Title: There's More to Life than Just That!

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted: January 9, 2002 at Love of Me and Thee

Sequel To: Unplugged. This is the third story in the "Happiest Halloween" universe.

Notes: Special thanks to Karen-Leigh, whose editing skill is always appreciated.

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"Yeah, well if there is, I don't know about it. You know what I mean?" ----- The Plague Pt. 1

January 1, 1982

Sunlight fought through the thin drapes and bounced off the pristine white sheets but some of its heat survived to warm the two men curled together under them. Hutch stretched and ran through a groggy mental checklist of his movements. He was thrilled that he could still feel his legs, wiggle his toes, and roll over. Not that he had any complaints about the New Year's Eve celebration. Starsky's suggestion that they stay home and ring in the New Year with love instead of loud music and champagne prompted a night that Hutch would remember for the rest of his life. After marking their one-year wedding anniversary on Thanksgiving, Hutch thought he'd run the gamut of Starsky's romantic talents and knew all there was to know. He found it not a depressing thought, but an uplifting one: he'd decided his lover's seduction skills capable of keeping him satisfied for decades into the future. Last night had proven to Hutch that he hadn't explored the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it came to Starsky's creativity and stamina. Hutch reached down and wrapped an investigative hand around his ankle, circling his foot, toes pointed, testing range of motion. He hadn't known two human beings could twist their bodies like…. A noise at his side blissfully reminded him that he never woke alone anymore. Starsky's soft moan ended in a snort and delicious wiggle of his nose and lip smacking. The sight sparked fires in Hutch's erogenous centers and he flung himself onto his sleeping partner with a carnivorous growl.

"Hu—wha—" Starsky's eyes opened slowly. His brain obviously concluded that speech was too difficult to form around Hutch's tongue because he gave up the task. The twitches in Starsky's calves told Hutch that his attempt at turning his feet into another pair of hands was a stunning success. Meanwhile, the blond's real hands appropriated every inch of the lightly furred chest for their own purpose.

Hutch moved his mouth just far enough from Starsky's lips that he could whisper, "I love you, sexy man. Happy New Year."

Starsky smiled and the sunlight seemed dim. He brushed talented fingers through the blond bed-hair and gurgled with laughter when Hutch's eyes flickered closed under the sensations. "Happy New Year, beautiful. Looks like a great day getting started," he said energetically, springing out of bed and prancing over to fling back the drapes from their bedroom's picture window.

The brilliant sun turned their private lawn into an emerald green pool, the border of palm trees lending an exotic touch to the more common, and now bare, deciduous. They had chosen to turn a large room on the "back," eastern side of the house into the master suite because of the seclusion and glorious window. More than a few mornings they crept from bed and spread sheets on the floor, making love to the natural symphony of the sunrise. This was a far better arrangement in Hutch's estimation than a room on the western side of the house with smaller windows that oddly downplayed the ocean view.

"It was starting nicely with you lying right here," Hutch hinted, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare so he could appreciate Starsky's casual nudity painlessly.

Starsky turned his back to the window and stretched his arms out, arching his chest, breathing deep. Sexual perfection framed in gold. Hutch's mind shouted at him to get the hell out of bed and clothe the body on display with cottony kisses, but something in Starsky's expression held him at bay.

"It's our day off, lazy bones. What should we do?"

"Remind each other why we were geniuses to invest in a king-sized bed?" Hutch suggested, ever helpful.

"Hutch."

"That's my name. Say it with just a little more passion and I'll join you at the window—we can shock the palm trees."

Starsky rubbed his chest, scratched his sternum, and studied the fingernails on his left hand with the solemnity of a philosophy student pondering Durkheim. "I remember a certain National Geographic reader lecturing me a few years ago. He said I was 'gross' because I—"

Hutch rushed to intercept that thought in mid-flight. "Yes, well, that was before I took out a lifetime subscription to the 'Starsky Weekly' and started reading it cover-to-cover. This bed is very big and very lonely without you in it, gorgeous."

"Then move your lazy buns and get some clothes on so we can take advantage of this beautiful day. Look at that sky—not a cloud in it!"

Hutch swallowed hard and entertained a nasty suspicion about their grand night of New Year's Eve passion. In the middle of one particularly tantric session, Hutch had thought Starsky's behavior unusual…the grasping, desperate hunger reminiscent of a bear storing up food for hibernation or a binge-eater at a bakery the night before beginning a starvation diet.

"Starrrrsky," Hutch purred, lounging across the bed and arching his hips just right. "Let's see if we can prove in our own way that Newtonian Physics is pure bull."

Normally an exaggerated show of Hutchinson brains was more of a red flag in front of a different kind of bull to Starsky than his not-too-inconsiderable exterior assets, but this morning Starsky remained undaunted in the face of academic seduction. He made his way to their chest-of-drawers and rummaged for clean underwear. "Hutch, I've decided to take a page out of your book. I want to broaden my horizons. Explore all that life has to offer. You should be proud of me. You're the one who tried so long to get me to admit there's more to life than just—that," he finished, gesturing over his shoulder at the bed without turning around.

"Sex, Starsky. Say the word. S-e-x. What I'd like to be doing with you, my life-mate, my spouse, the love of my life, right now, right here. Can't we broaden your horizons after lunch?"

Starsky snagged a pair of bikini briefs and shoved the drawer closed. He turned and leaned back against the chest-of-drawers, and his face was more serious than Hutch had seen it in a long time. "I mean it, Hutch. New Year's Resolution: no more 'sex-addict' Starsky. Don't want you thinking of me like that. More to me than just fun in the sheets." Starsky clutched the briefs conveniently in front of a body part determined to make a liar of him and moved toward the bathroom.

Hutch jumped out of bed and dashed around Starsky, blocking the open bathroom doorway. "Lover, I don't think that's all you are. You should know me better. Talk to me. Where's this coming from?"

"A few weeks ago at Huggy's you called me a libido with legs—"

Hutch threw back his head and howled with laughter. Not the correct reaction by a long shot. Starsky glared at him and said coldly, "We have two bathrooms." He swiveled and headed for the bedroom door. Hutch turned into a leaping jackrabbit and hopped in front of that door just as Starsky arrived.

"Hutch--!" Starsky threatened, voice low and energized.

"No, buddy. We're having this out right now. That was a joke. You know…a humorous phrase intended for the enjoyment of both parties. Besides, you'd just said my sexual motor had been behaving like the Torino would on a twenty-degree day with the wrong brand of anti-freeze. Wasn't I due some retaliation?"

"I wasn't joking. You really were acting like that."

Hutch digested that revelation for half-a-second. His wide, adoring eyes narrowed. "Well, thanks a lot. If memory serves me, during the time you were referring to, I'd been recovering from several nasty migraines—a side effect, need I remind you, from the coma I was in six months ago--"

"Ooooh. Low blow, Kenneth Richard Hutchinson. You oughta be ashamed."

"Right. Like you don't know what to flaunt, David Michael Starsky, whenever you want a little Hutchinson sympathy."

"I don't flaunt anything, pal. But I'll show you my muscles—and use 'em—if you don't get out of my way."

Hutch melted under the force of Starsky's stare. He cradled the back of the curly head in his oversized palm and rubbed gently against the scalp. "Ah, babe, I don't want to fight with you. I just—I just wanted to love you, make you feel as spectacular as you made me feel all last night. Tell me what this is really about, please?"

Starsky dropped the briefs, seized Hutch's face in his hands and pulled it down to his own. Hutch whimpered and parted his lips, begging for Starsky to drink him in, take his fill. A few minutes later Starsky maneuvered Hutch away from the bedroom door and up against the wall. "Oh, wow," Hutch whispered fervently as Starsky initiated a rhythmic undulation. "Oh, no," Starsky said firmly, pushing back and separating their bodies.

"Starsky!"

"See, that's the problem: I touch you and I'm lost."

"That's—that's a problem?" Hutch croaked.

"You're supposed to be helping me. Don't spouses—not to mention best buddies—help each other achieve goals?"

"This particular spouse and best buddy might be more inclined to help you if the damn goal made sense!"

Starsky took a few backward steps and plopped down on the foot of the bed. "Hutch, didn't you notice something change when we bought the house?"

Hutch sagged against the wall. His arousal subsided quickly as ice gripped his heart. "Are you r-regretting that we moved in together?" What was next? He glanced down at the gold band on his left ring finger, a symbol of their commitment they could only wear in its proper location when at home alone together. Was Starsky regretting that commitment, too? But Starsky shook his head adamantly as if reading his thoughts.

"No, never, baby. Shouldn't have taken that coma to shake us up and make us focus on what's most important. Us. Together. I'm glad we stopped playing 'musical apartments'. I just—Look at our pattern, willya? We work long shifts, keep these crazy hours, and then we come home and wear ourselves out in bed. Lyza and Ward manage to have a more varied lifestyle than that and they have a six-week old baby around the house—"

"Which is probably why they have a more varied lifestyle. They keep crazier hours than we do. What's your point, Starsky? None of this sounds like you at all." He bent and retrieved the discarded briefs before joining Starsky on the bed. He sat a couple feet away from his brooding spouse and fingered the underwear's material with the same reverence he used when removing it from their wearer.

Starsky shrugged. "I bought this book at the grocery store the other day. Growing With Your Spouse. I don't know that I'm doing a whole lotta growing with you, Hutch."

Hutch stared at him. Were they really sitting two feet apart from each other, naked, on the foot of their bed discussing this? "Since when do you buy pop-psych self-help books from the checkout counter? They contain about as much truth as those Weirdest Facts books you read in one sitting."

"Hutch—"

Starsky's take-me-seriously voice. Hutch sighed heavily. "Starsk, we have a very loving marriage. Don't you know that many couples shell out hundreds of dollars an hour for marriage therapy to help them maintain the kind of closeness and intimacy we have after a year of wedlock? We have our ups-and-downs, just like we did when we were just partners and friends, but—"

"That's just it!!" Starsky slapped both hands on his thighs to emphasize the importance of his exclamation. "I don't want to lose the 'partners' and 'friends' part of the equation. You reach for me and I turn into a love-machine—"

"Yeah," Hutch said wistfully. "I noticed…."

"Not saying I don't want that with you, but I don't want that to be all we are."

"And you think turning both of us into monks is going to help us…how?"

"Not monks, exactly…I'm just saying I shouldn't focus so much on…."

"Making me sing your name in three different octaves?"

"Hutch, would you quit already, jeez! You're pushing it…."

"No, pushing it is what I would like to be doing…."

"Fine! Don't take me seriously. I knew I shouldn't try to talk to you about this." Starsky snatched the underwear and stalked out of the room. Hutch sat motionless.

He looked around the room, studying the evidence of their life together. The two bedrooms they maintained for the sake of the outside world were really a transparent sham the moment anyone took one step into this room with the king-sized bed and a conglomeration of their decorating tastes and knick-knacks. Hutch suspected that two forces were at work protecting their careers in light of their private relationship: Dobey had more than likely run interference on more than one occasion, and the powers-that-be in the department didn't want to tangle with two cops known throughout the city for being willing to shed lifeblood repeatedly for the sake of its citizens. They behaved with perfect circumspection at work and in public and had exercised so much caution that any attempt to prove what occurred in their off-the-job time would come across as a targeted witch-hunt. And in the eye of that hurricane, he and Starsky had built as realistic and rewarding a marriage as any heterosexual pair. More than most, Hutch mentally corrected, remembering his own attempt at the more 'conventional' married life.

Now there was a storm cloud on the horizon and Hutch didn't understand its origin. They were both pushing forty, Starsky a few months closer to the mark than Hutch. Could this be some kind of pre-midlife crisis or a leftover stress reaction that had lain dormant since the coma? Starsky had accepted Hutch's decision to remain a street cop with the same respect and brave support that Hutch put into helping Starsky return after the police garage attack, but latent anxieties and unresolved concerns could manifest themselves in strange ways. Hutch combed through his hair with all ten fingers and called himself a few dirty names for pushing Starsky away during a rare moment of vulnerability. He decided to tackle the practical tasks of showering and making himself presentable before he went in search of his beloved's forgiveness. Sometimes having two bathrooms really did come in handy.

He emerged cleansed and sporting a new attitude in addition to a more visible change. He dressed quickly in jeans and a comfortable royal blue sweater that Starsky thought attractive and plodded barefoot down the long hardwood hallway to the kitchen to get their coffee started. Hutch paused at the end of the hall and fought for a grip on his emotions. Starsky had beat him to the coffee maker and must have taken advantage of Hutch's habit of lengthy showers to come back into the bedroom unnoticed for his own change of clothing. Hutch swallowed a soft moan. No one should make ten-year old faded jeans and a simple, half-unbuttoned red cotton shirt look like an Italian designer's masterpiece while sitting at an ordinary kitchen table sipping from one of their earthenware mugs. The man belonged on a catwalk in Milan, though Hutch knew if he voiced that sentiment, he'd have it shoved back down his throat.

He walked soundlessly past his mate, breathing easier only when he reached the sanctity of the kitchen. His hands shook as he poured out a generous helping of his granola and sliced a banana to go in the cereal. What should he say? How should he broach the subject of his being a dumbass? They had endured their share of squabbles and bickering, but this could turn into a legitimate fight with unpleasant ramifications. The thought of being at war with the man at the table turned Hutch's stomach to jell-o. He managed to fill the bowl—and not cover the counter-- with milk and carried the brimming bowl over to the table without even thinking of a spoon.

Starsky glanced up from his coffee and almost let the mug droop dangerously over his lap. "You trip over one of my razors on the way to the shower?"

Hutch produced a convincing faux smile. "Change seemed to be the topic of choice this morning; I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon."

Starsky put the mug down on the table and gestured at the cereal bowl and Hutch's empty hands. "No spoon."

"Uh, yeah—"

"Hutch. Come'ere."

He would have journeyed across a continent at that gentle command. Up in a flash from the chair, he knelt at Starsky's side, and looked up, not knowing that his eyes pleaded his case for him far more persuasively than any words. Starsky framed his face with both hands and tugged him closer. The kiss that met his lips was forgiving, embracing, and tinged with encouraging heat. Hutch was left breathless and wanting more, but still afraid to ask for it.

"I love you, baby."

"Starsky, I love you too. So much. I don't know what came over me this morning. You'd think after last night, I'd be too damn tired to hound you for an encore."

"Shh…it’s all right."

"No, it's not, but it will be. I'll make it up to you, I promise. You want help with this resolution thing, I'm all yours." Hutch flushed. "I mean, not in a sexual—"

"Hutch." Starsky's eyes held laughter and understanding. Hutch stood and adjusted his jeans.

"A spoon," Hutch said, as if the world hung on his words. "Yes, I think I'll get a spoon."

Starsky's laughter followed him into the kitchen.

The next few minutes passed in a much easier silence broken only by the sounds of granola crunching and Starsky flipping resolutely through the newspaper spread out on his end of the small table. Halfway to the bottom of the cereal bowl, Hutch looked up and studied his partner closely. Starsky seemed deep in concentration. No, he seemed frustrated.

"What are you looking for?"

Starsky smiled. "I wanted to find something…you know…cultural."

Hutch put his spoon down. "Starsky, why don't you tell me exactly what you're trying to achieve? Then I might be able to help you."

Starsky folded the paper and leaned back in his chair. "I want to start out small. That's what the book said do. Baby steps before adult ones. So I want to spend one day with you, doing things you like to do—growing with you in other words—without concentrating on getting in your pants. Simple enough?"

Hutch laughed out loud, but choked down the humor just as quickly. Humor had not been the proper response in this situation so far and nothing in Starsky's expression told him it would be welcome now. "And you want to do something cultural?"

"Right. Broaden my horizons. Learn something."

"Starsky, you haven't exactly hidden in a cave the last twenty years. You sound like Aristotle describing man's discovery of the outside world."

"Maybe he had a point. You gonna help me or not?"

"Back in a few," Hutch said, and left the table.

He returned minutes later with a smaller newspaper. Starsky craned his neck to see over the blond's arms. "What's that?"

"The Bay City Cultural Council produces this biweekly newspaper listing all the events in the greater area. Seemed like a good place to start—hey, the Independent Museum has three new exhibits. Why don't we head over there?"

"The Independent Museum?" Starsky looked interested. Hutch smiled and dropped the folded paper down on the table.

"Yes. It's not affiliated with the Civic Museum, so it can house some more unusual exhibits thanks to private patronage and a more eclectic base of collectors and supporters. You like out-of-the-ordinary experiences…this should be your cup of tea."

"You mean I won't have to stare at pictures of little bitty dots turned into something bigger?"

"That would be Impressionism, I'm guessing you'd prefer to avoid? No…I can't promise you anything, but the Independent Museum tends to be a little more exotic than that."

"Awright." Starsky grinned and clapped his hands together. "Sounds good. Let's go…do we need to—" He glanced down at his jeans and back up again at Hutch.

Hutch smiled and reached down, grasping Starsky's shirt. "Button up a little more, Romeo, and you'll be just fine. Not that you aren't fine with the… um…sorry."

"Hutch."

"Well, dammit, Starsky, how is my flirting with you going to help?" Either one of us, Hutch mumbled under breath. Starsky was too preoccupied with downing the rest of his coffee and buttoning his shirt at the same time to hear his spouse's complaint.

The Independent Museum lived up to its name in its architecture. Most closely resembling a massive warehouse, the building also boasted a combination of large, modern square windows and Gothic stained glass, and no two colors of paint seemed to be used within a few feet of each other. The multiple splashes of color narrowly avoided creating an eyesore and testified to the artistic genius behind the décor. Hutch guided a gawking Starsky through the entranceway, which was even more unusually decorated with a variety of what looked to be hanging piñatas.

Hutch accepted a pamphlet from the teenage girl at the front information desk and flipped through it while Starsky's eyes continued to grow in size at the lobby's various displays. "Let me see…according to the guide, we have Study in Romanticism, Tribute to William A. Bouguereau, and Rarely Displayed Treasures of Antiquity. Your choice."

Starsky dug in his pocket and produced a quarter. "Let's flip a coin between Romanticism and that guy with the funny name. Heads Romanticism, tails William What'shisname."

Hutch caught the hand in mid-toss. "You're going to flip a coin—in a museum?"

Starsky stared at him, clearly befuddled. "Why the hell not? This seems like the kind of place that wouldn't frown on stuff like that. Anyway, it's not a library."

Hutch failed to see the connection, but refrained from comment. The quarter spiraled into the air and landed perfectly on Starsky's outstretched fist. He slapped a hand on it and then revealed it for Hutch's inspection. "William Bouguereau wins the prize," Hutch announced, grinning. Starsky's eyebrows climbed.

"Blintz, you wouldn't happen to know something I don't?"

"You think?" Hutch asked, face deadly serious. Starsky swatted at the back of his head. "Actually, I'm going to be learning something today myself. William Bouguereau is not on my personal list of well-known artists."

"Then read what that pamphlet has to say about him," Starsky suggested, marching off in the direction of the Bouguereau gallery.

"William Bouguereau, 1825-1905. Says here he's one of the academic masters of 'traditional humanist art'. This is interesting: 'Long maligned by proponents of the Modernist theory, William Bouguereau's work has enjoyed a resurgence in popularity since 1979 and many consider him one of the great preservers and heroes of Western Art. A pioneer in the support of women as artists in France, he was also known for startlingly realistic portraiture and appreciation of the human form'. Hmm…. I wonder if that means—" Hutch bumped into a statue and only recognized his partner after he straightened. "Starsk?"

Starsky stood open-mouthed in front of a large painting entitled 'Alma Parens'. "She's got her…they're…that's…."

Hutch stood back and reflected on the work. "It's a group of children centered around a mother figure, Starsky. One of them is nursing. Your point is?"

"Moving right along," Starsky said, face still slightly flushed. He stopped dead in front of the next masterpiece. "What is this guy's deal with half-naked women and children? What was he…some kind of a—"

"Look at the title, Starsky. That's not a child. It's the visual representation of a deity: 'Young Girl Defending Herself Against Cupid'."

"She's…um…realistic," Starsky murmured, eyes valiantly straying away from the woman's chest. Hutch rolled his eyes.

"The pamphlet says Bouguereau was criticized by some for his fascination with the feminine form, though that was by no means his only subject matter. Look at that one… 'Little Shepherdess'. She's fully clothed, and I might add has a remarkable depth of mood. I can see what the pamphlet means by Bouguereau's ability to re-create personality."

Starsky frowned. "She looks bored and lonely."

"Well, I'd imagine in that time period, she would have been bearing the weight of—" Hutch realized he was talking to thin air. His partner had moved down the row of paintings and was once again in full gawk mode before a work entitled 'Biblis'. Starsky reached out a hand and Hutch, noting the obvious target, smacked it down. "What do you think you're doing?" He demanded in a harsh, embarrassed whisper.

Starsky turned pleading eyes on him. "Hutch, you gotta get me out of here."

"What's wrong with you?"

"You didn't tell me this guy was the porno king of 19^th-century France—"

"Starsky, that's ridiculous. So he painted a few nudes. That does not make him—" Hutch fell silent at the sudden desperate gleam in his partner's eye, only a little less startling than the sudden trembling in his chest. He moved behind his spouse to see what had caused the violent reaction.

"He—he was into the gay scene—back then??" Starsky gasped.

Hutch studied the painting. "'Dante and Virgil in Hell'. Starsky, I don't think Bouguereau meant that to be homoerotic. Dante and Virgil are standing back in stern, quiet judgment of those two men, who appear to be fighting each other, rather than--"

"Not homoerotic? Fighting each other? You kidding?" Starsky practically shouted. "One naked guy has his mouth firmly stuck on the other naked guy's neck, hand all over his chest---you've put a similar move on—" A hand slapped with a resounding smack over Starsky's mouth and Hutch threw wild-eyed looks around the room to see if anyone had overheard the boisterous commentary. The other art enthusiasts in the room appeared too engrossed with Bouguereau to worry about the painting's affect on a local homicide detective.

Hutch gave a relieved sigh and then frowned at his best friend. "He also has his knee firmly embedded in the other guy's lower back. That doesn't look like a love pat to me. Now can we continue without your having a panic attack?"

Starsky pried the hand away from his mouth and shook his head. "No way. You can stay if you want, but this is not going to help me keep my mind off sex. I'll check out the 'Study in Romanticism'."

Hutch lingered for a moment, watching his partner walk out of the gallery. He was impressed by Bouguereau and wanted a peek at the entire exhibit, but desire to be near Starsky won out in the end. He shook his head one last time at Dante and Virgil's experiences in hell and left the gallery. He made it to the entrance of the Romanticism exhibit just as Starsky bounded out of the room.

"What—"

Starsky shook his head. "No good. First damn painting. What's the title? 'Whirlwind of Lovers (Circle of Lust)'."

Hutch laughed. "Starsky, I know that one. That's Blake. There's nothing—where are you going?"

"I'm sure something as old and musty as antiquity ought to be totally harmless," Starsky said over his shoulder, resolutely stalking in the direction of the final gallery.

"I wouldn't count on it," Hutch whispered to no one in particular. He consulted the pamphlet and his eyes widened at the third paragraph describing the ancient exhibit. "So that's why they're rarely displayed!" His mouth opened and no words emerged. Finally he croaked out, "Starsky!"

He found his partner sputtering incoherencies in front of a Grecian red-figure cup. "Circa 500 BCE," Hutch murmured appreciatively. Starsky whirled on him.

"That's two—two—"

"Starsky, relationships between men were not viewed the same in ancient Greece and Rome as they are in twentieth-century America."

Starsky's face darkened. "You—you set me up!" He accused heatedly. Hutch lifted both hands and then crossed them over his chest.

"No way, buddy. Would I do that to you? I said I'd help you and I thought I—"

"Just…Just…."

"Hey, I'm sure there's more to this exhibit than just…that."

"Sex, Hutch," Starsky mimicked. "Say the word. S-e-x. And no, I just got through staring at a 6^th century BC orgy scene. Gave me some great ideas. Now can we get outta here?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, if it affects you—"

Starsky extended a hand, the target of which was definitely below Hutch's belt. The blond jumped back quickly. "The exit's this way, I believe," Hutch said firmly.

They beat a hasty retreat to the Torino. Hutch sat silently as Starsky fidgeted in the driver's seat. As the silence dragged on, Hutch felt an increasing uneasiness. "You—you want to forget the whole cultural immersion?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nope. I'm sure you can find something else in that newspaper of yours. Something G-rated, preferably."

Hutch smiled shakily and reached for the cultural newspaper that had fallen beneath the seat. He scanned the pages, made a few noises that indicated his disfavor with some of the offerings, and then said, "Aha. Bay City Experimental Dance is giving a matinee performance. No tuxedos required, but we'll need suit coats and ties. How does experimental ballet grab you?"

Starsky eyed him suspiciously. "Experimental ballet? Is that the same as Independent Museum?"

Hutch crumpled the paper in a fist and wagged it at Starsky. "Oh, come on. The original performance of this ballet dates to 1913. First choreographed by the world-famous Vaslav Nijinsky, a contemporary of Stravinsky, the Russian composer whose work is featured in the ballet."

"What's it called?"

"The musical composition is called 'The Rite of Spring'. Since the ballet is based on pagan rites, the performance itself is titled 'The Rites of Spring'. BCEB is careful to make that distinction. If they can actually get the titles right, I'm sure they do a good job with the ballet. Want to give it a whirl?"

Starsky considered the proposition. "Sure, why not?"

Two hours later they pulled in front of the Bay City Experimental Ballet studio and Starsky shot a glance at the relaxed and happy passenger. Hutch was resplendent in his soft brown suit that only enhanced the gold quality of his hair. Those perfectly shaped lips were once more fully on display thanks to the death of the mustache. "Ready?" Starsky asked.

Hutch noticed the break in his partner's voice and turned in the seat. "You okay, Starsk?"

"You look…incredible. I've been wanting to say that since we left the house."

Hutch smiled and cupped Starsky's cheek. "You're not too bad yourself. I always have liked that dark blue on you."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. I noticed what you wore long before we were ever involved. I spent a long time rationalizing what I felt whenever I was in the room with you."

"H-Hutch, maybe we shouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"Oh, sorry." Hutch dropped his hand and fished the tickets out of his suit coat's pocket. "We're lucky to get these. It's a week into the performance run and they're still close to selling out. Must be something special."

"It ought to be for forty-five bucks."

Hutch placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Starsk, you don't put a price tag on experiences like these. Think about what this represents for us. We're a married couple going on a date. Isn't that romant—"

"Hu-u-u-tch."

Hutch cleared his throat. "Right. Let's beat the crowd." He opened his door and stepped out without another look at his agitated lover.

After they settled in their seats, Starsky's hands folded over his midsection and his overall demeanor one of comfort and anticipation while Hutch appeared slightly on edge, Starsky turned his head to the side and whispered, "What's this all about anyway?"

Hutch gestured at the program Starsky held beneath the folded hands. "Why don't you read for yourself?"

"I like hearing it from you."

Hutch felt warmth spread throughout his body at the simple words with profound meaning. "Ah, babe…. Basically, it's a celebration of renewal and the earth. A young woman is chosen as a sacrifice to the earth—"

"Ouch."

"Okay, so the story has a harsh ring to it. Trust me, the performance should take your breath away. I've always wanted to see 'The Rites of Spring'. And this performance has received fabulous reviews."

"See," Starsky said with satisfaction. "We're growing together. Don't you feel it? Just like the book said."

Hutch smiled and allowed himself a furtive pat on Starsky's knee. "Sure, buddy. I feel it."

Hutch knew that the intermission came none too soon for Starsky's tastes. He watched in nervous silence as his partner bounded from the seat and disappeared in the direction of the men's room. When they met in the lobby, he could barely withstand the frustrated glint in Starsky's dark blue gaze.

"How do you like it so far?" Hutch's 'please don't kill me' smile glowed in full force.

"I could've seen something just like that in the shady section of town for a few bucks…you know, in one of those theaters we bust people for lettin' minors in—"

Hutch's smile tried to remain intact under the pressure as his hands clutched at the program. "That's not really a fair assessment, Starsk…although they do seem to be focusing on the sexual overtones inherent in Nijinsky's choreography—"

"They're naked!" Starsky exclaimed, clenching his hands in a move obviously intended to keep him from reaching for the lapels of Hutch's jacket.

"They're not naked; they're wearing skin-tone body suits."

"And writhing all over each other on stage like a–a--"

Hutch took advantage of Starsky's loss for words. "You want something to drink?"

Starsky turned to look at the table where various beverages were being distributed. "Are you kidding? Alcohol on top of that exhibition in there? No thank you. In fact, you should go stand on that side of the lobby and I'll stay over here. Or maybe I'll go sit in the car—"

"Starsky, I can't believe you. This is certainly a modern take on Nijinsky, but it's nothing that should have you in this state—"

Starsky lowered his lashes and his smile was predatory. "Hutch," he breathed, and the heat hit Hutch full in the face. "If you knew how close I am to pulling you down in front of this crowd and extracting your tonsils with my—"

"I'll meet you inside in fifteen minutes," Hutch answered and practically ran to the other side of the lobby.

The silence in the Torino following the performance's conclusion lasted much longer than the one outside the Independent Museum. Hutch was loath to break it. Starsky looked in danger of bursting at the seams. He switched relentlessly through radio stations before landing on Bay City All-Talk All-News and left it there. That in and of itself was a bad sign. Hutch stared out the window and tried to think of something harmless to say.

"Why don't we get a nice early dinner somewhere? We didn't really have lunch."

"Okay."

"How about…seafood?"

Starsky's hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned to ivory and he glared at his passenger. "So you can have the waiter slip me some oysters? Huh? What kind of help are you offering me here, partner?"

"Starsky—"

"How much did I ask? Just a little understanding and cooperation. What's so damn wrong with me wanting to grow as a person? Tell me that. And what do you do? You drag me to a bunch of X-rated art exhibits and that—that—glorified striptease!"

"Starsky, that's not fair! You know, you're just as bad as the Parisians who rioted at the premiere performance in 1913."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Hutch's teeth clicked as he shut his mouth with a snap. What had possessed him to share that juicy tidbit of information? But Starsky wasn't about to let the slip slide. "Hutch! What aren't you telling me?"

"N-nothing important…n-never mind."

"Oh, no you don't. For someone who didn't know that Bay City Experimental Ballet was into the celebration of human sexuality—both orientations--you sure know a helluva lot!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Starsky, the ballet was a bit controversial in 1913. What wasn't controversial in 1913??"

"Plenty of people outside San Francisco would consider that little stage show back there controversial today!!"

"Well, exactly, this performance was intended to push the envelope. I'm sure Nijinsky would like to come back and haunt them. Not that I disapprove of the exploration of dual sexuality in ballet…but it's not exactly what Nijinsky or Stravinsky envisioned…and I wouldn't have subjected you to it in your current—er—state of mind…."

"Sure."

"All right, don't believe me. I promised you this morning I would try to help you and I've been doing my best. I love you and I—I—Dammit!" Hutch's jaw tightened and he turned fully to the window.

The cozy little seafood restaurant did not help matters, Hutch decided, trying to focus on his meal instead of his tense, undeniably sensual dining partner. For all his protestations, Hutch had to admit that the ballet had affected him too. He saw nothing wrong with taking Starsky home and proving to him yet again why they were perfectly fashioned for each other. Open a good bottle of wine, turn the lights down low, light candles throughout the house, and put on some soft music…. Hutch clamped down on those thoughts hurriedly. They would do him no good while Starsky was determined to take a vow of chastity. Hutch had to disguise a laugh in a cough at the thought of his partner's name in the same sentence with that phrase.

"I can't believe you brought that newspaper in here with us. Haven't you had enough horizon broadening for one day?"

Starsky looked up from perusing the cultural events and silently dared Hutch to continue that line of reasoning. Hutch ducked back into his fillet of sole.

"Here's what we'll do. We're dressed okay and we should finish eating just in time for it, too. Best of all, it's free to the public."

"Oh, what's that?"

"Jameson College School of Music explores the Passion of Classical Music. Student orchestra. Might be kinda cool. Something to wind down the evening."

"Sounds like fun, babe. As you say, G-rated."

Starsky beamed and dug into his shrimp Alfredo with renewed vigor.

By the time they arrived, a small crowd had already gathered outside the Jameson College Arts Center. Hutch rifled through the cultural newspaper until he came to the section advertising the concert. Starsky was delivering a victory speech on having found the perfect cultural event guaranteed to support his cause. Hutch lifted a hand and waved it frantically. "Starsky."

"Just relax, Hutch. This is classical music. You're gonna really enjoy—"

"Starsky!"

"What?" The dark curly head swung back in his direction and Starsky blinked wide eyes. "What's the matter?"

"Did you read the description of the concert?"

Starsky laughed. "Of course I did. What kind of idiot you take me for?"

"You read the whole thing?"

"Hutch, did you get some bad fish? I may be trying to learn something today, but how to read is not one of the lessons on the list."

Hutch's eyes sparkled and a sly grin spread across his face. Starsky hadn't read the whole advertisement; he just didn't want to admit it. Hutch's finer instincts told him to warn Starsky, but his frustrated physical needs and hurt feelings left over from Starsky's treatment of him after the ballet won the day. He folded the paper and shoved it under the car seat. "All right. Just checking. Let's go."

They found good seats despite the crowd and Starsky hummed softly, showing his contentment. Hutch felt a twinge of guilt and squashed it. "Rachmaninov Piano Concerto No.2 is first on the program," Starsky said softly, sounding like a PhD in Composition and Performance. Hutch grinned.

"Beautiful piece."

Quiet descended and the Dean of the Music School offered a few words of introduction, thanking everyone in the audience for supporting their future leaders in the world of music. Starsky's innocent, delighted smile threatened to lift the boulder Hutch had thrown over his guilt instinct.

"Lover?" Hutch whispered, inaudible to anyone but the man beside him.

"Shh, Hutch. It's just about to get started…."

"There are probably some people here who recognize us…and we're sitting really close together—you're sure you don't want to just go home, catch some football bowl game action on TV? I could really go for a good grid-iron match-up."

"No. What's wrong with you?" Starsky snapped his fingers. "I know. This doesn't fit in with your little 'seduce Starsky' plan, so you're not interested. Anyway, there's nothing strange about two good friends taking in some classical music together."

"Right. I'm just being paranoid," Hutch said sarcastically, noting how many of the people filling the seats were obviously couples. "Don't listen to me. The all-knowing Starsky has everything under control."

"You know, I should've learned by now that you can be a sore loser," Starsky commented.

Hutch opened his mouth with a fiery retort, but the orchestra drowned him out. He settled back against the seat and prepared to enjoy the spectacle of Starsky slowly losing his cool. He of all people knew by now that Starsky's hormones were quite in tune, no pun intended, with musical stimuli.

Rachmaninov gave way to Liszt's 'Hungarian Rhapsody'. Starsky shifted in the seat and leaned to the side to whisper, "Does it feel a little warm in here to you?"

"What? No, I'm just fine. Perfectly comfortable. Why don't you take off your jacket?"

Starsky shook his head and turned his attention back to the orchestra.

'Hungarian Rhapsody' was followed by Pachelbel's 'Canon in D'. Starsky's hand crept first to his left leg and as the musical composition progressed, over to Hutch's right one. Hutch squirmed. "Starsky, we're not exactly at home," he whispered urgently. Starsky jumped slightly and moved the hand.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Hutch smiled.

The next selection was Starsky's undoing. Hutch knew it would be. As the sensual, provocative strains filled the auditorium, Starsky's face was a study in desire. "Wh-what's that?" he asked, voice strangled.

"What's the matter, Starsk?" Hutch responded, smirking. "Your pants two sizes too small? That, my friend, is Ravel's 'Bolero'. I'm surprised you don't recognize it. I'd have thought Metro's Don Juan would have his own personal copy."

Starsky shifted uncomfortably. "We're going to own a copy," he whispered back. "As soon as I can get my hands on one. I can just imagine—"

A loud round of "shhh's" from behind them warned them to restrict their commentary.

Once again Starsky looked only too happy for intermission. This time, however, he prodded Hutch toward the exit.

"What's the matter?" Hutch demanded, moving away from Starsky's insistent hand.

"Had all I can take," Starsky said firmly.

"It's just music."

"Right. Like vodka is just a drink. Get going, Blondie."

Out in the brisk night air, Starsky breathed deeply and shivered. "Wouldn't have thought classical music could…."

"You would have if you'd read the whole advertisement."

"I told you, Hutch, I can read."

"Oh, so you saw the part that read: Jameson College's student orchestra explores the passion in classical music. Musical eroticism through the ages. Romance expressed in the universal language."

Starsky made a funny face and then growled, "You knew! Why didn't you say—?"

"No, you don't!" Hutch shouted, disregarding their location. Index finger aloft, he invaded Starsky's personal space and tugged on the lapel of the dark blue suit coat with his other hand. "I tried to warn you. I asked you if you'd read it. All you could do was make snotty remarks…and then in the auditorium I tried again. What was your response? Calling me a sore loser. You got what you deserve, lover boy. You live with it. And I don't know why the hell I'm feeling guilty: I've enjoyed everything we did today. I've enjoyed sharing these special times with you. But all you can think of is your damn New Year's Resolution and finding some kind of odd pre-midlife growth! Sorry I rained on your parade. Never mind that you're already one of the most well-rounded people I know and I love you just the way you are." He released the jacket and shoved his hands in his pants' pockets, stomping off in the direction of the car without a backwards glance.

A very subdued Starsky caught up with him. The drive home crackled with unreleased tension. Hutch could feel Starsky's furtive glances but was not inclined to offer the first olive branch. His heart had quickened in perfect unison with Starsky's at the Arts Center, but Starsky's unilaterally imposed restrictions weighed on him and made him uncomfortable about expressing how deeply the music moved him. How much he wanted to take Starsky in his arms and…he glared out the window at the passing scenery and silently cursed all self-help pop-psychology books and their authors to a special hell never even conceived by Dante himself.

Starsky's soft, "We're home," jolted Hutch from his frustrated reverie. He exited the car and slammed the door forcefully. Starsky winced.

As soon as the front door closed behind them, Starsky touched Hutch's sleeve. "Hutch."

Hutch spun around and promptly exploded. "Starsky, I don't understand! I wanted to help you. It seemed so damned important to you…but don't you get it? Our passion, our intimacy is what helps me stay sane? Allows me to go out there and work the streets day in and day out without losing my mind? It's not like we don't have the love and friendship to go with it. Hell, we had that first! Why screw with perfection?"

Starsky's expression set a fire in Hutch's soul. "Why don't I screw perfection?" he suggested, voice deeper than usual.

"Hm?" Hutch managed, pinned by the magnetism in Starsky's stare.

"Perfection…in the form of one tall, blond, blue-eyed gorgeous—"

"Starsky." Hutch backed away from the advancing impassioned man. "I don't want you to blame me for you going back on your resolution the first day."

Starsky backed Hutch all the way through their foyer and across to the living room sofa. "Oh, I admit it, Hutch. I am what I am."

"And wh-what's that?"

"A man who's nuts for, dead gone over, insanely lusting after you. You're gonna just have to live with it."

Seconds before Starsky's hungry lips swooped up to meet his, Hutch produced a musical, enraptured sound. "I think…I think I'll manage. Does this mean you're giving up on your resolution?"

Starsky feasted on his lover's mouth while simultaneously removing the brown suit coat. He reluctantly pulled away from the enthusiastically returned kiss to answer the question. "New resolution."

"Oh, yeah?" Breathlessly, Hutch reached for his mate. Starsky went into the open arms willingly.

"Yeah. See just how many ways I can get you to say my name…."

"Starsky," a sigh of contentment.

"That's one and counting…." Starsky's hand crept down Hutch's waist to his right thigh and over to the left.

"Ohhh, Starsky…."

"Two." Free hand moving into Hutch's hair, caressing the scalp, Starsky's mouth finding a spot of skin just beneath the blond's ear.

"Starrrsky!"

"Three…." Hips getting into the action, pressing Hutch against the back of the sofa.

"God, Starsky!!"

"Four…."

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