Life on Mars

Kassidy

“We’re here to talk, so talk,” he said.

Hutch frowned a little at the abruptness. “So how much of that buddy routine was for show at the Pits? For Kira?”

“Damn, Hutch, woncha ease into it,” Starsky said just to be contrary.

Hutch shrugged. “You said I don’t know what I want, but I do. Doesn’t matter, though, if you don’t want it.”

What I want is you. But you put a stop to that six months ago. And I’ve never understood why, no matter how much you talked. Aloud Starsky said, “So what do you want?”

Hutch looked down and didn’t answer.

“You had a lot of words for me, explaining why we couldn’t be together a few months ago. You got what you asked for and now, dammit, you can’t make yourself talk to me?” Starsky’s voice was raw and angry, and he was dismayed at his own lack of self-control, words tumbling out of their own volition.

Hutch looked up, eyes burning. “You think I don’t miss it?”

“So just tell me. What is it you want from me, Hutch? Because I’m gettin’ tired of trying to figure you out.”

Hutch opened his mouth. Closed it. He swiped a hand over his jaw.

Starsky sighed. “You went after someone I thought I already had—my girl. And you’re real fond of playing games lately—”

“Games? What games?” Hutch’s words were clipped.

Starsky’s eyes never moved from Hutch’s. “Well, competing over every fucking thing, for one.”

“I thought you were up for a little healthy competition.” Hutch’s voice was his usual of late—no-nonsense, brusque. This side of copping an attitude.

“Ain’t nothin’ been healthy about it.” Starsky grew louder in response. “It almost got you killed, idiot, or was it fun getting botulism? And I went along with it, that’s what pisses me off the most.” He shook his head in disgust.

“Why did you, then?”

“Don’t try and turn this around on me. What’s this stupid competition gonna accomplish, huh?” Hutch’s shoulders sagged and he looked down at the floor. Starsky squatted in front of him and caught his eyes, laid a hand on his thigh. He moved it gently up and down, feeling the soft old denim material, the heat that came through it. “Because I’d really like to know.”

“Starsky . . . ” Hutch said, his voice low. He looked at his partner, opened his mouth again, then down at the hand stroking his thigh. When his eyes found Starsky’s again they were softer, clearer, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice. Starsky stared back, knowing there was something important in the look but unable to grasp what it was.

“It wasn’t about Kira. It was about you. You and me.” Hutch’s voice was strangled, forced. He tore his eyes from Starsky’s abruptly and settled back in the chair, upending his beer.

Starsky watched the long line of his throat, watched it bob as he swallowed. He remembered the feel of it against his lips. The sensation was so strong, so real. He remembered scraping his teeth over the skin; heard Hutch’s deep groan, felt it in his lips and tongue. Starsky closed his eyes.

It was crazy. He was raw, walking a razor’s edge, waiting for something to happen between them, his body getting ready to react, to defend, to yell. To grab Hutch and hold him, or hit him. Taste him.

Can’t do this. He got up too abruptly and staggered. Hutch crumpled the can in his hand, watching him.

Starsky paced to the far wall, then wheeled, raking a hand though his hair, listening to himself open up everything again, unable to stop. “What about us? What the hell are you talking about? Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth!”

Hutch gave him a long, level look, then got up and headed into the kitchen, returning with two beers in hand. Starsky opened his and took a very long drink, trying to ease it down a notch.

“What are you doing, Hutch? Just tell me. Are you trying to run me off?”

“No.” Hutch looked annoyed. As if he had any right to be.

“Trying to bring me closer? ’Cause this ain’t the way normal people would do it, but then you’ve always done things backwards the hard way.”

“Backwards the hard way?” Hutch repeated, smiling a little. Then it disappeared. “I don’t know what either of us are doing, Starsk.”

He can’t even try anymore. “Great.” Starsky’s frayed temper snapped. “Just great. Glad we got this all worked out.”

Silence.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Starsky said, same as he had when Hutch had come by the other day, only that time he’d meant it. He tilted the beer can back and drank, putting a stopper in the silence between himself and Hutch.

Hutch watched him. He stood up, hesitated, looking at Starsky again. His face hardened. “Fuck it.” He walked to the door, put a hand on the knob and gripped it tightly. He flexed his fingers.

Starsky saw it clearly: Hutch walking out, the sound of the door snicking shut. He saw the emptiness of the apartment, the slow silence blanketing everything like a cold snow, and he wondered if Hutch would ever come back once he left. Not long ago he’d have bet his life the answer was yes, but the ties between them had stretched so thin . . .

His stomach did a slow somersault, then dived downward. No and no. Not acceptable. He went to Hutch, reached out. His hand hovered, finally lowered to Hutch’s back.

All the stiffness ran out of Hutch’s body, as if someone had unloosed a stopper on him. He sagged against the door, and the hand on his back stayed, not moving but still creating warmth. Touching.

“What I want, Starsky . . .” Hutch said to the door, “What I want. I want what we used to be. Why can’t we be what we used to be?”