The first time Starsky kissed Hutch was in the back of the Torino while on stakeout in Laguna Beach. They were out of their jurisdiction, by request of the LBPD, and Dobey had radioed to tell them it was unlikely Molino would be coming home to his beach house any time soon considering he'd just been found dead in a Huntington real estate office with his head blown off.
Hutch crawled to join Starsky in the back seat, squirming and wriggling and bitching that it was his turn to nap while Starsky got their asses out of there and home to Bay City. And maybe it was Starsky's brain saying: back seat—parked—time to neck! Or maybe it was the way Hutch smelled, like suede and ocean salt and aftershave and that special coffee he'd decided to bring to the stakeout—as if real cops drank Jamaican Blue French roast. Or maybe it was because Hutch yawned, all white teeth and pink tongue, and was pushing Starsky's legs off the seat to make room for himself, and it was all just the usual, so casual and familiar; but the next thing he knew, Starsky was leaning over and putting his lips on his partner's like it was something he did every day. Like he had a right to, and so Hutch shouldn't act surprised and be breathing funny and clutching Starsky's thigh as if he were about to topple forward off the edge of the world.
Fortunately, though, Hutch seemed to get over it, and fell back instead, and opened his mouth with this little groan that Starsky felt all the way down to his shins—yeah, the hair on his shins perked right up, it was that good to slip his tongue into Hutch's mouth and to feel Hutch suck on it so hot and sweet, so it took Starsky a few—maybe forty-five—seconds to realize a) they were necking in the back of the Torino in someone else's jurisdiction; and b) Hutch had already started up the engine and they'd probably die of carbon monoxide poisoning pretty darned soon if they didn't stop.
So Starsky pulled himself back and patted Hutch's cheek as if his heart weren't pumping two hundred times a minute, every pulse of which he could feel in the hard-on stuck in his pants. And Hutch scrunched up his eyes and then rubbed them as if he were the one just waking up.
Starsky hoped not. Starsky hoped Hutch would never wake up. Or at least not until they'd both gotten their rocks off.
The second time Starsky kissed Hutch in the Torino was in the front seat once they'd reached Venice place, and he did it to wake Hutch up from the weird trance he'd been in since they'd left Laguna. After the car stopped, and Hutch was still staring out the front window giving his lower lip a workout with his teeth, Starsky decided he wanted to chew on it instead and just stretched over and did it, licking there first as a warning, and Hutch let him, which went to show how nuts they both were at that point, because they were three cars down from the restaurant and pretty much anyone might see them.
So Starsky pulled away with one last nibble, thinking Hutch's lips really shouldn't be so damned soft but he wasn't complaining any. When he got out of the car his legs felt wobbly, like he was walking on marshmallows, but he figured that was just because he was—holy shit—about to go upstairs with Hutch to do things with him he'd only secretly read of in male porn mags.
Only, they never got that far because Hutch started humping Starsky up against the door as soon as they walked in, and Hutch popped open Starsky's jeans and had his hand down in there, big and firm on Starsky's cock before Starsky could say Jack Robinson, not that he was coherent enough to say anything because two minutes later he was creaming all over his shirt tails and Hutch's wrist. And then Hutch grabbed Starsky's ass with his other hand and jerked against him while panting hot air against Starsky's neck.
So it would be a while before they got to do the thing Starsky had once seen on page twenty-two.
The third time they kissed in the Torino wasn't technically in the Torino but leaning into the open trunk. That was on the side of the road in Pismo, when they got a flat on the way home from the Dobeys' Fourth of July picnic. Starsky had gone to the trunk to put back the tire iron, and Hutch had followed him for some reason, and took the iron out of Starsky's greasy hand and pushed him until he was practically in the trunk, held up only by Hutch's arm wrapped around his waist, and Hutch had kissed him deeply for a while, and then nuzzled Starsky's neck, and his mouth was hot and wet and he was saying stuff, buzzing against Starsky's skin. Something about a smudge on his chin and how he was going to fuck him out on the deck when they got home, which Starsky had never agreed to—the fucking, not the deck—except it didn't seem like such a bad idea with Hutch talking dirty for once with his hand halfway down the back of Starsky's pants.
When they got back to Venice, though, Hutch seemed to have forgotten all about the deck, and he was nervous as hell and babbling a little, so Starsky took him to the big brass bed and ended up riding Hutch, moving down onto his slick, hard cock, taking it in, and it was the easiest thing in the world, felt incredible and didn't hurt at all, which surprised Starsky, but not half as much as the orgasm that curled his toes about ten minutes later when Hutch pushed up and at the same second finally gripped Starsky's cock.
Afterward—after Hutch had lunged up and in and arched his back and squeezed his eyes shut with this exhausted-sounding moan—Hutch touched him again, this time his hands too soft and gentle on Starsky's ribcage, petting him almost.
And Starsky said, "You don't have to do that, you know?"
"Do what?" Hutch kept touching him—light touches, gentle.
"Touch me all soft like I'm one of your girls. I ain't a girl, Hutch, which I don't need to remind you about seeing as that's my jizz all over you."
Hutch's lips pressed together and he stopped touching Starsky.
In fact, that was the last time they kissed for a while, too.
The next time they kissed in the Torino they almost didn't, because Hutch had been freezing Starsky out completely for days, his eyes like blue glaciers and his jaw all knotted up and twitching.
Hutch kept insisting they drive into work separately, because he had this thing or that thing to do before or after work, and it was all such bullshit, anyway, but Starsky put up with it for about three days, and then he went over to Hutch's around two a.m. and stole his sparkplugs.
Starsky was on his second cup of coffee the next morning when he got Hutch's call begging a ride—although Hutch wouldn't call it begging. But it was.
So that night after they took down Benny Abernathy for three counts of racketeering, when Hutch pointed out in a mean voice that Starsky had missed the onramp for the 10 Freeway, Starsky pulled over and told him they were going to his place, where he was going to show Hutch what he'd been missing.
Then Starsky grabbed Hutch by the back of the neck, only Hutch resisted, pulled back. So Starsky changed his grip and slid his hand up into Hutch's hair, which fell cool and soft over the backs of his knuckles. He brushed his thumb over the rim of Hutch's ear, and this time when he pulled, Hutch gave in, staring at him all the way until their lips met, when Hutch's eyes closed.
After kissing Hutch for a while—and, Jesus, Starsky had missed this, he was such a goddamned idiot—he kissed Hutch's eyelids, and the spot between them, and just for good measure his temple, right where the hairs were so golden and soft.
Maybe Hutch got it then, because he didn't say anything more when Starsky started up the Torino again, and his hand kept coming up and touching that spot on his temple.
When they got home to Starsky's house, Starsky made good on his promise and showed Hutch what he'd once seen on page twenty-two.
They kissed for the fifth time in the Torino right before leaving for work the next morning.
And about a thousand times more after that.
January 11, 2008
San Francisco, CA
Many thanks to CC for the wicked fast beta.