Day 2: Angling For Ecstasy by BethLange

Arms overflowing with breakfast provisions, Hutch shouldered his way in through his partner’s front door.

At least he’d remembered to leave it ajar.

“Hey, Starsk,” he called out as he kicked it closed behind him. “Could use a little help, here, pa—”

The words dried up in his throat and he stopped dead in the entryway, his mouth dropping open in horror as he took in the bone-chilling sight of the motionless figure sprawled out on the rug.

His partner lay limp and unmoving, right next to the couch. His plaid shirt was untucked, exposing his chest and his midriff, and both arms were out-flung in opposite directions as if he had attempted to recover his balance and spectacularly failed.

One leg was bent at an ungainly angle.

“Starsky? God! Starsky!”

The shopping bags tumbled unnoticed from his now nerveless fingers. Galvanized into action, Hutch stumbled the rest of the way into the room and threw himself to his knees beside his partner’s body.

There was a fine sheen of sweat at Starsky’s temple and the dark, chocolate curls were damp. The skin on his brow felt overly warm to the touch, too, almost as if he had developed a fever—but that couldn’t be right because the perspiration field seemed confined to his head and scalp area only.

“What is it, Starsk?” he implored, doing his best to compose himself. His thumb gently ghosted the length of a tanned, stubbled cheek.

Where to look.

Where to look first.

Well, his pulse rate felt normal.

There were no flecks of foam at his mouth and he did not appear to be having a seizure.

He could find no indication at all of any violent head trauma.

And not a bullet hole in sight.

To confuse matters even further, to make it all worse, both of those shoulders were beginning to quiver. In fact, Starsky’s whole upper body now seemed to be undergoing a series of very fine tremors.

“Hey, Starsk,” he entreated, this time bowing his head to touch their foreheads together. “Open those eyes for me, buddy,” he whispered. “C’mon give me a clue.”

But Starsky said nothing.

Hutch laid a hand on his partner’s bare forearm. It was firm and muscular. Warm and lightly freckled and… “Ambulance,” he muttered under his breath. “Need an ambulance.” He moved to get to his feet.

But just as he shifted position Starsky coughed.

“Hu—” he choked out, his breath hitching. “Hutssch,” he said, a little louder this time.

The fingers of his left hand scrabbled uselessly in mid-air before blindly latching onto his partner’s right wrist where they closed like a vise. Unfortunately, that only seemed to cause the tremors to become even more violent, so much so that even the tips of Starsky’s fingers were trembling. He then brought the other hand up to his face and rubbed unsteadily at his forehead, before clamping a wide-open palm to his now twitching mouth.

But his eyes remained shut. If anything, they now appeared to be more tightly closed than they had been at the outset.

And that was bewildering all on its own.

Jesus! Hutch thought.

Maybe he couldn’t! Maybe Starsky couldn’t open his eyes. He wracked his brain for any information on the type of condition that might prevent a person from physically opening their eyes but came up empty.

“Shh, Starsk, don’t try to speak.” Hutch wrapped an arm around the lithe muscled shoulders. “Don’t try to get up yourself.” He carefully half-raised his friend into a protective embrace. “Here, buddy, hold on to me. Yeah, yeah… attaboy.”

Starsky finally opened one eye as Hutch pulled him in. But shut it quickly again as Hutch rested his chin on the dark wayward curls.

Hutch let out a small gasp.

“So good to see those baby blues, Starsk,” Hutch smiled, tremulously, inhaling deeply. “Well, one of them, anyway.” he amended, with a watery chuckle. He let his blond head fall back for a moment and closed his own too-bright eyes in relief. At least Starsky was conscious. And conscious was good. But that was only step one, he reminded himself. He still could be injured. So he gathered his senses again and prepared for the worst. “So, buddy, where does it hurt?”

Starsky shifted his head into a more comfortable position on Hutch’s shoulder. “Nowhere,” he murmured, gazing up into Hutch’s pale face. “Nowhere at all, blintz.” And he broke into a dazzling grin that stretched almost from ear to ear. He squeezed at Hutch’s upper arm. “…Fact, I’m feelin’ better every second…”

Hutch’s eyes widened. “That’s good, Starsk, that’s great. Still…” His expression was puzzled. “I figure it’s best to call an ambula—”

“Nah.” Then Starsky smirked. “I got a better idea.”

And before Hutch could take it all in, a pair of strong and determined hands framed his face and tugged his head down. And before he had time to react his partner had mashed their mouths together.

And kissed him.

With his lips.

Kissed him hard.

Hutch’s whole world did a full capriole and leaped right out of orbit.

Dear.

God.

Delirium then. Starsky had to be suffering from delirium.

He jerked his head back. “Starsk—”

Poor, poor Starsky. He must get that ambulance now. The poor guy would be utterly shocked if he suddenly regained his senses only to find himself in a clinch with his partner. With his very best friend…With his… Hutch cast around for a more suitable word but if there was one it flew right out of his head, because, then and there Starsky kissed him again.

“Sta—” he tried to protest. “You’ve gotta stop. You really don’t want this, buddy. You’re not, you won’t… mmm…”

Hutch groaned. It was no good. No escaping it, now. Here he was in a questionable clinch with his too-damned straight partner.

And there was nowhere to run.

Even, worse than that, too, it was better this time. In the seconds he’d had he’d tried to study this thing with detachment, but his sneaky reptilian brain was awake now, developing ideas, making plans of its own. After all, he and Starsky were lip-locked—and in no way detached—and this new kiss was long—and not only that, it was delicious.

There was much more to this kiss than any he’d known at any time in the past—much, much more. More than he’d ever experienced with Maisie, or Donna, or Nathalie, or Kate—and, no, not even with Dan. And these were nowhere near as messy as Abigail’s kisses had been. Although she had done that interesting thing with her tongue and his…

And, with a little more practice, maybe Starsk might be persuaded to…

Stop it, Hutchinson! STOP it!

But it was too late. It was far, far too late. Because he now wanted more.

If he does it a third time, what then? They say that three times is the charm, his shell-shocked mind chanted. And isn’t it the third date where the kissee puts out?

Now all his thoughts were awhirl.

And when the long kiss was over—and Starsky pulled back—he found himself looking into a pair of knowing blue eyes.

A pair of dark, dark blue eyes that were shining with triumph. Along with a broadening smile that was as clear as the day.

Robbed of speech, Hutch extended a finger and, playing for time, he gently traced those lips.

He’d been kissed at least twice by them now. This had been no mistake.

Not a weird fevered dream. Not just a slip of the— Wait! Had there been tongue?

Perhaps he should ask.

“Starsk…” he began. “Starsk, you’re…” Damn.

There were so many openings to choose from, a hundred things that Hutch knew he could say, but with his senses now reeling anew he knew he had to tread carefully, that whatever he said from now on must be carefully planned.

“This is entrapment,” he squeaked.

“Yup,” grinned Starsky into his eyes. For such a very sick guy he looked perfectly hale, whole, and hearty. “Got it in one.”

And he followed it up with a grin, with a heart-stopping grin.

Hutch opened his mouth to speak, but not a damned thing came out.

Starsky’s smile gentled. “Don’t look so stunned, babe.” And then he swept in and did it again.

Only this time the kiss came to rest on the tip of his nose.

That’s an awful lot of kissing, thought Hutch in a haze, but, hell, he wasn’t complaining.

Not now that he knew.

“I’ve been watchin’ you for a whole lotta years, babe,” Starsky said. “Damn near close on a decade… I gotta give it to you, you’re a gen-uine expert. You sure know how to camouflage stuff. But I thought if I paid real close attention, I’d be bound to buy some kind of clue… and I was dead right.”

Hutch’s brows scrunched together at that but when he drew breath to speak his tongue was silenced by a warm palm clamped over his mouth.

“But you’re just too damned good at it, babe,” he went on. “So damned good I couldn’t find me an opening. Truth is, I was just about ready to throw in the towel. Until this mornin’, that was.”

Starsky took back his hand and thumbed at Hutch’s strong jaw, stroked the planes of his face and the soft hint of down on his cheek.

“Till this mornin’, when I tripped over my own stupid feet and ended up layin’ down here. So while I was down here, I did me some thinkin’. Applied some logic to the problem—you get me?

“Where’s Hutch?” I asked myself. “What’s Hutch doin’ right now? He ain’t down at the park, I said to myself. And he ain’t out for a jog. And he’s not sharin’ breakfast with a beautiful lady. In fact, he hasn’t done that for a while. Well, I haven’t done either… ‘Course, I knew why I hadn’t.

“And while I was down here it just hit me. Like lightning it was. I never did need that clue, after all, ’cause I’m the idiot, here. You’ve been hidin’ it all in plain sight and I’ve been blind all along.”

He captured Hutch’s long fingers and squeezed them. “I was gonna get up when I heard you comin’ up the stairs.”

Hutch opened his mouth to say something. Hauled in a deep breath to begin. But now that the floodgates had opened, he decided to let Starsky speak.

“I had to do somethin’,” Starsky continued. “You might never have spoken. You’ve taught me a lot about fishin’ last year so I decided to cast out my line and try and reel you in, babe.”

He took a long look at Hutch, his eyes momentarily rueful. “Guess I took it a little too far.”

A little.

Hutch didn’t answer him.

Couldn’t.

Despite his justified ire at his partner’s deception and a half-hearted urge to slug him a good one, the sense of relief was so damned overwhelming he was unable to speak.

But he made sure to squeeze back.

“Thing is, Hutch…” Starsky went on, suddenly somber. “It was gettin’ too late.” He kept his gaze fixed on his partner’s fingers. “I knew someday it was gonna happen again—y’know, ‘it.’ Another Abby, another Gillian, or, even—god forbid—another Vanessa.

“I knew that time was runnin’ out for us, blintz.” His voice quavered a little. And his smile almost dimmed. “Just couldn’t take it any longer.” The last was barely more than a whisper. “I couldn’t just stand back and watch. Not when I feel what I feel… not when I…” He turned his head to one side, hauling in a deep breath, and, all at once, Hutch could see how the pulse at his carotid was tripping.

“Aw, Hutch, love you so much.”

“Oh Starsk,” Hutch sighed, at last finding his voice. He lifted his fingers and let them run loose through the riot of curls. He cupped Starsky’s jaw and gently turned his face back round to face him. “I’ve made a lot of bad calls in my life, made some god-awful decisions. And I just couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk us.

“But, God, if I’d known… I’d almost given up on you, Starsky.” But now, now that Hutch himself knew… “Buddy,” he said softly, lowering his head, “you’ve had me hook, line, and sinker for years.”

Starsky tipped his head back until it was resting on Hutch’s broad shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly and let out a long, breathy sigh. Then he laughed, soft and low. “Well, it took us a while, but we made it, partner.”

“Yeah,” whispered Hutch, for once looking his fill. He smiled down at the sweep of the dark, shadowed lashes. “And about damned time, too.”

Hutch’s own kiss was delicate, searching. He explored the warm contours of his partner’s warm mouth, exerting no pressure as yet, just exploring.

Starsky tasted exactly the way David Starsky should taste.

Just the way he had dreamed it.

He drew back and looked down, his eyes smiling softly at the flood of emotions that were chasing one another across the lean, mobile features. There was a hint of surprise, a fleeting flash of confusion. And relief, a vast wave of relief.

There were others too many to mention.

But what they boiled down to was joy.

Unadulterated joy.

All of a sudden Hutch felt a little light-headed. And he felt his eyes misting, beginning to fill.

And not just his eyes.

“Well, Starsk…” He grasped once more at those fingers, held onto them, tight. “I guess it’s time for me to do a little fly fishing.” And he smiled, chuckling gently, hauling his partner back into his arms. He ran a hand down the lightly furred chest, dealing with the remaining few still-fastened buttons of his shirt along the way.

He spread a broad, open palm flat on his partner’s firm belly before traveling further, roving down until his hand paused to hover briefly over the waistband of Starsky’s tattered blue jeans.

Starsky stared at the wandering hand, mesmerized. “You anglin’ for somethin’ there, partner?” he said with a grin.

“Yeah,” Hutch whispered, softly in answer. “We’ve both been waiting so long.” His face was so close now that Starsky found himself swallowing hard, his eyes darkening into an impossibly rich cobalt blue.

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky breathed. “No time like the present.” He watched as Hutch’s dexterous fingers worked at the snap of his jeans, his grin broadening as they rested for an instant on the pull tab on the zipper.

Then he dragged in a shuddering breath as he shifted the slider.

Their two gazes collided as Hutch shifted the slider, and Starsky dragged in a shuddering breath.

“Damn, Hutch,” he said. “Looks like my plan worked.”

“You did great, Starsk.” Hutch smiled down into his eyes. “And your lure, that was expertly cast…” He dropped a kiss on the warm, upturned mouth.

“…but now it’s time for this gen-uine expert to check out your rod.”

END NOTE: “There’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot.”—Steven Wright