forward. When the boat pushed away from the shore, Starsky said, awed, "A solo trip? I'm honored, sir."

Charon nodded and concentrated on guiding the boat's crossing. Starsky looked over the side into the water below and experienced a shot of adrenaline straight to his heart...or at least the heart that rested securely in the body on the fainting couch in Miramar Square. He was on his way to see Hutch! His beautiful, precious, bossy, sarcastic, irritating, quirky and damn near perfect Hutch.

When the boat docked on the shore of Hades-proper, Starsky regarded Charon thoughtfully. "I—I guess I'm on my own now, sir?"

Charon shook his head and clasped the detective's shoulder. "Cerberus," he said simply, gesturing with his head.

Starsky turned in the direction of Charon's gaze and quailed. "Oh, God. Dogs and snakes. Terrific." The massive dog had three heads, all snarling, drooling, and vibrating with deep-throated barking, their necks alive and wriggling with venomous reptiles.

Charon gave a bark of his own that probably translated as laughter and pushed Starsky onto shore. The old man debarked and approached the agitated beast, waving his staff and murmuring something incomprehensible to Starsky. The dog whimpered, whined, and went down on his haunches, lowering the heads. Charon nodded at Starsky.

"Thanks for everything," Starsky said with a salute and tiptoed warily past the now docile dog. He bent low to walk beneath the dipped, knotted branches of bare trees and shivered in the blast of arctic air that swirled around him. The howls and moans of tormented souls clung to him as tightly as the fleece cloak. Just as he approached a forked path, frigid arms grasped his shoulders and he looked into the sunken blue eyes of self-inflicted death.

"Rosey?"

She clung to him, wrapped herself around his body and he grabbed hold of her wrists, gaping with horror at the jagged slashes. "You—you should have come for me, David."

"No!"

"I waited...so lonely...missed you...you should have come for me."

"No! No, this ain't real!"

"You'll come for Hutch, but you wouldn't come for me...."

"No, you're not real. You're not Rosey. She wouldn't—you're a distraction."

He must have nailed the truth, because the specter disappeared and he was left staring at the forked path. Which one? He took one step toward the right path and felt nothing. Cold, but no other sensation. He changed course and started down the left path, suddenly wrapped in warmth. "Hutch, babe! I'm coming! Do you hear me, Hutch?"

The path seemed to stretch for miles surrounded by mists and glimpses of atrocities Starsky couldn't even name. He regretted his lack of weapon, though he doubted even Hutch's Magnum's capability of dealing with these threats.

 

He decided he preferred being the path's only traffic when another traveler appeared ahead of him. He liked the situation even less when the traveler turned to face him. At least eight feet tall with an arm span to rival a bald eagle, the headless man wore a torn, bloody tunic and wielded shredded flesh beyond the wrist instead of hands. He stretched those mangled arms out and said, in perfect English, "You will not pass. You who have not suffered death's agony."

Starsky frowned. He had no time for this. Hand-to-'hand' combat with this freak-show could take hours. He heard a whisper in the chilling breeze...Brain not brawn, Starsk.

Ignoring the mauled human's lack of eyes, Starsky pulled the cloak open and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his scars. "Been there, done that, asshole, and did better than you obviously! Now get the hell out of my way if you don't want to lose the rest of your arms."

To his utter mind-numbing shock, the mountainous man went down on one knee and bowed his head. "You bear the mark of a victorious warrior. Death-cheater, I acknowledge your superiority. Pass unharmed."

"That's more like it," Starsky smirked, not bothering to button his shirt as he sidestepped the kneeling monstrosity. Those scars might buy him more than one free pass in a place like this.

The path ended abruptly at what, at first glance, seemed a large, harmless pond. Three hooded hags appeared at his side and squawked with laughter. "Tartarus' pit. Deep. You fall in, you stay forever," rasped one crone.

"No other way to Hades' palace. Your journey ends here," gloated the second hag.

"Doomed to stay and never to see him," chimed the third.

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Lemme get this straight: I've got to cross that damn pond to get to Hades' pad and if I sink, I end up in this Tartarus place? Forever."

"He has heard our warning," the three moaned in unison.

The warmth curled around Starsky's shoulders and he felt the whispery brush of soft, fine hair against his cheek. Starsky stared at the ground, caught in the grasp of memories. The morning Rosey discovered his true occupation: Hutch barking at him, demanding Starsky's professionalism as a cop, and winking his approval when Starsky rose to the challenge. Encouragement, support, understanding. Starsky wanted to shout with joy.

He grinned at the hags. "Guess what, glamour girls? Love's unsinkable. Adios and have fun at the beauty parlor." Amid their groans and shrieks, Starsky stepped over the edge and grinned back at them when he failed to fall beneath the water's surface. He strode calmly across the water like a sidewalk. "Hutch! Babe, I'm almost there, I promise! Hang on, Hutch."

"Damn," Starsky said to no one in particular when he reached the shore. "Wet sneakers, ickk. He squished across a field strewn with bones and sculls and stopped in front of three caves. The mouths yawned, dark and silent. "Choices, choices," Starsky muttered.

The silence shattered. A child's voice screamed in blood-chilling pain. "Help me...please! Please help me!"

"Aw, man, what now!?"

"Help!! Oh, please...." The little girl cried again and the sound ripped at Starsky's soul.

"No, this...this is another distraction. She's speaking English, dammit!" Starsky covered his ears and tried to think clearly.

"Help me, hurry!!"

Instinct took over. "Aw, dammit, hang on, little one, I'm coming."

He dived straight into the middle cave and up against a monstrous creature that in no way resembled a small child. The dragon-like beast had nine heads, each one determined to take a bite out of the detective. "Oh, this is fabulous," Starsky grumped, knees weak and body trembling. "You're no Shirley Temple, that's for sure." He stared down the monster and held up his hands. "Look, ugly. You want me and I want Hutch. One of us has got to give. What's it gonna be, huh?"

Three of the heads swung down on the long curved necks and lashed out at him. Starsky jumped back, biting down on a scream. He swiveled to retreat but the mouth of the cave closed behind him in a landslide of rock. As the dust and noise settled, Starsky heard Aphrodite's voice: If your love for him is sufficiently strong, you'll find him and you will know how to plead for his return.

How strong was his love? Starsky closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was transported to a hospital room where he sat, masked, on the side of a bed and gripped pale, trembling and clammy hands. Hutch's sweat-soaked face twisted his heart, and that beloved voice pleading with him to take care of the nasty organism tying his chest in knots, burned his soul. In his mind, Starsky gripped harder, babbling encouragement, and experienced a rush of relief when Hutch's face relaxed. You did it...  

Starsky's eyes popped open and his chest swelled as he faced the hissing, lashing creature. He balled his fists and shouted, "I love him, you deformed sci-fi reject! I love him! If I can battle a damned, practically invisible virus, you think I can't take your sorry ass? Huh? Come and get me." He squared his shoulders and braced for battle.

He watched in amazement as the creature gave a prolonged deafening cry and burst into flame. Starsky had just begun to figure a way around the leaping flames when they were doused in a rush of water. He craned his neck and spotted the water's source. She was beautiful. Long, sun-gold hair, a figure supermodels only strive to emulate, and the face of an angel whose sole duty is safeguarding newborns. She walked across the steaming pool of water where the monster had been and smiled at Starsky, offering him her hand.

"You have earned guidance to my Lord Hades' palace. I am Queen of the Underworld. My name is Persephone."

Starsky clasped the hand and in an instinctive gesture, brought it to his lips. She laughed happily. "Does this mean I don't have to face more monsters?" Starsky asked, hopeful.

"Right, Detective. No more monsters. Hold my hand and I will lead you the rest of the way."

"Oh, goody," Starsky said with feeling.

The rest of the way turned out to be a short walk. Starsky vibrated, excitement at fever pitch, sensing the nearness of his partner. "Is—is he all right?"

Persephone smiled again. "He has not been harmed, Detective. My Lord Hades never had any intention of wounding such a beautiful creature. He appreciates beauty."

"I can see that," Starsky said, pointedly, favoring her with a wink. She blushed and twittered.

"Oh...oh, thank you. Yes, Aphrodite said you were a charmer. But a fresh drink of water only one person can sip at."

"Yes...." Starsky agreed, climbing the numerous marbled stairs at her side. "My heart beats for only one person now." He was astonished that he could vocalize such a sentimental statement without discomfort.

"Your heart has always beaten for that one person, Detective. Your mind had to wrestle with the truth before you could act on that feeling. Now is your chance to show him."

Starsky sighed and pushed thoughts of the future to the back of his mind. Separation. An eternity without Hutch. He'd cross those bridges later. For now his soul thrilled at the opportunity to look on his best friend again.

Hades' throne room was as chilling as the rest of the Underworld but elaborately appointed and suitable for divine royalty. The Olympian lounged on a throne fashioned of ivory, gold, and mother-of-pearl. Innumerable creatures, some with almost human form, populated the room bearing homage to the Underworld's crown ruler. Beside the throne in a cage of crystal sojourned...Hutch!

"Why've you got him in chains...in a damn crystal case!" Starsky shouted, and the entire throne room fell silent. Persephone winced.

"Come forward, insolent human!" thundered Hades, pounding his jeweled scepter on the marble floor. "Persephone, my own, loose his hand. He must face this without your help."

She squeezed his hand one final time and then let go, rushing over to the second, smaller throne and curling her shapely legs in a childish posture, sat with bowed head.

Starsky approached the main throne and repeated his question. "Pardon me, sir, Your Majesty...uh whatever. I don't understand the need for chains and a cage."

Hades looked at the crystalline case. The nude blond hung suspended, arms and legs bound with shackles and so far he'd given no indication that he knew what took place around him...including the presence of his partner. "His heart is powerful, human. If I did not bind him, that heart would flee immediately to your side. Without question."

Starsky snorted. "That's my Hutch: more powerful than all your mumbo-jumbo. Gotta use old-fashioned chains on him." He ignored Hades' indignant growl and walked up to the case, spreading his hands against the cold surface and pressing his lips to the side of the cage. "Hutch...Babe? Can you hear me? I've come for you."

Slowly the blond veil of hair moved and Hutch raised his head, his face ruddy with painful hope. "Starsk?"

"Oh, yeah, buddy. It's me. I'm here."

"Shouldn't have...come...." Hutch breathed raggedly.

"Aw, you know, got kinda bored up there without ya. Decided I'd come see what you were up to." Starsky's voice wavered. When Hutch's head drooped again, he turned, glaring at Persephone. "Why's he sound like that? Act like that?  I thought you said he was okay."

"His link to his body is weakening," Hades explained. "Fairly soon he will be a permanent resident here."

"No, he won't! I've come to take him home."

"And just why should I agree to such an endeavor? I, Hades, Olympian, Lord of the Underworld." Hades shouted, lengthy gray locks quivering in rage.

"Because I love him, dammit! Because the world needs him. People up there depend on him. He's too good, too beautiful to be trapped in some cage for your selfish enjoyment."

"Oh, really? And just what do you propose to do with him, Detective, but the same thing? Lock him away in a closet of your own making, hiding your feelings, your love for him from the rest of the world. Taking your pleasure from him but not acknowledging the gift of his affection in public. How is that any different?"

"You're wrong!" Starsky roared. "I may not even have the chance. Odds are we'll be separated the moment we hit terra firma. I'm here to set him free. You get it?"

Hades rubbed his chin. "I just...I just might believe you. But I must have something in return. Let me see your chest, Detective."

Starsky shuddered at the tone of voice and obediently opened his unbuttoned shirt. Ooohs and aaahs from the gallery of Underworld subjects nearly drowned out Hades' approving grunt.

"The blood of a battle wound shed here will tie your soul to me forever once you've passed through the veil. You shed that blood and I will set him free to return with you."

Hutch lifted his head and croaked, "No...No, Starsky. Not—not worth it!"

"Gladly," Starsky said firmly. "Got something nice and sharp?"

"No!" Hutch shouted, struggling against his chains.

One of the loyal subjects emerged from the crowd and produced a marble-hilted dagger on a platter of gold. Hades nodded solemnly and Starsky took the knife, turning it in his hands appreciatively.

"No, Starsk, please...please, don't!" Hutch cried, gasping for breath, blue eyes cold and determined.

Staring directly into those precious blue eyes, Starsky brought the knife to his chest and sliced a gash directly over one of the scars. He was not surprised that he felt the searing pain despite a supposed separation from his real, physical form. The pain was nothing compared to his rush of joy when the crystalline case shattered, shards vanishing, and the chains fell from Hutch's body. Hutch fell to his knees on the marble floor and Starsky dropped the knife, oblivious to the seeping blood from his new chest wound, and surged forward, pulling Hutch up into his arms, petting the blond's hair and murmuring soothing words inaudible beyond the pair.

Hades waved his hands, "Very well, Detective. Take him home. Your bravery and sacrifice will light the halls of Hades one day and make up for the loss of this trophy."

"He's not a trophy!" Starsky shouted, enraged. "He'da been willing to stay here forever trapped like an animal instead of watching me cut myself. Didn't you hear him? What's wrong with you people?"

"Persephone, my own? You know what to do."

The beautiful lady of the Underworld vacated her throne and removed her diaphanous cloak, spreading it over the pair of men. Bowing her head, she touched both their bodies and whispered a phrase Starsky didn't understand.

"HUTCH!" Starsky shot forward on the fainting couch and coughed violently.

Huggy was leaning over him instantly, gripping his shoulders. "Starsky! Bro, you back with me? Man, your shirt's bloody. What the hell—"

"HUTCH!"

"Uh, yeah, I got that much. Did—did you get him?"

Starsky leapt off the couch and struggled into his jacket. "Come on, Huggy, I know where he is."

"I—I uh thought you'd be bringing him back with you."

"I did. But they've left his body where we can find it and explain all this away in our police report. Not stupid, those Olympians." 

Starsky wobbled and threatened to pitch forward, and Huggy seized Starsky's shoulders again. "Uh, bro, you may know where he is, but you're in no shape to drive."

Starsky clutched his forehead and nodded. "You're right. Huggy, believe it or not, I'm gonna let you drive the Torino."

It was Huggy's turn to wobble. "You're gonna...? That the Bear should live to see the day....oh, hell, come on, Starsky. I'll drive her like she's got nitro on her dashboard."

"No, you won't. You'll gun her for all she's worth. That's why we're taking my car instead of yours. I'm not leaving Hutch in that alley any longer than I have to."

Starsky navigated and Huggy drove with consummate skill. As they neared the garment district, otherwise known as the velvet jungle, Starsky directed Huggy to an alley between two of the more dilapidated sewing factories. The black man's eyes widened at the sight of the crumpled figure by a green garbage dumpster.

Starsky opened the door before Huggy could cut the engine and fell out of the passenger seat. He scrambled up, brushed off his knees, and ran the length of the alley to the body. "Oh, God. Oh, God, please. Hutch!"

The blond wore sweat pants and a long jersey, the clothes he was wearing when abducted. Both articles of clothing were filthy and Hutch looked like a man surfacing from a decade-long drunk. "St-Starshsk?"

"Oh, yeah, babe, I've got you." Starsky ran searching hands over the body assessing his physical condition and making sure that he could move Hutch safely. Having reassured himself, he pulled Hutch into a crushing embrace and nestled the blond head between his shoulder and neck. "Call it in, Huggy," he shouted over his shoulder at their approaching friend. "Get us an ambulance."

"Right-o, daddy-o," Huggy said, turning back to the Torino.

"No...." Hutch murmured, trembling in the supporting arms. "No hoshpital."

"Sorry, buddy-boy, you're in no condition to fight me on this one." I just hope they leave me with you long enough to make sure you're okay.

"Starsky?"

"Shhh, Hutch. You save your energy. Your spirit may have been in Hades, but your body's been out in this alley all night."

"Why—why'd you have to go and—cut yourself?" Hutch asked before his eyes closed and his body went limp against Starsky's.

"Because I love you, baby blue," Starsky murmured against the blond strands.

December 16, 1979
1:00 PM

Hutch rolled over in the hospital bed and smiled weakly at the dark, curly-haired man who kept vigil in the uncomfortable visitor's chair. "Starsky?"

"Not quite," said a stranger's voice.

Hutch tried valiantly to move, but gave in to the tug of the IV and rested still. "Who are you... you look like...."

"I'm true love in masculine form as you see it. My name is Eros. Otherwise known as Cupid, as Love."

"What the hell kind of drugs do they have me on?" Hutch demanded, reaching for the call-button. Eros lifted a finger and paralyzed Hutch's hand.

"No, no, Detective. You're not hallucinating. No drugs: you're only on fluids. Or do you believe all that you experienced in the Underworld was a hallucination, too?"

"Some damn nightmare. There—there was a fire, Starsky said. I was taken from my home by force...chloroformed. No telling what—"

Eros reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew a leather-and-coin necklace and waved the index finger of his other hand, releasing Hutch's partial paralysis. "Look familiar?"

"Where the hell—What have you done to him? Where's Starsky?"

"Easy, easy, Detective. He's just fine. He thinks he's having his chest stitched by an ER doc who won't spill the beans to Captain Dobey, but in actuality our own lovely Athena is tending to his needs. She flatly refused to let us have all the fun. Your beloved Starsky gave this to Charon in return for passage across the River of Souls. Charon was so impressed by your partner's respect and calm under pressure that he would like to return the treasure as token of his esteem. I thought you might like to give it to him."

Hutch accepted the necklace and lifted his hand to his lips, kissing the coins reverently. "Thank you. Starsky without this necklace is like...." Hutch's weary brain couldn't quite manage an analogy. Eros laughed.

"Like Starsky without you?"

"Starsky...manages without me. Made it all the way through Hades without me, didn't he? If all this is real...."

"Oh, he fought the battle, but you were his weapon. Hasn't that been the reality of your partnership all along? You may fight alone at times, but never without the power of the other within you. Don't sell yourself short."

"I owe him my life...I've been down that road before. He'd always be willing to die for me, but that—" Hutch turned his face away from the beautiful sight of his partner and stared instead at the IV stand and monitors. "That doesn't mean he'll ever return the kind of love I feel for him....He should never have risked himself. He has this lady here on earth he loves. Now that he knows I'm safe, I should—clear out and make my own way somewhere. Give him space so he can focus on her."

Eros cleared his throat. "I'm strictly forbidden to interfere from this point onward. I can't say anything except that your heart has been campaigning for your cause more than you know and—"

"What?"

Eros grinned, that brilliant Starsky flash of teeth that brought a flush of desire to Hutch's cheeks. "Is it your custom to sleep on your sofa, Detective?"

"No....What does that have to do with—"

"Someday you'll understand. I must go now. Let me leave you with this thought: if you leave and remove your presence from his life, that's your choice. The two of you won't be separated by forces beyond your control."

Hutch rubbed his eyes and frowned. "I—I don't understand."

"The last vote came down on your side," Eros laughed. "Ares has great sympathy for men who can stand face-to-face with a Hydra and call it a deformed sci-fi reject. Starsky will know what I mean when you give him the message."

Hutch shook his head and lay back against the fluffed hospital pillows. Starsky had ranted and raved until the nurse brought three of them and stacked them to perfection. "I—I seem to remember something about Starsky spending eternity with Hades—"

Eros smiled. "Oh, no. No, those aren't just any stitches Athena's sewing into your partner's chest. Hades will have to find another pet. No, where you and Starsky go from here is up to the two of you. As it should have been all along. I wanted to help, but I should have left you to find your own truth. I—I apologize for causing you both pain."

"You're not the Cupid I've read about in Bulfinch and Hamilton," Hutch said groggily.

"Well, I was. Oh, yes. Mischievous, trouble-making, spoiled little brat with arrows who flew around messing up people's lives with misplaced lust. Certainly. That was my bag of tricks...until Psyche came along. Even the god of erotic love can be reformed by finding a true love of his own. You'll be amazed at what true love can do for you, too, Detective."

"Yeah, sure," Hutch said bitterly, averting his gaze to the window. When he turned his face back to the visitor's chair, he found himself alone. Until his room door opened a crack and another curly head peeked in with a smile.

"Partner? You awake?"

"Starsk?"

"Yeah, buddy," Starsky slipped into the room and bounced over to sit on the edge of Hutch's bed. "How you feeling? Dobey's down in the waiting area, but I told him you were still resting."

"Yeah, I'd like...a few minutes with you first."

Starsky grinned and leaned over to ruffle Hutch's hair. "No problem, pal. Just you and me for a while."

"Why...why are you wearing a yellow T-shirt?"

Starsky looked down. "Doesn't even fit worth a toot. It's Huggy's. I couldn't go walking around in a bloody shirt without having to answer some awkward questions. You should see Hug. He's hanging out in the lobby with that green silk vest over his bare skin and my jacket making him look even more ridiculous."

Hutch laughed, coughed, and sighed. "You two make a good team."

"He's been a champ, Hutch, but he's no substitute for you. I only got one partner in this world," Starsky tried to cram a world of feeling and innuendo into that sentence, but Hutch failed to hear the change in tone and merely shifted his gaze, missing the deep blue one that roamed his face and body with adoration.

"God, Hutch, it's so good to see you....I don't know how long....I was scared to leave you to go get these stitches, but...." Starsky choked and his Adam's apple bobbed threateningly. Hutch turned his head again and reached out, patting Starsky's knee.

"Don't worry. Had a v-visitor while you were gone. He said to tell you Ares has sympathy for men who can call a Hydra a deformed sci-fi reject...and we're not going to be separated." Hutch held out the leather-and-coin necklace with a bright smile.

Starsky ignored the necklace, gave a funny little cry, and gathered his partner up into a loose embrace, stroking his back, hands finding the bare skin through the hospital gown slit. "Aw, Hutch...jeez... I don't know what to say. I've been scared out of my mind since we got back to the real world—"

"Shhh," Hutch soothed, trying not to respond too strongly to the comforting circle of arms.

"I'm so sorry about your place—"

"No. Don't. You're alive; I'm alive; we're together. You had to slice open your chest for me. I think I can replace some furniture, plants, and junk without complaining."

"I could have lost you! Forever. End of story. Would've been all my fault—"

"No!" Hutch cried out harshly, pushing back from the hug he never wanted to end.

"Hutch, I need to tell you—"

"No! Not right now. No blaming yourself until I have the strength and wits to argue with you. All right?"

Starsky moved his arms to clutch his partner's shoulders, looking over the body in front of him with concern. "Are you—okay? I mean, really...all right?"

Hutch sighed and rolled his eyes. "Starsky, I'm fine. You heard the doctor. They just need to hydrate my body and keep me one night for observation. Really, I could go home right now if we hadn't gotten Dr. Andrews, who'd admit someone with a hangnail. By tomorrow I won't even know that I spent a night in an alley. You came out of this far worse than I did," Hutch touched Starsky's T-shirt in the approximate location of the knife wound and his jaw tightened with repressed emotion.

"Aw, no. It's not deep. I don't even feel it now."

Hutch smiled. "You wouldn't. Probably those special stitches. But then you've never needed special stitches to be a tough guy."

"Special stitches?" Starsky asked, flushing from the compliment and wanting to kiss the lips that smiled at him, but uncertain as to which lines he could cross.

"Oh, yeah. Your doc wasn't just any ER sawbones. Your soul is your own again, partner."

"You mean?"

"No date with Hades, pal. Happy ending all around," Hutch said, stumbling over the last sentence and lowering his eyes to stare at the bed.

"Hutch, you say you're fine, but you sure don't act like it. What's wrong?"

Hutch winced at the potent combination of sympathy and concern. "You know how I feel about hospitals. I'm fine. Really. Hey, would I lie to you?"

Starsky swallowed hard and released Hutch's right shoulder, shifting his hand to hover just to the side of Hutch's face. He wanted to caress that still too pale cheek, run his fingertips over the soft, pink lips, but he took refuge in a gesture of old times and pushed Hutch's forehead playfully with two fingers. "How about I get Dobey up here so you can get some more sleep?"

"Only if you promise to go home and rest yourself."

"Trying to get rid of me already?"

Hutch bit down on his lip and talked himself into producing a wide grin. "Don't want the nurses to start fighting over you."

Starsky shot him a serious look. "Who the hell cares about the nurses?"

Hutch frowned. Yeah, right, Hutchinson. He's been pursuing 'he end of the line',

remember? How many times do you have to get that pounded into your head before it computes? "Right. Uh...partner, better not keep the captain waiting."

Starsky mirrored Hutch's frown and left the bed. He stopped at the door and glanced back at the patient, who had rolled over onto his side, facing the window. Shaking his head, Starsky left the room.

Part Five:
Lovers

December 17, 1979
6:00 PM

Huggy left the kitchen and paused to straighten his fancy dress shirt and adjust the superbly matching tie. Special occasions called for a slight deviation in wardrobe. No loud silk vests and clashing T-shirts tonight. He was distracted from his preening by the sight of the man at his bar. A beautiful and scantily clad brunette approached the solitary man and was waved off with barely a polite smile.

Huggy took a deep breath, grabbed a beer glass, and filled it to the brim with the perfect amount of foam. He carted the glass over to the bar and set it in front of the lonely patron. "What are you doing in here? And alone for crying out loud? Where's Hutch?"

"He's at home," Starsky said forlornly, sipping gratefully at the beer. "Went out this afternoon after he was discharged and bought some clothes. I think he's trying to figure out what he needs to replace and what he can just forget he ever owned. He's planning on—on looking for a new place tomorrow."

"And you don't want him doing that," Huggy guessed, lowering his voice in deference to the intimate subject matter. During the evening hour, post-happy-hour and pre-party time, most of the patrons were settled at tables, happily dining and chatting too loudly to overhear their conversation, but Huggy respected Starsky's privacy in this affair above all others.

"God, Huggy. I—Yeah, new place is fine. Long as it's big enough for both of us. You know?"

"You tell him that?"

"I can't get any personal conversation to last more than a few sentences with him, Hug! It's—it's like he's holding me at arm's length for his own self-preservation. Like he's scared. I thought—What if it was all a stupid dream, Huggy? His part in it, I mean. Some figment of my imagination Eros and Aphrodite toyed with for their own pleasure?"

"You don't believe that."

Starsky slammed the beer glass down and bent low over the bar. "I don't know what to believe. Jeez...how many times have I said that lately? Look, I'm not hiding from you. You know by now how I—I feel about him. Okay? I want him; need him so bad my gut is just twisted into knots. Tonight I gotta spend a night with him in my apartment and I feel like I need to lock him away in the bedroom while I crash on the couch."

Huggy grinned and slapped Starsky on the shoulder. "Time for the Bear to start," he twirled around and waved his hands, "healing your heart". His expression went from teasing to serious in a flash and he yanked a barstool close, plopping down on it with a sigh. "When you first came in here to tell me what happened to Venice Place, I started to spill some insight into our Golden Boy's character that I didn't think your ears could handle. Now I know I misjudged you. Big time, but hey, even the Bear ain't perfect but 99% of the time. What can I say? All right. Listen up. Now that I've had to re-evaluate my givens, I'm going to tell you a cold, hard fact. Hutch has been in love with you for at least...oh, I'd say a couple months if not longer."

Starsky lowered the beer glass, swallowed wrong, and promptly strangled. Huggy leaned over and slapped his back. Starsky waved him off with a confused frown. "In love... How the hell do you know?"

Huggy raised his eyes to the ceiling as if to plead for divine patience. "How long have I known you two white boys? The answer? Enough to know when one of you stops lookin' at the other one like a bud and starts lookin' at him like he's champagne."

"Nice pun, Huggy—"

The slim bar-owner slapped a hand across Starsky's mouth. "Lemme finish, big mouth. Now, I admit I was thrown when Hutch's little black book suddenly turned into the Bay City phone directory, but then Dianne confided in me that her friend Lena went out with Hutch and man, you've seen Lena. Elegant, curves in all the right places, intelligence to go with the good looks. Right up Hutch's alley, comprende? Dianne says Lena was baffled. They got along great, seemed like the perfect date, but Hutch didn't lay a hand on her the whole damn time. Not a brush on her shoulder when they sat down at the restaurant table, no holding hands, no arm around her at the play, no kiss goodnight. Nothing. Might as well have been two first cousins out on a date. Now does that sound like standard Hutchinson operating procedure to you? Even Dianne knows it ain't. She whispered it to me because she was worried he might be—I dunno—sick or something."

Starsky shrugged and pushed Huggy's hand away. "Maybe he wasn't in the mood that night. He's not a sex addict, Huggy. He's the one always telling me there's more to life than that."

Huggy groaned and lifted his hands to heaven, "Will you see the forest, Starsky, and not the trees? I may not be a member of Mensa, but even I added up the right numbers. Smoke screen, Romeo. To keep his strictly straight—or so he thinks—partner from figuring out the truth before Mr. Self-Sacrifice Hutchinson can cure himself somehow of this unwelcome little love bug. You dig?"

"Fine. Okay. Maybe that makes sense. But ever since yesterday...jeezus, Huggy, I've dropped enough damn hints. I might as well be talking to my clothes hamper!"

Huggy shook his head and extended his palm. "Badge please."

Shocked at the request, Starsky fished the desired item out of his pocket and placed it on Huggy's waiting palm. "What—"

"I'm keepin' this in my possession until you're thinking clearly enough to wield this kind of power again. Listen, dude, you ever think Blondie probably doesn't have conscious recollection of being with you in that beach cottage? So as far as he's concerned, what the hell's changed to give him the idea that you're any different...any more willing to swing that way...than you were a month ago?"

"Dammit, I went down into the friggin' Underworld for him! Don't that count for something?"

"Uh, Starsky, might wanna moderate that Brooklyn growl. Most people who patronize my establishment don't worship Greco-Roman deities. Capisci?" At Starsky's wary glance over his shoulder and rosy flush, Huggy took pity. "Look, Starsky. You and Hutch have been willing to throw yourselves in front of trains, bullets, and psychos for each other long before there was ever anything—um—erotic in the relationship. Your going on a rescue mission for him ain't gonna spell hearts, flowers, and romance to Hutch. You told me he was out of it most of the time you were haggling with Hades. In fact, if I know Mr. America, he's probably wallowing in a pool of guilt for having these unwanted feelings for his good old, loyal, brave, unselfish, straight—"

"Yeah, I get you, Huggy," Starsky interrupted. "Hints aren't gonna work. Gotta go spell it all out to him."

Huggy handed over the badge. "Well done, Detective. Now scram. I've got a hot date tonight." He eyed the bar's entrance.

"Oh, really—" Starsky's eyebrows lifted.

"And she's here," Huggy said out of the side of his mouth.

"Oh, re—" Starsky turned around and smiled at the lovely black woman whose ruffled silk shirt and faded denim skirt accentuated her figure perfectly. "Oh, how you doing, Meredith?"

Joan Meredith beamed at Starsky and sat down on the barstool next to him, but her face brightened when she caught a glimpse of Huggy's attire. Huggy looked in the seventh level of rapture. Meredith winked at her date and then turned her attention back to Starsky. "How's Hutch doing?"

"He's fine. You know Hutch. Modest as he is tough. To hear him talk, he's been on vacation the last forty-odd hours instead of in an alley, a hospital bed, and trying to replace all his personal belongings. Fact, I've gotta get going. He's back at my place and probably putting my plants on some weird kind of fertilizer concoction."

Starsky tipped the glass at Huggy by way of thanks and patted Meredith on the shoulder as he walked past. She stopped him with his name. He thrust his hand in his pocket for his keys and turned around. She tilted her head to the side and grinned at him. "You may never speak to me again for asking you this, but...are you going home to Hutch or are you going home to Hutch?"

Starsky's first instinct was to make a cocky joking remark and brush off the loaded question. Hades' voice rang in his ears. Oh, really? And just what do you propose to do with him, Detective, but the same thing? Lock him away in a closet of your own making, hiding your feelings, your love for him from the rest of the world. Taking your pleasure from him but not acknowledging the gift of his affection in public. How is that any different?  He caught her kind, patient stare and held it fast with his own. She knew. She'd known all along, he realized, why their budding romance had fizzled with the return of Hutch to active duty as Starsky's partner. She'd known even when he couldn't accept the truth himself.

He returned Meredith's grin and with a sultry wink said, "I'm going home to Hutch."

She slapped the bar top, laughed, and waved him toward the door. "About damn time! Get going, Detective."

December 17, 1979
8:00 PM

Starsky kicked the door shut and regarded his living room like the colonizer of a new world. Set the stage, his brain ordered. Stack the decks. Use all your advantages. Where was Hutch? Shedding his jacket and holster, emptying his pockets of badge, keys, and wallet, he then hurried into the kitchen and located a bottle of fine, expensive wine he'd saved for a special occasion along with his two best wine glasses. Those he set carefully on the coffee table before he dashed off in search of...where had he put it? The cabinet above the fridge! Starsky raced back into the kitchen and rummaged in the high cabinet until he found the eighteen-inch tall, green candle decorated with bas-relief runes of some sort and advertising the scent, 'Lover's Mist'. The candle had been a farewell present from an old girlfriend of Celtic descent, the second girl he'd dated after the drought of companionship following Terry's death. He'd really liked the petite, warm and giving redhead, but their brief affair ended when she moved unexpectedly back to the UK. "Dave," she'd said at the airport, holding the candle forth with moist, green eyes. "I'm sorry we couldn't make a go of it, but you'll find someone special, and I can only leave you with this to light your way." She'd made him promise never to use the candle until he was ready to settle down permanently. Tonight the candle would burn happily. Now all he needed....

"Hutch?"

No answer. Starsky's smile wavered. "Hutch?" Silence. A chill descended over Starsky and he dropped the match he'd used to light the candle when the stinging burn registered on his fingers. "Hutch!!" His car was outside. Where the-- The sound of running water returned his heart to its proper location and he headed into the bedroom where he stopped cold in the doorway, staring with disbelief at the nearly packed suitcase on the bed. Hutch's new clothes. He lost all capacity for rational thought. He toed off his sneakers and fled to the bathroom, flinging open the door and expecting a room full of shower steam. No steam. No condensation on the mirror. What the—Without questioning his actions, or sparing a thought for Hutch's past history with shower assailants, he strode fully clothed to the tub and jerked back the shower curtain. Hutch jumped as though shot in the back and whirled.

"Starsky, what are you—"

Starsky held an experimental hand under the shower spray and then he stepped into the tub, wagging his hands frantically as the water drenched him. "You're not leaving me! You hear me? With my suitcase? And why the hell are you taking a cold shower in the middle of the evening—"

Hutch gaped at his partner with concern for Starsky's sanity blatant in the clear, blue eyes. He and Starsky both looked down simultaneously at a portion of Hutch's anatomy that had ideas of its own despite the chilled water. Hutch put a trembling hand over his eyes. 

Starsky seized Hutch's wrist and pulled the dripping blond tight against him. Before Hutch could utter a word, Starsky lifted his face and fitted his lips to Hutch's perfectly, almost a hovering touch with a hair's breadth of air between them. The hesitancy didn't last. Starsky sighed audibly and pressed against his best friend's mouth enthusiastically, massaging it with blinding passion encased in amazing gentleness. At first Hutch was too stunned to respond to the motion of the mouth he thought never to taste. Then with a cry that sounded like the screech of a newborn kitten, Hutch opened his mouth and pleaded wordlessly his desire to take as much of Starsky in as possible. Starsky complied, readily, arms fierce in their hold on the naked, shivering body as Hutch's arms slid around Starsky's neck, hands seeking purchase in the wet curls. Hutch murmured, "Yes, oh, please," and offered Starsky the complete possession of his mouth, pushing back against Starsky's, sucking in on Starsky's tongue, petting it lovingly with his own tongue-tip, bumping his nose against Starsky's as he moved his mouth slowly on the lips that meant life-breath to him. Starsky growled hungrily into Hutch's mouth and pushed them both back until he had Hutch pinned against the tiled shower wall. Hutch lifted his left leg and curled it behind Starsky's knees, dragging him closer, enjoying the slide of his bare calf against the wet denim. Starsky was making a meal off his lower lip, nibbling, tasting, and Hutch gasped under the erotic attack.

Starsky relinquished the kiss-swollen lip and said softly, breathlessly, "God, Aphrodite was right! Nothing compares to it...jeez, I feel like I'm drowning."

Hutch gasped in gulps of air as his body threatened to slide down the tiled wall into the tub. "Starsky, we are drowning. You're drenched—what are you—"

Starsky had purposefully lowered himself to his knees in the tub with his intent all too obvious in his parted lips and starving eyes. Hutch tried to back further against the wall, "Starsky, you're--"

"Gonna love doing this for you, Hutch." 

"You're still wearing soaked clothes; that can't be comf—"

"Don't care," Starsky cut him off, inching forward with his target in plain sight.

"The—the water's fr-fr-freezing."

"That I can fix," Starsky relented, standing and reaching up to turn the lever and add hot water to the mix. "There will be no more cold showers in this apartment," he said firmly to Hutch when he turned around again, going down once more on bended knee.

"W-whatever you say," Hutch breathed, eyeing his lover's approach and feeling trapped by invisible chains. "You don't—"

"Relax," Starsky said softly, "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Hutch couldn't argue with that revelation. Starsky's eyes had turned into parallel orbiting, blue planets and Hutch felt trapped between them like a pitiful little moon. No, not pitiful, because the look in those eyes was absolute worship. He banged his head painfully against the tile and strained against his whole body's desire to lurch forward when that mouth descended over him and hands petted his thighs soothingly. Hutch released his splayed-fingered grip on the tile wall and brought those fingers down to clasp tufts of dark, dripping ringlets. He bit his tongue and commanded his body to remain still, passive, relaxed.

Starsky noticed the self-control and released the warmth and hardness long enough to say, panting, "Babe, you—you can join in the fun if you want."

Hutch banged his head yet again as the mouth returned, but he gave into his body's impulse to thrust forward, repeatedly, matching the rhythm Starsky established. The sheer, explosive seduction of watching his fully clothed lover, kneeling beneath a cascade of water, willingly uniting his lips with the most intimate part of Hutch's body overloaded Hutch's senses. With a scream that burned his throat, stung his ears, and bounced off the shower walls, Hutch offered himself up to the rapture of the moment and shuddered in ecstasy. His body threatened immediate collapse, but he had Starsky to consider.

Starsky was staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes and a bright, loving grin. Hutch fell to his knees, ignoring the impact of his cartilage against the solidity of the tub bottom, and reached clumsily for Starsky's belt-buckle. Starsky pulled back. "No, no, babe. We're gonna slow this party down. Got lots to talk about."

Hutch blinked at him. "You—David Starsky—want talk first and pleasure later? You sure you're not Eros taking advantage of Starsky's body to seduce me in the shower?"

"Eros wishes he could kiss like me. And if I ever catch you near that—"

Hutch laughed out loud. "Yeah. You're my Starsky."

"That's right," Starsky said in all seriousness. "And don't you forget it."

Hutch grinned and stroked Starsky's jaw with two fingertips. "Lover, after what you just did to me, you think I ever could?" He took Starsky by the forearms and pulled them both to their feet. "Got to get you out of these wet clothes."

"Admit it," Starsky said, laughing, "you just want me naked."

"The thought had crossed my mind, but at the moment I just don't want you shaking like a wet puppy while we're trying to have an important discussion," Hutch retorted.

"Oh, all right, Mr. Practical," Starsky climbed out of the tub dragging Hutch with him and stood still on the bath mat, holding Hutch's hand. "I'm all yours."

"Huh?"

"You want me out of these clothes, you're in charge of peeling them off."

Hutch gawked at him. "Y-you want me to undress you?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Oh, yeah," Hutch agreed, devoting himself with visible pleasure to the task.

A good ten minutes later, both men reluctantly agreeing to wear robes until they could hash through some important issues, Hutch followed Starsky into the living room and paused thoughtfully upon spotting the burning candle and special occasion wine. Walking over to the coffee table, he fingered the runes on the candle with a fond smile and looked up to meet Starsky's surprisingly bashful eyes. Grinning, Hutch said, "Looks like you were planning a hot date."

"I was...with you. Then I saw the suitcase and I—I lost it. Sorry about the cave man routine.

Hutch moved to lean over the back of the sofa and kiss the side of Starsky's nose. "Shh. The reason I was packing that suitcase is I thought we'd never be able to take this step with each other. Do you think I'm gonna fuss about how we took it?"

"Is that the only reason you were clearing out? And just where were you going?"

Hutch sighed, turned his back, and sat down. Starsky shot around the couch so he could curl up beside his partner. Hutch opened his arms immediately and Starsky slid into their inviting circle with a contented murmur. Hutch cleared his throat.

"I've always been connected to you more than to anyone else, but no one warned me what falling in love with you would do to me. It's like being on fire and chilled at the same time. Suddenly it's painful for me when your happiness comes from someone else. And then, God, when I woke up in the real world yesterday and realized that what you did—for me!—in the Underworld wasn't some damn nightmare, I thought... jeez, if some special lady has made you as happy as you were before things went to hell—no pun intended—then she deserves better than ending up without you because of me...because you've risked your life for me yet again and the coin doesn't come up heads this time. So I thought I'd exit stage left...only I wasn't sure where I should go. I couldn't even finish packing because I couldn't get you out of my mind...and I know it's a cliché, but I thought a cold shower might actually work." Starsky stroked Hutch's chest through the robe's thick material and sighed, "Aw, man. So you remember some of what happened in Hades, but you don't remember the beach house?" He left the comfort of Hutch's arms in order to un-cork the wine and partially fill both glasses. Glancing at his lover, Starsky abandoned doling out refreshment as the look on Hutch's face distracted him and he turned without moving the glasses from their place beside the candle.

"What beach house? And Starsky...what happened to her? I'm feeling lost."

Starsky smiled and rushed back into Hutch's arms, brushing his lips across Hutch's cheek. He spoke through the tiny kisses into Hutch's increasingly heated skin. "There was someone special, Hutch. You were right when you accused me of infatuationitis. You, Blondie. It was you."

Hutch held his gentle seducer at arms' length. "Me? But that day you said....Starsky, for God's sake, start speaking in a language recognizable by the human ear."

Starsky laughed and playfully wrestled the restraining arms until Hutch acquiesced and pulled him close, gasping when Starsky's lips found something decidedly interesting just beneath his earlobe. Investigating the entire length of Hutch's neck, Starsky shared with him in spurts the story of Eros and the beach house. The playful nips and kisses came to a screeching halt when Starsky reached the part involving Hutch's disappearance from the sofa.

"Hutch, the truth is, I screwed up. And my screw-up could've killed you. But the other truth is that seeing you there on the sofa...you were...aw, this is gonna sound corny as hell, but I think I got a glimpse of your heart—your soul—you know, the real you inside...and you were so beautiful I couldn't breathe. That's when I stopped lying to myself about how much I loved you."

Hutch pulled Starsky down against his chest and buried his lips in the still-damp curls, running his hands up and down Starsky's arms and back. "Then I'm glad you broke the rules. I'm so glad. Eros said something about my heart campaigning for me. I'm grateful my heart knew what to do when I couldn't put one foot in front of the other one on a conscious level."

"No! If I hadn't been such a stubborn, macho jerk, I wouldn't've needed some scheme like that to realize what you mean to me. Huggy's right: I should have my badge confiscated. Some detective! I should've seen through Eros' little plot right away when he kept asking questions about you, probing my sexual tendencies, talking about life-mate versus 'wife', telling me I couldn't let you in on the secret. But no, I was damned and determined that my special someone just had to be female. So busy fighting ghosts I couldn't see what I had living and breathing in front of me. You ought to be kicking my ass instead of holding me like this."

"I'll hold you like this as long as you'll let me, and you just can the guilt act. I've watched you beat your head in over things you can't control, but I will not stand by while you indulge in self-recrimination on my account. And babe, I've got to know. Have you resolved what's been making you fight this kind of relationship or have we still got that ahead of us? I mean, I would never have believed you could—after we lost John...."

Ahead of us. US.  The core philosophy of their partnership: The doc was pretty straight about our chances...Partner, we made it...No, partner, this is ours. Starsky's heart skipped a beat at the implication that Hutch would willingly face the battle with him if necessary. He pushed the blond fiercely against the sofa back and with lightning agility straddled him, taking Hutch's face in his hands and devouring one feature at a time. He thoroughly wet Hutch's eyelids, paid adequate attention to the tip of his nose, licked a trail down both cheeks, and finally matched Hutch's parted lips with his own. The fire in that kiss should have answered Hutch's question, but when they separated, chests heaving in an odd synchronicity, Starsky cupped his jaw line with both hands and stared straight into his eyes.

"I have two lives, Hutch. Pre-Academy and Post-Academy. All right? And I was determined never to bring certain parts of that first life into the second. So I talked myself into being straight as a ruler. Really. Self-inflicted propaganda: all the way. I started out that way so I didn't see any reason I couldn't return to it. The stuff I said after Johnny died? I'd pounded it into my own head for years. 'It's not normal. It's not right. It's no small issue.' Say it enough: you believe it. I was a coward. Yeah, I'll admit that to you. That ought to show you what you really mean to me. Can't say that to anyone else. I wouldn't let myself love you because I was still afraid of some junk that went down on the other side of the world. I'll drag those ghosts out if you want me to, but c-can you just accept me saying it's no longer an issue?" 

Hutch licked his lips and targeted the skin between Starsky's eyebrows with a lingering kiss. Pulling back, he said softly, "This is Hutch holding you. Your best pal. You don't have to drag out the ghosts. I don't ever intend to put your past on trial."

Starsky couldn't answer in coherent sentences, so he took control of Hutch's lips, opening them with the force of his kiss and rocking against the body beneath his. Hutch felt tossed in the teeth of a storm. He didn't have a chance to enjoy the sensation of caresses on his neck and cheeks before pressure was applied to his arms in squeezes that took on so much more meaning than the touch of a buddy under the circumstances. He was trapped, pinned, paralyzed by Starsky's physical dominance. He knew he could turn the tables and leave Starsky equally helpless if he chose, but he relaxed under the beautifully forceful loving because it seemed to fulfill a need in Starsky that the dark-haired man couldn't even verbalize. Then the touching, rocking, kissing reached a heady crescendo and Hutch knew for his own sanity's sake he needed an important question answered before they arrived at the point of no return.

"Starsky....buddy....stop. Easy, back off a second. Oh, God. Starsky!!"

Starsky moved from the patch of skin on Hutch's breastbone he'd kissed into a wet redness and glanced up, blinking rapidly. "What...am I—doing something you don't like?"

"No, man, oh man. No. I—I just.... Look, I know this may sound ridiculous after what went down in the shower and we're both guys who've tended to jump into bed first and ask questions later, but this...this is different for me. When I go into that bedroom with you, I'm going to come out a totally different person in some fundamental ways. So tell me now. Are you happy with what Eros set up for you? Is that what you want from me? A life-mate?"

Starsky decided Hutch's jaw made for an excellent handle, because he seized it in his hands again and forced direct eye contact. "Yes. But it isn't about want, Hutch. It's undeniable fact. That's what you are to me."

A glass of wine and a few minutes of cuddling later, Starsky snatched the candle from the coffee table and led Hutch procession-like into the bedroom. The candle's scent wafted through the room and Starsky breathed deeply, savoring the aroma, finding a place of honor for the candle so its flame could temper the room's darkness. He had never been to Ireland, but he imagined that 'Lover's Mist' lived up to its billing as authentic scents one would encounter on the Emerald Isle. Hutch stood transfixed in the doorway, watching Starsky's every move, until Starsky paused beside the bed and smiled invitingly, letting his robe slip to the floor.

Thirty seconds passed in dramatic silence. Then Hutch laughed out loud, shed his robe, and knocked Starsky back onto the bed with a running tackle and a cry of unchecked desperation. Sensing that he'd been too quick to take charge on the sofa, Starsky lay possum still and allowed Hutch to satisfy his desire for exploration. After a few minutes, Starsky could count on one hand the number of dry spots on his body untouched by Hutch's gentle, wet kisses. He'd always had the sneaking suspicion that Hutch was a man who could take his own sweet time: a connoisseur who appreciated every object or event of fine quality in slow motion. What amazed Starsky was his ability to enjoy Hutch's deliberate, thorough oral mapping without reenacting Vesuvius. The loving ceased without warning when Hutch's lips found the repaired scar tissue on Starsky's chest.

"S-Starsk..."

"Umm...yeah, gorgeous?"

"T-those s-stitches really are special," Hutch said in a high-pitched tone that mingled awe, disbelief, and joy.

"Wha'?"  Starsky lifted himself on his elbows and stared down at his chest. The new railroad track of stitches had vanished, leaving his chest in the same shape as the hour before his descent into Hades. "What'd you do?"

"Just kissed you. Th-the second my lips touched your skin there...they...it... Starsky?"

"Shhh," Starsky pulled Hutch down into his arms and kissed his lover's neck. "Blows me away too. What we've got between us is...sheesh, I dunno. Just make my head spin, okay? You were doin' a pretty good job of it already."

"What do you want me to do for you? With you? I mean...right now."

Starsky smiled and played with several locks of Hutch's overly long hair, braiding them together in his fingers. "Why don't we walk instead of run? You're a beginner, huh, babe?"

The rosy flush of desire on Hutch's face darkened to crimson embarrassment and he turned his face against Starsky's neck. "Yeah. You're dealing with a total virgin, babe. Well, at least with this kind of love." Starsky's lack of reaction to his admission, subtle physical signal or otherwise, brought the blond head up with a snap. "You're one of the few people who wouldn't be shocked by that."

"Huh?" Starsky's ardor cooled as his brain worked to catch Hutch's train of thought.

Hutch rose up on his arms and stared down into his partner's blank face. "Oh, come on, Starsky, over half the guys in our precinct think I swing both ways—"

"Hutch, are you saying the guys at Metro think—"

"Oh, yeah. Don't you know stereotypes abound in police stations? God forbid they question the sexual orientation of David Starsky, the hyper-masculine love machine, the car-and-football guy's guy. But sensitive, artistic, pretty-boy Hutchinson is fair game. And I admit, I fell into the same thought pattern as far as you're concerned: I would never have expected you to have experience in this."

"You never bothered to—" Starsky forgot how to form words, but Hutch read his mind and smiled.

"No, I never bothered to contradict them. Narrow, suspicious minds only take denials and turn them into admissions of guilt. None of them had an ounce of proof to cause me trouble, so I let it slide. They're going to think what they want no matter what I say or how I act. I also have the luxury of my own personal shield against the grief— People tend to be fond of their teeth and dental work's expensive: nobody wants to tangle with you for giving me flak. Not that I can't take care of myself, but you've always seen fit to step in and--"

Starsky laughed, reaching up to caress Hutch's forehead. "You've been known to get in people's faces on my account too, buddy-boy." At Hutch's expressive snort, Starsky grinned. "Okay, so I admit I'm a little protective but—"

"You always have had the gift of understatement at the oddest times. You think I haven't heard through the grapevine about your little stunt in the hall with McCauley?"

Starsky's laughter subsided and his eyes sparkled with sudden understanding. "Hutch...A few days ago in the squad room when I teased you—"

Hutch flushed and focused on the concentration of hair beneath Starsky's sternum. "Yeah. My feelings were really close to the surface that day. I knew exactly why some of them were laughing at me, but I was concerned for your sake. Ironically, now their suspicions are grounded in fact and I was afraid any reaction on my part might reveal too much and come back to bite you. So I got out of there. Probably drew more attention to myself than if I'd hung around and tossed your teasing back in your face, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at the time."

Starsky rubbed his thumb against Hutch's lower lip and said, voice husky, "Is there ever a time when you're not thinking about what's best for me?"

Hutch frowned and moved his mouth from the loving finger. "Don't make me out to be a saint. Do you want me to list a few examples?"

"No. Why don't we stop talking?"

"Why don't we forget walking and run instead?" Hutch smiled and the heat burned through Starsky's carefully constructed self-control.

"Hutch—"

And then Hutch crawled backwards toward the foot of the bed and paused with his upper body tantalizingly close to Starsky's middle. In an echo of a past demand but with startlingly different meaning, Hutch smiled and said, "My party."

Starsky bid his lungs bon voyage and ceased breathing on his own. His breath was now Hutch's and he could only stare as Hutch lowered his head and proceeded to reenact the passionate encounter in the shower, reversing the roles with skill. Starsky curled his fingers and clawed at empty air, face strained with the urge to slip into a different, euphoric dimension. Hutch paused and sufficiently freed his lips to mumble, "Babe...you can join in the fun if you want."

Starsky's first thought as his hips responded to Hutch's invitation was self-scolding for teasing Hutch about clumsiness. His second was that he had never before truly understood the meaning of the word devour. By his third rational thought he managed to focus on Hutch. "Hey, lover, hey....oh, jeezus...Oh, Hutch, slow down, buddy."

Hutch lifted his head, surveyed the object of his attentions, and then glanced up at Starsky, for the first time exhibiting uncertainty. "Am—am I not doing something right?"

"No. Man, no way should you be so good at that...but this should be a party for more than one person, y'know?"

Hutch smiled softly and leaned over to circle Starsky's belly button with kisses. "I don't recall your being concerned with your own pleasure in the shower—"

"Hutch," Starsky began, but Hutch shook his head.

"I said my party, and I meant it. You can think you're king of the lovers around here, but guess again. I may be a rookie, but I've got one hell of an imagination and a rocket-booster for a sex drive, and I intend to use both. Right now."

"Oh, dear God," Starsky had a chance to murmur before the flaxen veil of hair obscured his view of a strategically important location on his body. He relaxed against the pillow with his eyes closed. He couldn't watch himself being physically adored by this man so beautiful the Ruler of the Underworld chose to keep him in a state of crystalline preservation.

Starsky's ears were happy to enjoy what his eyes couldn't. Hutch's soft sighs, humming, and smothered cries combined in a melody that threatened to push him over the edge without the aid of physical sensation. He'd wanted desperately for them to love each other gently across the threshold the first time, but he had no more energy or lucidity to voice his needs. He needn't have worried. Their silent communication had never been more potent. At the precise moment prior to Starsky's shattering, Hutch moved, surged forward, and blanketed Starsky with stunning grace, seizing Starsky's lips in an open-mouthed kiss. Their bodies moved together and against each other with a sudden force and desperation that shocked both men.

Starsky was battling the image of Hutch fading away in a cold, heartless palace, and he could see too long repressed, built-up hunger flaring in Hutch's eyes when they surfaced for air in between kisses. Starsky's lungs reminded him that he now required Hutch's breath to survive and he grabbed onto blond locks and pulled Hutch's face close, refusing to set those kiss-moistened lips free once he had them under his control. It was Hutch's heartbreakingly joyful shout into his mouth that pushed Starsky into the same state of unendurable satisfaction.

"Hutch...Hutch...." The sound was anything but orgasmic. Pain-filled, forlorn, bordering on fearful.

"Shh..." Hutch soothed, taking slow, deep breaths and trying to replenish the air Starsky had stolen. "I'm here. Right here. And all over you actually...in more ways than one."

"Just seeing you d-disappear right in front of my eyes...and then the fire...they said...and God, Hutch... Oh, God." Starsky wrenched free of Hutch's hold and rolled over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. Hutch stretched out on his side next to Starsky and, propped on his right elbow, used his left hand to massage the visibly tense muscles in Starsky's back. Unconsciously, his left foot got into the act, rubbing softly against Starsky's calf, straying down to tease Starsky's heels.

"Starsky. The last few days have been traumatic for both of us. Hell, the last several weeks haven't been a walk on the beach. But we're together and...babe, I'm safe. I'm in one piece. I'm deliriously happy despite having lost everything I own. And that's all because of you. You saved the day, all right? Swept in like you have so many times in the past and changed all the darkness to light."

No response. Starsky assumed a deathly stillness and Hutch lowered himself partially over his lover's back, attempting to comfort him with the warmth of his warm, living body. "Starsky?"

Nothing.

"Starsky, please," Hutch pleaded, voice harsh but not from anger. "Please. Please don't go silent on me again. That's—that's my gig, okay? Not yours."

Starsky said nothing but his neck twitched and shoulders trembled. Hutch expelled a shaky breath and whispered, "I'm—I'm not enough, am I? Not enough to break through all that loneliness. C-caring about someone t-to the point that you'd risk your life for him doesn't equate to being in love with him. I—I understand."

Starsky's body jerked and in a blur of skin he bowled Hutch over and sprawled on top of the blond, mouthing the portion of Hutch's body his lips found first. Hutch squirmed and Starsky translated the movement correctly, shifting his mouth to meet the one offered him. When Hutch's arms would have wound around his back and intensified their encounter, Starsky ended the kiss and pushed back, hands on Hutch's chest. "I am in love with you, Hutch. I'm so in love right now I feel like the damn room's spinning. I'm also good and pissed off because that smartass Hades knew. He knew what we'd face here in the real world and he taunted me with it. And for the most part, he's right. God, Hutch, if you were a woman, I'd go into work day after tomorrow with a bunch of pictures and flash 'em around the whole squad room. I'd—I'd probably buy one of those tacky T-shirts with the special iron-on patch of our names and a heart with an arrow through it between 'em and wear it to work. Can't do any of that...and just because you're a man—"

Hutch laughed happily, blissfully, "You can buy the tacky T-shirt and wear it when we're alone together," he suggested helpfully. Starsky glared at him.

"Are you even really listening to me, Hutchinson? Normally you're the one yapping at me for not thinking about consequences—"

"Babe, I hear you. I'd love to just float in this beautiful afterglow, but if you want to face reality right away, I'll go along for the ride.  I've also known what it's like to love you and not have you. I'll take you gladly and face whatever comes. Yeah, we'll have to be circumspect. Beyond telling a few special people, we can't afford to give anyone concrete proof of what we have together—"

"Huggy and Joan Meredith know," Starsky breathed into Hutch's shoulder blade, nipping at the still-flushed skin. Hutch squirmed, this time not requesting a kiss.

"J-Joan M-Meredith—" he squeaked.

Starsky smiled against the shoulder. "Yeah. Impulsive slip on my part. No, I guess I was being defiant. I remembered what Hades said and I-- Don't worry about her, though. She's apparently hung up on one certain bar-owner with a wardrobe to rival Liberace's and hurting us would hurt him. She's not gonna be spreading tales."

"Meredith and H-Huggy?" Hutch said, incredulous.

"Ain't love grand," Starsky crooned. Then, somewhat subdued, "But that's what I'm worried about, Hutch. It came too easy to me to just blurt it out to her. How do I—how do we act at work—how—"

"Shh. We handle it the same way I've managed with all the rumors about me. We walk softly, give no one real cause to outright question us, and we'll be fine. I promise."

"You can't—"

"Oh, hell yes, I can. I don't make promises unless I fully intend to keep them."

"Got all this beautiful love and have to hide it in the dark," Starsky grumped, settling more comfortably against Hutch's chest.

"Hey, Some of the most famous couples in literature have had to hide and face obstacles, and not even because they were same-sex unions."

"Uh-huh," Starsky said skeptically.

"I'm serious.  Tristan and Isolde, Othello and Desdemona, Count Vronsky and Anna Karenina...just a couple of nights ago I was thinking about Lancelot and Guinevere..."

"Good, really good.  You think you've pulled the wool over my eyes, dontcha?"

"What?" Hutch's voice rang with offended innocence.

"I read, dummy.  All of those lovers ended up dead or separated, or dead and separated, or dead, tortured, and separated."

Hutch laughed, softly at first and then louder and longer.  Finally he subsided in a snort.  "Yeah, well, I remember a time when you couldn't think of any battles that the good guys won and we still managed to get out the barn alive?"

Starsky yawned.  "Yeah, guess so.  Umm....I don't wanna move.."

"Don't."

"'M too heavy..."

"Never."

December 18, 1979
Bay City time: 1:00 AM

"Where are we?"

Hutch thought of wrapping an arm around the sturdy wooden mast nearby but decided against it when he noticed the open slot in the deck from which the mast emerged. Instead, he pulled Starsky close and balanced them both, spreading the gap between his feet. "We're—uh—naked and on a ship under sail. Beyond that, your guess is good as mine."

"Hutch, I'm no sailor, but I know my fair share about ships and I've never seen one like this—"

Hutch frowned, looking around. "You ought to recognize her. You've been putting together a model just like this."

"Wha'?"

"A trireme, babe. We're standing on what I think they call the deck canopy of a trireme."

"Hutch, I wouldn't be caught dead putting together a model of a ship this weird—It's too narrow...and flat, at least up here. Jeez, if I step one foot to the side—"

"Well, don't move then, Detective."

Hutch and Starsky whirled in unison. A woman swept toward them, seemingly floating above the deck canopy. Her radiance choked both men. Starsky forgot how to swallow. Swathed in some unrecognizable, shimmering material, her figure was the ideal, her hair, tied loosely with ribbons of silver, flowed alive and in waves below her knees.

"Why...what...who?"

Hutch found his voice next and laughed, nudging Starsky. "You sound like a freshman in Journalism 101."

Starsky shot him a wise-ass glare. "I suppose you have all the answers now, Genius?"

"Now, now, children," the woman reprimanded gently. "Can't have you squabbling before the ceremony."

"C-ceremony?" Starsky queried, trying to stare past the aura of light around the woman's features. "Are you—"

"Oh, Starsky, you don't remember me even after I probed your tonsils?"

"You did what?" Hutch shouted, almost stumbling backward into the deck slot. Starsky glanced askance at the edge of the deck canopy just a few feet away and clutched at Hutch's arm, pulling him forward toward the woman.

She clucked her tongue. "My, my, Starsky. He's going to be quite the possessive one. Can you handle that?"

Hutch looked acutely embarrassed and Starsky smiled, fingers caressing the arm he held. "Aphrodite?"

"The one and only. We couldn't invite you to Olympus, so we're providing what I consider the next best thing. Ares crafted this warship for me with his own two hands and had it blessed by Poseidon. Surely a suitable venue for your ceremony."

"C-ceremony?" Hutch echoed Starsky.

Aphrodite clapped her hands and the ship's appearance transformed dramatically. The fore and mainsails sparkled with golden and silver threads. Garlands of laurel leaves encircled the entire length of both fore and mainmasts. Decorative flags flew proudly from bow and stern. The deck slot was covered over with glass. Hutch prodded the glass with his foot experimentally.

Aphrodite smiled. "Oh, yes, it will hold, Detective Hutchinson. We required more viable space for our guests."

"Guests?" Starsky whispered.

"You were certainly more talkative in my office," said a masculine voice. 

Tall, slender, with elegant aquiline features and snapping eyes, the young man casually leaned, arms across his shimmering tunic, against the main mast and spread his wings as he smiled.

"Eros?"

"To borrow your basketball vernacular, two points, David."

"And I," came a soft voice behind the two policemen, "am his wife, Psyche."

Starsky immediately recognized the redheaded goddess from the therapists' office lobby, but the lady before him was even more beautiful and her hair, now a rich obsidian, coiled about her head in a complex crown of braids. She smiled, bowed her head slightly in passing, and joined her husband. Eros wrapped an arm around her.

Starsky flushed, remembering how he had lingered over her hand in the foyer and Eros grinned at him. "Yes, I know how you greeted my beloved that day, David. You have astonishing courage, going about charming the wives of Deities. Persephone still hasn't recovered and Hades is livid."

Hutch clasped his hands above Starsky's heart and pulled the dark-haired man back against him. "I plan on taking charge of that charm now, Eros."

The touch of Hutch's hands on his chest reminded Starsky of their nudity and he stammered, "U-uh, now might not be the best time to mention this, but could we borrow some clothes?"

Aphrodite sighed. "As lovely as you are in your current state, I suppose we should prepare you for the ceremony." She lifted her hands in a sweeping motion above their heads and Starsky jumped at the sudden sensation of lamb's fleece soft material against his skin. Glancing down, he jerked away from Hutch's hands and waved his hands in agitation at Aphrodite.

"No! No way am I wearing a damn skirt!!"

Psyche and Eros broke into a matching fit of giggles. Aphrodite rested her hands on her hips and smirked. Hutch rolled his eyes. "Starsk," he soothed. "It's not a skirt, it's a—"

"I don't care! Looks like a skirt, feels like a skirt...dress...whatever. I may be in love with a man, but that don't make me a--"

"I'm wearing the same thing, Starsky," Hutch interrupted before Starsky could insert his foot fully into his mouth. "It's not like they're trying to turn you into my—"

"You just stay out of this!" Starsky demanded.

Eros stopped laughing and said softly, "David, if the god of love can be satisfied with traditional ancient Grecian dress, don't you feel in good company?"

Starsky shut his mouth with a snap and shot Hutch a quick look. The amused, loving smile on his blond's face settled the question. "Got to admit," he said appraisingly, "the outfit looks pretty damn good on you, Blondie."

Hutch's smiled widened and the look in his eyes was filled with admiration. "Thanks, pal, but you should see yourself. You're a masterpiece of sculpture come to life."

"I think that's his way of calling you a Greek god, Starsky." Aphrodite laughed at Starsky's flustered expression.

"The ship is ready, our celebrants are prepared; shouldn't we invite our other guests to join us?" Eros asked.

"At once," Aphrodite replied and began to sing. The words were unintelligible but the melody superb and thrilling. Hutch reached out and grabbed Starsky's hand and Starsky returned the grip.

Slowly the deck canopy grew crowded with people who were strangers to Starsky and Hutch. Aphrodite's song ended and she cupped her hand over her mouth, whispering to the detectives, "You can't visit Olympus, so Olympus comes to you."

She turned to the congregation of men and women and said with loud solemnity, "Olympians, my gratitude is yours for answering my call. We are here to celebrate the joining of a matched heart and soul. The beginning of a love true and eternal that must, as

yet, remain hidden from the eyes of mortal men. We who are above prejudice and who recognize the rarity of pure, self-sacrificial love welcome them and seal their bond."

The applause masked the sounds of the sea and Aphrodite held out her palms. A whispered word rustled through the crowd and a crown of laurel graced each open palm. She turned to the detectives and placed the crowns ceremoniously on one dark head and one blond. Another crash of applause nearly deafened the two mortals.

"What can we give these men as token of our esteem for their union?" Aphrodite asked loudly.

A young man and woman, their resemblance strong enough to qualify them as fraternal twins, emerged from the crowd and bowed low together before Starsky and Hutch. Rising, they extended a jeweled goblet, his left hand on one side and her right hand on the other. "Your brotherhood, your friendship, is as important as your love. May you always be twin in thought, in deed, and in values. Closer than brothers." They held the goblet to Starsky's lips and after he'd obediently drunk from it, they transferred the goblet to Hutch.

"Our celebrants thank you, Phoebus Apollo and Artemis," Aphrodite nodded with a brilliant smile.

As the divine siblings returned to the crowd, a tall and regal woman broke ranks and approached. A shimmering rainbow and peacock followed in her wake. Aphrodite went down on one knee and lowered her eyes. Starsky glanced at Hutch as if to ask, "Hey, should we follow her lead?" Hutch was too busy staring at the Queen of Olympians to notice his lover's uncertainty.

She paused about six feet removed from the detectives and lifted her hand, blowing them a kiss. "You have risked injury, illness, and death for the cause of justice and goodness. My gift to you is health and vitality. May you be strong in body and long-lived."

"Our celebrants are deeply honored, Lady Hera," Aphrodite murmured, standing.

Only when Hera resumed her place in the congregation did another young woman come forth. An owl flew around her playfully before landing on her shoulder. Once in front of Starsky and Hutch, the young woman stretched out an olive branch and tapped it against both men's shoulders. "I offer you the wisdom to see through the schemes of evil, to know each other's needs, and to make wise choices."

"Our celebrants will be blessed by your gift, Pallas Athena."

The ceremony seemed as eternal as the Olympians. Hermes, winged of foot and cap, offered them speed and agility. Ares marched forward, gazed longingly at Aphrodite, and bestowed on the detectives the courage of warriors to face any trials their union may encounter in the realm of mortals, and each of the Graces and Muses had to have their say.

Finally, Aphrodite raised her hands and said, voice strong and rich, "Olympians, we have given much to these mortals whose love is strong and beautiful. What do we ask of them in return?"

The murmur rolled like waves through the crowd and Aphrodite quieted them with a wave of her hand. She turned to the detectives and smiled. "They demand your fidelity, gentlemen. Your faithfulness to each other. Fulfill your needs in each other's arms and do not mar this divine approval by straying from each other's side."

Starsky half-turned and lifted a hand to rest softly against Hutch's cheek. "I love you. Only you. I promise."

Hutch turned his face to bring his lips under the warm palm. "No one else. Ever. I give you my word."

The applause simply must have been heard on earth in the form of thunder.