As in all my stories, you’re bound to come across a number of four-letter words.  In addition, this one contains some disturbing imagery.  Nothing overtly graphic (I think), but “dark” enough that I feel compelled to share the warning.  It definitely gets an “R” rating.  Thanks to Theresa for her always exceptional beta work (above and beyond the call of duty this time around!) and an extra thumbs up for letting me run with another of her plot ideas. My grateful appreciation to Kass and her lovely web-site, home of my S&H fic. This story picks up during the last scene of the filmed episode “Bloodbath.”

 

 

Barriers

By Kate (CMT)

 

Fear was something that generally happened to other people.  Detective David Starsky had experienced it before in several incarnations, but never quite like this.  He’d known raw horror in the Army. The kind of slowly crawling terror that mushroomed from the fight for survival and the grisly reality of seeing platoon mates maimed or killed with shocking suddenness.  He’d even known fear on the street.  Worse, he’d suffered through terror a time or two when he thought he’d lost his partner and best friend, Ken Hutchinson - - once to heroin, another time to a sniper’s bullet.  His world had nearly shattered in those moments, fragile glass that might never be fitted together again.

 

But this was different.  This fear was clotted and black, winged with the stench of impending death and blood.  He could feel it in his throat, in the triple-timed beat of his frantically laboring heart. Sunlight streamed ruddy and gold from the east, pooling onto the cold stone at his bare feet, but it held no power to warm or induce hope.  He could smell his own sweat and blood, the dirt on his body, the gluttonous bloodlust of the cult members ringed around him, all hooded in black.  The repeated chant of “Simon! Simon!” made his heart pound harder, chill sweat drip into his eyes.  His executioners were armed to bludgeon and brutalize, not just kill - - chains, a baseball bat, a meat cleaver - - barbarous weapons intended for carnage. There was to be nothing clean or merciful about his death.  Simon Marcus and his followers wanted Starsky’s execution to be prolonged and agonizing. 

 

“Gayle, you don’t want any part of this.”  Despite the fear ripping him apart, the throb of pain in his arms and shoulders from having his wrists suspended overhead, Starsky managed to keep his voice tremor-free.  The last twenty-two hours had been a blur of suffering and torture, nightmarish memories that made him shudder even now.  He’d been beaten, cut, burned, drugged, mocked and taunted . . . restrained and helpless while some sick zealot carved into his flesh with a knife.  He’d only been half awake then, his consciousness muddled by the drug they’d given him, but he could still recall the man’s sadistic enjoyment . . . could remember being pawed and groped, unable to fight back. Sometimes he didn’t know which was worse, the shame or the punishment.

 

Blinking sweat from his eyes, Starsky tried to concentrate on the present.  His wrists were raw, lacerated by the rope binding him to a metal pole.  He could feel blood trickling down his forearms, but the sensation was distant and vague, like it happened to someone else.  With only seconds of life remaining, he thought of Hutch, of the rabid horror his friend would feel at discovering his savagely butchered body.

 

Oh God, please don’t let it destroy him.

 

He thought of the other victims he and Hutch had found - - four men, two women and three children, hacked and mangled by Simon Marcus and his glassy-eyed followers.  Some of the bodies had been dismembered, all brutally mutilated until there was little resemblance to anything human.  Even the children.

 

Starsky felt sick, thought he might throw up.  If he’d had any piss left it might have leaked from his swollen groin, but they’d robbed him of that too.

 

“Gayle . . .” he tried again.  In a matter of seconds the terrified girl would decide what to do with the knife - - make the first stroke in his death or reclaim her soul from the fanatics who had stolen it through lies of a better life.  She’d been cheated just as Marcus had cheated all of his followers, influencing their minds until they knew only one absolute in a world polluted by variables - - the voice of Simon Marcus.

 

Starsky could see indecision in Gayle’s watery eyes, desperation, fear and confusion tangled into an emotionally charged knot.  The chanting grew louder, fiercer.  It made him quake on the inside, his blood thrumming to the terrified beat of his heart. One way or another he was slated to die, his life over at thirty-two. In some part of his mind Starsky almost believed he could hear a siren.  If only . . .  

 

“Gayle . . .”

 

With a sob, she flung herself forward. He saw the flash of the knife, tip angled to slice through the rope binding him to the metal pole overhead.  Gayle stumbled, and the blade dropped too quickly.  Never pausing, Starsky pivoted, ripping his already torn wrists from the partially severed hemp.  He felt skin split, blood splash hot and wet against his forearms.  Ducking, he wheeled to the side, narrowly avoiding a meat cleaver swung by one of Marcus’ murderous followers.  From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of blond hair and realized that Hutch had somehow miraculously found him. The recognition was gone in a flash, butted aside by the sharpened end of the cleaver.  Starsky felt it connect with his back, tearing the flesh below his shoulder blade, sending a searing streak of pain through his battered body. He hissed in a startled breath, swiveling to grapple and unarm his crazed opponent.

 

In a matter of minutes the scuffle was over. Suddenly Hutch was there, and the world was semi-recognizable again. Starsky sagged into his friend’s arms, distantly aware that a terrified Gayle clung to his legs. He needed to cling just as badly as she did . . . needed to feel the steadying strength of his formidable blond partner holding the terror at bay.  Crouched on the cold stone, Hutch’s arms wrapped around him, he could almost believe the wretched ugliness would fade . . . that the pain and sadistic abuse he’d suffered could be shoved down a hole of unwanted memories like those from ‘Nam. 

 

“What took you so long?” he croaked, trying to maintain a sliver of lightness.  At the moment that false security was the only thing holding him together.  He was terrified of drowning in the hideous nightmare he’d endured, reliving all the steadily creeping horror and soul-shredding pain.  Oh please, Hutch . . . please, babe, don’t let me shatter.  Not here in front of all these people. 

 

Starsky tightened his grip on the lapels of Hutch’s jacket, butter-soft leather crinkling beneath his trembling fingertips. It felt blessedly warm, a familiar conduit to anchor him to Hutch.  He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or sob, the rescue and his abuse ratcheting together in his head.  Then he felt Hutch’s hand slip inside his robe, his friend’s long fingers tickling his ribs in a fleeting stroke - - just enough to let him know what was real, that despite everything, he’d survived.  The touch pushed him over the edge, giddy laughter bubbling up from his throat.  He clung tighter, terrified when the emotion climbed too high and humor abruptly nose-dived into fear.

 

Starsky’s composure cracked.

 

+++++

 

“Starsk?”  Alarm spiked through Hutch.  He heard his friend’s laughter sour into something heavier, dark and diseased.  Suddenly the grip on his jacket wasn’t just for security.  It reeked of raw desperation and need, the change as abrupt as it was frightening. He felt Starsky shudder, curling in on himself as unforgiving tremors raced through his body.  “Starsky?” 

 

His friend pressed against him, that strange giddy laughter turning into a choking sound.  Starsky’s hands grappled harder, as if he couldn’t hold on tightly enough.  It took Hutch a moment to realize his partner was completely falling apart, Starsky’s face crushed against his jacket, hot tears pouring from his eyes.  Terrified by the breakdown, mortified for Starsky’s sake because of the audience, Hutch felt his own composure threaten to snap.

 

“Captain!” he yelled.  “Captain, get these people out of here!”

 

Dobey emerged from the knot of patrolmen securing the scene.  He took one look at the two police detectives crumpled together and immediately started barking orders.  Cult members were rounded up and escorted to patrol cars.  A uniformed officer gently collected Gayle, removing the shaken girl to the safety of a black-and-white.  Everyone was ordered to a discreet distance, leaving Hutch to deal with his distraught partner.

 

“Babe?  Starsky, I’m right here.”  Gently, he cupped the back of his friend’s neck, immediately shaken by the icy touch of chilled flesh beneath his fingertips.  The metallic stench of blood washed over him, alerting him to the cut in Starsky’s gown where the meat cleaver had found its mark.  He swore softly, gathering his friend closer as he tried to examine the wound. 

 

Starsky flinched from his touch.

 

“Ssh, buddy.  I’m not gonna hurt you.  It’s just me.”  His throat tightened, anger mixing with remorse that his friend would be so traumatized as to shy from the slightest unexpected contact. Dragging a handkerchief from his pocket, he blotted it against the wound, soaking up blood.  Starsky was still clinging to him, making those strange choking gasps that sounded suspiciously like tears.

 

“Hutch.”

 

Startled, he glanced up to find Dobey at his side.  The black man bent down, lightly touching Starsky’s head, offering what limited comfort he could. “Paramedics are on the way.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “The hell with it.”  It would take them too long.  Starsky was a wreck - - bleeding, traumatized . . . who knew what else those sickos had done to his partner.  “I’ll take him to the hospital myself,” he said.  “Help me get him to the car.”

 

For a moment it looked like Dobey would protest, but in the end, he parted with a tight nod. 

 

“Buddy, come on.”  As gingerly as he could, Hutch helped Starsky to his feet. His friend was breathing a little easier now, some of his composure returning, though his eyes looked glazed and vacant.  The emptiness terrified Hutch almost more than the breakdown had.  With Dobey’s assistance he guided his weak-legged friend to the Torino.  Starsky walked with difficulty, leaning heavily on Hutch, hobbling as though the movement itself kindled pain.

 

“You’re doing good,” Hutch breathed into his ear.  At the car, Dobey held the door open while he carefully eased his injured partner into the passenger’s seat. 

 

“I’ll send men ahead to the hospital and follow up with a police photographer,” Dobey told him.

 

S.O.P.

 

Hutch nodded grimly.  He knew Starsky’s injuries would have to be detailed photo by photo, but the thought of subjecting his friend to the clinical procedure repulsed him.  Unfortunately there was no way around it.  Evidence was evidence, even when it involved a police detective.

 

Dobey left and Hutch eased the door shut.  Returning to the driver’s side, he slipped behind the wheel, one hand instinctively reaching for Starsky.  His partner sat slumped against the passenger’s door, that vacant look still clouding his watery ocean-colored eyes. 

 

“Starsk, hang in there, okay?  You’re away from those goons now.”  Hesitantly, Hutch touched his friend’s cheek, half afraid Starsky would flinch from him again.  Instead the dark-haired man closed his eyes, an expression of pain crossing his face.  Brief as it was, that betraying flicker sent a bolt of alarm through Hutch.  Swiftly, he turned over the ignition.  “Don’t worry, babe.  I’m gonna get you to the hospital.”

 

And then what?

 

Hutch scowled. 

 

Try to pick up the fractured pieces of Starsky’s emotional state?  Sort through the long hours of vile debasement he’d surely endured at the hands of Simon Marcus’ followers?   Starsky wasn’t talking and that was bad enough, but the way he sat huddled against the door, shoulders slumped, arms turned inward as if to guard against some outside force - - that was even worse.  He looked horribly uncomfortable, pained by the mere jostling of the car.   Hutch tried to steer the heavy vehicle as smoothly as possible through a series of curves, all the while cursing unseen bumps and potholes.  He might have spouted off about the lack of tax dollars at work, but didn’t think he could get more than a few words past his dry tongue.  His hands hurt from gripping the wheel so tightly, and the ache in his stomach had turned corrosive and sour. 

 

“Starsk, talk to me.  Are you hurting?”

 

A quick shake of the head was Starsky’s only answer, clearly a deliberate lie.  A grimace of discomfort twisted his face.  “ . . . sick,” he said thickly. 

 

Suddenly his hunched posture made sense to Hutch.  “Don’t worry, buddy.  We’ll take care of it.”  Hutch banked the car to the side, easing onto the shoulder of the road.  He hadn’t even come to a complete stop before Starsky popped the door and hung his head outside, gagging loudly.

 

Hutch slammed the gearshift into park.  Quickly, he slid across the seat to brace an arm across his friend’s quaking shoulders.  “Take your time,” he soothed, inwardly unnerved by the violent force of Starsky’s heaving.  His friend strained loudly but nothing came from his throat other than a sparse smattering of phlegm and bile.  Starsky’s face turned red with the effort, the sickness swelling stronger, cruelly pummeling him from the inside out.  Winded and drained, he crumpled against the seat, listlessly sagging into Hutch’s side.  A soft moan escaped his lips as he tried to hitch his legs closer, physically curling away from the door.

 

Shaken by the trembling press of Starsky’s body against his, Hutch tried to talk around the lump in his throat.  He kept his right arm looped around Starsky’s shoulders even as he dug a pack of Kleenex from the glove box with his left hand. “Buddy, you’re safe now.  You know that don’t you?”  Gently he wiped his friend’s mouth, the arm around Starsky’s shoulders tightening to draw him even closer.  “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you.  I’m right here.”  He didn’t know which was worse - - the breakdown he’d witnessed earlier, Starsky’s vacant stare, or the cruelly inflicted sickness that had resulted in nothing but dry heaves and violent shuddering.  

 

Hutch knew he should be back on the road, speeding for the hospital, but right now it seemed his partner needed physical contact more.  Starsky moaned again, pressing a fist down in his lap, drawing his legs even tighter in a strange contorted curl against the seat.  The robe fell back from his thigh, exposing severely battered flesh beneath.  Hutch caught a glimpse of raised welts, lacerations and ugly bruises before Starsky shifted and self-consciously pulled the gaping fabric shut.

 

Incensed by the sight, Hutch fought to quell the hot emotion for his friend’s sake.  “Starsk, you wanna lie down in the back?”  His voice cracked with the effort of holding his rage in check.  “Get more comfortable?”

 

Starsky shook his head, his face still pressed to Hutch’s shoulder.  Raw waves of tension rolled from his body, his anxiety nearly palpable, snarled with a heated flush of pain.  His head was bowed but Hutch could tell he had his teeth gritted, silently trying to mute a steady thrum of agony.  The wound on his back had already crusted over with dried blood but it clearly added to his misery.  In time, as Hutch held him, Starsky’s trembling eased marginally.

 

“Want me to drive now?”  Hutch whispered huskily, his voice hoarse.  Head bowed, he rested his brow against the crown of Starsky’s hair.  The thick curls smelled of dirt, sweat and blood, but the coarse press against his flesh was one of the most blessed things Hutch had ever experienced in life.  He breathed in the musky tang, dismissing the blood and dirt, savoring the familiar scent of his partner beneath the defilement and grime.  “Babe . . .”  Raising his head slightly, Hutch breathed warmly into his friend’s hair.  “ . . . I need to take you to the hospital, Starsk.”

 

A groan came from the form huddled against him.  Hutch understood more than he wanted to admit. A hospital meant dispassionate prodding . . . the clinical and detached observation of doctors and nurses. It meant disrobing for the police photographer, having the grisly abuse Starsky had endured cataloged in stark Polaroid snapshots.  It meant taking off the blood-caked, dirt-stained black robe  - - a debasement in itself with its upside down scarlet cross - - and having his naked body exposed the way a victim was exposed.  It meant scrutiny and questions, long periods of separation from his partner, people staring when he wanted to hide, his flesh no longer his own as his body was examined and re-examined.

 

And yet the mere thought that something might be seriously wrong terrified Hutch.  Even as he delayed in taking Starsky to the hospital he cursed himself for the stupidity.  “Starsk, I’ll be with you when we get there.”

 

As if agitated, Starsky grunted and pulled away.  Even his movements were painful, clearly stiff, performed without a full range of motion.  The hand was back in his lap, pressing down on the soiled black robe.  For the first time Hutch realized there was more than just blood and dirt on the garment. The sight of crusted yellow pus in the vicinity of Starsky’s groin made his throat close up.  Before he could speak, Starsky looked away.

 

“S’okay, Hutch.  I don’t feel so sick now.”  His voice was unsteady, lacking in strength.  “Let’s go to the hospital.”

 

Hutch would have delayed longer if he weren’t so concerned about the pus and the possibility of internal injury.  Wordlessly, he moved behind the wheel and popped the gearshift into drive. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Memorial, and Hutch pulled the Torino up to the emergency entrance reserved for ambulances. Two patrolmen were already there, sent ahead by Dobey.  An orderly and a nurse waited with a wheelchair, a sight that made Hutch eternally grateful.  He left the motor running, the driver’s door gaping open as he dashed around the front of the vehicle to help his injured partner from the car. 

 

Hutch hated the sight of Starsky looking so frail, clad only in the hated black robe, his bare feet cut and bleeding, smeared with dirt and grime. He helped ease his partner into the wheelchair then instructed the first officer to park the Torino in the adjacent lot.  He didn’t bother to see if his command was obeyed, but quickly hustled into the hospital at Starsky’s side. 

 

His friend was taken to a triage room, where the nurse and orderly helped him onto an exam table.  Sitting with his legs dangling off the side, Starsky stayed mute while the RN took his vital signs. The orderly disappeared with the wheelchair, and Hutch sent the officer from the room in search of Dobey.  Seconds later the nurse left too, announcing she would retrieve the on-call doctor.  Left alone with his friend, Hutch studied Starsky’s slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, his whole posture radiating deep depression and defeat.

 

Hutch tried to muster a smile, succeeding in part.  Moving to Starsky’s side, he squeezed his shoulder.  “How you holding up, buddy?”

 

He saw a flicker of dense jet lashes, but Starsky never raised his eyes. “You don’t gotta stay,” he mumbled.

 

Hutch almost choked.  Wild horses couldn’t drag him away!  With his free hand, he gripped Starsky’s arm.  “Don’t be an ass.  I’m not going anywhere.”  God, he hated this!  Hated that his friend had been hurt so badly, was still hurting emotionally and physically.  To make the atrocity worse, Starsky was sinking into depression, erecting walls that grew more densely impenetrable by the moment.  Hutch felt himself deliberately shut out, but couldn’t understand why.  For every second of vulnerability Starsky displayed, there was another of stiff reserve.

 

“Wanna lie down?” he asked, then immediately cringed.  Of course Starsky wouldn’t want to lie down with that oozing cut on his back.  He bit his lip, feeling useless.  “It’ll be over soon,” he tried again.

 

Starsky snorted, still not raising his eyes.  “Easy for you to say.” 

 

Caught off guard by the bitterness in his friend’s voice, Hutch momentarily found himself at a loss for words.  Before he could formulate a reply, the door opened admitting Dobey and the patrolman.  Craig Glass, the police photographer, followed close behind.  Starsky took one look at Glass hovering discreetly near the door and instantly paled.

 

Hutch felt his gut tighten up.  He’d do anything to spare Starsky the mortification of having to go through the grueling photography session.  Glass was a casual friend to both of them, a man just a few years older with a lively manner and the nervous habit of chain smoking low-tar cigarettes in a perpetual (and thus far unsuccessful) attempt to quit. He’d worked with them on numerous cases, including documenting Simon Marcus’ previous nine victims. Unfortunately for those poor souls, there’d been little remaining to identify them, their bodies hacked and brutalized beyond recognition.  Hutch knew if Marcus had succeeded with his plan, Starsky would have met the same violent end.  The thought sickened him.  It made him realize just how fortunate they’d been in deciphering the cult leader’s riddles, enabling them to find Starsky in the nick of time.  It also made him selfishly crave solitude with his partner - - no doctors or nurses to intervene, no officers, not even Dobey.  He just wanted to sit and hold Starsky against him.

 

Only this time he was the one who desperately needed that contact. 

 

Blinking sluggishly, he realized Dobey was saying something to Starsky.  The black man had his head bent and was speaking softly but firmly, one massive hand resting on Starsky’s shoulder.  The room felt crowded and cramped to Hutch.  Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, trickling into his collar.  He was aware of Glass nervously shifting from foot to foot in the corner, obviously ill at ease with the whole scenario.  The man’s fidgeting almost made Hutch wish for a cigarette, and he didn’t even smoke. For some reason the shiny burn mark on Starsky’s temple drew his attention and he ground his teeth together.  How many other hidden injuries lingered beneath the filthy black robe?

 

Growing increasingly agitated, Hutch contemplated shooing the others into the hallway.  He was saved the decision when the door opened, admitting the nurse who’d originally led them to the room. She carried a clean hospital gown along with a tray of bandages, medicinal creams and a triage basin. Within seconds, a middle-aged man breezed in behind her. Introducing himself as Dr. Cannelli, he took a moment to study Starsky’s chart, before proceeding to recheck his pulse and blood pressure.  Realizing he was in the way, Hutch moved toward the door, watching as Cannelli gingerly ran his hands over Starsky’s neck and shoulders.  A sympathetic wince drew the doctor’s features when he encountered the blood-encrusted gash on Starsky’s back.   

 

Hutch stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced, aware his friend’s head was again lowered, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the hospital table. 

 

Finishing a brief exam, Cannelli hooked the ends of his stethoscope around his neck. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied Starsky’s bowed head.  “I’m going to need you to disrobe, Detective, so we can better gauge the extent of your injuries.  I’ve had a nurse bring in a gown.  I’m sure you’d - -”

 

Dobey cleared his throat before the man could finish.  Awkward and uncomfortable, he shifted under the doctor’s gaze.  “I’m afraid there’s procedure we’re going to have to follow as well, Doctor.  You realize Detective Starsky is the victim of a crime?”

 

Cannelli raised heavy black brows.  “That’s hard to overlook, considering it’s been all over the news.  I’m just thankful he was found before . . .” 

 

The thought trailed away unfinished and Dobey gave a crisp nod.  “We all are.” His eyes darted briefly to Starsky before returning to the doctor.  “But because my detective is the victim of a crime, we’re going to have to follow police procedure.  The robe Detective Starsky is wearing will need to be bagged for evidence.  Also, I can’t allow any medical care to proceed - - considering he’s conscious and out of immediate danger  - - until his injuries have been photographed.”

 

Hutch swore.  He hadn’t meant for the curse to be vocal but realized it cut through his sadly morose partner like a knife.  Head bowed, Starsky stared at the floor, a hot flush of mortification on his cheeks.  The sight made Hutch want to step to his friend’s side . . . assure him it would all be over in a matter of moments . . . that he’d get him out of there as quickly as possible and in a few hours, God willing, Starsky would be home, comfortable in his own bed.

 

Babe, I’m sorry.  I know this sucks, but I can’t get you out of it.

 

Dr. Cannelli nodded thoughtfully.  “Very well.”  He took in the number of people in the room and came to a decision.  “I’d suggest anyone who doesn’t need to be here should leave and allow my patient some privacy.”  He looked back to Starsky and frowned.  “Do you need help disrobing, Detective?”

 

Starsky hesitated, then gave a slight nod, his head still bowed.

 

Hutch stepped forward, immediately moving to his friend’s side.  Starsky surprised him by clutching the robe shut.  He looked away, his gaze sidling to Dobey.  “Cap’n . . . will you stay and help me?”

 

Stunned, Hutch stopped in his tracks.  He looked quickly to Dobey who met his eyes with an equally shocked expression.  For a moment Hutch felt like he couldn’t breathe.  Recovering quickly, he shrugged off the hurt, not wanting to further upset his already distraught partner.  Starsky didn’t want him there.  He could live with that  - - maybe.  At least for the moment, until his friend was back in a rational frame of mind, until he understood why Starsky had just slighted him and effectively ordered him from the room.

 

Still dazed by Starsky’s request, Dobey gave a brusque nod and moved forward to take the gown from the nurse.  The patrolman and the RN left the room, scattering in different directions.  Hutch hesitated only briefly, glancing back at Starsky who still refused to meet his eyes, before slapping the door aside with the flat of his hand and stalking into the hallway.

 

Damn it, Hutchinson, calm down!  He’s the one who’s hurting.  So what if he doesn’t want you there?  He’s probably got his reasons.

 

Hutch ground his teeth together.

 

Yeah, shitty, stupid assed reasons.

 

Thrusting a hand through his hair, he started pacing again.  Starsky was hurting.  More than just hurting, he was devastated, emotionally and physically battered.  And rather than being with him, able to comfort him, Hutch had been ordered into the hall.  He loved Dobey, but the thought of their captain taking his place at Starsky’s side balled his nerves in a frazzled knot.  Why the hell was Starsky treating him like a stranger?  Why the hell had his friend - - his very best friend - - refused to even look at him? 

 

He heard the door swing open and turned in time to see Cannelli emerge, a clipboard in his hand.  “I understand you’re Detective Starsky’s partner,” the doctor ventured.

 

Still distracted, Hutch gave a crisp nod.  “Hutchinson.”  He held out his hand.  “Ken Hutchinson.”

 

Cannelli shook the proffered hand.  “Perhaps you can give me a little better insight into what happened to your friend.  Obviously I’ve heard the news reports about his kidnapping - -”

 

Hutch grimaced, realizing it would only be a matter of time before news crews descended on the hospital, intent on swarming around Starsky.  If Cannelli didn’t head it off, he’d have a three ring circus erupting in the ER.  He’d have to speak to Dobey about keeping the camera crews out.  The last thing Starsky needed right now was to have his personal trauma broadcast as entertainment for the rest of the world.  With concentrated effort, Hutch tried to refocus on what Cannelli was asking him.

 

“ . . . missing for how long?”

 

Hutch wet his lips, forcing his mind back to the present.  “Since yesterday morning . . . about twenty-three hours.  My guess is he was knocked unconscious.  He’s obviously been beaten . . . burned . . .”  Hutch faltered even as he said the words, the dread realization awakening the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  “And there’s a gash on his back.  Other than that . . .”   He shook his head sadly.  “I wasn’t with him, so I couldn’t say.  I know he had problems walking earlier, and I saw pus on his robe in the area of his groin.” 

 

Shaken, Hutch scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  He could feel his frustration building again as slow minute ticked into slow minute, and he remained separated from his partner.  By Starsky’s choice!  Every second he dwelled on that unexplainable dismissal, the wound cut deeper. 

 

Cannelli scribbled several notes on his clipboard, muttered something Hutch didn’t catch and said he’d return later.  As he wandered away, Hutch paced to the entrance of the hallway and flagged down Walter Jane, the patrolman.  He gave quick instructions to hold any television and media crews that showed up at bay and ordered Jane to call for backup crowd control.  It was likely to grow chaotic before it got calm.

 

Returning to his vigil outside Starsky’s room, Hutch arrived just as Dobey was exiting.  The captain looked furious, his massive hands balled into fists, his whole body pulsing with barely contained rage.  A large evidence bag holding the soiled black robe Starsky had been wearing was tucked beneath his arm, but he barely seemed aware of its presence.  

 

“Captain?”  Hutch felt his dread spike higher.  Dobey literally looked like he wanted to kill someone.

 

“Glass is with him now, finishing up” Dobey muttered, refusing to make eye contact.  “Stay out here ‘till he’s done.  That’s an order, Hutchinson.”

 

Confused, Hutch shot an anxious glance at the door, his stomach in knots.  Starsky had dismissed him from the room after long minutes of refusing to meet his eyes, and now even Dobey wouldn’t look at him.  Just what the hell is going on?  Worried, he took an impulsive step toward the door.

 

“Hutchinson!”  Dobey’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.

 

Hutch drew up short, casting a nervous angry glance over his shoulder.  The black man’s gaze was pointed and sharp, smoldering with reprimand. 

 

“Don’t,” the captain warned. “Stay out here until Glass is done.  If Starsky wanted you in there, he would have asked you to stay.”

 

Hutch grappled to keep his dangerously volatile emotions under control.  “Captain, what the hell is going on?”

 

But Dobey shook his head, a look of utter disgust on his face.  “I need some air,” he grumbled and stalked off down the hall.

 

“Sonofabitch!”  Hutch swore loudly, uncaring who heard.  He started pacing again, swifter this time, pent up emotions violently churning inside.  Glass would be thorough - - wasn't he always?  But he had a “live” subject this time, one who routinely hid his vulnerability behind a street-tough exterior.  Starsky would get through it, but why the hell did he insist on going through it alone? 

 

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen.  Hutch had pretty much made up his mind he couldn’t stand the separation any longer - - something beyond the obvious was clearly wrong with Starsky, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it - - when Glass, looking slightly frazzled, stepped into the hallway. 

 

Hutch felt the blood drain from his face.  The photographer had seen all manner of degradation, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, but even he looked unnerved.  Choking back a rush of fear, Hutch surged for the room.

 

Glass caught his arm. 

 

“Wait,” he said.  He gulped down a breath then jerked his head away from the door, indicating a more secluded part of the hallway. 

 

Hutch’s eyes fell to the stack of Polaroids in his hand, and he realized what Glass was offering.  He hesitated a moment, not wanting to leave Starsky alone and unprotected.  Some of Marcus’ followers were still on the loose, making his friend a potential target.  But Jane and his partner were stationed at the emergency entrance, and other patrols had been called in for backup.

 

With a clipped nod, Hutch followed Glass down the hall, stopping just beyond the restrooms and a water fountain. 

 

Eyeing him critically, Glass offered the stack of Polaroids.  “I don’t got any problem with you lookin’ at these, Hutch, but you better be prepared.  What those freaks did to your partner ain’t pretty.  I’ll tell you right now - - some of what’s on here is gonna be damn hard for you to look at.”

 

Steeling himself, Hutch yanked the snapshots from his hands. Shock hit him first, followed quickly by disgust and rage.  Each image was some portion of his partner’s body, marred by bruises, welts and scrapes - - his back, chest, arms and thighs.  Hutch had visited too many violent crime scenes not to recognize the weapons that had inflicted those brutal marks - - belts, steel rods, chains, baseball bats, booted feet.  The close-ups were hideous, detailing the repulsive damage in vibrant, garish color.  With each image, Hutch felt himself growing angrier and sicker, his stomach threatening upheaval at the savagery frozen on film. He flipped to another snapshot and grimaced. 

 

There were human bite marks on Starsky’s stomach.  Pus and dried blood matted the dark hair between his legs where the skin had cracked beneath repeated abuse.  It crusted his genitals, the flesh hideously swollen and ballooned out of proportion. 

 

Sickened, Hutch gave a half-vocal gag.  He suddenly understood why his friend had experienced such difficulty walking. Starsky would likely have to be cathed just to relieve his bladder, and then he’d probably piss blood.  For days.

 

“Damn it!” The curse was a strained hiss between his teeth.  His hands tightened convulsively on the snapshots.  Silently, he said a quick prayer that Starsky hadn’t suffered kidney damage.  Breathing heavily through his mouth, Hutch flipped to the last image.  

 

His hands trembled.  He swallowed quickly, certain he would lose it completely and puke over the film.  The final shot showed Starsky’s lower back and buttocks, both battered and bruised like every other part of him, with one vile addition - - some sick bastard had used a knife and carved Marcus’s upside down cross onto Starsky’s backside.

 

Repulsed, Hutch clumsily shoved the Polaroids into Glass’s hands, dropping half in the process.  Unable to contain his revulsion, he pivoted and raced for the restroom.  He barely made it to the first stall before stumbling to his knees and vomiting. The punishing sickness seemed to go on forever, ripped from his gut with raw anger and seething disgust.  Eyes tearing from the force, he clung to the porcelain bowl in sweat-slicked desperation.  Delayed shock rocketed through him, wracking his limbs with a string of violent tremors.  Weak and drained when the heaving finally ceased, he braced his arm across the toilet seat and rested his forehead on his sleeve.

 

Oh shit, Starsk!  Why didn’t you tell me, babe?  I’m so fucking sorry for what those sick bastards did to you!

 

He thought back to his last conversation with Simon Marcus.  “ . . . you haven’t always been like this.  Surely there must have been a time when you valued human life like others do.”

 

Yeah, right, Hutch thought bitterly.  And I live in fucking Camelot.

 

“Hutch?”  Glass’s voice came from outside the stall. 

 

He gave a slight jerk.  “I’m okay.”  Wearily, he shoved to his feet and flushed the toilet.  There was no use trying to compose himself - - Glass already knew he’d crashed over the edge.  With a tight glance for the photographer, Hutch walked to the sink and cranked cold water into the basin.  His anger was out of control, the kind of dangerous simmering rage that made people commit unheard of acts.  He knew he’d have to pull it together before visiting Starsky again.  Bending over the sink, he cupped his hands beneath the water, bowing his face into the cold stream.  The shock helped clear the clutter from his head.

 

“Here.”  Glass thrust a wad of paper towels at him.  “The doctor’s back with your partner.  Maybe you should just hang out and wait ‘till he’s done.”

 

Drying his face, Hutch gave a vacant nod.  He had some thinking to do.  Starsky hadn’t wanted him around when he’d disrobed.  Why?  Because he was ashamed of what had happened, or because he thought Hutch would look at him differently? 

 

“You gonna be okay?”  Glass asked anxiously.  “I gotta get back to Metro . . . take care of these shots . . .”

 

“Bury the frigging things!”   Hutch snapped sharply.  “They’re on a need to know basis, you got that, Glass?”

 

“I hear ya, Hutch.”  The photographer held up both hands and took a step backwards.  “I might not be his partner, but I am a friend.  Nobody’s gotta spell it out for me.”

 

“Yeah . . . sorry.”  Properly chastised, Hutch waved him away.  Seconds later he heard the door close as Glass finally departed.  Balling up the used paper towels, Hutch shoved them into the trash. He paced for a moment, too frustrated to leave, then turned back to the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.  Part of him longed to be with Starsky, but another part wanted to barrel back to Simon Marcus - - to ram the man’s shitty grinning face against the table and wring his repugnant neck.  Marcus was a butcher, a sick freak of nature unjustly parading as a human being.

 

He’d ordered Starsky’s kidnapping and abuse.  Had he been specific with those details or had he given his followers free rein to torture and debase?  Had he told them to bite and beat Starsky like that . . . carve that sick abomination on his ass, or had he left it to their own disgustingly perverted minds?  I’ll show you a fucking White Knight, you sadist!

 

Blinded with rage, Hutch drove his fist into the mirror.  Glass shattered on impact, popping and cracking, spider-webbing outward in a jagged nucleus.  His image fragmented into a hundred tiny pieces.  Consumed with fury, he didn’t even feel the pain at first . . . was unaware he’d done something so ridiculously stupid.  Then he saw blood dripping down the glass, pooling onto the pristine white sink in thick, nickel-sized dollops.  A searing shock ripped through his mangled right hand.

 

Hutch closed his eyes and cursed. He knew he’d crossed the line, knew he was going to go insane with rage if he didn’t see Starsky soon. 

 

Sucking down a ragged breath, Hutch reached for another wad of paper towels.

 

+++++ 

Starsky found with enough pillows propped behind him and a continual dose of pain medication, he could lie on his back without too much discomfort.  He barely even felt the sting in his groin anymore or the countless other cuts, scrapes, welts and bruises that decorated nearly every inch of his body.  Unfortunately, the drugs couldn’t stop the ugly memories piling up in his mind, erase the shame of what had happened to him, or the mortification of the photography session with Glass.  His friend had tried to finish as quickly as possible, but nothing could wash away the hideous stigma of what he’d endured.

 

It was harder without Hutch, but he just couldn’t bear to have his friend in the room with him.  No question about it - - Hutch would have gone ballistic the moment he saw the bite marks, the abnormal swelling to Starsky’s groin, or  - - he closed his eyes - - that sick abomination on his ass. Thankfully, he’d been mostly out of it, swimming in drugs when Marcus’ followers had committed the worst of their atrocities. 

 

He vaguely remembered a dark-haired woman with heavily painted blue eyes and ruby red lips. Her front teeth had been gruesomely altered, filed to fanged tips. He knew he’d been tied to an overhead pole, his badly abraded wrists strung up and secured by coils of rope.  Thankfully the drugs had left him only half coherent. Yet, even through the distortion, he’d been conscious of incessant chanting, the blood-beat of his pulse rising with each heavily panted cry of “Simon! Simon!”

 

It terrified him.  Made him flashback to hours before when they’d first abducted him and he’d been blindfolded on his knees, arms tied behind his back, Marcus’ followers ringed around him.  His angrily defiant challenges had earned him repeated kicks to the ribs, back and groin. By the time they’d finished, he lay curled on his side, gasping in pain, his groin so enflamed he couldn’t move.  They’d known exactly where to strike, made sure he’d felt every savage blow.  When they’d strung him up, he was sure they were going to do something much worse - - something hideous that involved mutilation.  He’d seen their previous victims, knew first-hand the sick atrocities they’d committed in the name of obsessive fanaticism. 

 

The woman with the fanged teeth had danced around him . . . touching, pawing, contorting her scantily clad flesh, her eyes fired by bloodlust and drugs.  He remembered his robe being ripped open . . . remembered how she’d dropped to her knees, savagely fondling the swollen flesh between his legs, the tips of her teeth sinking into his bare stomach. Someone yanked the robe up behind him, exposing his back, buttocks and legs.  A draft curled around him, kiln-warm and crypt-cold, stringing fat goosebumps on his bruised skin.  There were others then, how many he couldn’t say, in that same sinister ring . . . each one striking him, each one chanting and goading, until the blows became an incessant blur of pain.  Something sharp pierced his flesh, sending a hot streak of agony across his buttocks.  The blood came just as swiftly, disgorged in a rush, oozing down the back of his thigh in a sticky dizzying stream.  The hated chanting swelled louder and - -

 

He swallowed hard.  Cannelli had said the cuts weren’t deep, odds were the repulsive mark wouldn’t even scar.   But he’d know it had been there - - a lingering disgrace and heinous reminder of what they’d done to him.   In truth he was fortunate compared to many of Marcus’ previous victims.  They hadn’t castrated him, hadn’t raped him, hadn’t cut him open or gouged out his eyes - - all past atrocities committed in the name of Simon Marcus and his fanatic followers.  The knowledge didn’t make what he’d suffered any easier to endure, but it left him with a glimmer of hope.

 

The swelling to his groin would eventually go down.  Once he could urinate on his own, they’d release him from the hospital.  At home, in familiar surroundings, he could shuffle the memories aside, clutter his mind with other things.  And best of all - - Simon Marcus hadn’t won.  He’d be sentenced, his followers rounded up and disbanded, each getting exactly what they deserved.

 

Heaving out a tired breath, Starsky dragged a hand over his face.

 

He needed Hutch.  But sending his friend from the exam room earlier had started a spiral of activity that conspired to keep them apart.  Before Hutch could return, Starsky had been whisked away for x-rays and a battery of other tests.  Now, hours later, he found himself admitted to Memorial Hospital, occupying the bed closest to the door in Room 712.  He’d been told his roommate, an older man, was in surgery for gallstone removal but would be returning later.  For now, the bed beside him was empty.  He wished it could stay that way - - wished he didn’t have to interact when all he wanted to do was disappear, but there were no private rooms to be had. He knew there was a guard stationed outside his door as a precaution but wasn’t even sure of the patrolman’s name.  It made no difference at the moment.  The only person he truly wanted to see was Hutch.

 

He’d asked after his friend earlier, but no one seemed to know anything about his missing partner.  One nurse thought his friend was having his hand stitched, but that didn’t make sense.  Hutch hadn’t been badly hurt in the scuffle with Marcus’ followers - - banged up a little, his knuckles bruised, but nothing that required stitching.  Was it possible his partner had elected to stay away?  Had Hutch been miffed enough about being sent from the exam room that he’d gone somewhere to stew, deliberately abandoning Starsky?

 

He wouldn’t do that.  Not Hutch.

 

Still the thought left him uneasy.  It wasn’t like his overly protective partner to disappear for hours, especially when he knew how badly Starsky was hurting.  Agitated, he shifted a little, wincing when the cut on his back flared with sudden pain.  The IV dripping into his left arm kept him groggy and muted the worst of it, but abrupt movement awakened all the aches in his battered body.  His groin had suffered the most.  Fortunately Cannelli had ordered the grotesquely swollen area packed with ice beneath the sheets. He knew they’d have to cath him eventually, but for a few hours until the swelling subsided he was safe.

 

He had wanted to ask about the bite marks, but couldn’t work up the nerve.  He knew he was on antibiotics to combat fever and infection.  Along with tetanus and a slew of other shots, he felt safely assured he was also protected from disease.  The end result of so many combined drugs and shots left him sleepy and mostly numb, but he was too concerned about Hutch’s glaring absence to drift off. 

 

He shifted again, uncomfortable now that he’d made any kind of movement.  His groin was awakening with pain, and his ribs throbbed mercilessly on the left side.  He’d taken several kicks there while tied and blindfolded, Marcus’ cult members ringed around him in a somber circle. 

 

“Starsk?”

 

The hesitant voice from the doorway made him snap his head around with a jolt.  His lips parted, but no sound came from his abruptly constricted throat. 

 

Hutch stood framed on the threshold, plainly miserable.  Physically, other than a heavy white bandage wrapping his right hand, he looked the same as he had that morning.  But there was something shorn and haunted in his skylight eyes - - a deep pain that had rooted in the soft tissue of his soul. 

 

“Hey.”  He smiled slightly and stepped into the room, appearing oddly unsure of himself.  Hesitating near the foot of the bed, he settled the tips of his fingers on the mattress.  “Sorry it took me so long to get up here.  Y-You were off for tests, and then . . . um . . .”  His eyes trailed away guiltily. 

 

Starsky frowned, focusing on the white bandage again.  “Nurse told me you were havin’ your hand stitched,” he said pointedly.  “What happened?”

 

“Huh?  Oh . . .”  Hutch looked down at the thick wrapping, white tape and gauze covering all four fingers, leaving only the tips exposed.  The heavy swaddling hid his knuckles, crisscrossed the back of his hand and ended in a snug wrap below his wrist.  “Nothing.”

 

It wasn’t what he said so much as what Starsky saw that suddenly made sense.  “Glass showed you the photos, didn’t he?”

 

Hutch winced. 

 

Tilting his head back, Starsky blew out a resigned breath.  “Shit.  I didn’t want you to see those.”

 

He felt a tentative touch on his ankle then Hutch’s hand slid more securely about his leg, gentle as always.

 

“Is that why you had Dobey stay and help you?”  Hutch’s voice was tightly controlled, but Starsky heard a tangle of remorse, accusation and pent-up rage underneath.  “Why you sent me from the exam room?”

 

“What’d you want me to do, Hutch?   It’s bad enough I know what those sick bastards did to me.  I don’t want you seein’ it.”

 

“You could have let me help you.  Hell, Starsky, you could have trusted me enough to let me help you.”

 

Starsky heard the harsh sting of accusation in his friend’s words and closed his eyes.  “Don’t go there.”  He wanted the vile nightmare to end . . . wanted the shadowy memories of his abduction and torture to wither into dust.  He wanted his friend to look at him without judgment, without the scarring pangs of remorse, without - -

 

He jerked slightly at the light brush of fingertips against his cheek.  When he opened his eyes, Hutch was right beside him, that expressive blue gaze looking down with a mixture of compassion, steadfast support and regret.  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, buddy.  I just - -”  The words got stuck and Hutch swallowed hard.  “I wanted to be there for you, Starsk.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that?” He felt Hutch’s undamaged hand fall to his shoulder.  The contact streaked through him, pulsing with crackling warmth.  He moaned in reaction, instinctively tilting his head toward Hutch.  The drugs made it hard to think, his friend’s presence a blissful sedative in itself.  He blinked heavily, trying to focus on the bandaged hand Hutch made an effort to hide.  “What’d you do . . . when you saw the photos?” he asked groggily.

 

As expected, Hutch tried to dance clear.  He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat.  “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“Bullshit.”  Starsky shifted slightly, moving one leg to accommodate the pressure in his swollen groin.  He didn’t know why he was being so difficult, why he needed to know.  “How’d you hurt your hand?” he asked again.

 

Hutch sighed, apparently deciding the time for evasiveness had passed.  “Drove it into a mirror.”

 

Starsky made a tsking sound.  “Janitors ain’t gonna like you, Hutch.  Bet you pissed off the nursin’ staff too.”

 

“Ask me if I care.”  Reaching forward, Hutch fumbled with the blankets, adjusting them over Starsky’s chest.  “You cold?  You need anything?”

 

Tired, Starsky shook his head.  “Wish I could go home.”

 

“I know, babe.”  Hutch fingered a stray curl, brushing it back from Starsky’s forehead.

 

Involuntarily, the dark-haired man tensed.  He knew his hair was gritty, layered with dirt and grime, just another reminder of how repulsively defiled he felt.  The sour taint of sweat and blood lingered heavily in the raggedy tresses, resurrecting grisly memories of his captivity. 

 

Beside him, Hutch frowned.  “They didn’t let you clean up much, huh?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  He would have killed for a shower, but his options were limited.  “Nurse is gonna come back later,” he explained.  “There’s a shower right across the hall.  They didn’t even bother with bandages until after I wash up.”  Another thing that bothered him - - he wanted that ugly thing on his ass covered ASAP.  If it weren’t for the medication, he supposed the pain would be considerably higher than the simple dull ache he currently felt.  At the moment, the psychological element cut far deeper than the physical one.  Refocusing, he cleared his throat awkwardly.  “I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ this stink offa my body.”

 

Still frowning, Hutch stood and paced to the door, looking into the hallway.  He disappeared a moment, then returned seconds later, his eyes unusually bright as if he’d just hit upon an idea.  “Uh, Starsk . . .”  Moving to the head of the bed, he locked both arms on the side rail and gazed down on his friend.  “If you want, I could help you.  I mean . . . you wouldn’t have to wait for the nurse.”

 

Instinctively, Starsky paled.

 

“Look, I’ve already seen the photos,” Hutch said quickly.  “Don’t be a jerk about this.  I’ll clear it with the nurse’s station, get a wheelchair - -”

 

“Hutch, I strip in front of you, you’re gonna turn eight shades of volcanic red.” Starsky knew his overly sensitive friend too well - - it was the sole reason he’d had Dobey stay in the room with him instead of Hutch.  His partner generally concealed his emotions with relative ease, but that inbred trait took a flying leap out the window when it came to Starsky’s welfare.  The coolly detached detective could turn into a hot-tempered, foul-mouthed avenging angel in the blink of an eye.  Hadn’t the idiot already admitted to smashing his fist through a mirror in a blistering fit of rage?

 

“I know you mean well, buddy,” Starsky tried to pacify him.  “But I can’t deal with you being righteously pissed off just now.”

 

Hutch tightened his hands on the bar as if steeling himself.  “I won’t react like that, Starsk.  I promise.”

 

Shaken, Starsky looked away.  Shame curled into his gut, kicked alive with a sudden violence that made his fingers dig into the mattress.  The thought of Hutch seeing that filthy abomination on his ass . . .

 

“I . . . I don’t wan’ you seein’ me like this,” he muttered.

 

“Don’t.”  Hutch touched his cheek. 

 

Damn!  He hated that gentleness as much as he loved it.  A simple stroke of those long fingers and suddenly all his convictions melted into useless pulp.  He thought back to the Torino . . . how he’d curled up against Hutch, the memory of that shared contact making him crave it all over again.  Hutch had a way of holding the wolves at bay . . . keeping him safe and protected from outside influences, from unwanted memories and suffering. For one astonishingly pain-free moment he’d felt sheltered and secure, enveloped by the fiercely protective love of his partner. 

 

Distressed, he realized he was trembling. 

 

“Starsky . . .”  Hutch’s voice was firm, slivered with steel despite the tenderness of his touch.  “I’m not just some guy you work with.  I’m your friend and your partner.  You don’t have to feel ashamed with me.”

 

“Shit.”  Starsky closed his eyes.

 

Hutch’s hand curled behind his neck, the thumb pronging upward to rest against Starsky’s jaw.  “I just want you to get comfortable, babe.  It’s not like we haven’t been there for each other before.”

 

“Yeah, I know . . . okay.”  Starsky’s voice was wavery now.  He opened his eyes, one hand reflexively grasping Hutch’s sleeve when he started to turn away.  His breath came faster, his words slurring beneath the rapid flutter of his breath.  “Just . . . just, um . . . I don’ wan’  . . . wan you thinkin’ differently ‘bout . . . ‘bout . . .”

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch laid a hand on his chest, quietly stilling the agitated rise of his ribcage.  “This isn’t supposed to work you up.  I just want to help.  Nothing’s going to change, buddy.”  He smiled gently.  “I’m gonna walk to the end of the hall now and clear everything with the duty nurse - - see if they’ll take out that IV temporarily so you can move around.  Okay?”

 

Starsky gulped down a breath.  “Okay.”  He could do this.  He’d already seen the gut reaction of other nurses, med techs and Cannelli as they’d maneuvered him through a series of tests and x-rays.  Some outright horrified, trying to hide it, others sympathetic and supportive.  Then there’d been the extremely clinical tech in x-ray who’d made him feel like a specimen as he was dispassionately instructed to turn this way and that.  Did he really want yet another stranger looking at the hideous defilement to his body?  If there were shame or judgement with Hutch, it would be his own fault for creating it.

 

Ten minutes later his friend returned with a wheelchair, and Starsky no longer had time to dwell on the matter.

 

+++++

 

Hutch pushed the door shut and locked it.  The bathroom was huge, generously oversized with a sit-down shower, toilet bowl and vanity sink.  There was plenty of space to maneuver a wheelchair, and the shower itself was a convenient walk-in with frosted glass door and side panels.  With Cannelli’s approval, the duty nurse had temporarily removed Starsky’s IV, capping the port in the back of his hand for later use, then left him to Hutch’s care.

 

Moving around in front of his partner, Hutch stacked a handful of fluffy towels on the vanity.  He’d brought shampoo and soap from Starsky’s room, along with some ointment the nurse had given him in the event any of the larger cuts oozed. After Starsky had showered, an LPN would bandage the worst of the lacerations. While numerous and ghastly, most were surface abrasions that hadn’t required stitching. Even the bite marks on his stomach, though cleansed and treated, had not been covered.  Eventually the gash on his back and his badly lacerated wrists would need attention, as would the knife cuts on his backside.

 

“You’re gonna feel better after a shower, Starsk,” Hutch said conversationally as he reached inside the stall and adjusted the water.  He could sense depressing glumness from Starsky, along with increasing hesitation.  He knew his friend was edgy about disrobing, but - -

 

His thoughts plummeted to a new low as a sickening fear surfaced in the back of his mind.  His stomach contorted in a tightly bunched fist.  Cannelli, the nurse - - surely someone would have told him if Starsky had been debased in other ways.  If those sick, depraved bastards had violated him in the same perverted manner they’d violated other victims.  Oh God, please.  Please not that!

 

He drew back from the shower as if stung, his face leached of color.

 

“What’sa matter?” Starsky demanded.

 

Caught off guard, Hutch shot him a stricken look.  “Huh?”

 

Sighing, Starsky propped his elbow on the arm of the wheelchair and rubbed his temple.  “This ain’t gonna work, Hutch.  And you can just get that shitty dumb thought outta your head right now.  You’re so fuckin’ transparent, you know that?”  Sitting up straight, he glared at his friend.  “I wasn’t raped.  That much I do know.”

 

Hutch flushed.  “God, Starsk, I’m sorry.   I didn’t mean - -”

 

“Yeah, I know.  You never do.”  The words came out surprisingly sharp.

 

Hutch flinched.  He supposed he deserved the backlash.  He’d promised to hold it together and already he was reacting. By nature he was overly empathetic, a too-sensitive soul who’d never learned to shut off his emotions when it involved those closest to him.  Especially not when it involved Starsky - - the one person who meant more than any other in life, who’d become so integral to his existence, the very threads of their friendship had permanently rooted in his soul.

 

Cursing silently, he gripped his friend’s arm.  “Come on. I’ll help you out of that gown.”

 

In some other lifetime Starsky might have cracked a joke, but there was only grim silence as his unsteady partner leveraged himself to his feet.  Hutch let him lean into the vanity as he reached for the ties on the back of the soiled garment.  Many of the cuts had oozed even after being treated, coating the thin material with blood and clear fluid. 

 

Unnerved by Starsky’s tight-lipped silence, Hutch found his fingers trembling as he worked the knots in the gown’s strings.  His right hand was starting to sting, the effect of the Tylenol he’d been given for pain, all but gone now.  “You okay, buddy?  You need to sit, just let me know.”  His words came out in a rush, his fingers continuing to fumble, overly stiff and clumsy due to the bandage and stitching on his right hand.  The overhead light was hot, a little too warm, and he felt sweat trickle into his collar.  He’d screwed things up, was about to make a colossal mess of something he’d deliberately coaxed Starsky into doing. 

 

It’s just a freaking shower, he reminded himself.  He needs to realize I’m not gonna fall to pieces or change the way I think about him.  Just because he’s not talking doesn’t mean he’s pissed.

 

But he’d sounded it when he’d spat out those words:  Yeah I know.  You never do.

 

Hutch gave a low groan, unaware the sound was vocal. 

 

Starsky sagged into his side.  “What’sa matter, Blondie?  You forget how to untie a simple knot?”

 

The weight of his partner pressed against him, coupled with the friendlier tone of Starsky’s voice, made Hutch feel abruptly forgiven.  He growled out something appropriate in response, the final knot blundering free.  Studiously schooling himself not to react to Starsky’s damaged back or the criss-crossed scars on his rear end, Hutch slid the garment down his friend’s arms. He bit his lip to stop the blood draining from his face.

 

I can’t believe they carved that sick thing onto his ass.

 

“You’re doing just fine, buddy.”

 

Starsky nodded, nervous now that he stood naked.   He tried to pull away, clearly anxious to be in the safety of the shower where the frosted glass would hide him.

 

Hutch held onto his arm, unwilling to let him bungle ahead and end up taking a tumble on the vinyl floor.  “Easy, Starsk.  Just let me help you inside.”

 

He moved slowly, guiding his friend to the glass door, carefully pulling it open.  He could tell Starsky was feeling horribly vulnerable, not surprising given he was naked and battered while Hutch was fully clothed.  The shower would help wash away the defilement and taint of violation.  Unfortunately it could do nothing for the pain.

 

Hutch swallowed hard, but couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to Starsky’s swollen, discolored groin . . . to the sickeningly vivid bite marks on his stomach.  Involuntarily his left hand tightened on Starsky’s arm.

 

“You wanna ease up on that, Hutch?”  Starsky cast a pointed glance at the fingertips tightly wrapped around his biceps.

 

Hutch flushed and released him, guiding him onto the broad seat in the shower.  Quickly, he turned away, busily collecting shampoo, soap and a clean washcloth.  He passed them to his friend, his expression steady and even. Inside his stomach churned with hot acid.  “Yell, if you need me.”  Forcing a smile, he shut the door.

 

Behind the glass, Starsky was a watery distortion of fleshtones as he stretched his legs and lifted his face to the cleansing spray of heated liquid.

 

Restless, Hutch combed nervous fingers through his hair and paced a short distance away.   He struggled to retain his composure despite the acid bubbling in his gut.  More than anything he wanted to be the person Starsky needed . . . the supportive friend who said and did only the right things but part of him didn’t know how.  Part felt just as crippled and shaken by the horrific attack as his friend.  He wanted to lash out, retaliate and wreck his own brand of retribution on those responsible for hurting Starsky.  He felt the shocking and uncharacteristic need to make someone - - preferably Marcus or his lead henchmen - - suffer and suffer dearly.

 

Disturbed by the black thoughts, Hutch pulled a towel off the vanity and corkscrewed it between his hands.  He cringed in reaction, fissures of pain streaking from his lacerated fingers to his wrist.  Wincing, he immediately dropped the towel and tried to refocus.   His eyes sidled to the glass stall and the distorted silhouette behind it.  “You okay in there, buddy?”

 

Starsky was standing now, his body positioned directly beneath the oversized showerhead, face upturned to the heated stream of water.  His silhouette looked ballooned out of proportion, the area between his legs grotesquely distended even through the frosted glass. “I ain’t an invalid,” he snapped, perturbed.

 

Hutch breathed a minor curse.  He paced in a circle, watching as his friend scrubbed filth from his body, all the while looking none too steady on his feet. Between the drugs and the beatings, Hutch knew the infusion of liquid heat would eventually turn Starsky’s muscles to unresponsive fluid.  It would only be a matter of time before he lost coordination along with his remaining strength.  As if on cue, the fleshy outline slumped against the wall, a barely vocal moan wafting from the shower. 

 

Fully wired, Hutch took a step forward, nervously flexing his hands.  “Starsk?”

 

“I’m okay.”  Starsky’s voice sounded different this time, strangely defeated.  Seconds passed.  He huffed out a sigh and reached for the shampoo, lathering his thick hair.  One shoulder stayed pressed against the inside wall for support. 

 

Steam was starting to fill the bathroom now despite the constant hum of the exhaust fan.  Moisture clung to Hutch’s face and curled the edges of brass-hued hair resting on his collar. The dampness made him feel nauseous, adding to the growing pain in his hand.  He stole another glance at the shower stall, this time witnessing the slow bend of Starsky’s knees, the effort of remaining upright finally exacting its toll on his partner. 

 

Fear knifed through Hutch, followed by a sharp crackle of irritation.  “Damn it, Starsky, quit being so freaking stubborn and let me help you!” 

 

He reached for the shower door, intending to wrench it open, but Starsky held it fast.  “When I’m ready,” he said thickly.

 

It wasn’t so much his words as the tone that sent Hutch’s anger puddling uselessly on the floor.  Defeated, he dropped his brow against the glass, his own voice expelled in a heartfelt sigh.  The fist in his gut clamped down hard.  “Babe, I . . . I’m just worried about you.”

 

There was a long pause from the other side of the glass.  “I know.”  Starsky’s hand fell away from the door, but Hutch made no move to open it.  He waited, listening to the heavy drum of water as Starsky rinsed soapy lather from his hair.  Rolling his shoulder against the door, Hutch stood in profile, facing away from his friend, silently waiting for Starsky’s permission. It came minutes later. 

 

Preceded by a groan of pain, Starsky shut off the water.  “Hutch?”

 

It was all he needed to hear.  Yanking open the door, Hutch reached inside to grip his partner’s arm.  Wet and trembling with fatigue, Starsky clutched the frame as he allowed Hutch to guide him from the steam-fogged stall.  Water dripped from his hair, dark curls drenched and glistening like sun-streaked onyx beneath the bright yellow glow of the overhead lamp.  By contrast, the cuts and welts on his body looked vivid and alarmingly red.  Hutch immediately wrapped a towel around his friend’s waist and Starsky grabbed it with quavering hands.  He clutched it close in an uncharacteristic rush of modesty and shame.

 

Once again, Hutch fought down the urge to react.  He hated seeing Starsky so vulnerable, detested the harsh emotional scars Marcus’ followers had left on his partner.  The physical abuse was abhorrent enough, but to have his friend shy away from him because he felt degraded left Hutch practically trembling in rage.  Cannelli had already told him Starsky would be kept hospitalized until he could urinate on his own and the excessive swelling in his groin went down.  Yet even then, Hutch knew the psychological scars would remain.

 

Reaching for another towel, he guided Starsky to a seat on the closed lid of the toilet.  His partner was clearly existing on the last dregs of stamina, his bruised limbs strung with fatigue.  Gently, Hutch blotted the moisture from Starsky’s back and shoulders until frustrated by his own helplessness, Starsky took over the task and grimly finished on his own.  He remained tight-lipped and mostly uncommunicative through the procedure, only thanking Hutch when he was dry and dressed in a clean hospital gown.  Hutch helped him back in the wheelchair, then across the hall and into bed.

 

Cannelli stopped by shortly afterward to check on his progress.  Hutch was shooed from the room by a nurse who arrived to dress and bandage the worst of Starsky’s cuts.  Resigned to pacing in the hallway, Hutch chatted with the patrolman stationed outside Starsky’s door.  The precaution would remain until after Marcus’ sentencing and the added insurance that the worst of his followers were rounded up. 

 

Distracted, Hutch glanced at his watch, shocked to realize it had been over 30 hours since he’d eaten or slept.  He was far from hungry, but the emotional and physical fatigue of the last day and a half was starting to catch up with him.  Not to mention the pain that had rooted in his damaged right hand.  The nurse who’d stitched it had told him to go home and keep ice on it, but he didn’t have the luxury of time.  Not when Starsky needed him.  Maybe his stubborn partner wouldn’t admit it, but Hutch had no plans of leaving Starsky when he was still so vulnerable . . . especially not with a number of Marcus’ sadistic followers on the run.  God help the scum if he caught any of the bastards.

 

Wincing, he glanced down at his hand.  The pain was starting to bother him, his split and reddened skin swelling against the bandage, pulling on the stitches.  He’d swallowed a few Tylenol but had stuffed the pain medication the nurse had given him into his pocket, promising to take it if and when he needed it.

 

Like now, you ass.

 

But, of course, he wouldn’t.  Narcotics made him nervous, sort of like tempting fate.  He’d survived heroin addiction but the nightmare had never gone away.  Maybe Tylenol didn’t have the same effect as something with street value, but it felt safer.  He’d round up a few later on and wash them down with a cup of strong coffee to keep him going.  Right now, all he wanted to do was see Starsky.

 

When he was finally able to return to his partner’s room, Hutch found him fidgeting, looking wholly exhausted.  The shower and the session with the nurse had obviously taken their toll.  Starsky’s face was white and strained, bruised with bluing half-rings of shadow beneath his eyes.  His lips were pale and bloodless, a cadaver gauntness hollowing his cheeks, greedily robbing him of vibrancy and life.      

 

“Starsk?” Worried, Hutch drew up a chair beside the bed.  He instinctively reached for his friend’s hand, disturbed to find Starsky’s grip lax in his, a little too dry and papery for his liking.  The IV had been reinserted, but it would obviously take awhile for the antibiotics to combat Starsky’s low-grade fever.   Hutch wet his lips, letting his fingers tighten over his friend’s hand.  “Feel any better?”  The question was no sooner voiced, than he immediately cringed.  Fucking brilliant, Hutchinson!  It was so flagrantly obvious Starsky was miserable, he rushed to explain.  “ . . . I-I mean from the shower.”

 

Starsky gave a marginal nod, his eyes fixated somewhere at the foot of the bed.  “Yeah.  Thanks.”  He grimaced slightly, reflex tension relayed in his abruptly taut grip.

 

Inwardly, Hutch swore.  He realized all the jostling and indirect movement Starsky had endured had aroused new thresholds of pain.  As with the antibiotics, it would take awhile for the narcotic-laced meds to catch up.  Feeling useless he bit down on his lip.

 

“Hutch?” Starsky’s exhaustion-slurred voice intruded into his thoughts. 

 

“Yeah?”  he asked quickly.

 

Still looking at the foot of the bed, Starsky spoke with calm authority.  “I wanna know when Marcus is sentenced.”  He cleared his throat, strengthening his voice.  “I want you to be there.  I wanna make sure he knows I came through this.”

 

Starsky’s gaze flashed to his face, electric blue and cutting.  Fatigue was quickly replaced by grim determination and something far darker.  Hutch chose not to examine that thread too closely.

 

“It’s important to me, Hutch,” Starsky continued levelly, his gaze never wavering.  “I want you there, ‘cuz I can’t be.  Cannelli ain’t gonna let me out and Dobey would never stand for it.  But I want Marcus to know he didn’t win.”

 

Hutch glanced down at his watch.  He’d heard from the patrolman guarding Starsky’s door that Marcus’ sentencing was expected to take place before the day was out. Sensing headlines, the media had turned the already explosive story into a three-ring circus, posting updates - - most of them overly sensationalized and useless - - every hour.  The hospital had been under fire too, a central hub for news crews, journalists and cameramen trying to be the first to break Starsky’s condition to the world at large. They eventually disbanded after threats of arrest from Dobey and hefty lawsuits from the hospital administrator.  An occasional few lurked nearby, but they’d learned to keep a healthy distance.

 

Final word had Marcus’ sentencing scheduled for 5PM.  Any further delays would have his lawyers screaming “mistrial.”  Of course there was an entire set of additional charges to be dragged through court at a later date - - Starsky’s abduction and attempted murder, the list of violations so long just thinking about them made Hutch’s head spin.  Between the crimes he’d already committed and this latest atrocity, Marcus would die in a maximum-security jail cell, never again seeing the light of day.  Even that fate seemed far too kind for a monster who unjustly masqueraded as a man.

 

“Hutch?”  Starsky’s voice carried a shred of annoyance.  “Did you hear what I said, Hutch?”

 

Hutch blinked, snapping from his thoughts.  “Yeah, I heard you.”  He held fast to his friend’s hand.  “If that’s what you want, I’ll be there.”  He understood the importance of Starsky’s request.  Even more, he understood how heavily the outcome would factor into Starsky’s recovery.  If there was any possible way for his partner to struggle into that court room, even if only for a minute, Starsky would do it in a heartbeat - - his very presence a cold slap to Marcus’ face.   Since he couldn’t be there, it was up to Hutch to do it for him. 

 

Starsky tugged on his arm - - hard.  “You make sure he understands he didn’t win, that I’m still alive.”  His voice was hostile now, bristling with pent up hate and rage . . . the bottled shame and horror of every vile beating and humiliating atrocity he’d endured.  “Nothing he did to me is gonna matter in the end.  You fuckin’ tell him that, Hutch!  You make sure he knows he’s the one who’s screwed.” 

 

Hutch nodded, understanding Starsky’s rage but shaken by the hate-filled blackness he heard.  Starsky had a temper, but he’d never really had it in his heart to hate another human being.  If there was anyone who deserved hatred, it was Simon Marcus.  Hutch had his own special vehemence against the bastard, but he didn’t want Starsky falling into that same ugly pit.  As hard-edged as he could be, Starsky was more about vulnerability and child-like innocence.  To have that stripped away and buried under the filthy muck of Simon Marcus  - -

 

Hutch swallowed hard, his unsettled stomach churning with acid.  Pulling his hand free, he settled his fingers on Starsky’s shoulder.  “Don’t worry about it, Starsk - - I’ll be there.  I’ll take care of Marcus.  I just want you to rest.”  Lifting his hand, he stroked the back of his fingers across Starsky’s cheek.

 

The fire stayed in his friend’s eyes.  “Promise me, Hutch.”

 

“I promise.”  The vow came automatically, despite how tired and worn he felt . . . despite the persistently gnawing pain in his right hand.  He could feel cracked and broken flesh swelling against the bandage, the resulting restriction almost unbearable.  But it didn’t matter.  The only thing of importance was his vow to Starsky.  He knew his presence in the courtroom was key to his partner’s healing.  He tried to smile but there was such angry passion in Starsky’s eyes, he only managed a ghost of an attempt.  “I should probably go.  It’s almost four o’clock now and sentencing is at five.”

 

Starsky nodded, his desperation gradually fading in the face of Hutch’s assurance.  “Come back after it’s over,” he mumbled.  “I wan’ you to tell me what happened.”

 

Exhaustion took its toll.  Having secured the promise he wanted, Starsky stopped fighting the demanding pull of much-needed rest.  He’d obviously pushed himself well past the limits of his overly taxed stamina and would likely sleep through the night, but for the mandatory blood pressure checks.  Even so, Hutch would come back as promised, ready to report the result of Marcus’ sentencing if his friend was up to hearing it.  Starsky trusted him to do nothing less.

 

Letting his touch linger, Hutch cupped the palm of his good hand against his partner’s cheek. “Take care of yourself, buddy.”  His thumb stroked across bone, lightly feathering the contour of washed-out flesh.  He layered affection and warmth in the touch, willing it to act as a conduit for the time they would be apart.  It hurt leaving.  Especially after spending a pulse-pounding, frantic twenty-four hours just trying to find Starsky.  The last thing he wanted was to be separated from his friend.  But he’d promised.  

 

Starsky mumbled something incoherent and Hutch knew he’d fallen under the radar of slumber. 

 

Smiling gently, he tugged on a damp curl then quietly left the room, entrusting Starsky’s safety to the patrolman stationed outside the door.  Detouring across the hall, he slipped into the private bathroom where he’d helped Starsky shower earlier, knowing he had to do something about his hand. 

 

It was starting to pulse and throb mercilessly now, a side effect that had him cursing his own hotheaded stupidity.  The swelling was out of control, so grotesquely advanced he knew the bandages had to come off.  Scissors would have helped, but he wasn’t about to go looking for a pair and get lectured on the second idiotic thing he’d done that day:  1. Don’t put your fist through a mirror.  2.  Listen when someone tells you to put ice on it immediately.

 

Grimacing, he picked at the sticky tape and gauze, working it until the whole mess was a bloody wad of bandages he quickly dumped in the trashcan.  Rinsing off the worst of fresh and crusted blood, he blotted his hand dry with a towel.  The flesh had purpled, ghastly and ballooned, one or two of the stitches cracked and bleeding over his knuckles.  Pain crawled up to his elbow, a likely sign the damn thing was infected.  He’d been given a shot of antibiotics to ward off exactly that possibility, but apparently the medication hadn’t taken effect yet.  And there just wasn’t time to get it looked at again - - not if he wanted to keep his promise to Starsky. 

 

Nervous, Hutch dragged his good hand over his face.  He knew Tylenol wasn’t going to cut it if he wanted to get through Marcus’ sentencing and make sure the bastard heard Starsky’s message.  Mulling it over, he pulled out the pills the nurse had given him and studied the label:  1-2 every four hours as needed for pain.  His hand was just about in the stratosphere in that department so he might as well go for broke. 

 

Uncomfortable, he looked around the private bathroom.  They were just pills, he reminded himself.  It wasn’t like he was going to get hooked.  Yes, they were narcotics, yes they had street-value and could be easily addictive, but taken in the proper dosage, for the proper reason, they were relatively harmless. So why the hell am I shaking?

 

Left-handed, Hutch twisted off the cap and tumbled two tablets into his palm.  Sweat broke out on his forehead.  His stomach grew abruptly queasy and his legs felt weak.  This is fucking ridiculous!  They’re just pills!

 

Before he could think it through, he popped them in his mouth, twisted on the faucet and quickly bent beneath the stream to swallow a mouthful of liquid.  Shaken, he stayed hunched over the sink, his left hand collecting cold water to smooth over his abruptly sweaty face.  Composing himself, he dragged a towel over his wet skin, finger-combed his pale hair, then hustled from the bathroom holding his damaged hand close to his side.

 

It was hard driving, but somehow he managed to reach the courthouse and make it through the throng of reporters and police.  He parked in the garage, twisting his arm on the steering wheel to blink stupidly at his watch.  He still had a half an hour before he needed to be in the courtroom. Lack of sleep and food, coupled with the double punch of strong narcotics, made his limbs feel ridiculously heavy, his mind slow and fogged.  He hated the thought of trudging through the reporters, all of them shoving microphones in his face.  In a few more minutes BCPD crowd control would have them restrained and cleared of the main thoroughfare.  He’d wait out the intervening gap.

 

Besides it felt decadently good to sit and let his mind go blank.  He’d been in constant fast-forward for the last thirty-four hours, his emotions and nerves on overload.

 

Hutch let his eyes drift shut, lulled by potent drugs and the heavy punishment of sleep deprivation.  All he needed was a few minutes to recharge.  Just a few minutes before he walked into the courtroom and personally delivered Starsky’s message to Marcus. Yawning, he slumped lower in the seat.  Just a few minutes . . .

 

When Hutch opened his eyes again the garage was deserted and dark.

 

+++++

 

Shit! 

 

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

 

Hutch bowed his face into his hands, angrily raking hair from his eyes.  He stole a single glance at his pocket watch, the late hour confirming his worst fear.  He’d slept through Marcus’ sentencing.  After promising Starsky . . . after vowing to deliver his partner’s message personally, he’d screwed up by caving to the punishing demands of his overly exhausted body.  How could he ever explain to Starsky that he’d slept—fucking slept!—through the hearing?  The one thing Starsky had asked him to do, the one thing he’d vowed to do, and he’d completely dropped the ball. 

 

It’s like this, buddy—it wasn’t all that important, you know?  So what if I didn’t tell the bastard he could stuff his dreams and riddles up his ass . . . that you were kicking butt?  Catching two hours of Zzzzs was more important, Starsk.  Get your freaking priorities straight.

 

With an audible groan, Hutch dropped his forehead against the steering wheel.  He huffed out a breath, angrily pounding his lacerated fist against the hard surface. Pain shot through his mangled knuckles, boomeranging up his arm like a serpent-tongued streak of lightning.  Instinctively, he winced.

 

Okay, definitely not a wise idea.

 

Trying to pull it together, he sat up straight.   It was time to face the music, drive back to the hospital, confess what he’d done and hope his friend would forgive him.  He’d call Dobey and find out what the sentence had been.  At least then he’d have something to report to Starsky.  Odds were his partner would be so disoriented from lack of sleep and a steady infusion of drugs, the news wouldn’t even faze him.

 

Yeah. Right.

 

Trying to convince himself of that carefully crafted truth, Hutch turned over the ignition.  It really wasn’t that catastrophic, not the end of the world after all. He needed to put things in perspective.  So he’d slept through the sentencing . . . Starsky would get over it.  Starsky would forgive him.

 

Shaking off his clinging fatigue, Hutch banked the car from the garage and headed for Memorial Hospital.

 

+++++

 

Visiting hours were almost over by the time he arrived.  He could feel the crowds thinning in the corridors, the sluggish advance of the clock creeping slowly forward as guests prepared to leave.  Sprinting from the elevator, Hutch darted down the hallway, immune to everything but the urgency in reaching Starsky’s side.  He bolted in the door, coming to an immediate halt in the shadow-draped room. 

 

It felt restful and snug, blanketed with the eclipsing pall of velvet-laced darkness. The privacy curtain had been drawn between the beds, a semi-solid barrier hanging whisper-soft in the half gloom.  Starsky’s roommate, now returned from surgery snored softly, his snuffling inhalations of breath rhythmic and strangely soothing in the stillness.

 

Hutch approached his friend’s bed, hesitating uncertainly at the side.  Doubt crept into his mind as he closed his good hand over the lowered safety rail.  He’d been given one singular, simple task, and he’d failed miserably.  If it had been in Starsky’s power, his friend would have dragged himself into the courtroom, beaten, bleeding and crippled with pain.  By contrast Hutch couldn’t even overcome a simple case of exhaustion to do what he was asked.  

 

I’m a piss-poor excuse of a friend.

 

“Starsk.”  Tenderly, he slipped his fingers into his friend’s hair.  The touch sent warmth crackling through him on a scale he hadn’t expected.  How was it possible for one man to feel such unfaltering attachment to another when there was nothing remotely sexual involved?  He craved contact with Starsky with the same fierce longing as a man deprived of water . . . the merest brush of fingertips through his friend’s hair sending a blissful cascade of warmth and devotion through his weary body.

 

“Hey, babe.”  He smiled gently when his friend shifted slightly, blinking up at him groggily.  He knew it wasn’t the ideal time to resurrect the specter of Simon Marcus, but if he didn’t make an attempt to address the sentencing, Starsky would call him on it tomorrow.  Biding time, Hutch brushed aside the heavy ringlets cresting Starsky’s brow.  “Feeling any better?” he asked.

 

Starsky lowered his eyes, tiredly blinking fog from his gaze before refocusing.  When he spoke, his voice was heavy, slurred with the clinging remnants of sleep.  “I’ll survive.”  He licked his lips, tried to sit a little straighter.  Eventually the deepwater spark of his ocean-blue eyes wandered back to Hutch.  “What happened with Marcus?”

 

“I, um . . .”  Tongue-tied, Hutch stumbled for words.  His hand dropped to Starsky’s shoulder, absently fingering the freshly laundered ring of his collar. The blood-scent, so prevalent on his partner before was gone now . . . the sour stench of sweat, fear, clotted blood and vomit.  In its place was a more familiar scent . . . the welcoming tang of his friend, an odor he couldn’t really name or describe, but pleasant and familiar all the same.  A scent he knew as intrinsically as he knew his own heartbeat.  “Starsk, the thing is . . .” he faltered beneath his partner’s suddenly divining blue gaze.

 

Starsky scowled, abruptly alert.  “What ain’t you saying, Hutch?  Don’t tell me the scum walked.”

 

“No!” Hutch was quick to assure.  “He got life without parole.  It’s just . . .”  Uncomfortable, he struggled to part with the devastating truth.  “Starsk  . . . I-I fell asleep in the car.  I didn’t mean to.  See I popped these pain pills for my hand, and I guess I took too many.  I haven’t slept in awhile and-and . . . I know it’s not an excuse but, I-I was just so tired and - -”

 

“Hutch.”   Starsky’s voice was calm and measuring.  It cut through Hutch’s anxiety like a thick-bladed knife.  “It’s okay, babe - -”

 

“What?”  Hutch blinked rapidly.  “No.  It’s not.  Did you hear what I said, Starsk?  I missed Marcus’ sentencing!  I fell asleep in the car.  I wasn’t even there.  I never told him what you wanted . . . never got a chance to - -”

 

“Hey!” A rough voice groused from the other side of the curtain.  “You wanna keep your voice down over there?  Trying to sleep here.”

 

Hutch gave a choked snort, uncertain if he was embarrassed or wanted to snap a vehement reply.

 

“Sorry.”  Starsky replied for him.  There was a rustling of blankets behind the curtain, followed by the soft sound of rhythmic breathing as Starsky’s roommate settled down to resume sleeping.  The dark-haired man shifted his gaze back to his distressed partner.  “Forget it, Hutch.  I’m tired too.  Let’s call it a night.”

 

Hutch struggled, at a loss for words.  He’d expected his friend to be angry, enraged for his failure, but Starsky merely looked resigned and weary.  Almost as if he’d expected Hutch’s staggering inadequacy . . . as if he’d known he couldn’t count of his friend to follow through even on such a simple request. 

 

Depressed, Hutch gave a slight nod.  His fingers strayed a little higher, clipping the bottom of Starsky’s jaw, lightly skimming across beard stubble.  His chest contracted painfully, his breath catching tightly in his lungs.  “Starsky, I feel so bad, buddy.  I know how important it was to you - -”

 

“Forget it.”  Starsky’s voice was tense, a little too short.  He exhaled wearily, shifting and closing his eyes.  “I’m really tired, Hutch.  Can we just call it a night?”

 

“S-Sure.”  Hutch’s mouth was dry.  His heart skipped as he tried to pinpoint exactly what felt so wrong.  Starsky hadn’t blown up, hadn’t gone ballistic on him despite the fierce orders he’d been given earlier by his angry partner.  By contrast, Starsky was handling the whole thing remarkably well.  Could it simply be a result of the medication and his sleep-hazed mind, or was his partner camouflaging anger with reserve?

 

Exhausted, emotionally drained, Hutch hated to leave the hospital.  Not wanting to break contact with his partner, he let his touch linger.  The warmth beneath his fingertips burned all the way to his soul.  “Starsky . . . if you want me to stay . . .” He glanced around feeling suddenly miserable, not sure how to fix his inexcusable blunder.  The chair in the corner looked horribly uncomfortable, but he’d slept in worst places.  His hand dropped to Starsky’s forearm, tightening affectionately. “I don’t mind sleeping here.  I could - - ”

 

“Hutch, just go.”  It wasn’t anger exactly in Starsky’s voice so much as impatient resignation.  Still it stung.

 

Hutch attributed his friend’s terseness to lingering pain, fatigue and emotional upheaval.  Tomorrow after Starsky slept, he’d feel a little better, be thinking more clearly.  Then again, he might also resent Hutch’s blunder a hell of a lot more.  Bottom line, visiting hours were almost over and unless he planned to take a stand against the nursing staff and camp out in Starsky’s room, it was time for him to bail. 

 

“I’ll be back early, buddy,” he promised.  “You want anything in the morning?  Anything special for breakfast?”

 

Starsky shook his head.  “ Hospital’ll feed me. ‘Night, Hutch.”  He rolled onto his side, presenting his back.

 

The dismissal wasn’t exactly curt but it left Hutch feeling like he’d been shut out.  Probably just my imagination.  He’s tired . . . doesn’t feel good.

 

“Okay.”  He gave one last faltering touch to the dark crown of Starsky’s hair, withdrawing awkwardly and retreating to the door.  He was halfway down the hallway when a fresh wave of guilt washed over him, thoroughly destroying any hope he had for Starsky’s forgiveness.                          

 

+++++

 

Starsky lay in the darkness, listening to the snuffles and grunts of his snoring roommate.  Until Hutch had arrived, he’d actually been able to sleep a little himself.  The desire was gone now, his mind consumed with the nightmares of the past 30+ hours and the knowledge his friend had failed to fulfill his request.

 

It shouldn’t have been that difficult. 

 

He knew Hutch was exhausted, knew his hand had to be hurting phenomenally if he’d consciously swallowed pain pills.  Hutch didn’t take medication by choice.  But despite that insight, Starsky couldn’t help feeling cheated.  He’d so wanted Simon Marcus to know he’d survived the nasty ordeal the cult leader had arranged for him.  He’d wanted to rub the bastard’s nose in his failure.  All Hutch had to do was walk into that courtroom and deliver Starsky’s message.

 

It should have been simple.

 

Instead he’d fallen asleep in the car and Marcus had been led away to life confinement smugly confident he’d won . . . that Starsky had been too brutalized, too traumatized to do more than curl up in a ball and snivel like an infant. 

 

He’s probably gloatin’ even now, dreamin’ more dreams, the spineless S.O.B.     

 

He’d lost his one chance to really stick it to Marcus, and all because of Hutch.

 

Disturbed by the grim thought, Starsky shifted marginally, rolling halfway onto his back.  They’d bandaged the knife cuts on his buttocks as well as the deeper laceration beneath his shoulder.  The worst pain came from his severely swollen groin and his mutilated wrists, the latter now heavily swaddled in packing and gauze.  He’d gotten used to the pain, a constant ache held just below the surface by a steady flow of intravenous medication.  Yet even drugs hadn’t helped when they’d eventually cathed him. The procedure had been less than pleasant, and he’d found himself apologizing afterward for his reactionary string of four-letter words.  Even Dr. Cannelli had colored at the profanity Starsky spewed at anyone within earshot. 

 

He’d calmed down immediately afterward, the worst of his pain soothed when Cannelli ordered a heavier dose of morphine. The increase had dropped him into near-instantaneous sleep, a state he’d wallowed in until Hutch showed up, miserably admitting his failure.

 

There’d been a brief moment when Starsky was tempted to chew out his blond friend, but thankfully he’d held his tongue.  If he was honest, the last 30+ hours hadn’t exactly been a picnic for Hutch either.  He already knew from Dobey, Hutch hadn’t slept or ate, frantically working every possible thread he’d stumbled across in his relentless search for Starsky. 

 

And Marcus had toyed with his overly sensitive partner . . . feeding him riddles, setting boundary lines he couldn’t cross, basically making Hutch grovel and plead for any minor scrap of knowledge related to Starsky’s whereabouts.  Then he’d sat back and waited, perfectly aware Hutch was spinning his wheels, growing increasingly desperate and frustrated by the second.  He’d waited for a weary, beaten Hutch to return, his idealism cruelly stripped away . . . knowing full well Hutch would have done nearly anything to save his partner. 

 

And Marcus had fed him more riddles.

 

To make it worse, relief had turned to overwhelming fear when he’d finally found Starsky, Hutch’s mind running rampant as he’d agonized over whether or not his partner had been violated.  He was that transparent - - all backward Midwestern farmboy when it came to emotional issues.  Starsky’s partner was tough as nails when he needed to hold up under physical punishment, but let his heart be involved and he morphed into an emotional wreck. 

 

Which was the sole reason he’d put his hand through a mirror, Starsky thought sourly. 

 

He should be pissed.  He was pissed, but knew it wasn’t fair of him.  Hutch hadn’t let him down on purpose.  Odds were the idiot was beating himself up even now, layering on blame, a skill Hutch had mastered exceptionally well.  No one did guilt like his overly sensitive partner, something Hutch had been practicing and perfecting since he was a kid.

 

Then again, Hutch could be unshakably resolute . . . cold as ice and deadly as sin when he wanted to be.  His friend never would have gotten hit over the head and dragged out of a bathroom.  He was too smart for that, too keenly perfect.  Hutch wouldn’t have ended up strung up by his wrists while a group of perverted cultists danced around his half-naked body, taking swings at him.  Not Hutch.  Not Mr. Glamour-Boy-Golden-Perfection.  Hell, nobody would even think of carving some sick abomination on Hutch’s ass.  How did you compete with a man who not only looked like fucking Narcissus, but was perfect in every other way on top of it? 

 

Alarmed by his thoughts, Starsky groaned.  What the hell was wrong with him?  So he’d gotten beat up, been pawed by some sexual perverts and had his pride trampled in the gutter.  Yeah it hurt like hell, physically and psychologically, but was that any reason to turn on Hutch - - the one person who loved him unconditionally? 

 

Annoyed, he buried his face in his hand.

 

I’m whale shit.

 

He suddenly wished he hadn’t been so quick to dismiss his friend.  He felt wide awake despite the sedative-laced drugs pumping into his body.  Outside the hall lights dimmed, signaling the end of visiting hours.  Within seconds an overhead page requested guests to depart for the night. Starsky glanced at the wall clock, trying to gauge how long it would take Hutch to reach home.  

 

Would he even go straight there?  In his present frame of mind, his fair-haired partner was likely to wander aimlessly.  Odds were he wouldn’t go to Metro.  Dobey would just order him home, so the station was pretty much out of the picture.  So were bars and nightclubs.  Feeling low, Hutch would want to wallow in that misery - - a typical Hutchinson trait - - not share it with others.  He’d probably go someplace quiet to be alone - - the beach or maybe the park.  Which was unbelievably irksome, considering he might end up spending hours there.

 

Starsky waited half an hour then dialed Hutch’s apartment.  The phone cycled through ten rings before he gave up and returned the receiver to its cradle.  Fifteen minutes later he tried again with the same results.  The cycle repeated with Starsky making an attempt every ten to fifteen minutes until finally, two hours after Hutch had left, Starsky caught him at home. 

 

“Yeah?”  Hutch picked up the phone on the third ring, sounding irritable and more than a little distracted.

 

Surprised that he’d finally reached him, Starsky waited a heartbeat before replying.  “Hey.”  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, abruptly dry.  “Where ya been?”

 

“Starsk?”  Hutch’s tone changed instantly, softening into a tentative exhalation of breath.  Starsky could almost picture him easing to a seat on the edge of his sofa, the brown and gold cushions yielding beneath Hutch’s weight. “Why are . . . I mean, I thought . . .”  An audible swallow came across the line as Hutch struggled to gain control of his senses.  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

 

“Don’t know.”  Starsky paused.  That wasn’t entirely true.  “Worried about you,” he admitted crisply. 

 

Hutch sighed into the phone.  “Why?”

 

“Dunno.”  Yeah, he did.  “I was outta it when you were here before.”  That wasn’t entirely true but it would serve to make his point.  “I mighta been a little short with you  . . . you know about the Marcus thing.  I didn’t mean it.”

 

“Starsk, you were fine.”

 

Lyin’ worse than I am, dummy.  Knowing he was fighting a losing battle, Starsky made an effort to change the subject.  If he dwelled on it, Hutch would just dig himself deeper in denial.  Starsky didn’t want to argue.  Not with the low timbre of his friend’s voice murmuring in his ear.  It was like having Hutch in the room with him, something he desperately wanted at the moment.  “So where were ya?”

 

“The beach.  I went for a walk.” 

 

“Uh-huh.”  Starsky shifted, grimacing when rekindled pain streaked from his throbbing groin.   Slipping a hand beneath the blankets, he adjusted the heavy ice pack holding the worst of the swelling at bay. “Thinkin’ about things?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Well, don’t think too hard.  You need to go to bed so you can be here bright and early with my breakfast.  I decided I want one of those scrambled egg and cheese burritos with a cherry Danish on the side.” 

 

Hutch chuckled. The relaxed intimacy of the sound against Starsky’s ear chased his pain into submission. 

 

“I thought you were going to let the hospital feed you?”  Hutch challenged, affection in his voice.

 

Starsky smiled.  “Changed my mind.  You gonna stop thinkin’ and sleep now, Blintz?”

 

“Depends.  Can I have a beer first?”

 

It was Starsky’s turn to chuckle.  “Save me one, huh?”

 

“Will do, Gordo.  See you tomorrow.” 

 

Hanging up the phone, Starsky folded back against the pillows.  He felt better, relieved that he’d removed a potential barrier between himself and his friend.  Admittedly it was a barrier he’d created, but pulling it down by choice eradicated the reason it had been constructed initially.

 

So Hutch hadn’t delivered his message to Marcus.  It was no big deal.  Even without that satisfaction, Starsky would survive.

 

And heal.

 

+++++

 

Three days later he was released from the hospital, still far from whole but recovered enough to hobble around and nurse his own wounds.  Hutch turned into the proverbial mother hen, wanting to hover and wait on him hand and foot.  He tolerated it for awhile, but part of putting the ordeal behind him was the ability to do things for himself.  He hurried that a little too quickly, determined to show everyone he’d survived, that nothing about him had changed.

 

When he finally made it back to the station a week after his release from the hospital, he worried over how many people knew the sordid details of his abduction.  No one said anything or even hinted they were aware of his injuries.  He was greeted warmly and enthusiastically, coworkers and colleagues welcoming him with cheers, handshakes and a round or two of back thumping. 

 

Starsky took it all in stride, secretly wondering how many of his peers had seen Glass’s photos.  Hutch assured him the photographer had buried them under a mound of restrictions, but it didn’t alleviate his discomfort knowing they were “out there” . . . that anyone with a badge and the right authorization could retrieve proof of his shame, vividly categorized in a handful of Polaroid snapshots. 

 

His injuries were thankfully healing, mostly gone now.  Hints of the repulsive bite marks lightly shadowed his stomach and heavy looping scars encircled his wrists, evidence of the damage done by abrasive rope.  Fortunately the atrocity he detested the most - - the abominable upside down cross on his backside - - was fading to a thin red scratch.  In time it would disappear completely, though the memory of having it cut into his flesh when he’d dangled, helpless and mostly naked, by his wrists, would never go away. 

 

His groin was almost back to normal, blotched with discolored bruises but without the hideous swelling. It no longer hurt when he went to the bathroom and he could move about comfortably.  He’d finally finished the last of the antibiotics two days ago, feeling like he’d been given a reprieve. It was just one more step in putting the hideous nightmare behind him.

 

A week later he was back on active street duty.  By then Hutch’s hand had healed as well, the stitches removed, the ugly red scratches interlacing his fingers and knuckles faded to pale pink lines.  He’d handled his Magnum on the shooting range with enough skill and efficiency to get an all-clear from the departmental doctor. 

 

To Starsky, a return to the streets meant a return to order in his life. 

 

And a chance to prove himself.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure where that drive came from - - to demonstrate he still had what it took to collar the worst criminals, to make the nastiest street scum fear him - - the heinous, the ruthless, those without conscience and morals.  He didn’t care if they fed on the weak, just that they cowered and ran from him.

 

In the beginning the need to dominate was only a glimmer in the back of his mind.  In a brief time, however, it became an addictive anthem - - a code of conduct that grew increasingly habitual.  He needed to outrun, out drive, out shoot, out fight and out think every other cop on the force. 

 

Including his partner.

 

They’d always been a little competitive, but suddenly Hutch was the person Starsky measured himself against.  His perfect blond friend excelled at everything he did . . . was the ideal specimen of masculinity and compassion combined.  Despite his tenderness and affection, despite unflagging loyalty, Hutch abruptly became Starsky’s prime rival. 

 

The competition had been building in little things. For two weeks Starsky had toyed with his partner and Hutch had let it pass unaddressed.  But their latest call brought the simmering kettle close to eruption.  In pursuit of a robbery suspect, Starsky chased the perp headfirst into a downtown construction site. The fleeing man raced up a skeleton of scaffolding, leaping onto the jutting framework of a partially constructed highrise. Starsky followed without hesitation, the aerial chase performed some twenty stories above ground.  As terrified as he was of heights, he didn’t think twice about jumping from precariously suspended beam to precariously suspended beam, the narrow planks swinging open-ended above the dizzying drop below.

 

When he finally caught and cuffed his quarry, he took him back via a safer route, using a flight of interior stairs.  His legs were trembling but it wasn’t with fear so much as the giddy kick of having survived the impossible.  Hutch met him at the halfway point, white-faced and furious.  Starsky couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend so unnerved.  Fortunately Hutch had the presence of mind to wait until a uniformed patrolman led the suspect away before completely losing his cool.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”  The moment the cop and his prisoner were out of earshot, Hutch slammed Starsky against the wall, his pale eyes blazing with flame. “You stupid, fucking idiot!  I should deck you for taking ten years off my life!  You could have gotten yourself killed pulling a crazy stunt like that!”

 

Still coming down from the heady adrenaline rush, Starsky grinned.  His brazen audacity only served to infuriate his partner further.  Hutch was terrified and he knew it.  The knowledge was giddily empowering.  That he’d succeeded in traumatizing his normally reserved friend made him feel dominant and alive - - far from the helpless prisoner who’d been strung up by his wrists and repeatedly abused.  It invigorated him, sent his testosterone level rocketing through the roof. “What’sa matter, Hutch?”  He grinned wickedly, savoring every trickle of his partner’s high-octane fear. “You too scared to follow me up on those beams?”

 

Hutch’s face crumpled, his shock-whitened skin turning green.  Looking like he was going to be physically ill, he gave Starsky a hard shove.  “You asshole.” Pivoting on his heel, he clambered down the stairs. 

 

Starsky waited until he couldn’t see him any longer, the aftereffects of the chase snaking through his limbs like a highly addictive drug.  Heaving out a breath, he drew a hand over his face.  His fingers were trembling.  Within seconds his whole body started shaking, the tremors escalating from minor quivering to outright shuddering in less than a minute.  Sweat broke out on his forehead.  A tight fist clamped down on his gut forcing a groan from his constricting throat.  Shock came next, buffeting his mind in an icy wave.  Had he really jumped from beam to beam, a skinny plank of metal the only thing between him and certain death?  No wonder Hutch was so pissed!

 

“God!”  Gripping the stair railing, he hung his head over the side.  So what!  So fucking what!  Men who did things like that weren’t victims - - they lived on the edge, discounted danger.  Hutch would never do anything so reckless.  Not Mr. Perfect, so fucking masculine he didn’t have to prove himself to anyone.  Got you quaking now, don’t I, pal?  Crossed a line you ain’t willin’ to walk.    

 

He shook away the nausea, angry and determined.  No one was ever going to carve a sick abomination on his ass again.  No one was ever going to string him up and strip away his pride, his sense of self-worth.  He was more of a man than his perfect blond partner could ever hope to be. 

 

Regaining control of his emotions, Starsky sucked in a breath and sprinted down the stairs.

 

+++++

 

Hutch winced, rubbing a hand against his temple, hoping to stifle the deep-rooted ache splintering behind his eyes.  He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to go club hopping with Starsky in the first place.  His highly excitable partner had been on an adrenaline rush all day, unable to sit still, practically vibrating out of his skin.

 

His stunt at the construction site quickly made the rounds of Metro and more than one person stopped to fawn over his superhuman exploits.  Starsky had eaten it up, retelling the tale of how he’d chased the suspect from beam to beam, the precarious narrow planks swinging and clanking together, until he’d finally taken the man down on an adjoining rooftop.  Once or twice he’d even inserted a few comments about Hutch tarrying below. 

 

“ . . . taking his time comin’ up those steps, you know?”  Starsky had said with a conspiring wink for his audience.  “Can’t say my partner doesn’t know when to come down with a convenient leg cramp.”  There’d been a hearty round of chuckles and Starsky had taken it further, prompted by the laughter at Hutch’s expense.  “Aw, come on - - you can’t really blame him for not havin’ the stomach to get up on those beams.  So what if he was scared?  At least he knew how to climb the steps after I’d cuffed the guy.”

 

Hutch had pretended not to hear, keeping his face averted, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment creep over his cheeks.  He’d tried to convince himself Starsky was just teasing . . . that there was nothing malicious in the repeated boasts, but he couldn’t help feeling hurt.  They’d always been a team, doing things together, but Starsky had bolted on his own after the robbery suspect, ignoring Hutch's angry shouts that it wasn’t safe.  Had he been a coward, he wondered?  He’d followed as quickly as he could, concern for Starsky making him discount his own safety, but he’d become lost in a labyrinth of skeletal scaffolding and partly completed framework. 

 

If he had made it to the top, would he have been brave enough to chase the perp onto a free-swinging beam, suspended twenty stories above ground?  It seemed excessive for a man suspected of ripping off a comic store, yet Starsky hadn’t hesitated.

 

Disturbed, Hutch tugged at his collar.  He didn’t like the way Starsky was acting lately.  It went far deeper than this one incident, though today’s chase and its aftermath had shaken Hutch to the core.  He’d been terrified, certain his partner was going to plummet to his death.  When he’d finally confronted Starsky on the landing, he hadn’t known if he’d wanted to crush him in a tight embrace or punch him for his stupidity.  To make it worse, Starsky had grinned, laughing at his fear. 

 

And now he was off dancing with a petite blonde Hutch had been chatting with earlier.  The heavy pound of disco and the strobing flash of multi-colored lights added to the spreading ache in Hutch’s skull.  He hadn’t felt much like socializing when Starsky dragged him into the nightclub, but the blonde-haired girl had been cute, and she’d sent him enough signals from the bar that he’d moved over to talk to her.

 

He’d bought her a drink, learning her name was Beth.  He’d only been a few minutes into the conversation when his partner had sauntered over and introduced himself, layering on his skillfully patented charm.  The next thing Hutch knew, Beth and Starsky were on the dance floor and he was sitting alone in a corner booth, nursing a warm beer and a growing headache. 

 

There were plenty of other single women in the bar but Hutch didn’t feel up to the effort.  Aside from which, he had a firm suspicion if he struck up a conversation with another willing female, Starsky would simply zero in like a predator sighting prey. Aside from his recklessness on the job, Starsky had taken to romancing a different girl nearly every night of the week.  And if she happened to be someone Hutch was attracted to, so much the better.

 

True, they’d been competitive with women in the past, but it had always been a light-hearted kind of rivalry. This was different, darker, almost as if Starsky enjoyed besting his friend.  Hutch had hoped tonight might give them a chance to talk, but Starsky wasn’t interested in anything that didn’t involve partying and scoring. 

 

Narrowing his eyes, Hutch looked through the smoke-filled room.  The dance floor was packed, a mesh of writhing bodies, strobe-streaked hair and high-heeled shoes.  He’d lost track of Starsky and Beth somewhere among that tightly gyrating knot.  Deciding a trip to the bathroom might alleviate the pounding in his head, if not the fullness of his bladder, Hutch shoved from the booth and made his way to the rear of the club.  Surprisingly, the bathroom was deserted.  He pushed his way inside, found the closest urinal and unzipped his pants.  He was almost finished when he heard a stall door open behind him.

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

 

Hutch recognized the voice immediately, though his partner’s unjustifiably enraged tone surprised him.  He spared an annoyed glance over his shoulder.  “Starsk - - what the hell?  I’m taking a leak.”

 

“Oh, yeah.  Like you didn’t time that.”  

 

Confused, Hutch adjusted his pants, snicking the zipper shut.  With a distracted glance for his partner, he walked to the sink and turned on the water, thrusting his hands beneath the spray.  “Starsky, what are you talking about?”

 

Starsky snorted.  “You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about.  You came in here to spy on me.  Wanted to see if I had the balls to stand out there, bold as brass like you, instead of hidin’ in a stall.  What’s the matter, Hutch?  You pissed because I took Beth away from you - - Mr. Pinup Perfect Physique?  This the only way you got to get back at me?”

 

“Starsky . . .”  Growing more aggravated by the moment, Hutch shut off the water and grabbed a wad of paper towels. The words coming from his partner’s mouth oozed vindictiveness, an impossibility that made his throbbing head want to explode.  Quickly drying his hands, Hutch pitched the used towels in the trashcan, stepping closer to Starsky in the process. “What the hell are you talking about?  I came in here to take a leak.”

 

Starsky exploded in bald-faced anger.  “Don’t give me that shit! You just wanted to see, didn’tcha?  Satisfy your sick curiosity about whether or not my jewels healed up . . . maybe even catch a glimpse of that perverted thing on my ass - -”

 

“God.”  The blood drained from Hutch’s face.  Starsky’s recent treatment of him, along with his cutting words and excessive heroics abruptly clicked into place.  Something cold and hard slithered through the pit of Hutch’s stomach.  “Starsky, no . . .”  The words wouldn’t come, stuck on his tongue.  Clearly his partner was feeling less than virile, emasculated by what Marcus’ followers had done to him. 

 

Is that why he’d been sheltered inside a stall, instead of using a urinal, afraid someone might inadvertently glimpse a residual mark of that abusive treatment?  Suddenly Starsky’s willingness to risk his life with dangerous stunts, his need to prove himself with women and worst of all - - his repeated verbal digs at his best friend - - all made sense.  Each instance fed his ego, reaffirming he was still a man.  

 

Shaken, Hutch reached out a hand.  “Babe, you don’t understand - -”

 

“Don’t.”  Starsky smacked his arm aside.  “Don’t call me that and don’t touch me.”

 

Hutch felt like he’d been kicked in the gut.  All this time he’d assumed Starsky was healing, that his friend had put the grisly ordeal behind him.  He’d tried to discuss the abduction a few times, but Starsky had always shrugged it aside, insisting it was no longer important.  He should have known better, recognized Starsky’s distance for what it really was.  Maybe he’d just wanted to believe too easily, hoping life had returned to normal. 

 

But it hadn’t.

 

Lately his friend had shied from being touched, rejecting their usual closeness.  And he’d erected barriers.  If he wasn’t being distant, he was proving how brave he was . . . how easily he could seduce the woman of his choice, or more often than not, Hutch’s choice.

 

Trapped by the hot anger in his eyes, Hutch was afraid to move. “We need to talk about this, Starsky.”

 

“Bullshit.”  Dismissing him with a blunt wave, Starsky shoved the door aside and blundered from the bathroom. 

 

Hutch followed as far as the dance floor, quickly losing sight of his fleeing friend amid the jostling crowd. The music was louder now, pumped to higher volume, bass and drums shrieking through massive speakers as the evening wore closer to midnight.  Deciding Starsky might just be pissed enough to strand him, Hutch headed for the Torino, arriving a few seconds too late.  He caught a flash of the car’s fishtailing rear lights as it banked from the parking lot onto the road. 

 

Cursing, he sprinted back to the nightclub.  Any other time he would have fumed but he was too hurt, too concerned, to be angry.  Once inside, he called a cab, ordering the driver to drop him at Starsky’s apartment.

 

+++++

 

Life sucked. 

 

Not in small, the-sun-will-come-out-tomorrow doses, but in monstrous bottom-of-the-barrel payloads. 

 

Starsky paced like a caged animal, the long-necked beer fisted in his hand offering little comfort.  It was dark inside his apartment.  He hadn’t bothered with lights, preferring the shadows and muted haze cast upward from a neighboring street.  The gloomy half-light suited his mood.  He didn’t know if he was disgusted by what he’d done or grimly pleased with the outcome.  The ugly confrontation in the disco’s bathroom had effectively shoved Hutch away. 

 

“Babe, you don’t understand - -”

 

“Don’t.  Don’t call me that and don’t touch me.”

 

Inwardly he cringed.  He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t craved Hutch’s comfort . . . the soothing timbre of his velvety voice or the warmth of his touch.  Don’t call me that.

 

He could still see the betrayed shock in Hutch’s eyes.  Worse, he could see Hutch standing at the urinal, totally unashamed to be exposed in a public bathroom.  And why not?   Ken Hutchinson was damn near perfect - - golden and bronze like a classical Greek sculpture.  He had nothing to hide.  If he’d really wanted Beth, one flash of his megawatt smile would have settled it.  He wasn’t the kind of man who got abducted and cruelly abused by fanatics. 

 

“Shit.”  Disgusted, Starsky shoved his beer onto the kitchen counter.  He loved Hutch more than his own brother but right now the urge to push him away was stronger.  Every time he looked at his friend it was a reminder of his own failings. He saw in Hutch things he could never be, and those miserable shortcomings ate at his soul. 

 

The sound of a car door closing outside roused him from his grim reverie.  Crossing to the window, he flicked the curtain aside, peering into the street below. In the coalescing darkness, Hutch’s fair hair gleamed with the celestial kiss of silver.  

 

Found me, huh?

 

He frowned, watching as Hutch doled a few bills from his wallet, passing them to the driver of a yellow cab.  When he was through, he turned to stare up at the second floor apartment, the glint of his eyes caught by an adjacent street lamp. 

 

Retreating a step, Starsky let the curtain drop.  It was almost midnight but he felt wired, juiced by everything that had happened that day.  Eventually the false adrenaline would fade and he’d come crashing down, exhausted when he finally landed.  In the meantime there was Hutch and a confrontation he’d hoped to avoid.  Bending, he switched on the nearest light, deciding to get it over with as quickly as possible. 

 

He’d said too much in the bathroom, but it was all his nosey blond friend was going to get.

 

“Starsky?” Hutch pounded on the front door.  “Starsky, you in there?”

 

“It’s open,” Starsky said, returning to the kitchen to retrieve his beer.  He opened the nearest cupboard and rummaged around until he found a half-eaten bag of cheese pretzels.  He wasn’t really hungry - - his stomach was practically in knots - - but he needed to do something with his hands.  Behind him he heard the door open and close as Hutch stepped into the apartment, swiftly crossing the floor.  Within seconds Starsky felt his friend’s highly charged presence at his back.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Starsky popped a pretzel into his mouth, absently noting it was stale.  The plastic bag crinkled loudly as he dropped it on the table.  “I’ll pay for your cab fare.”

 

The briefest of pauses preceded Hutch’s agitated reply.  “What?”

 

Chewing around the pretzel, Starsky shrugged as if the explanation was obvious.  “I shouldna stranded you at the disco. I’ll pay for the cab fare.”  He turned, looking Hutch squarely in the eye.  “We talked.  Now you can go home.”   

 

The dismissal didn’t exactly have the effect he’d hoped for.  Incensed, Hutch snapped a stern warning finger under his nose.  “Don’t pull that clueless shit on me, Starsky.  So help me, you started this - - you’re gonna finish it!”

 

Starsky’s anger crawled dangerously close to the surface.  “Started what?”

 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Hutch spat.  “I go to the bathroom to take a leak and suddenly I’m some kind of pervert trying to find out if you’ve got a stitch on your balls or a cut on your ass.  What the hell kind of friend do you think I am?”

 

Livid heat washed over Starsky.  Hutch had been shaken in the bathroom, not angry.  The fact he’d moved into confrontational mode made everything that much worse.  Hutch being empathetic he could handle, but Hutch in a righteous fit of temper was too much even on a good day.  Abandoning the pretzels, he paced to the other end of the small kitchen, dragging nervous fingers through his black hair.  “So I got a little freaky.  I don’t wanna talk about this.”

 

“Then what do you want to talk about?”  Crowding close, Hutch backed Starsky into the corner.  “How about why you’re suddenly daredevil personified  . . . or Don Juan reborn?”  Hutch lowered his voice, his eyes hard.  “Or maybe you want to explain why I’m suddenly the butt of your jokes at the precinct - -”

 

Starsky blanched.  Had he really been that bad?  “I said a few things,” he admitted lamely.

 

“Starsk, you basically called me a coward.  Is that what a friend does?”

 

The accusation stung.  Instead of feeling remorse, Starsky retaliated with anger.  He couldn’t stomach Hutch being right - - yet another stroke in the infinite realm of Hutchinson perfection.  “So I screwed up!  Like you never have?”  His voice rose in volume. Leaning forward, he spit the heated words in Hutch’s face.  “I ask you to do one lousy thing for me - - just one­ - - go to Marcus’ hearing and what the hell do you do?  You fuckin’ fall asleep!” 

 

Hutch jerked as if slapped.  The look on his face was all Starsky had to see to know he'd won the round.  Press the issue a little further and Hutch would crumble in a pile of guilt at his feet.  It was the one weapon he knew he could use against his friend effectively.  Hutch’s major weakness in life had always been his extreme aptitude for guilt.

 

“Starsk - -”  Hutch’s voice cracked.  Stricken, he turned away, his face draining of color.

 

Starsky knew it wasn’t fair to bring Marcus’ sentencing into the confrontation, but it was all he had. The man beside him was his soul mate. Right now that reality hurt too much to bear.  He needed to push Hutch away - - as far as possible without completely severing their friendship.  He needed the rush that came with being the stronger man, the dominant partner.  Marcus’ goons had effectively neutered his pride.  Sadly, some part of him needed to shatter Hutch, his perfect friend, in order to feel whole again.

 

“One thing,” he repeated, stalking to his partner’s side.  His voice dropped, low and accusatory, ribbed with unforgiving steel.  “I ask you to do one fuckin’ thing and you screw it up by fallin’ asleep.”

 

“Babe, don’t do this to me - - ”  Hutch’s face contorted, his profile twisted in pain.

 

It wasn’t enough. 

 

“What you’d do Hutch - - swallow a handful of pills lookin’ for a quickie high?  Ain’t as good as smack, but pain meds’ll do in a pinch, huh?”  Starsky pressed closer, his expression spiteful and grim.  “Is that why you couldn’t keep your promise - - you were flyin’ high and enjoyin’ it?”

 

Revulsion twisted Hutch’s face, followed quickly by hurt. “Screw you, Starsky!”  Shoving away, he bolted for the exit.  Nearly stumbling, he flung the door wide, bouncing it against the inside wall, the crack like a boom of thunder in the small apartment.  Seconds later he was outside and down the steps, swallowed swiftly by darkness.

 

Starsky balled his hands into fists, battered by an engulfing rush of self-loathing. He’d knowingly used the most painful memory in his friend’s past - - Hutch’s addiction to heroin - - against him.  It was not something a friend did, definitely not worthy of a cherished soul mate.  Yet there was little he could do to correct the blunder, having reached a point in his private misery where Hutch couldn’t follow. 

 

In the past they’d supported one another through difficult scrapes and emotional upheaval, but this was different.  He’d been molested when he’d been powerless to do anything about it.  People he didn’t want to think about had put their hands on him - - touching him, hurting him, beating him, stripping him of his masculinity.  He’d been burned, drugged, strung up by his wrists.  And just in case that wasn’t enough to permanently scar his soul, one of Marcus’ overly zealous freaks had carved up his ass. 

 

Unable to strike back, he was making Hutch pay right along with him. 

 

Shit!  I can’t believe I accused him of gettin’ high.

 

It was lower than he’d intended to sink, his outburst’s only redeeming value its ability to keep Hutch on unstable ground.  His partner would be too devastated to snap into confrontational mode, an attitude Starsky couldn’t navigate in his current precarious mental state. Disgusted, he walked into the living room, dropping with rag-doll posture to a seat on the couch.  Emotionally drained, he buried his head in his hands, sucking down a quavering breath.

 

He’d hurt his friend, gutted him.

 

Whale shit, that’s what I am..  Yup.  Need to get it tattooed on my chest. W-H-A-L-E Shit.

 

Tired, he rubbed his eyes.  It suddenly occurred to him Hutch was out in the middle of the night with no car and no way to get home.  Surely his impulsive friend would have sense enough to head to the gas station four blocks down and use the pay phone on the corner.  Another taxi.  Venice was too far to reach on foot, and city buses were an open invitation to a fistfight, mugging or worse.

 

Guilt slithered into Starsky’s mind.  None of this would have happened if not for their ridiculous encounter at the disco.  Inwardly he cringed, wondering why he’d been hiding in a bathroom stall to begin with. 

 

The answer was obvious if he allowed himself to be honest.  He’d been too self-conscious of using a urinal, afraid some mark remained on his groin to brand him a victim - - that the simple act of relieving himself would reveal proof of his disgrace and humiliation.

 

So instead he’d used a stall.  And when he’d come out, disgusted by his shame, there was Hutch brazenly pissing into a urinal, perfect and blond, looking every inch a healthy male.  His anger and reaction had been instinctive.

 

“The hell with it,” he muttered aloud.  Hutch was thirty-two, a trained cop who could take care of himself.  So what if he didn’t have a car?  His superior, college-educated mind would surely figure out something.  Can’t afford a black mark on that uppity Hutchinson perfection.

 

Frustrated, knowing his anger was misdirected, Starsky decided to call it a night.  He dragged himself to the bedroom where he shed his clothes in a pile on the floor, then flopped dispiritedly into bed. Anger gave way to depression as every painful word of his argument with Hutch played over and over in a continuous loop through his head.

 

When dawn came hours later, he was still wide awake, the dismal gray light seeping through his blinds acting as a sad reminder of how shabbily he’d treated his friend. 

 

 

+++++ 

 

Hutch slumped on the sofa, a bottle of scotch tucked between his knees.  He didn’t remember when he’d gotten home, only that he’d been in a black funk by the time he’d walked to the gas station in Starsky’s neighborhood and called a cab.  Rather than heading straight to Venice Place, he’d had the driver drop him at a bar not far from his apartment.  With a few hours to go before closing, he’d downed a string of beers, nursing his hurt in a quiet corner.  When the bar finally closed for the night, he’d walked to the beach, hoping the combination of sea air and salt mist would help clear his head. Instead he’d passed out on the sand, exhausted, emotionally drained and more than a little drunk.

 

He woke a few minutes later with a splitting headache. Deciding being marginally drunk didn’t have the added benefit of making him numb, he’d shambled back to his apartment intent on getting wholly plastered. Hutch rarely drank for the sake of drinking, but his best friend had effectively eviscerated his reasoning ability hours ago.  He found the scotch in a bottom cupboard, hard liquor something he rarely touched.  Forsaking a glass, he slumped into the sofa, clinging to the bottle like a lifeline.

 

He hadn’t recognized Starsky tonight. Truth was the friend he knew  - - the contagiously enthusiastic partner he’d worked with for the last six years, hadn’t been evident for some time. Instead he’d been working with a stranger.  One who enjoyed taking verbal potshots and who tried to upstage him in everything from passing romantic entanglements to common aspects of their job.  They’d always been a little competitive but never with a vindictive edge.  Any rivalry between them had been underscored by devoted friendship and an unshakable foundation of loyalty.  It was the balance in their unusually close and often intense relationship.

 

But that side of Starsky was no longer evident.  The man who could go from hardened street cop to vulnerable friend in the blink of an eye had been replaced by a thrill seeker who hid behind impenetrable barriers.  Lately Starsky was all bluster and macho theatrics, angry and distant. 

 

Don’t call me that and don’t touch me.

 

The blunt rebuff had pierced Hutch’s heart like a knife.  Touch had always played an integral part in their uniquely intimate relationship.  It connected them, bonded them on a level others couldn’t attain . . . made their friendship extraordinary in a world that frowned on such personal contact between heterosexual men. 

 

Starsky had even shied from his casual term of affection.

 

“Babe, you don’t understand - -”

 

“Don’t.  Don’t call me that and don’t touch me.”

 

The snub hurt just as badly in memory.   Wounded, Hutch took a swig from the bottle, wincing as the scotch burned a slow path down his throat.  He hated hard liquor, but hated the gaping hole in his heart far more. He needed something - - anything - - to make it go away, if only for awhile.  He and Starsky had argued in the past, even had some out-and-out fights, but he’d never once felt his friend was deliberately trying to hurt him.

 

Until now. 

 

“What you’d do Hutch - - swallow a handful of pills lookin’ for a quickie high?  Is that why you couldn’t keep your promise?  ‘Cuz you were flyin’ high and enjoyin’ it?”

 

The ugly accusation ripped through his soul.  “Oh, shit, buddy.  What the hell is wrong with you?”  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to curse, hit something or sob.  Starsky knew how badly Forest had fucked him up, yet he’d deliberately played on the most painful ordeal of Hutch’s life. Why?

 

Drawing an uneven breath, Hutch dragged trembling fingers down his face.   

 

To keep me angry and off balance, clear of whatever he’s trying to hide.  Like he’s seriously screwed up and doesn’t want to admit it.

 

It hurt too much to think. Thankfully, the liquor was kicking into gear, deadening the pain.  Getting drunk was far easier than sorting through the bruised snarl of his flighty emotions.  Closing his eyes, Hutch tipped the bottle to his lips, blocking out everything but the numbing burn of welcoming alcohol.

 

+++++

 

Starsky felt physically drained the next day and not just because he’d tossed and turned through a mostly sleepless night.  Lack of rest was one thing, but he’d crossed a clearly defined line when he’d taken his cheap verbal shot at Hutch. Using his partner’s drug addiction against him was lower than he’d thought he could sink - - a blatantly unforgivable trespass.  Hutch had every right to permanently sever their friendship if he chose. 

 

The thought saddened him, but he understood the inevitability at the same time.  He’d destroyed their intrinsic bond, and while he mourned the loss, he also realized Hutch was probably better off without him.  He wasn’t the same person he’d been before his abduction.

 

Restless and irritable, plagued by black thoughts, Starsky arrived at Metro forty minutes early, something that raised more than a few curious eyebrows.  Sugared coffee didn’t help his mood, nor did the glaringly empty desk across from him.  One or two of the other detectives attempted some light conversation, but his growled replies eventually convinced them to leave him alone.  

 

Thirty minutes later Hutch showed up looking as miserable as Starsky felt.  There was nothing remotely perfect about Hutch’s appearance today.  His face was drawn and haggard, marred by black rings beneath his pale eyes.  Sweat stippled his upper lip and cheeks, and his complexion was an unhealthy shade of gray-white.  Even his usually impeccable clothes looked rumpled and slept in.

 

It took Starsky a moment to realize the burgundy shirt and faded jeans were the same clothes Hutch had been wearing yesterday.  Five seconds later, watching the blond-haired man pour a cup of black coffee with visibly trembling hands, Starsky realized his friend was suffering from a full blown hangover.

 

Ignoring him, Hutch sat at his desk without uttering a word.  He snagged the nearest folder from his pending caseloads and immediately bowed his head over the printed jumble of words. Tremors raced through his long fingers as he delicately massaged one temple, his eyes narrowed to light-sensitive slits.

 

Starsky frowned.  His partner had obviously spent half the night getting seriously drunk, the other half throwing up.  Judging by the pasty cast of his skin, his stomach was still giving him grief.   

 

Serves him right.

 

The thought no sooner surfaced than Starsky immediately cringed.  His vicious verbal tirade the night before was most likely the sole culprit for Hutch’s attachment to a bottle of liquor and ultimately the toilet.  Blowing out a resigned breath, he grabbed the nearest file, pretending interest in the first document he came across.  “Think you’re gonna make it through the day?”

 

Hutch didn’t bother raising his head.  “I’ll live,” he replied curtly.

 

It was all they said to one another until Dobey sent them to interview a witness related to the robbery suspect they’d apprehended the day before - - the one who’d led Starsky to the roped-off construction site. Apparently the job foreman had been in the comic store at the time of the robbery and had chased the perp to the unfinished highrise.

 

“Let’s hope we can get through questioning this guy without any of your stunning aerial acrobatics,” Hutch said bitingly on their way to the garage.  “I know it’ll be tough to restrain yourself, but give it a shot, huh, partner?”

 

Irked by the heavy sarcasm in his voice, Starsky cast him a narrow sideways glance. They were both miserable, tempers snappishly short, the memory of yesterday’s ugly argument hanging over them like a black pall.  Deciding it wasn’t worth the aggravation, Starsky bit his tongue and stayed silent.  Once in the vehicle, Hutch ran through a terse check of the items in the glovebox, clocking them on the road at 8:13.  Head bent, he scribbled in the activity log, his mouth compressed in a thin white line.

 

Starsky frowned at the icy tension hanging between them. It was almost tangible, weighted and sharp, something he could have reached out and touched.  Banking the car from the garage, he angled the heavy vehicle onto the street, unintentionally bouncing the rear wheels across a sizeable bump. The shocks gave, snapping the leaf springs up and down with the jerk-and-jar motion of a carnival ride.  Beside him, Hutch groaned audibly and hastily cranked down his window.  Panting, he ducked his head to catch the quick rush of incoming air.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out the jostling motion of the Torino was playing havoc with his roiling stomach.  Two car lengths ahead, a city bus braked, spewing a cloud of black exhaust fumes and Hutch paled further.

 

“Want me to stop?” Starsky asked.

 

Hutch gave a perturbed grunt and an impatient shake of his head.  Clumsily dragging his knuckles across one cheek, he mopped up a sticky trail of sweat.  His complexion morphed from white to waxy yellow. 

 

Irritably, Starsky sighed.  “Look, Hutch, you gotta blow chunks, don’t do it in my car.”

“Stuff it, Starsky.”  The retort was far sharper than normal. 

 

“Fine!”  Fuming, Starsky pressed on the gas, veering around the bus, brutality rocking the car to the side.  Hutch clamped down on an instinctive groan and turned his head away, one hand nervously clutching his stomach. Instead of feeling satisfied for gaining the upper hand, Starsky was flooded with a sudden surge of remorse.

 

Oh, shit, babe, I’m sorry.

 

It wasn’t in him to be vindictive, even when he was pissed.  Instead of apologizing for his reflex anger, he drove carefully, trying not to be obvious about his belated concern.  If Hutch noticed his diligence he didn’t comment, but his hand eventually relaxed over his stomach.  A short time later they arrived at the construction site and located the job foreman. Halfway through his breakfast, the man greeted them while continuing to down greasy bacon, day-old fish sticks and cold pizza amply slathered with chunky barbecue sauce. 

 

“Don’t mind me,” he instructed.  Chewing around a mouthful of pepperoni and dough, he motioned them to a makeshift table composed of a plywood sheet balanced over two sawhorses.  “Always gotta have a hearty meal at the beginning of the day.  Say, you fellas want anything?”

 

Hutch took one look at the unappetizing mess and gave a violent shake of his head.  Moving quickly to the background, he allowed Starsky to take the lead. 

 

“Think I’ll pass, but thanks all the same.” Starsky grinned and pulled out his notepad.  He could feel Hutch hovering behind him, abnormally tense and sweaty.  Even to Starsky, noted for his cast iron stomach, the combination of rubbery fish sticks, barbecue sauce and fat-addled bacon looked a bit too much for early morning.  Then again, he wasn’t exactly operating at prime either. “Wanna ask you about yesterday - - the comic book store and the guy you chased back here.” 

 

“Oh, yeah - - that was some crazy experience!”  The man talked with little prompting, relaying how he’d walked into the shop to purchase the latest X-Men comic for his eight-year-old son, when he realized he’d interrupted a robbery.  “Scared me shitless, till I figured out the guy didn’t really have a gun . . . the bastard was just bluffing.  He took off and ran back here and that’s when - - ”  He stopped suddenly, looking at Starsky as if seeing him for the first time.  “Hey - - you’re that guy!  The one who chased that dirtbag up onto the framework.”

 

Behind Starsky, Hutch grew fidgety.  “Could you just finish the story?”

 

“Man, you were really something,” the foreman continued as though he hadn’t heard. “I got guys on the job over a decade would sell their own mothers ‘fore they’d prance on framework like you did.  I ain’t afraid of heights, but I ain’t crazy neither. ”

 

Hutch dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, we don’t have all day.”

 

“You really gave us something to jaw about,” the man said admiringly, his eyes glued to Starsky.  “I mean - - hopping from beam to beam like that was sheer lunacy!  I woulda bet money you were gonna plummet twenty stories and end up in technicolor.”

 

“Excuse me.”  Looking abruptly green around the gills, Hutch pivoted and bolted for the nearest portable john. 

 

Starsky jerked, surprised by his abrupt exit, more than a little unnerved Hutch couldn’t hold it together.  It was one thing for his partner to be hung over, another to be so far gone he couldn’t function. Then again, Hutch had kept it together remarkably well until the foreman started talking about yesterday’s fiasco and Starsky’s potential plunge from the unfinished high rise. 

 

“Hey.”  Tugging on Starsky’s sleeve, the foreman gave a nod to Hutch’s departing back.  “Your partner don’t look too good.  Late night with Jim Beam, huh?  Guess you cops gotta do whatever it takes to get by.”  He winked and mimicked tipping a bottle to his lips.

 

Starsky glared, feeling a reactive burn of protective anger for his friend.  There was no disguising the fact Hutch was hung over, but he hated the thought of every Johnny-on-the-spot reading into that rarity.  Any other day his impeccable partner was cordial and professional, so well groomed he made those around him look sloppy by comparison.

 

Frowning, Starsky imagined his blond partner heaving his guts into the open hole of the smelly john.  Hutch hated being nauseated and he hated being filthy. He’d sunk pretty low to be vomiting liquor in a grimy, disposal toilet at the edge of a construction site.  Definitely not one of his better days. 

 

With concentrated effort, Starsky finished the interview with the foreman then walked back to the Torino to wait on his friend. Five minutes later Hutch showed up, shaken and white, obviously having purged the last traces of alcohol from his rapidly dehydrating system.  Suddenly awkward, Starsky braced an arm on the roof of the car.  “Want some water . . . some soda?” he offered evenly.  “There’s a 7-11 around the corner.”

 

Hutch shook his head.  A trace of appreciation flickered through his pale gaze before his eyes dropped to the ground. 

 

Starsky dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, his mouth bone dry. Last night he’d wanted to keep Hutch at a distance - - had been grimly determined to do so, but now that self-created barrier felt wrong.  Before he could say anything to redeem himself, the radio crackled, shattering the awkward silence.

 

“Zebra 3, 187 multiple homicide.  Join units already on scene, Southeast Canyon Road, intersection of county line.”

 

Looking immensely grateful for something to do, Hutch bent into the car and took the call. Twenty minutes later they arrived on the outskirts of the city, adding to the bouncing strobe of red and blue emergency lights collected there.  Police cruisers, two ambulances and the county coroner were already on the scene. Mostly remote, the rural area was a tangle of scrub trees and brush, bordered by a deep ravine and a snaking rivulet of fresh water. 

 

Starsky parked the Torino on the edge of the road, abandoning the car to scramble down the angled embankment.  Behind him a patrolman directed traffic away from the area.  Hutch followed at a slower pace, finally catching up near the bottom of the muddy gorge.  A short distance away, two bodies were covered with sheets, waiting to be bagged for transport to the morgue.

 

Starsky grabbed the nearest detective, a colleague from Metro. Normally upbeat and with a personality slanted toward irreverence, Phil Baker currently looked anything but cavalier.

 

“What’dya got, Phil?”  Starsky asked with a nod for the bodies. 

 

“Cult members,” Baker returned, clearly disgusted.  He winced sympathetically and scratched behind his ear.  “Sorry, Starsky.  They’re Marcus’ goons by the looks of ‘em - - the last of the group who bailed before we could bag ‘em at the old zoo.  We got three more in the back of a black-and-white . . . glazed-eyed, doped up on who knows what shit, all admitting to killing these two, like they’re lining up for a frigging award.  Seems after Marcus was sentenced, his followers fell apart, turning nasty and gutting each other for the sheer hell of it.  We got two butchered bodies and three confessed killers.  It ain’t pretty.”

 

Numb with shock, Starsky took a step forward.  He was brought up short when a hand clamped firmly on his arm.

 

“Starsky, don’t!”  Hutch’s voice was sharp and tight, spoken near his ear.  Baker had moved away, retreating into the throng of officers and detectives, respecting the difficulty of the situation. 

 

“Hutch, I gotta see.” 

 

Wrenching his arm free, Starsky made a bee-line for the bodies.

 

There were a few small groups of people clustered nearby - - medical personnel, detectives, one or two officers.  Even Glass was there, quietly talking to a young EMT off to the side. The sight of the crime-scene photographer unnerved Starsky, instantaneously resurrecting a swarm of unpleasant memories.  Grimacing, he tamped them down, his heart pumping out a furious triple time beat. What did it really matter if a few less of Marcus’ freaks polluted the earth? There would be more cults and other brainwashed oddballs to take their place. 

 

Except it fucking mattered to him!  It mattered immensely.  He was intricately tied to Marcus’ puppets, a part of his psyche caught up in the soiled flush of their brutality and delusions.  He hated them, hated what they’d done to him . . . the physical and emotional scars they’d left.  Wounds that even now kept him at odds with his partner.  If one or two of the black-robed freaks got their own balls cut up, he was entitled to some well-deserved gloating. 

 

Flashing his badge at a waiting paramedic, Starsky bent and impatiently tugged the shroud from the nearest body.  An involuntary gasp escaped him at the sight of a black-haired woman.  He recognized her immediately as the same woman who’d bitten and molested him, her sharply fanged teeth sinking into the tender flesh of his stomach. One half of her face had been sheered away, her neck gouged and mangled so savagely Starsky felt his gorge rise.  She’d been stripped of clothes, her body bearing evidence of blunt force trauma from her bare breasts to her blood-splattered knees.  Someone had cut open her stomach, savagely cleaving aside tissues and membranes, wrenching the spongy innards of her gut through a raw gaping cavity.

 

Gagging, Starsky dropped to his knees, one hand instinctively clamping over his nose and mouth.  He felt a firm touch on his shoulder, familiar long fingers gripping in support. 

 

“Starsky?” 

 

There was concern in Hutch’s voice, not the cold anger he’d felt from his friend earlier that morning.  Too wired to respond, he covered the woman’s battered body and yanked back the second shroud.  He vaguely recognized the man . . . had a brief blurred image of a loose-jointed redhead clubbing him repeatedly in the side.  Like the woman, the man’s body had been desecrated, carved up and severely beaten.  He’d been disemboweled and castrated, his body so heavily covered in blood, little flesh remained that wasn’t mutilated or soiled.

 

Starsky tensed, his hands locking on the raised shroud as if crippled with rigor mortis. There was nothing to gloat about here, only sickness and depravity, so starkly evident he teetered on the brink of sanity.  He’d been tortured repeatedly by the same sadistic freaks who lay mangled and dead at his feet.  Hour after hour, he’d suffered horrific punishment, each vile infliction worse than the last.  Yet through it all, he’d held onto his sense of self-worth - - through endless beatings, drugs, even perverted molestations, he hadn’t lost sight of his own grounded identity.

 

Until he was rescued.

 

The world had turned upside down then, no longer about surviving but accepting and coping.  The devastation had left him feeling stripped of pride and debased.  One moment he was hiding in bathrooms like a freak, the next brazenly parading on rooftops for the world to see.  He’d skipped from open beam to open beam of an unfinished highrise, flagrantly taunting and cheating death.  He’d outshone his more cautious partner and in the process had felt the giddy rush of exhilaration for all of two seconds.   

 

As with any reckless high-wire act, reality eventually came crashing down.

 

Flinging the shroud over the mangled body, Starsky shoved forcibly to his feet, jarring Hutch’s hand loose in the process.  He risked one fleeting glance at his friend, instantly shaken by the naked concern in his partner’s sky-colored eyes.

 

“Starsk?”

 

Annoyed, Starsky turned away.   He didn’t deserve concern - - especially not from Hutch, a man he’d unjustly slandered.  “I’ll wait at the car,” he muttered.  He had to get away from the bodies - - the blood and sickly stench of death.  Away from the kindness and unmasked loyalty in his partner’s eyes.  The world was crumbling around him and all he could do was run. 

 

Wordlessly, Starsky sprinted for the Torino and the safety of solitude.

 

+++++ 

 

Hutch made a final notation on his tablet, tucking the small pad in his pocket.  With a resigned glance for the Torino, he started wearily up the embankment.  As he drew nearer to the car he could see Starsky sitting behind the wheel, his hands convulsively wrapped at ten and two o’clock.  The dark-haired man looked straight ahead, eyes staring blankly at nothing.

 

Any other time Hutch wouldn’t have hesitated to draw him from an obvious shell, but he was emotionally off balance himself - - still hurt by last night’s argument and waylaid by a lingering hangover. He knew he only had himself to blame for the alcohol-induced stupidity.  His head throbbed, his eyes burned, and his skull felt like it wanted to roll from his shoulders.  He’d gotten sick more times than he wanted to remember, including his recent exhibition at the construction site.  If it hadn’t been for the idiotic job foreman fawning over Starsky’s reckless stunt, Hutch might have held his roiling stomach in check. 

 

But the thought of his partner plummeting to his death in “technicolor” had been too much to absorb.  It wasn’t alcohol that had made him barrel unsteadily for the nearest john, but the traumatic fear he might have lost his best friend.

 

Rounding the front of the car, he rubbed grit from his eyes.  He’d seen Starsky’s face when his partner had looked at the butchered bodies in the canyon below and knew he struggled with unwanted memories.  Since his abduction, Starsky had been careful to avoid discussing what happened to him - - at least until last night when his emotions had come unraveled at the disco.

 

And all because I had to take a leak.  How freaking ridiculous is that?

 

Hutch slid into the car and closed the door.  He was silent a moment waiting for some acknowledgement but Starsky kept his eyes trained ahead.  “I think I’ve got what we need,” Hutch announced neutrally.  “Baker’s the prime on this one, but Dobey wanted our input since we were involved in the earlier slayings tied to Marcus’ followers.”

 

“Let ‘em butcher each other,” Starsky said sourly, his voice and words completely out of character.  His eyes swiveled to the side, razor-sharp and winter cold.  “You talk to Glass?”

 

“Yeah.”  Unable to find solid emotional footing, Hutch shrugged. “A little.”

 

“What’d he say?”

 

“Not much. He took some shots -”

 

“Yeah, he’s damn good at that.”  Starsky cranked the ignition, and the motor roared to life.  “Thought you two might wanna compare Polaroids since you’re so hot to check out his work.”  Palming the wheel, he roughly jerked the car onto the road.  “How much you wanna bet one of those corpses got an upside down cross carved on its ass?  Thought for sure you’d wanna check that out, pal . . . make certain Glass got the best angle.  The dead guy didn’t have any balls left, but he still had something to sit on.  You’re gettin’ shoddy in follow through, ain’tcha, Hutch?”

 

Scowling, Hutch held his temper. The person sitting beside him, bitterly spewing vulgarity upon slur, upon hurtful remark was not the Starsky he knew.  Judging by his friend’s appearance, he hadn’t managed much sleep last night.  Maybe he hadn’t gotten drunk, but he’d obviously spent the night cavorting with a few deeply buried demons.  Based on his current acerbic behavior, he wasn’t ready to abandon them just yet. 

 

“Don’t be stupid, Starsky,” Hutch said quietly.  He’d lost the ability to be truly angry last night when his friend had deliberately tossed a hurtful remark about drug abuse his way. Sometime near dawn he’d made a conscious - - if somewhat drunken decision - - to forgive Starsky’s spitefulness rather than harbor resentment. Their friendship was too important to him to let it fall apart over something snapped in the heat of anger. 

 

But that didn’t mean he was going to roll over and get trampled on either.

 

“Oh, so now I’m stupid?” Starsky asked hotly. Behind them the canyon faded, replaced by trees, lonely twisting roadways and scraggly protrusions of brush. “Think that’s why Marcus’ goons grabbed me instead of you - - ‘cuz they knew blond-and-perfect was too damn smart to get his college-educated ass abducted?”

 

Hutch had reached his limit.  “Starsky, pull over.”

 

“ - - but not the dumb Jew from New York.”

 

“That’s it!”  Hutch’s head felt like it was going to explode.  Shifting sideways, one hand firmly braced on the dash, he let his anger boil over.  “Pull this fucking car over right now or so help me - -”

 

“What?”  Starsky snapped.  He veered to the side, braking sharply, bringing the vehicle to a wrenching halt on the shoulder of the road.

 

Hutch’s body lurched with the momentum, but he held his place, right hand clamped on the dash.  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

 

“Why?”  Starsky slammed the gearshift into park.  “ ‘Cuz I got my butt kidnapped . . . had a bunch of sick perverts put their hands all over me - - paw me, grope me, beat the shit outta me until I thought I was gonna die?”

 

Hutch’s stomach contorted.  His face turned white.  “Don’t - - ”

 

“Ah . . . what’sa matter?” Still biting off his words, Starsky leaned forward, shoving his face closer.  “Don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it.  I mean what kind of man let’s someone do that shit to him?  What kind of weak-willed, submissive sap lets himself get beat up and groped like a piece of meat?”  Drawing back, he narrowed his eyes.  “Not Ken Hutchinson.”

 

Appalled by the observation, Hutch stared in open shock.  For a time his voice failed him.  “Is that what this is about?” he managed finally. “Because I didn’t suffer with you, I’m no longer good enough to be your friend?”

 

Something wild and skittish danced through Starsky’s eyes.  Stung, he jerked backward, a flicker of sanity returning to his feverishly crazed gaze.  “You think I’d actually will something like that on you?  God, Hutch - -!”  He couldn’t finish.

 

Confused, Hutch swallowed his hostility.  He knew Starsky teetered on a delicate cusp between anger and fear.  His friend hadn’t truly meant any of the cutting remarks he’d made over the last two days.  He was simply using them as a weapon to push Hutch away.  Yet as much as Hutch was hurting, it hurt more to think of Starsky trying to cope with the grim realities of his abduction alone.  In the past, they’d been able to support each other through the vilest nightmares, even Hutch’s addiction. 

 

“Starsky . . . I’m not going to go away, so quit trying to hurt me.  If you couldn’t do it by insinuating I took drugs, nothing is going to work.”

 

Starsky’s face crumpled.  “Shit.”  Frantic, he twisted to the side, clumsily fumbling for the door handle.

 

Hutch gripped his shoulder and held fast.  “Babe, I’m not going to let you run off.”

 

“Don’t.” Starsky hissed the word, but his voice cracked on the next sentence. “Don’t call me that and don’t touch me.”

 

“Nice try, but it isn’t going to work this time.”  Hutch tugged firmly.  His friend refused to turn around, but at least he’d stopped trying to escape.  “Listen to me, Starsky . . .”  Leaning forward, he spoke softly, carefully watching the back of his partner’s head for reaction. A single stray curl lay hooked over Starsky’s collar.  It was only through deliberate effort that Hutch resisted the impulsive urge to finger it.  He missed the casual touching of their relationship  - - as much a part of their seamless friendship as their usually effortless banter.  In the past when one of them was hurting, touch served as a solid anchor between them.

 

I want my friend back, he thought selfishly.

 

“I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, and no - - I can’t begin to understand what you went through, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.  Starsky . . .”  Hutch’s fingers tightened on his friend’s shoulder.  He wet his lips, a surge of fierce protectiveness washing over him.  “I’m not the enemy, buddy.” 

 

With a despondent groan, Starsky lowered his head.  “I know that.”  He hadn’t turned around, but at least he was talking.

 

“Well, lately it feels like I am.  You’ve been taking jabs at me left and right.  And then at the disco, in the bathroom . . .”

 

“I was being stupid,” Starsky admitted.  He was silent a moment, highly charged tension racing through his body.  “You . . . you don’t understand . . .”

 

Hutch felt a tremor beneath his fingertips.  Experimentally he lifted his hand and brushed aside the curl tenaciously clinging to Starsky’s collar.  When his friend made no move to rebuff him, he let his touch wander higher, lightly sculpting his partner’s thick hair.  “What don’t I understand, Starsk?”

 

He didn’t know if it was his touch, tone of voice, or use of his friend’s nickname, but suddenly the fight went out of Starsky.  Sagging into the seat, he turned around, facing forward, dislodging Hutch’s hand in the process.  A green station wagon drove by followed seconds later by a black pick-up and two sedans. Buffeted in the ensuing downdraft, the Torino rocked like a raft caught on a river current.

 

Starsky looked at the roof, tilting his head against the seat.  Somehow Hutch managed to wedge his arm in the pocket behind Starsky’s neck before his friend could protest. Outwardly content with the contact, the dark-haired detective let it go unchallenged. 

 

“I ain’t exactly been myself lately,” Starsky muttered.

 

Hutch considered it the understatement of the year, but decided not to make an issue of the reluctant confession.  “Because of what happened at the zoo?” he guessed quietly.  “With Marcus’ cult?”

 

Starsky blew out a dispirited breath. “Yeah.”  His eyes slewed to the side.  “Guess I’ve been treatin’ you like shit, huh?”

 

“You have to ask?”  Hutch raised a single brow, trying to keep his tone neutral.  Last night’s argument and Starsky’s cutting remark still stung.  “I’m not the one who hurt you, Starsky.”

 

“Like I don’t know that?”  The retort bristled with a familiar undercurrent of anger. “Sorry I ain’t the life of the party.  It ain’t everyday I get myself cut up, beaten and pawed.  Guess I didn’t like the way it made me feel, so I overcompensated in other areas.”

 

“And shut me out in the process,” Hutch said, not without an edge to his voice.  Even as the grudging sliver of anger surfaced, he tightened his hand over Starsky’s shoulder, hoping to reestablish the connection between them. “You might have tried talking to me.”

 

“And tell you what?”  Agitated, Starsky wrenched away.  “Look, Hutch - - you don’t get it.  You don’t know how it felt being strung up, unable to defend yourself.   It was bad enough when they grabbed me and I woke up blindfolded . . . clueless where I was.  I didn’t know if I was gonna live or die.  The whole friggin’ group was ringed around me like a pack of rabid wolves - - kicking, punchin’, out for blood.  My blood.” 

 

Starsky’s voice cracked as the vulgar memories returned. Thrusting his back against the door, he twisted around to face Hutch, their knees bumping on the seat. “They took something from me.  Do you get that?   Nothing I do - - run around on highrises, go out with a different girl every night to prove what a man I am . . . even - -”  He faltered, lowering his eyes as hot shame flooded his cheeks. “ - -even hurt my best friend, is ever gonna change that. I can’t get back what they stole, no matter how hard I try.  I’m just sorry I took it out on you.”

 

“Starsky - -”  Hutch’s eyes were bright, a little too intense.  “If I really believed what you said about me taking drugs, I wouldn’t be here.  Think I don’t know when you’re blowing smoke?”

 

Starsky shook his head, the acceptance gained far too easily.  “I hurt you, Hutch.”

 

“Yeah, you did.  But it hurts worse knowing you’re going through this shit and won’t talk to me about it.  Starsky, whatever you think those bastards did to you, they did not steal your soul.  They might have scarred you, but they can’t change who you are if you refuse to let that happen.”

 

It all seemed so easy when Hutch explained it.  Hack out the memories of violation and helplessness and the demons weren’t so monumental.  Except Hutch hadn’t been there.  He didn’t know what it felt like to be kicked repeatedly in the groin, unable to defend himself because his hands were tied behind his back.  Or to be strung up half-naked, fondled and bitten . . . to have someone take a knife and carve an abomination on his backside. 

 

Just thinking about it made Starsky’s breath catch in his throat. It sent his pulse racing beneath the scarred skin of his wrists. For the first time he considered talking about it . . . sharing the vile nightmare with Hutch.  His friend might excel in a number of areas, even have an annoying streak of perfectionism, but he was far from unsullied.  Hutch had been abducted once himself, tied up and pumped full of heroin while a mobster and his thugs stood by and enjoyed the show.  He’d been broken in front of his captors, a strong, proud man reduced to shell of his former self, groveling and begging for his next fix.

 

And I threw that back in his face.

 

Hutch wasn’t perfect.  He was as flawed, shattered and hurt as Starsky.  The forty-eight hours he’d spent going through withdrawal had been the most degrading experience of his life.  The pleading, filthy, convulsion-racked friend who’d balled up on a sweat-drenched bed was far from the infallible golden partner Starsky had been measuring himself against for the last few weeks.  Hutch had suffered just as miserably as he had. The difference was his wiser friend hadn’t felt the need to prove himself or ridicule others in order to overcome his ordeal.

 

The realization their situations weren’t all that different left Starsky teetering off balance. He bit his lip, painfully aware he’d been an idiot.  Not just minor and unintentional, but a colossal one.  He owed Hutch an apology.  More than that, he owed him an explanation.

 

“Those two people back there . . . the bodies . . .” He wet his lips, trying to find his voice.  Hutch watched steadily, his winter-pale eyes reflecting patience and compassion.  The heat from his leg soaked through Starsky’s jeans, spreading warmth where their knees butted together on the seat.  Grateful for the casual contact, Starsky suddenly realized how much he’d missed that closeness. 

 

“They were both at the zoo . . .”  The words clung to his tongue like glue, sticky and cumbersome. “ . . . when I was there,” he admitted at last, his eyes dropping nervously. He tugged on a loose thread poking from his worn jeans. “The woman was the one who  . . . who bit me . . . and - -”  His breath came harder, faster.  Sweat collected in his bangs.  He felt abruptly skittish, penned in.  It was too close in the car, the still air tightening a heavy noose around his neck. 

 

Then suddenly Hutch’s hand slid over his, instantly stilling his fidgeting, bringing calm, warmth, and the blessed assurance of devoted affection.

 

-          - no matter what, Starsky realized with a delayed sense of shock.

 

It didn’t matter what the woman had done  . . . or the man . . . or any of Marcus’ crazed freaks and assorted perverts.  Nothing  - - nothing would ever weaken Hutch’s unconditional loyalty or change how he felt. 

 

Shaken by the insight, Starsky choked on a strangled cry.  With it came the emotional unburdening of the demons that had tormented him relentlessly.  “God, Hutch, she kept bitin’ me . . . squeezin’ and gropin’ between my legs, and I was already so swollen from them beatin’ me.  It hurt so fuckin’ bad I thought I was gonna pass out.”

 

“Starsk - -”  Hutch reached for him.

 

He pulled back marginally, knowing his partner’s touch would slaughter his fragile composure.  Hutch in full-blown comfort mode was guaranteed to demolish all his barriers and while he wanted - - craved­ - - the consolation of his friend, he wasn’t ready to surrender.

 

Not yet.  Not when the words spilled helter-skelter from his mouth, his whole body shaking with the effort of getting them out.  “They had me strung up by my wrists . . . naked ‘cept for that stinkin’ black robe . . . and they ripped that open.”  He closed his eyes tightly, shaken by the bare compassion in his friend’s gaze.  It was too hard holding it together.  He felt Hutch touch his cheek - - a feather stroke of fingers against his sweaty skin.  It made the rest of the words come faster.  “Then they cut that thing on my butt, like I was some steer gettin’ branded, you know?”

 

His eyes flashed open, his gaze unnaturally hard despite a sudden sting of moisture.  “When I could move around again, all I wanted to do was prove what a damn hero I was.  Man, I didn’t think twice about chasin’ that guy up on that highrise.  I know it was crazy.  I know I could’ve gotten killed, and I know I scared the livin’ crap outta you, but it was just something I had to do . . . like hurtin’ you.”  He forced the words, feeling his throat tighten with each ugly truth, the hot sting in his eyes growing fiercer by the second.  “I just had to be better than you, Hutch.  I kept comparin’ myself to you, thinkin’ you were better off - - you had nothin’ to be ashamed about and I couldn’t get past what they did to me.”

 

“Starsky - - ” Hutch hooked a hand behind his neck, applying mild pressure.

 

Caught up in his confession, Starsky resisted the tug.  He blinked rapidly, unable to stop a hot rush of tears.  He’d held them back for so long . . . told himself it was a weakness he wouldn’t indulge. He’d had plenty of time to sob in private but hadn’t shed a single tear.  Now, moved by the understanding of his friend, he was falling apart.

 

Annoyed, he dragged a hand over his cheek, mopping up streaks of moisture.  “I’ve been a jerk, Hutch . . . the whole thing at the disco, in the bathroom . . . I was thinkin’ someone mighta seen what they did to me - - like it was even freakin’ visible, you know?  Then I saw you and just got pissed.  Wrong place, wrong time.  I shouldna taken it out on you.”

 

“Babe - -”

 

“I’m sorry I said those horrible things . . . acted like an asshole.  I know you’d never take pills to get high - -”

 

“Ssh, Starsk . .  . it’s okay, pal.  I know you weren’t yourself.” 

 

He tugged harder and this time Starsky folded, willingly bowing his face against Hutch’s neck, pulled into a snug embrace. Sheer warmth enveloped him, swiftly devouring the ugly memories beneath its potent touch, repairing the damage he’d done to a once-in-a-lifetime friendship. Snared in a web of guilt and forgiveness, he clung tighter, scrunching his eyes against a punishing surge of emotion.  Hutch’s arm slid around his back, lightly stroking hunched and quivering muscles.

 

“It’s okay, Starsk.  You’re gonna get through this.  I promise, buddy.” 

 

Hutch’s free hand skimmed across his face, wiping up tears.  He felt long fingers curl over his cheek in a familiar gesture of affection. Hutch’s thumb stroked down his jaw, magically easing the pained flutter in his heart.  He didn’t deserve to be so loved when he’d behaved so vilely. 

 

Sniffling, he wiped aside the last of his tears.  He’d get through this, just like Hutch had promised.  The people who’d hurt him were either dead or in jail.  His friend on the other hand was just as devoted as he’d always been despite Starsky’s stupid blunder in trying to shove him away. 

 

“You know something?”  He sniffled again, turning a wet cheek against Hutch’s shoulder. 

 

The arm around his back tightened, tugging him a little closer.  “What’s that, buddy?”

 

“Sometimes you really are smarter than me. But just sometimes, so don’t let it go to your head.” Starsky parted with a spontaneous grin, the first he’d felt in a long while.  “At least I ain’t stupid enough to get drunk and hung over.  Better not take you to any discos tonight - - you’re clumsy enough on a dance floor when you’re sober.”

 

Hutch chuckled, the light sound underscored by relief.  Starsky understood the sentiment as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. Their relationship was back on firm ground.  He felt Hutch’s hand track up his neck and lodge in the base of his hair.

 

“Buddy, as tired as I am I don’t think I’m gonna see the inside of a disco for days. How about parking this showy tomato of yours somewhere out of service for a few hours, so I can catch some sleep and feel half human again?”

 

Untangling himself, Starsky drew back.  Despite the marginal ruptures in their friendship, now fully repaired, and the fact he’d been huddled up against his partner just seconds before, Starsky didn’t feel the least awkward.  By contrast, his recently upside-down world was gradually starting to right itself.  It wasn’t going to magically change overnight, but he’d taken the first steps to putting the pieces back together.

 

“You want me to fudge a report?”

 

“Not fudge, dummy.”  Hutch yawned and dragged a hand through his hair.  He looked more than a little rumpled, his pale eyes still glazed with the dull redness of fatigue.  “We’ll just mark it down we’re talking over a case . . . doing some legwork.  You pick which one.”  He seemed to realize Starsky’s moment of need had passed.  Throughout their relationship, he’d always been intrinsically aware of when to offer comfort and when to back off, letting Starsky set the pace.  Turning, he started to crawl over the backrest.

 

Starsky got an eyeful of a lean posterior in faded denim before getting butted by a stray knee.  He heard Hutch flop none too gracefully and twisted around to find his friend lying on his back, one arm flung over his eyes to block the sunlight. 

 

“I think I’m gettin’ the short end of the stick, Blondie.  I didn’t sleep much either.”

 

“You didn’t get drunk.”

 

“Whose fault is that?”

 

“Yours.”  The observation was completely without malice.

 

“Oh . . . okay.”  Starsky conceded the issue, deciding that maybe Hutch had a valid point.  It was strange how they could easily banter about something that had been such a spot of contention only moments before.  The cleansing aspect of their relationship still amazed him.

 

“Starsk?”  Hutch raised his arm and cracked an eye.

 

“Yeah?”  He looked down at his friend.

 

“Why don’t you park this thing a mile or two down one of the side roads, away from the crime scene?  Then you can get some sleep too.”

  

“While we’re reviewing a case?”  Starsky prodded.

 

“Yeah, you got it.”

 

“What I’ve got is a load of Hutchinson bull,” Starsky countered.  He twisted in the seat and started the ignition, parting with a heavily indulgent grin.  Behind him he heard Hutch mutter something about idiots, partners and angels, but pretended not to hear.  Pulling the car onto the road, he headed for the first side street he could find.  Five minutes later he parked under a sprawling shade tree, angling the vehicle to keep the sun off Hutch while he slept.  It was the least he could do. 

 

Partners took care of one another even when they made colossal errors in judgement - - like getting drunk or saying things they immediately regretted.  Fortunately, forgiveness and devotion were stronger emotions than betrayal and spite.

 

Given time, all barriers fell and all wounds healed.

 

+++++

-          -  end Barriers - -

 

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