This story is dedicated to friend and beta reader supreme, Theresa K. who won it in the auction to benefit victims of Hurricane Katrina.

Ever wonder why Starsky had that cane in the tag of “A Coffin for Starsky?” Well, Theresa did, and the plot in this story is her explanation of how he ended up with it. So to my good friend Theresa—I hope you enjoy what I did with your ideas. Thank you for letting me run with your plot and thanks as always for your valuable advice (even when you make me go back and insert a scene . . . which we both know always makes the story better).

The side plot with Hutch is my own, er, um. . . twisted addition. When I started writing this one, I didn’t intend for it to veer in the direction it did. But in the end it meshed with the major threads of the story . . . so there you go! Comments are always welcomed in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net.

Illusions and Secrets

By Kate (CMT)

He’d never really thought of time as an enemy before, yet for the last 24+ hours time had been Ken Hutchinson’s primary tormenter, demon, and strangely enough, beguiling seductress. The latter came when he’d somehow managed to connect Vic Bellamy, a petty thug and drug dealer who had injected Starsky with a lethal poison to Dr. Claymore Jennings, a respected science professor at Gatwood University. Grieving for his dead son, Jennings had placed the blame for his tragic passing on Hutch and Starsky, singling Starsky out for death by a painfully destructive toxin. Only at the last minute had Hutch been able to convince Jennings to part with the combination and dosage he’d used. Up until that point hope had been an elusive phantom, cruelly mocking him with the devastating specter of his partner’s murder.

Don’t go there. Not now. Not when he’s gonna recover.

Exhausted, Hutch dragged a hand over his face, desperately wanting to believe Starsky would be fine. Franklin, the doctor in charge of Starsky’s case was working on an antidote to combat the injection. He’d even read off the list of drugs Jennings had used with a half-hopeful smile and faintly reassuring nod. So what if he had to go consult with a few specialists? It wasn’t everyday someone stumbled into the ER after being juiced with a lethal hypo of synthetically engineered drugs. He probably just wanted to double-check his facts, make sure the rest of the brain-trust was in complete agreement with his diagnosis.

Yeah, that’s it. Kick it around with some other eggheads. Make sure they don’t do anything to get their butts sued.

Except it was Starsky. His partner. His friend.

The other half of his soul.

Hutch swore softly, distressed to realize his hands were trembling. Just yesterday he couldn’t fathom the possibility of living so abominable a nightmare - - one that left him screaming on the inside even as he tried to project an outward aura of calm, if only for his partner. Yet as the twenty-four hour deadline passed and Starsky continued to breathe, to live, he found his own fragile control threatening to crack. If the nightmare was really over, why couldn’t he see his partner? Why was he stuck pacing in a desolate hallway while a grim-faced group of doctors and nurses converged on Starsky like a flock of highly agitated birds?

What’s taking Franklin so fucking long?

Restless, Hutch paced off a small circle. They’d hustled him out of the exam room twenty minutes ago, leaving him to drown in his own misery as he conjured frightful image after frightful image of his partner lying helpless and still on a narrow bed, IV tubing, monitors and abhorrently clinical equipment clustered around him.

Starsky’s unnatural stillness terrified Hutch. Normally his excitable partner was the epitome of movement even when resting. Starsky was all about impulsive energy, childlike enthusiasm . . . life. Yet over the last twenty-four hours Hutch had watched that passion slowly bleed out of him like a once bright light dimming in his eyes. The loss left Hutch feeling cold inside, nauseatingly empty, as if nothing could ever fill his soul again. Except it wasn’t over, it hadn’t ended. The twenty-four hour deadline had come and gone and Starsky was still alive. Unconscious and in a hospital bed, but he was alive and wasn’t that the only fucking thing that mattered?

Time to wake up, Starsk. The good guys were supposed to win this one . . . walk off into the sunset to a chorus of happily-ever-afters, having beaten the odds just like in the old Hollywood westerns. Good triumphing over evil, faith over adversity, friendship over . . .

You’re my pal, Hutch.

Oh shit, why did he have to remember that now?

He blinked hard. Their conversation at Metro came back to him with a suddenness that made his eyes burn. If he didn’t get his act together soon, he’d end up sobbing, broken by the effortless love and trust Starsky had shown in that moment when they’d clasped hands. Bracing his arm against the wall, Hutch hung his head.

If this were a cowboy movie I’d give you my boots.

He could still see the look on Starsky’s face, his features ravaged and hollow, streaked with sweat, a heartfelt smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He could feel the warm pressure of his partner’s fingers clasped in his, Starsky’s voice a cherished echo in his head: You’re my pal, Hutch.

“Then don’t leave me,” Hutch whispered out loud. For the last twenty-four hours he’d been on a sadistically fickle rollercoaster - - one that tossed him between the giddy peaks of hope and wretched valleys of despair. One minute he was convinced Starsky was going to live, the next he was terrified his friend would die. And the thought of that absolute separation, of finite and overwhelming loss, was far more painful than anything he’d ever known.

Angrily he’d shoved the fear aside. Franklin was working on an antidote. Starsky was going to live. If only - -

His head jerked up sharply as the doors to the exam room swung open and Franklin appeared on cue. It had been a long night for the doctor too, evidenced by the drawn lines of his face, the rings of shadow beneath his red-veined eyes. Spying Hutch, he adjusted his glasses, allowing himself a small sigh.

“Well?” Hutch snapped anxiously, stalking closer.

Franklin shrugged. Behind him the door swung open again. Two of the specialists called in for consultation moved off down the hall, talking quietly, heads bent together. Their hushed solemnity sent a stab of fear knifing through Hutch. Frantic, he looked back toward Franklin. “Doctor - -”

“It’s all right, Detective.” Franklin held up a hand at the edge of restrained hysteria in Hutch’s voice. “Your friend is still unconscious, but we’ve initiated the first stages of treatment for his recovery. After consulting with Doctors Meddinger and Cole, we believe the best approach is a series of timed injections.”

Hutch flinched. “More injections? Doctor, he just went through - -”

“I’m well aware of what he’s been through,” Franklin inserted calmly. Taking Hutch by the sleeve he steered him away from the door where nurses and medical personnel now breezed in and out with crisp efficiency. The sudden activity in the previously deserted hallway made Hutch glance worriedly toward the exam room.

“The compound your friend was injected with consists of four chemicals,” Franklin announced neutrally, snagging Hutch’s attention once again. “ - - 2cc’s hydrochloride, 1cc bromoacetone, 4cc’s benzylcyanide, 1cc diphenylamide. The combination was specifically designed to slow respiratory and circulatory functions while causing damage to major muscle groups and life-sustaining organs, eventually resulting in total collapse. We feel the best way to neutralize its effects is through a series of three targeted injections. We’ve already given your friend the first by intravenous application. It should gradually counteract any harm to his respiratory system. Because of the complexity of the original compound, we’ll wait thirty minutes before proceeding with an intramuscular injection to help boost his circulatory system. Your partner’s body is on overload right now. Another drug, even an antitoxin could produce an adverse chemical reaction resulting in physical trauma at this point. The human body can only take so much before shutting down completely. Do you understand, Detective?”

“Yeah . . . okay.” Hutch’s voice sounded thick and strangled even to his own ears. He flexed his hands to still their trembling, shaken to realize there was no miraculous cure for Starsky. Not even after he’d managed to nab the hypo from Jennings. What the hell good did it do, he wanted to scream, but bit back his frustration and fear. He swallowed hard, visibly fighting for composure. “What about the third injection?”

Franklin drew a breath. “That will be the deciding factor as to whether the antitoxin is successful. Assuming Detective Starsky tolerates the first two injections without trauma, we’ll proceed by administering the third directly into his spine.”

Hutch blanched.

“I realize that may sound excessive, Sergeant,” Franklin rushed to explain, noting his reaction, “But it’s the only effective means of counteracting the poison benzylcyanide. You have to understand these injections are essentially restoring your friend’s life in the same gradual manner it was nearly taken from him. My colleagues and I strongly feel we’ve come up with the most viable means of treatment, but we’re basically battling an unknown. As in any medical procedure, there are risks and elements beyond our control. While we have a basic grasp of how the compound affected your partner’s chemistry, we can’t accurately gauge the extent of the damage. It’s one of the reasons we’re spacing the injections at thirty minute intervals.”

“And if he has an adverse reaction?”

Franklin wet his lips. “That’s one of the unknowns I was talking about, Detective.” His eyes darted nervously away before returning to Hutch’s face. “Perhaps you should consider medicine is sometimes equal parts science and equal parts faith.” Raising his arm, he cast a quick glance at his watch. “It’s already been ten minutes. We don’t normally allow guests in the exam rooms, but if you’d like to sit with him for a brief time, I’ll allow it. Perhaps it will do you both a bit of good.”

Hutch nodded, his throat too tight to speak. Miracles weren’t supposed to come with attached strings, what ifs, and unknowns. He thought he’d saved the day, hell he’d thought he’d saved his partner by getting that hypo from Jennings, but he was back among a muddle of gray and grim warnings again. He turned toward the door, his feet dragging as he stepped closer. Five minutes ago he’d wanted to barrel inside, shoving nurses and doctors out of the way so he could reach Starsky. Now he was terrified, frightened by what he might see, by the crawling fear in his gut that had spooned itself around Franklin’s bleak words.

Drawing a breath, he batted the swinging door aside and slipped into the room. The first thing he heard was the steady beep of a monitor followed by the slither and hiss of the breathing apparatus cocooned over Starsky’s face. Hutch grimaced, hating the sight of the wretched machine, stricken by the dizzying knowledge it was breathing for his friend. It didn’t seem possible a healthy thirty-one-year-old streetcop could be reduced to a fragile shell in a hospital bed in a matter of twenty-four hours. He blinked, feeling the emotional burn in his eyes again as he took in the rest of the room - -

A nurse and a lab tech were huddled over a monitor in the corner. They glanced once in his direction but quickly dismissed him, engrossed in the charts they were comparing. Pieces of medical tape and tubing lay scattered on the counters, along with scissors, swabs, a discarded stethoscope, gauze pads, and a handful of empty vials commonly used for blood samples. A single IV dripped clear liquid into Starsky’s limp left arm through a needle taped to the back of his hand. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his bicep, the ends draped over the bed. The rail on the left side had been raised to keep him from falling, but the right was lowered to accommodate a squat heart monitor placed on the foot of the bed. Wires ran from its base to the nodes taped to his bare chest, the hospital sheet bunched down around his waist.

Hutch took a faltering step forward, anxiously wanting to touch, frightened even that light contact might somehow make Starsky worse. Desperation won out in the end. Wordlessly, he hovered over his partner, curling his fingers around Starsky’s limp right hand. “Starsk . . .” His voice was strained, barely audible in the quiet room. There was no reaction, reality all the grimmer for Starsky’s lack of response. Franklin said ten minutes had already passed. Twenty yet remained for fate to decide their course.

Hutch swayed briefly, leaning into the bed as dizziness washed over him. Emotion, adrenalin and tightly-strung nerves stretched him dangerously close to the breaking point. His fingers tightened on Starsky’s wrist. In some detached corner of his mind he realized he should have called Dobey and brought the captain up to date on this latest round of twists and turns. The older man had headed home shortly after Hutch had returned to the hospital with Jennings’ compound, convinced Starsky would be fine.

There was a cruel lesson in there somewhere about counting chickens before they were hatched. Someone brought him a chair, and he eased into it with a vacant nod of gratitude, never releasing his hold on Starsky. Eventually he’d get around to Dobey. Right now all he wanted to do was cling to his partner, glued by the steady life-affirming pulse beneath his fingertips.

“Starsk?” Hutch smoothed his thumb over the inside of Starsky’s arm, willing the heavily lashed eyes to open. But there was only a frightful stillness in the face he knew so well, the head tilted slightly back, black curls lying loose and askew on Starsky’s forehead. With his free hand, Hutch gently touched his partner’s cheek, blotting out the ugly sight of the breathing apparatus. “Buddy, I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s gonna be okay now. You just hang in there and let the doctors do their thing.” His voice quavered, his fingers trembling even as they lightly contoured the curve of Starsky’s cheek.

Oh, damn, babe, why are you so freaking still? Why won’t you open your eyes . . . look at me? If I could breathe for you . . . give you my lungs, my heart . . . Starsk, if I could only take your place, I would.

Saddened, Hutch hung his head. His eyesight blurred again and he stubbornly willed the tears away, knowing if he lost it now he’d never stop crying. Better to turn his mind elsewhere, to look inward and embrace the hope that Starsky would survive, that in a short while he’d have his partner back. His fingers tightened, wrapping firmly around Starsky’s forearm, bonding them flesh to flesh as his mind wandered back through time . . .

“If I could take your place,” Starsky said with a grin, “You know I would.”

“Yeah, right.” Exhaling loudly, Hutch tilted his beer glass watching the amber liquid slosh against the side. With the prospect of two days off he could already feel knots of tension unraveling from his body. Most rookie cops had to go through the ropes, but Hutch’s partner, Anthony “Vlad” Impala, was doing his diabolical best to publicly hang Hutch with them. As much as he loved being a cop, the prospect of another day getting browbeaten by Impala had him questioning the wisdom of leaving medical school.

“It’s just’ cuz you’re - -”

“I’m what?” Hutch snapped, shooting an acid glare at his friend. He already knew what Starsky was going to say. He’d heard it from the other cops on the force, rookies and seasoned officers alike. He’d even heard it from his instructors at the Academy until they realized what he could do in hand-to-hand combat, let alone with a revolver. But he was getting sick of constantly having to prove himself, especially with Impala riding his ass day after day. Even now he could hear the older man’s snide voice in his head as the grizzled veteran let loose with a string of belittling remarks:

“ . . . Hey, Hutchinson, you wanna stop at the beauty salon . . . maybe fix your hair before we go on patrol?”

“ . . . Hey, Hutchinson, you hear the one about the pretty blond cop who took a wrong turn on his way to the Country Club?”

“ . . . Hutchinson, Drake says he saw you moonlightin’ as a security guard for some retail dive, but I told him he hadda be wrong. Everyone knows exotic dancer at a male strip club is more your style . . .”

That one still made his face flame red, especially when he recalled the hoots and catcalls it incited from his fellow officers. “All in good fun,” a fellow rookie had tried to assure him, but the truth was the others were simply glad Impala had chosen someone else as the butt of his degrading jokes. Not to mention the way the bastard treated him in front of other officers and even perps. He was constantly talked down to, constantly given the shit and grunt work, then left to fend on his own if a situation smelled remotely of danger.

“Vlad the Impaler,” the scathing fifty-one-year-old was commonly called around the precinct. He took perverse delight in mercilessly riding rookie officers, even having caused a few to wash out prematurely. But none seemed to give him the same vicious satisfaction as humiliating Hutch.

“Stinkin’ blond pretty boy,” he’d once heard Impala grumbling to the desk sergeant. “You believe they saddled me with a panty-ass fag like that? Probably tear up and bawl for his mom we ever get into any real trouble.”

“He doesn’t seem that bad to me,” the desk sergeant had countered. “Tops in his class at the Academy, second in marksmanship. Bailey rode with him last week while you were out sick and said the kid’s got a real head on his shoulders. Gutsy too.”

“Bailey’s an ass.”

And so the conversation went, Impala’s insults growing nastier by the moment. He’d been crueler than usual when they’d eventually gone on patrol, purposefully stranding Hutch at an abandoned warehouse after they’d chased some vagrants away. He’d been forced to walk six blocks in one of the worst sections of the city in order to find a phone and call in for help. Impala had turned the whole thing around, degrading him for getting “lost” and having to be rescued like a kid in the woods. The mortifying experience had resulted in more laughter and ribbing from his fellow officers.

“Look, Hutch . . .” Starsky shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “Impala’s a creep. We all know that. Personally I think the bastard should be drummed outta the force, but it ain’t my decision to make. In the meantime, well, you know . . . you sort of got that Ivy League jock-looking-thing going on. It ain’t that you’re pretty exactly . . .”

Hutch quirked a brow, deciding he’d had enough and it was high time to have some fun of his own. “So you think I’m ugly?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then you think I’m pretty?”

Starsky flushed. “No, you ass, I didn’t say that either.”

Hutch feigned confusion. “Well, not that I’d go out with you Starsk, but on a scale of one to ten, one being toad-ugly and ten being Greek God status, where would you say I - -”

“Hutchinson, shut the fuck up!”

Hutch grinned, enjoying his friend’s flustered agitation. They’d only known one another since the Academy but their friendship had been quickly sealed within a few weeks. Hutch figured he’d eventually survive Impala as long as he could complain to Starsky every now and then, unwinding with a beer when the shame became too great. The other rookies told him it was “all in fun” but Starsky took Impala’s continued attempts to humiliate Hutch personally.

Still grinning, the blond-haired man cocked his head. “So would you really change places with me, Starsk? Go up against Vlad the Impaler?”

“You kiddin?” Starsky snorted. “The creep wouldn’t know what hit ‘im. He can’t pull that blond and pretty shit on me - -”

“Oh, I don’t know . . .” A mischievous smile flitted over Hutch’s lips. “I’d give you an 8 out of 10. Maybe 9 if you combed your hair.”

“Forget it, Blondie. You ain’t my type. ‘Sides I got a feelin’ Vlad’s gonna ease up on you. Maybe even trade you off for another partner.”

“You’re dreaming.”

Starsky shrugged, draining the last of his beer. “You wan’ another? I’m buyin’.”

“Sure, why not?” Hutch shrugged a little despondently as Starsky got up and walked toward the bar to get them another round. The long day and longer week was starting to catch up with him, prompted by the welcoming company of his friend and the dulling haze of two beers. Ducking his head, he rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, slouching deeper into the padded bench seat of the booth. He was letting his gloom roll over onto Starsky and that was out of line. His friend had invited him out for a drink, not to listen to him moan about how unfair it was that he’d been partnered with a slob like Impala.

“Hey, you - - pretty boy.”

Hutch jerked his head up, surprised to find Impala standing at the corner of the booth. It wasn’t unusual for off-duty cops to wander into the bar, but it was a little out of the way for most of them. The last person he expected to see in a semi-questionable establishment like “Huggy’s” was a dyed-in-the-wool bully like Impala.

“What’cha doin’ here, boy?” Impala’s lips curled in a condescending grin. “Pimpin’ for a mark?”

Hutch felt his face flame red.

“Well, if he was, he sure wouldn’t be lookin’ to score with a butt-ugly slug like you.” Starsky’s voice was sudden and sharp, delivered with the biting crack of a whip. Impala jerked to look over his shoulder, startled to find Starsky behind him, a beer in each hand.

“Just in case that went over your pointy head, genius,” Starsky continued in the same cutting tone, “This is a closed party. Take a hike.” Shouldering past the older man, he slid into the booth, shoving Hutch’s beer across the table towards him.

Seething to be dismissed so bluntly, Impala looked down his hooked nose at the dark-haired cop. His face, already flushed by too much alcohol, had grown a shade darker. It turned his black, flinty eyes to ice, accentuating the bristled cut of his closely-shaven hair. “Starsky, ain’t it? More rookie shit. Yeah, I heard about you - - the loudmouthed one. Glued to Hutchinson’s side like gum to a hot street.”

“Well, I ain’t payin’ for it, if that’s what you mean.”

Hutch groaned. “Starsky - -”

Impala snickered. “I figured that was the way of it, him looking like he does.” He gave a jerk of his head to indicate Hutch, but his eyes stayed on Starsky. “I’m thinking I oughta share that around the precinct. Cops got a right to know when one of their own likes it A/C, D/C.”

“Probably.” Starsky took a swig of beer. Rather than look at Impala, he kept his eyes trained across the table on Hutch. “Never know what you’d find on a guy like that . . . photos in his locker . . . probably enough to destroy a career. ‘Course if he were to back off, use better judgment, that might all go away.”

Impala’s face drained of color. “You little shit - -”

Confused by a conversation he couldn’t follow, Hutch cleared his throat. “Impala, maybe you should - -”

“Go impale something, Vlad,” Starsky spat suddenly. “And keep your freakin’ distance.” He leveled a glare on the older man, his voice dripping with acid. “I ain’t gonna be plainer than that. Slips of the tongue got a way of happenin’ when you mess with a guy’s friend. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

With a violent curse, Impala turned and stormed off into the distance. Bewildered, Hutch looked at Starsky. “What was that all about?”

“Nuthin.” Starsky scowled. “The man’s just scum. Stay clear of him.”

Hutch laughed. “Love to, but scum or not, he’s my partner. I’m stuck with him.”

Starsky shrugged. “Things got a way of turnin’ upside down when you least expect ‘em to, Blondie.”

“Yeah . . . well, you didn’t do me any favors just now. Why’d you have to go and make that crack about not paying for it? The guy already thinks I’m a - -”

“Hutch.” Starsky cut him off, his glance strangely direct. “Forget it, will ya? He ain’t gonna be botherin’ ya anymore.”

Suddenly suspicious, Hutch narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Slouching back in his seat, Starsky rolled his shoulders, affecting nonchalance. “Nuthin’. Just don’t go near him if you can help it. I don’t want you around him, okay?”

“Like I wanna be around him? Starsky, what the hell did you do?”

The memories trailed away into a fog. Hutch dragged his free hand over his face. His right was still wrapped around Starsky’s wrist, clinging for all he was worth. The image of that long-ago bar slowly faded from his mind as the grim reality of the present returned in shocking clarity. Yeah, things had a way of turning upside down when you least expected them to - - like when some two-bit hood shot your partner full of lethal poison then got himself pumped full of holes by that same self-sacrificing idiot.

Ahh, buddy, why’d you have to do that?

Time was getting tangled for him . . . the memory of Starsky shooting Bellamy on the rooftop . . . the faded recollection that Impala had requested a new partner the very next day after that strange confrontation in the bar . . . the sibilant beep of the heart monitor assuring him Starsky was alive and breathing.

Breathing. On his own.

Hutch gave a startled jerk, shocked to realize the breathing apparatus had been removed. Starsky looked almost peaceful, his head turned to the side. He breathed comfortably, his chest rising and falling with each gentle inhalation of breath. Hutch glanced around the room, saw Franklin standing in the corner talking to one of the other doctors.

Had he really been that far gone, immersed in the membrane of his own thoughts that he’d been unaware when they’d removed the breathing equipment? What kind of partner was he . . . selfishly inattentive, wrapped up in his own miserable memories when his partner and best friend was fighting for his life?

Leaning forward, he swiped a thumb over Starsky’s brow, pleased to note a slight flush of color in his cheeks. “Doctor?” He spoke without moving, his gaze riveted on Starsky. “Has it been thirty minutes yet?”

“Thirty-three,” Franklin informed him from across the room. “We’re preparing the next injection now.”

Hutch breathed a little easier. One down, two to go. Come on, buddy, I know you can do this. His fingers tightened, silently pleading to feel return pressure on his hand, but Starsky’s grip remained slack.

It’s okay, Hutch tried to reassure himself. He’ll be coming around any minute now once the injections start to do their job. It was simply a waiting game, praying that Starsky’s body was strong enough to absorb the antitoxins without reaction. Looking at his friend, at the abhorrently still body entombed in the bed, Hutch paused to consider the hell Starsky had been through. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the pain, let alone the fear and psychological trauma of impending death. A little over forty-eight hours ago they’d been watching a ball game, eating pizza and drinking beer in Starsky’s apartment. Twenty-four hours ago they’d been trying to catch a madman while contemplating the very real possibility of Starsky’s death.

Irritated, Hutch tugged at the collar of his black turtleneck. It suddenly occurred to him that his father might have some valuable insight into Starsky’s recovery. His relationship with Grant Hutchinson was strained, but there was no question his father was a brilliant surgeon, consulting on difficult cases throughout the country. They didn’t talk much anymore, at least not since Hutch had dropped out of medical school and altered career paths to become a cop. Usually when they did speak their conversations deteriorated into shouting matches, followed by long periods of silence. He hadn’t spoken to his father in at least three months but if it meant helping Starsky, he’d swallow his pride and pick up the phone that morning.

“Detective Hutchinson, I think you should leave now.”

Hutch raised his head to find Franklin at his shoulder. His hand was still wrapped tightly around Starsky’s, the steady thrum of his partner’s pulse a constant assurance beneath his fingertips. Across the bed, a nurse swabbed a cotton ball against Starsky’s arm, injecting him with a hypo of amber-colored liquid.

Hutch winced at the sight of the needle, the memory of Forest, Monk and his forced heroin addiction only a few months old. Turning his head slightly, he gazed up at Franklin. “That’s the second injection?”

Franklin nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “To help alleviate the strain to his circulatory system. We’ll wait another thirty minutes to make sure he doesn’t react to it. If he responds as well as he did to the first injection, the third should be relatively free of risk. It’s probably best if you leave now . . . maybe grab a cup of coffee from the cafeteria or the vending machine in the waiting room. I can have a nurse give you an update as soon as we know more.”

Hutch turned his attention back to Starsky. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Franklin blinked, taken aback by the flat refusal. “Detective . . . Sergeant Hutchinson . . . I’m afraid you don’t understand. In order to properly monitor your friend, we need complete - -”

“I won’t get in your way,’ Hutch said in the same flat tone, refusing to look at the doctor. The tightness was back in his throat, plummeting deeper into his gut. With his free hand he traced a soothing line up and down Starsky’s bare arm. “You said these injections are going to bring him slowly back, right?”

Flustered, Franklin nodded. “Yes, but - -”

“Then he’s going to wake up gradually . . . a little bit at a time?”

“Yes. Limited awareness followed by a measured increase as the antitoxins destroy the chemicals in his body.”

“What about pain?” Hutch asked. He looked to the side but still didn’t raise his head. His whole body tensed as he waited for the answer, dreading the response. “Is he going to feel pain, Doctor?”

Franklin sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t prevent that. To administer something to offset his discomfort would only dilute the effects of the antitoxins. There’s no way of gauging how much pain he’ll be in.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere,” Hutch said quickly. He felt a slight spasm in the arm beneath his hand and looked sharply at Starsky. The heavy black line of his friend’s lashes fluttered, a barely audible moan slipping from his lips.

Hutch stopped breathing. “Starsky?”

Franklin was past him in an instant, checking pulse, calling for a BP reading. Hutch watched as the doctor lifted Starsky’s eyelids, flashing a penlight into first one pupil, then the other. For a brief period Hutch was shuffled out of the way as Franklin and a group of nurses converged on the bed, calling out readings, conferring among themselves. The prognosis seemed good, despite the fact Starsky appeared agitated. His eyes never opened, but slow spasms began in his limbs, making him twitch even as the medical staff fussed over him. Another moan came from the bed and Hutch bit his lip, fighting the urge to shoulder his way back to his friend’s side.

Eventually the nurses parted, and even Franklin stepped back, dragging a hand over his face with a fatigued sigh. Hutch moved swiftly back to the bedside, reaching for Starsky’s right hand even as it twitched on top of the bedcovers. Starsky’s breath came harsher now, interspersed with deep-throated groans and fitful movement.

Concerned, Hutch shot a frantic glance at Franklin. “Doctor, what’s wrong with him? Is he having a reaction to the injection?”

Franklin shook his head. “The antitoxin is dragging him back toward consciousness. Unfortunately, as I explained earlier, there is an inherent level of pain with the return of awareness. Perhaps now you understand why we don’t like to have family or friends in the exam rooms.”

Hutch ducked his head, trying to hold his anxiety in check. “I won’t get in the way,” he promised. He dragged the plastic scoop-backed chair he’d been using earlier closer to the bedside, forcing himself to breathe deeply, manually calming his rattled nerves. He knew Franklin could kick him out in a heartbeat. Determined to stay on the doctor’s good side, he concentrated on Starsky.

It was hard holding his emotions in check with Starsky shifting so restlessly, those miserable groans of pain ripped from his throat every few seconds. Ohgod, buddy, if I could only take your place I would. Gripping Starsky’s right hand in both of his, he leaned closer to the bed, hoping that somewhere through the muddle of pain and returning consciousness, Starsky would know he was there.

“Easy,” he breathed. “Starsk, I’m right here with you. Take it easy, buddy. I know it hurts, but it’s gonna get better.” One hand left Starsky’s long enough to reach up and stroke through the loosely tumbled curls on his forehead. Hutch’s touch lingered . . . feather-light, gentle, as softly soothing as his voice. “Buddy, you’re gonna get through this. I promise you, Starsk. Hang in there with me, babe.”

His hand slid to Starsky’s shoulder. He suddenly realized the heart monitor had been removed, apparently shuffled aside in the last flurry of activity. Reaching for the sheet bunched around Starsky’s waist, Hutch dragged it higher over his chest. His fingers immediately returned to his friend’s grip, clinging hand-to-hand as they had in Metro some eight hours before.

You’re my pal, Hutch.

Once again the memory of Starsky’s words made his throat constrict. He could still remember how Starsky had tugged that silly blue dog from his top desk drawer. The ridiculously childish toy fit with his partner . . . innocence and steel, woven so tightly together Hutch was often unsure which was more dominant. How could he ever hope to survive without that wondrously complex influence of vulnerability and grit in his life?

Another groan from the bed and his heart dropped to his stomach. This time Starsky’s hand tightened over his, holding fast. Hutch opened his mouth to speak, found that the words wouldn’t come. Somewhere in the background he knew Franklin and two of the nurses remained in the room, silently watching the bald-faced clock on the wall, the restless stirring of the man on the bed . . . counting down the slowly-ticking minutes until they could all breathe easier. Hutch held fast to Starsky’s hand, determined that if nothing else, his friend would realize he wasn’t alone . . .

“What’s this? Didn’t think I’d ever find you alone without that smart-assed partner glued to your side, Hutchinson.”

Startled by the unexpected voice, Hutch glanced over his shoulder. Stationed at the filing cabinet just inside the squadroom door, he’d been rifling through a series of folders on past offenders, hoping to find one that might tie in to his present case with Starsky. The room was deserted, pared down to a skeleton crew for Christmas Eve. Even Starsky was off, visiting his mother in New York, but Hutch simply didn’t have the stomach to go home to Duluth. Since he’d made detective, his already strained relationship with his father had deteriorated further. As a result he’d volunteered to work the holidays. Phil Baker was sharing shift with him, but he was off down the hall flirting with the female officer manning the front desk.

“Impala.” Hutch blinked, shocked to find the older man standing behind him. Piped in music provided an instrumental version of O’Come All Ye Faithful through overhead speakers, a tune that seemed dreadfully out of place given Impala’s hateful glare. “What are you doing here?”

Hutch cringed at his own stupidly voiced question. He hadn’t seen his old partner since Impala had transferred to the 61^st shortly after that strange encounter in Huggy’s bar. His abrupt presence caught Hutch reeling completely off guard. How many years ago was that? Four? Five? Apparently nothing much had changed for the older man. He was still wearing blue, still driving a patrol car, but if precinct scuttlebutt was to believed, had stopped being partnered with rookie officers years ago.

“I’m looking for Baker,” Impala said coldly. “He wanted information on a pusher my partner and I picked up. See, we do all the grunt work for you glory hounds in plain clothes. Even rich, pretty jerk-offs who never shoulda gotten Rank.”

Hutch ignored the slur. Pulling three folders from the cabinet, he shoved the drawer closed. “Baker’s down the hall. Check the front desk.” Determined not to be baited into trading insults, he started back toward his own desk, head bent as he flipped through the top folder. Five years ago he’d been nervous and unsure of himself around Impala, now the man just grated on his nerves. Seeing him again brought back a horde of unpleasant memories, including the deliberate humiliation and constant badgering Impala had put him through. There’d always been something a little “off” in the way Impala had watched him, a sensation that made his skin crawl. He felt it now as the older cop’s eyes tracked him across the room.

Impala stayed near the door, but his face grew mottled. It didn’t take a genius to see he was irked by Hutch’s refusal to rise to the verbal bait. “So where’s that shithead partner of yours, anyway?”

“I wouldn’t know, since I don’t have a shithead partner.” Still outwardly calm, his voice neutral, Hutch slid into the chair behind his desk. “If you mean Starsky, he’s on vacation.” The piped in music shifted melodies, easing into an instrumental rendition of The Little Drummer Boy. Hutch sighed, irritated to realize there was still so much hostility between himself and Impala, when he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it in the first place. It was almost Christmas, a time for good will and forgiveness. How could one man still harbor such intense dislike for him five years after the fact? To the best of his knowledge, he’d never done anything to warrant the hate.

“You ain’t always gonna have Starsky to look out for you, Hutchinson,” Impala announced suddenly. He moved closer to the desk, his large frame filling the room. He’d grown soft around the middle, his fleshy gut strained against an ample-sized belt. Even his jowl was flabby, bloated by an excess of alcohol, fatty foods and too little exercise. Despite the changes, his eyes hadn’t lost their malicious edge or the cutting way in which they raked over Hutch. “I shoulda kicked that little shit’s ass for what he did, ‘cept getting transferred to the 61^st was the best thing that ever happened to me. Got me away from a fag rookie partner.”

Hutch bit back a flare of anger, deliberately holding his temper. Beneath the rage was a burgeoning flicker of alarm. He’d always felt Starsky was somehow responsible for Impala’s request for a different partner all those years ago . . . possibly even for the man’s sudden transfer. He’d asked his friend about it a number of times, but on each occasion Starsky had simply shrugged it off, always ending by telling Hutch to “stay away from the creep.”

“What do you mean ‘what Starsky did.’?” Hutch’s eyes narrowed. He’d long believed there was something his friend wasn’t telling him. Something that went beyond what he suspected was Starsky’s deliberate interference between a senior officer and his inexperienced rookie partner.

Impala snorted. “What’s the matter, Hutchinson? Your Jew friend keeping secrets from you?”

“Watch your mouth when you talk about Starsky.” Hutch slammed the folder shut. It was one thing to take the verbal abuse himself, but he wasn’t about to listen to some fat slug slander his friend. “And in case you’ve forgotten - - it’s Sergeant to you, Patrolman Impala. Now get the fuck out of here.”

Satisfied he’d gotten the rise he’d been fishing for, Impala shrugged, smiling snidely. “Sure, why not - - Sergeant.” The title was drawn out with deliberate cutting mockery. “Least ways back at the 61^st I don’t gotta look at panty-assed blonds who probably kissed ass to get Rank. Then again, I’m guessing in your case it was a little more than simple ass-kissing, huh, pretty boy?”

Hutch surged to his feet. Before he could spit a reply the door swung open and Baker came in loudly singing Deck the Halls in time to the piped-in music that had changed yet again. He carried a tray brimming with assorted cookies, each liberally doused with red and green sprinkles or a smattering of powdered sugar.

“Hey Hutch, look what I got from Kim Connelly at the lab - -” He stopped suddenly, seeming to realize he’d interrupted something not entirely friendly. Impala shot him a scathing glare, shouldering past him and out the door before another word could be said.

“Ohh-kaay.” Drawing out the word, Baker looked toward Hutch. “The next time you invite playmates over, we put ‘em through a personality test first.” Walking toward Hutch’s desk, he slid the tray of cookies on top of the nearest folder. “Who was that idiot anyway?”

Sagging back into his chair, Hutch made a conscious effort to let go of his anger. “The guy from the 61^st you wanted to see - - Officer Impala.”

“Figures.” Baker exhaled. Reaching for a cookie, he winked at Hutch. “If nothing else, you keep things kinda interesting around here, Hutchinson.”

“Detective Hutchinson?”

Hutch jerked at the hand on his shoulder. Snapping from his thoughts, he looked up to find Dr. Franklin standing at his side. The man didn’t seem to realize he’d caught him unaware.

“Thirty-six minutes,” Franklin said with a small grin. “We’re almost in the clear now. I’ll allow you to stay for the last injection. Your presence seems to have a calming effect on your partner and that’s going to be sorely needed with the last shot. Give us about five minutes to prepare and we’ll be ready to proceed.”

Hutch nodded, his mouth bone dry. Starsky had actually stilled his fitful squirming, quieting in what could almost be termed restful sleep. There was a hint more color in his face now and his features seemed relaxed. Hutch’s hand was still twined over his, so intricately laced his fingers were beginning to cramp.

“You’re doing good, buddy,” Hutch whispered, reaching up to feather a thumb across Starsky’s cheek. In the background he was aware of a nurse wheeling a tray into the room, of Franklin relaying instructions to an assisting doctor. It all became a blur in Hutch’s mind as he concentrated on tuning out the distractions . . . the cramps in his legs and back from sitting hunched over so long, the clack and clatter of various instruments against a metal tray, the sight of the nightmarishly large needle intended for Starsky’s spine. Just a glimpse of it, caught in the corner of his eye instilled a buffeting surge of panic. Oh shit, oh shit, they can’t stick that thing into his spine! Not something that fucking long! “Starsky . . .” He heard the catch in his voice, fought to calm his jumpy nerves for his friend’s sake. “I’m gonna be right here with you, pal. “ His fingers tightened on the limp hand beneath his. “I promise, Starsk. I promise.”

“All right,” Franklin announced from the other side of the bed. “We’re going to roll him onto his side now. We need him facing you, Detective Hutchinson.”

Hutch gave a clipped nod, distressed to realize he was sweating, his heart hammering against his ribs. He clung to Starsky’s hand as Franklin and the nurse eased the dark-haired man onto his side. The movement, gentle as it was, ripped a tortured moan from Starsky’s throat, the sound sending Hutch’s frantic nerves through the roof.

“Easy, easy,” he soothed, reaching with his free hand to stroke Starsky’s brow. “It’s gonna be okay, Starsk. Just one more - -” He swallowed hard, unable to say the word “injection” after everything Starsky had been through. “One more treatment and you’re in the clear, pal. Hang in there for me, okay?”

He wasn’t even certain Starsky could hear him. His friend’s consciousness was returning slowly, enough to allow him to feel pain, but not to communicate. Whimpering slightly, Starsky tried to drag his left leg forward. The attending nurse had pulled the bedsheet down around his waist, leaving his back bare and exposed. Behind him, Franklin and his assistant had their heads tilted together as they conversed in whispers while prodding Starsky’s spine. The insistent jabbing only served to increase his agitation, dragging him ever closer to consciousness and a punishing threshold of pain. Turning his head, he groaned into his pillow.

Hutch felt his gut contract. “Easy, Starsky.” He wanted to curse, to snap at Franklin and insist the man get his act together - - get the whole frigging thing over with as quickly as possible. He didn’t understand how the doctor could be so detached and clinical when muscle spasms and cramps were likely tearing Starsky apart inside. Yet he knew to open his mouth would doom him to the desolate hallway outside . . . to frantic moments of endless pacing away from his vulnerable partner. Wetting his lips, he smoothed his thumb over Starsky’s knuckles, offering the only comfort he could. “Starsky, I’m right here with you.”

“All right, Detective . . . we’re proceeding.”

Hutch’s eyes flashed to Franklin still bent intently over Starsky. He caught another glimpse of the needle, sterile and cold, right before it slid into Starsky’s spine. The contact was swift and shocking, wrenching a tormented cry from Starsky’s lips. His body jerked at the cruel invasion, his hands clenching hard over Hutch’s unflinching grip.

The sound went through Hutch like a knife. “Oh, buddy . . . buddy, it’s okay . . .” But Starsky was moaning now, his face twisted in a grimace of pain. Hutch felt like a sadist. How could it ever be okay with that impossibly thick, obscene piece of metal wedged in Starsky’s spine? He wanted to rant and swear a blue streak. How could treatment designed to bring healing, to fucking help, for crying out loud, cause such cruel and prolonged agony? Cold sweat trickled into his eyes as he leaned closer to Starsky. “Just a little longer, babe. It’s almost over, I promise.”

Within seconds the needle was withdrawn. Starsky immediately went limp, sweat breaking out on his forehead, his breath deepening into a ragged wheeze. Terrified that something had gone horribly wrong, Hutch looked toward Franklin. The doctor gave him a slight nod of reassurance, seemingly satisfied with the outcome.

“We should see a change for the positive within a few minutes,” he said quietly.

Hutch found himself unable to relax. Five minutes later when Starsky’s breathing settled into a smooth and untroubled flow he only grew tenser, praying the seductress of time would be gentle. Twenty-five minutes to decide life or death. Shaken, he rubbed his eyes, his right hand still anchored to Starsky. I won’t leave you, babe. I promise I won’t leave you.

Ten minutes with only the clock on the wall to gauge the agonizing passage of time. Hutch realized the assisting doctor had left. Franklin was still glued to the left side of Starsky’s bed, checking his pulse every few minutes, taking a blood pressure reading, seemingly satisfied with the results. When fifteen minutes passed and Starsky was still, breathing without trouble, he gave Hutch a slight grin. “I think we’re in the clear.”

Hutch looked at his partner’s face. “Why’s he sweating so badly?” Even as he asked the question, hating the pessimistic sound of it, he wiped his hand over Starsky’s cheek, flecking away the sheen of building perspiration.

Franklin passed him a small towel to use. “Probably just a mild reaction. Nothing to be overly concerned with, Sergeant.” He gave a brief nod to the nurses who had started to clean up the room, tossing away the evidence of a long night - - discarded tubing and syringes, scattered gauze clippings and IV bags.

Hutch wet his lips, desperately wanting to believe the long nightmare was over, that Starsky was really on the path to a full recovery. Still hunched over in the chair, he kept his fingers wrapped over his partner’s, his thumb softly stroking the back of Starsky’s hand. In the background the nurses were talking about some new restaurant on the corner a friend had visited. The assisting doctor returned, conferred briefly with Franklin.

Another five minutes passed, then ten.

The nurses came and went. The assisting doctor left. Franklin stretched a kink from his back, said something to one of the women about going next door for a smoke break.

Hutch shot a glance at the wall clock. It was almost 6am, well past the 3:58 deadline Jennings had given Starsky. The room was calm, peaceful. Despite the glistening sheen of perspiration on Starsky’s cheeks and brow, he was peaceful too.

Hutch bowed his head, breathing a tired sigh. The long day had blended into night and back into day, its toll starting to catch up with him. He’d been over twenty-four hours without sleep, almost as long without eating. His nerves were frazzled and shot, fried by his panicked worry for Starsky. The sight of that godawful needle had left him shaken, wretchedly nauseous. Freeing his hand from Starsky’s limp grip, he stood, wincing at the biting cramps in his legs and lower back.

Scrubbing a hand over his chin, he walked a short distance away, willing the fatigue down a notch. They’d beaten the odds. They’d really done it. This time tomorrow Starsky would be sitting up in bed, complaining about being stuck in a hospital. He’d - -

Hutch’s thoughts came to a screeching halt at the sound of a loud crash.

He whirled around instantly, pivoting on his heel to find his worst nightmare realized. Starsky was on the floor, having tumbled from the bed, his whole body locked in the grip of seizure. For one frightening moment Hutch’s mind completely shut down. He stood immobilized, listening to the frantic calls of the nurses, shocked into paralysis by the ghastly sight of a petite redhead forcing a tongue depressor between Starsky’s teeth. In the next instant Franklin was back in the room, shouting orders, most lost in the frenzied hammering of Hutch’s heart.

He lurched forward, demanding to know what had happened, realizing at the same time he was in the way . . . that as much as he wanted to help, he was only hindering. Franklin ignored him and Hutch had to force himself from thrusting to Starsky’s side, dropping to his knees, trying to still the abominable convulsions racking his friend’s body by mere presence alone. The whole situation felt surreal, the vile flotsam of a bad dream. He had the sudden childish urge to throw a tempter tantrum . . . to kick and scream, lashing out at anyone and anything that dared hurt his partner. It just wasn’t fair. Not fucking fair! Not after everything they’d been through, even managing to survive the last 24+ grisly hours. How could they come so close to winning, only to have something so debauched and heinous trip them up now? Starsky didn’t deserve this. Not now, not ever!

Franklin barked an order for another syringe. Within seconds a plump nurse thrust a needle into his hand. Shaken, Hutch watched as the doctor plunged the thick tip into Starsky’s hip. There was nothing gentle about the action, just the crackling need of dire necessity. Hutch felt the endless nightmare he was living continue to grow. It reached further, spreading deeper, never satisfied with the abysmal pain it brought his partner. His friend. Please God, please . . .

Hutch held his breath . . . waiting, praying . . . horrified when Starsky went abruptly limp. A choked sound wormed free of his throat. “He’s stopped breathing. Damn it, he’s stopped breathing!”

The staggering realization sent a simultaneous bolt through everyone in the room. Recovering quickly, Franklin barked an order, shouting directions to intubate the patient. Dazed, Hutch watched the grim procedure, the bottom ready to drop from his quaking world. The sick thing in his stomach clenched down hard, made him suck in a breath that was suspiciously close to a sob. Please, babe . . . please hang on. Ohgod, Starsk, I need you to fight this thing . . .

Someone shoved him out of the way. There were more people in the room now, all of them talking frantically, urgently. Starsky was lifted back onto the gurney, the flurry of activity around him never ceasing. In the next instant his bed was wheeled out of the room, Franklin and the others rushing alongside. Hutch followed as far as the door, standing in the threshold as he watched the group hustle Starsky away. The silence that followed was sudden and wrenching.

Stunned, he glanced back inside, sickened by the sight of medical paraphernalia strewn across the cabinets and floor. A rush of vertigo washed over him and he leaned into the wall, one hand clutching his contracting stomach. He swallowed back bile, closing his eyes against a sudden rush of moisture.

It simply wasn’t possible to be living such a vile nightmare. Fate was cruel and twisted, playing games with a relationship he valued as highly as life itself. If anything happened to Starsky . . . if by some grim, sadistic quirk of fate, Starsky was taken from him, he would simply cease to exist. Oh, his body would go on, his mind too, drudging through the bleak monotony of forced survival but he would cease to really be. Everything that had meaning before would be relegated to some murky corner of half-existence. He would become a shadow, broken by a short-lived, once-in-a-lifetime relationship, never to be experienced again. God, if you can hear me . . . if you can even remember the sound of my voice, I’m begging you - - please don’t let him die.

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the bitter acid in his stomach, the razor-tipped pain in his heart. Not knowing what else to do, he went in search of a phone and called Dobey. Even that conversation was fuzzy in his mind, clipped and short, spoken in broken syllables and shuddering gasps for breath. Afterwards he prowled the corridors, pacing up and down, repeatedly rubbing one hand over the other as he counted seconds into minutes and minutes into an excruciating hour. The back of his left hand grew red from the constant rubbing. Distracted, he heard the tread of heavily plodding footsteps behind him.

“Hutch.”

Pivoting on his heel, he came face to face with Dobey. The captain looked disheveled, his eyes still rimmed with the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, his clothing more than a little rumpled and unkempt. The black man blew out a breath, shaking his head in frustration. “What the hell happened? Last word I had, Starsky was going to be fine. Now you tell me he’s had some kind of seizure, and - -”

“ - - and I don’t know shit!” Hutch exploded, his voice rising with volatile emotion. Thrusting a hand into his hair, he stalked a short distance away. The raging frustration he’d fought to contain for the last hour tumbled out in a heated rush. “It’s like the whole fucking hospital suddenly went AWOL. No one’s telling me anything. I haven’t seen Franklin, his assistant or even a damn nurse since they wheeled Starsky out of the exam room. Captain, you should have seen him - - thrashing on the floor, this nurse shoving a tube down his throat, his whole body jerking like it was fried by electrical current. I - -” He choked on a strangled gasp, his breath cutting out on him. With effort, he brought his frightfully raging emotions under control. “It was like some sick lateshow creepfest. I can still see him on the floor - -” His voice cracked, forcing him to drag a hand over his face.

“Easy,” Dobey said, stepping to his side, anchoring his arm. “You aren’t doing your partner any good by ripping yourself apart. Let’s go get a cup of coffee and you can tell me everything that’s happened since I left.”

Hutch blinked, his mind sluggish and uncooperative. He suddenly realized Dobey didn’t know anything about the three shots Franklin had proposed or what they were supposed to accomplish. Sending a glance down the hall to the doors Starsky had disappeared through, he debated about abandoning his vigil. What if the moment he left, the gurney was wheeled back into the starkly clinical hallway? What if he missed seeing his partner . . . touching his face, settling a reassuring hand over his, brushing the impossibly thick fringe of black curls from his forehead? Even if Starsky was unconscious, he’d know Hutch was there.

“Come on.” Dobey tugged on his arm and suddenly he didn’t have the will to resist. He was wretchedly tired, battered emotionally, his gut twisted into a frigid knot. With a mute nod, he allowed himself to be led into the waiting room. A young couple sat in the corner, faces pinched and white, hands clasped together in a grip of desperation. Further along the wall a bedraggled teenager sprawled on a vinyl-padded bench, apparently asleep.

Dobey steered Hutch to the far side of the room, giving him a gentle push when Hutch’s legs collided with the padded bench seat. He folded tiredly, sinking onto the mustard-yellow vinyl, immediately bracing his legs apart and dropping his head into his hands. A few seconds later a steaming cup of black coffee was thrust under his nose.

“Here. Drink this,” Dobey said.

Hutch took the cup, staring at the dark liquid as if it held the secrets of the universe. The styrofoam warmed his hand. Closing his eyes, he forced a swallow, feeling the heat burn all the way to his sour stomach. He grimaced and set the cup aside on an end table, immediately returning to rubbing his right thumb over the knuckles of his left hand.

Dobey scowled at the nervous action. “Talk to me, Hutch.”

He wanted to. God¸ he wanted to talk to someone . . . to spill his guts and bawl like a three-year-old who’d lost everything dear to him. Instead he swallowed hard and made himself relive each moment since he’d brought Professor Jennings’ hypo to the hospital. His voice cracked in places, grew whisper-thin in others, but he held it together and forced himself to part with the whole miserable tale of what had happened to Starsky. When he was through, he realized the young couple had left, summoned by a nurse. The teen had started to snore softly, the sound oddly distracting in the otherwise hushed stillness of the room.

Dobey cleared his throat. “We’ve got to believe he’s going to be all right,” he said steadily.

Hutch’s eyes slid to the side, latching onto the captain. “All right?” he echoed hollowly. “Captain, he was frigging seizing on the floor like some kind of shell-shocked trauma patient. Don’t you get it?” His voice rose as he forced the ugly truth he’d desperately been trying to deny since those grisly moments in the exam room. “Franklin fucked up. Whatever he injected Starsky with pushed him over the edge. Getting the hypo from Jennings hasn’t done shit. For all the good it’s done, I could’ve - -”

“Don’t be an ass!” Dobey snapped, thrusting to his feet. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Without that hypo, your partner would already be in the morgue, Hutchinson, so pull yourself together. I know you’re upset, man. I know you’re hurting inside, but what the hell do you think he’s going through? You want him to come out of this, you better start thinking positive.”

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”

Hutch flinched. Mired in the well-deserved tongue lashing Dobey was giving him, he was shocked to realize Franklin stood in the doorway. Forgetting everything else, he surged to his feet and sprinted across the room. His heart thrummed in his chest, desperate and wild, engorged by fear. “How’s Starsky?”

Franklin looked behind him to Dobey, acknowledging the older man with a slight inclination of his head. “Captain. Perhaps the two of you could join me in my office?”

“Why?” The word bulleted from Hutch instantly, bordering on panic. Something was wrong. Oh, shit! Oh, shit! He wouldn’t ask us to go to his office unless he had bad news. The color drained from his face, leaving his flesh pale and bleached with shock.

Dobey gripped him around the upper arm, forcing him one step forward. “We’ll, talk in Dr. Franklin’s office, Hutch,” he said evenly. He gave a nod to Franklin indicating the doctor should lead the way. Hutch followed numbly, blindly, steered by the insistent pressure of Dobey’s hand on his arm. He felt like he stood on a precipice, his emotions ready to shatter with the slightest provocation. He needed to see his partner. Needed to assure himself Starsky was well and alive. He didn’t want to bother with doctors or offices or even details that could wait until later. He just wanted his partner and he wanted him now!

Agitated, he wrenched free of Dobey’s grip, stalking behind Franklin into his private office. “Where’s Starsky?”

Franklin walked behind a large mahogany desk, turning to indicate two chairs placed just in front. An expansive window loomed behind him, covered by the horizontal slats of a Venetian blind. The shade had been angled to catch the morning light as Bay City woke to another day. It washed over the desk and chairs, creating a deep gold haze like slow-cooked broth. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down Sergeant? Captain?”

For the first time Hutch noticed the deeply ingrained lines in Franklin’s face, the heavy shadow of fatigue. He had no sympathy left, not when his partner’s life was on the line. Blatantly ignoring the offer to sit, he glared at the older man. “Where’s Starsky, damn it?”

Dobey pulled on his sleeve. “Sit down, Hutchinson.”

“Captain - - ”

“I said sit!”

Hutch frowned, but complied nonetheless, hearing the hostile edge of command in his superior’s voice. Dobey took the other chair and Franklin eased into a seat behind his desk. Fidgeting irritably, Hutch leaned forward, locking eyes with the weary doctor. “If we’re all through with protocol now, I’d like some answers. What happened to my partner, and where is he?”

Even Dobey stayed silent this time, giving Hutch the headway to run with the questioning. He suddenly felt like he was grilling a suspect, all niceties and polish abandoned long ago.

Sensing his hostility, Franklin heaved a sigh and plodded forward. “The good news is Sergeant Starsky is stable. Apparently the last injection - - the one inserted directly into his spine - - was simply too much for his body to absorb after the forced trauma of the past twenty-four hours. The seizure he had was the result of an allergic reaction, likely induced by the excess of chemicals in his system. We have him in ICU and we’re monitoring him closely. There are, however, additional complications. They’re serious, but we strongly feel they’re of a temporary nature.”

Hutch balked, his emotions plummeting from the high of learning Starsky was stable to the crippling low of learning there were other problems. “What complications?” he asked tightly.

Franklin met his gaze. “I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll be blunt, Detective. Your partner is paralyzed from the neck down. He has no feeling in his torso or any of his extremities. We have him on a respirator because he can’t breathe on his own.”

The bottom dropped from Hutch’s world. “What?” Shakily, he rose to his feet.

Franklin stared up at him. “Before you go off the deep end, you should know it’s my considered opinion and the opinion of my associates, the paralysis is only temporary - - likely the result of Sergeant Starsky’s reaction to the last injection. Once his body begins to stabilize, effectively detoxing from all the chemicals in his system, the paralysis will gradually fade.”

Hutch’s hands were clenched so tightly he could feel blood on his palms where his nails embedded into the flesh. “You’re sure of that?”

“Well . . . no, I’m not 100% positive,” Franklin admitted, “But these kinds of paralysis are usually short-lived, particularly if induced by a traumatic incident such as the one your friend incurred.”

“How long?” Dobey asked.

Hutch was thankful for the intervention, his throat suddenly constricted to the point where he couldn’t speak.

Wearily, Franklin rubbed the bridge of his nose, butting his glasses higher in the process. “It’s difficult to say - - a day, maybe two . . . a week . . . possibly a month or longer. There is a very slim chance the paralysis could be permanent, but the odds are in Detective Starsky’s favor. He’s young, strong, otherwise in good health - -”

“Permanent?” Hutch echoed hollowly, hearing nothing beyond the wretchedly dreadful word. Reaching behind him, he clasped the arm of the chair he’d just vacated, sinking unsteadily into the seat. A loud rush of noise filled his ears like the pounding roar of a waterfall. The room started to spin at the edges, making him swallow hard and blink back a wave of dizziness.

“It’s unlikely,” he heard Franklin say, “But the chance is always there. At the very least, you should be aware of it.”

Hutch felt cold inside. “Does he . . . is he awake?”

“No, he’s still unconscious.”

“Then he doesn’t know?” The thought sank like lead into the pit of his stomach . . . Starsky waking alone, with tubes, wires and monitors sticking out of him, unable to move, unable to talk, terrified by the dead unresponsiveness in his limbs. “I want to see him. I need to be there when he wakes up.”

Franklin shook his head, dismissing the notion. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Sergeant. ICU is not an exam room. We have qualified medical personnel who - -”

“I need to be there!” Hutch snarled, lurching to his feet, no longer caring that he crossed the line of protocol. Planting both hands on Franklin’s desk, he leaned forward, towering over the older man. “Now you listen to me. You’ve had your chance - - shot needles into his spine, damn near turned him into a freaking zombie, all in the name of trying to heal him. I am not - - do you hear me, Doctor - - not going to let him wake up in ICU alone, paralyzed, unable to talk, and scared out of his skull because he doesn’t know what the hell’s going on. At this point, he doesn’t even know I got the hypo from Jennings. He wakes up now, paralyzed, he could think he survived the poisoning only to end up with permanent nerve damage. You do whatever you’ve gotta do, make whatever arrangements you’ve gotta make, but I want to be there when he wakes up. Somebody’s got to reassure him he can kick this thing, especially after you and your crew fucked it up - -”

“Hutchinson!” Dobey snapped.

Franklin was on his feet. “You’re out of line, Sergeant. You have no idea what we’re up against with this.”

“Well, apparently you don’t either, or Starsky wouldn’t be in ICU with a frigging machine breathing for him!”

“That’s enough, Sergeant!” Dobey growled, rising to stand beside him.

Hutch clamped his mouth shut, glaring over his shoulder at the captain. Their eyes locked and held, Dobey’s surly expression never changing. After a moment the black man looked away, zeroing in on Franklin. The doctor’s face had grown pinched and white in view of Hutch’s rising hostility.

“Well?” Dobey asked, his voice rankled, bristling at the edges. “You heard the man - - have someone escort him to the ICU and tell your staff they’re to accommodate him until Starsky wakes up. After that, I’ll make sure he’s out of your hair for awhile. I’ll send him home to get some sleep . . . maybe even eat something and shower.”

Hutch stiffened. “Captain, I am not - -”

“Shut up, Hutchinson. You’ll do what I tell you to do.” Dobey’s piercing gaze swiveled back to the doctor. “Are we in agreement?”

Franklin flushed. “Captain, be sensible. There are reasons why visitors are not allowed in ICU, or at the very least why they’re only permitted on a limited basis. I can perhaps arrange five minutes for Sergeant Hutchinson, but other than that - -”

Dobey hiked up his belt, glowering under his brows. “Maybe you didn’t hear me, Doctor. I’d certainly hate to have to drag your Chief of Staff into this discussion. All things considered, I’m sure some leniency can be granted Sergeant Hutchinson for the sake of his partner. After all, we’re talking about a police officer, a civil servant, who got pumped full of garbage simply for doing his job.”

Nettled by the threat of going over his head, Franklin tugged at his collar. He looked from Dobey to Hutch, his gaze darkening as he met Hutch’s biting stare. With a crisp nod, he reached for the phone on his desk and punched the button for the intercom. “Who’s this . . . Sally? Yes, this is Dr. Franklin. Would you please send an aide to my office? I’d like her to escort a police detective to the ICU. No . . . I want him to have full access to his partner, a Detective David Starsky. I’ll call ahead to the floor and advise the shift supervisor. Thank you.”

Satisfied, Hutch paced away, walking toward the door. Behind him he could hear Franklin calling the floor, giving full clearance for his presence. He felt edgy and irritable, ready to snap at the tiniest obstacle. Dobey appeared at his side and suggested he get something to eat before heading to the ICU but Hutch merely shook his head, his empty stomach tight and sour.

A short time later an aide arrived and escorted him two floors up to ICU. He followed in a daze, anxious to see Starsky, vaguely aware he’d promised to call Dobey with an update. As he followed the aide, striding crisply down a wide hallway to Intensive Care, jittery nerves making his head pound, he thought back to a phone call he’d shared with his friend a number of years ago . . .

Hutch pushed open the door to his cottage on the canal and stepped inside. Shrugging out of his brown leather jacket, he tossed it on the couch, then bent to plug in the lights on the small Christmas tree tucked in the corner. A myriad of soft blues, greens and reds spilled into the darkness, gently pushing aside the collective shadows. Popping the snaps on his holster, he moved toward the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. It was after 1:00 a.m. on Christmas Eve - - officially Christmas Day - - and he’d just finished a twelve hour shift at Metro.

He shrugged out of the holster and hung it on the hook inside the wardrobe closet in his bedroom. It felt good to stretch, even better to swallow a long mouthful of cold beer. Not wanting to disturb the darkness, he returned to the kitchen and fumbled in the top drawer for a pack of matches. Moving mostly by instinct, he lit the candles on his small kitchen/dining room table, followed by the three squat pillars clustered on the coffee table in front of the couch. Between the lights from the tree and the flickering flames of the candles, the room was almost fully illuminated in a dusky, brass-like glow. Tuning the radio to the first station he found playing Christmas music, he settled down with the beer.

It was then he noticed the package on his couch, the gaily wrapped parcel adorned with a bow of bright green ribbon. Ten-to-one he knew the culprit. Starsky had left for New York two days ago, finally going solo when all his whining and pleading hadn’t gotten Hutch to go with him. Odds were he’d had Huggy drop off the gift tonight while Hutch was at the station.

A fond smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he traced his finger along the edge of pine-colored ribbon. Leave it to Starsky to worry about him sitting home alone on the holiday.

Shoving his beer onto the table, Hutch pulled the package into his lap and peeled away the bow. The paper came next, leaving a plain brown box beneath. Hutch pulled back the lid and grinned. “Starsky, you are such an ass.”

Nestled amid a few crumpled wads of tissue paper was a pristine replica of a brown LTD. Hutch lifted it from the box, realizing it had been painstakingly put together piece by piece to produce an immaculate, showcase Ford. Somehow Starsky had even managed to find a mars light for the roof, a thin black cord running from the tiny light through the passenger’s window and into the dash. The body was smooth and dent-free, painted a metallic mocha-brown. The license plate had been carefully lettered with black paint to spell out ZEBRA 3, while a white flag attached to the antenna read “A Hutchinson Original.”

Grinning like an idiot, Hutch sat back on the couch, pulling a folded slip of paper from the box. Even in glow of muted candlelight it was easy to make out Starsky’s distinctive left-handed, backward scrawl:

Merry Christmas, buddy. Since you’re driving around in that hunk-a-junk,

and since I couldn’t afford to get you the real thing, this’ll have to do. I

know a guy named Merle who’ll give you a customization job on it cheap.

(And in case you ain’t figured it out, that’s a hint about fixing up the real one).

Wish you were in New York (or at least, Duluth). See ya soon,

Starsk

Shoving the box aside, Hutch set the car on the coffee table, taking the time to study it. He knew Starsky liked to tinker with models, but had no idea his friend would pull such a ridiculously silly, totally endearing stunt. As much as Hutch had previously protested he didn’t mind being alone for the holiday, part of him felt depressed. Running into Anthony Impala hadn’t helped. It was bad enough he didn’t feel comfortable going home to his family because of his strained relationship with his father, but encountering his old partner at Metro had left him feeling unsettled and angry. When they’d worked together Impala had routinely criticized and insulted him, but he hadn’t remembered the slurs being so vicious before. He’d needed something tonight, and Starsky’s silly gift was just the thing to remind him he wasn’t alone.

The phone rang, cutting through the soaring strings of Angels We Have Heard of High. Realizing there weren’t too many people who’d be calling him at 1:10 a.m. on Christmas Eve, he snatched up the phone and grinned. “Merry Christmas, Starsk.”

There was a pause, followed by a slightly miffed voice. “How’d you know it was me? I wanted to surprise ya.”

“Who else would be calling at this time? Besides . . . you already surprised me.” Getting comfortable, Hutch leaned back in the couch, hooking his right ankle over his left knee. His eyes traveled to the model car on his coffee table. “I got your gift.”

Another pause, but this time there was something child-like in it. “Didja like it?”

Hutch laughed. “Like it? I love it! Thanks, buddy, but you didn’t have to, you know?”

Starsky snorted into the phone. “Like I was gonna leave you all alone on Christmas without a gift? Still wish you woulda come with me. Ma’s dyin’ to meet ya and I coulda used help keepin’ Nicky in line. You know . . .” Starsky paused, letting the thought trail into momentary silence. “It’s still not too late for you to get a flight to Duluth.”

Hutch sighed into the phone. It felt lonely in the apartment again, the bright twinkling lights of the Christmas tree making him suddenly sad. “Starsky, I don’t want to go home and ruin Christmas for everyone else. My dad and I will just get into an argument. My mom’ll end up crying, my sister will read me the riot act and I’ll leave in a huff. Why put everyone through that misery? It’s better if I just stay away. Maybe next year after he’s had time to get used to the idea I’ve made Detective Sergeant, I’ll go home. With any luck, we’ll be speaking by Easter.”

“You and the proverbial doctor?” Starsky laughed into the phone. “One of you needs to give up the stubborn gene, pal. If he’s anything like you, I think we’ll be waitin’ for Hell to freeze over. Hey - - who were you on with tonight? Baker or Norris? Norris is such a sour-ass.”

“I was on with Baker. He keeps it lively and interesting.” Hutch paused, deciding to venture further. “You’ll never guess who showed up. Remember my old partner, Anthony Impala?”

A long silence flowed from the other end of the phone. When Starsky finally spoke his voice held tightly controlled anger. “What’d he want?”

The change in tone wasn’t lost on Hutch. “Baker called him about some case he’s working on. He showed up while Phil was out, down the hall.”

“So you saw that scum? You talked to him?”

“Yeah.”

“Hutch, I thought I told you a long time ago to stay away from that creep.”

Hutch frowned, puzzled by Starsky’s growing hostility. “Is there something you’re not telling me? Something about Impala?”

“No, he’s just an ass. I don’t want you talkin’ to him.”

“Well, I’m not overly fond of it myself. I got the usual round of insults - - fag, rookie partner . . . pretty, rich jerk-off who never should have gotten Rank . . . oh, and plenty of pointed insinuations on just what I did do to get Rank.”

“He’s a fuckin’ asshole.”

Hutch winced at the acid in his voice. “Starsky it’s Christmas. Ease up on the four-letter stuff, huh?”

“Look who’s talkin.’ You can go from soft-spoken to foulmouthed in the blink of an eye. At least when I spew off, it’s at some jerkwad who deserves it. Listen, Hutch, he ain’t comin’ back again, is he? I mean, Baker’s got plenty of meets. Heck, he can get off his lazy butt and go down to the 61^st. I think you should tell him you don’t want Impala around.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I don’t want Impala around you!”

Hutch grew momentarily quiet. “Okay, that’s it. What aren’t you telling me? What don’t I know about this guy?”

“You know all you need to know, Hutch. Leave it at that.” A hasty breath and suddenly Starsky was deliberately off on another track. “Listen, I gotta run - -”

“You’re copping out on me, Starsk.”

“No, really. Come on, Hutch. It’s almost 4:30 here in New York. Ma’s gonna have a fit if she wakes up and finds me yakkin’ on the phone at this time of mornin.’ I just called, cuz . . .” His voice faltered briefly. “I don’t like you bein’ alone. I miss ya, Hutch.”

Sudden warmth displaced Hutch’s previous agitation. “I miss you too, buddy.” He smiled shyly. “Thanks for my car. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The memories faded, replaced by the astringent medicinal odors of the ICU. Before Hutch knew it, he was standing in the doorway, looking in at the broken form of his partner. Starsky looked frail, lying on his back beneath the congestion of machines and wires hooked to the bed. His flesh had lost most of its color, now a sick, pasty white, shocking in contrast against his raven-colored hair. The respirator hissed and clicked, a grim reminder of just how precarious Starsky’s health had become. Two days ago I was razzing him about his diet, now he can’t even swallow water.

Hutch went to the bedside, pulling a chair close. His fingers closed over Starsky’s limp right hand and he shuddered to feel how cold his friend’s flesh had grown. The fingers felt normal . . . pliable, movable, yet he knew Starsky couldn’t feel a thing. Not even the touch of his hand. The ugly thought saddened him. So much of their friendship relied on physical contact, even if it was only a fleeting stroke here or there . . . the brush of fingertips against a sleeve, an arm slung companionably over shoulders or waist, a playful cuff to the back of the head or the ghosting of fingers through hair. . . all passing gestures to reaffirm their inordinate closeness.

And now Starsky couldn’t feel.

“Buddy . . .” Hutch swallowed hard, hearing the tremor in his voice. “If you can hear me, I want you to know we’re gonna get through this. I . . .I’m gonna be right here when you wake up.” He leaned forward, reaching with his free hand to stroke Starsky’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, Starsk. Not without you, babe. Not without you . . .” His voice trailed away in a phantom whisper, his throat tightening up.

Time was back to being a demon again, a cold and merciless tormentor that inched by slowly as he maintained a grim vigil at his friend’s bedside. Thinking perhaps Starsky could hear him he talked endlessly about any stupid subject that popped into his head - - where they should take their next vacation, the price of alfalfa sprouts at the downtown open market, the taillight he needed to get repaired on his LTD, the latest plant he’d added to his collection, even the new taco stand that had opened on Third, and yeah . . . maybe, just maybe, he’d let Starsky drag him there for lunch one afternoon. When he ran out of things to talk about, his mind going stubbornly blank with fatigue, he sang softly, but after a time his over-used voice grew croaky and thin and he had to stop.

That was when his mind went crazy, conjuring up ghastly images of Starsky paralyzed for life, his friend reduced to a shadow of his former self. He cursed silently, ducking his head and rubbing the grit from his eyes. Eventually he’d have to make a decision about calling Starsky’s mother, but for now he put the thought to the back of his mind. If the paralysis really was temporary, wasn’t it better to wait rather than give her such dire news when she was clear across the country?

Exhausted he leaned back in his chair, no longer conscious of how much time had passed. Nurses came and went constantly, checking Starsky, monitoring his vitals and the equipment. He left twice for very brief periods, just long enough to use the bathroom and gulp down a cup of black coffee. Outside the sky had brightened with the dazzling light of full day. He stood occasionally, stretching his cramped muscles, pacing in a small circle as he worked the kinks from his lower back, all the while listening to the hated hiss and clack of the respirator. Franklin stopped by once and Hutch gave him a curt nod but otherwise they didn’t speak. Somewhere after 6:00 that evening, he dozed in the chair, unable to keep his eyes open. He’d been close to thirty-eight hours without sleep, even caffeine starting to lose its wired effect. He was just beginning to slip into a half-doze when he “heard” an anguished scream rebounding silently in his head.

Hutch’s eyes snapped open.

His heart lurched to his chest, the innate mental telepathy he shared with his partner crackling to sudden, shocking life. Starsky was awake and plainly terrified, his eyes wide and panicked, focused on the ceiling overhead. Hutch not only felt, but heard his terror, a string of screams bouncing soundlessly inside his skull. He thrust forward, bodily forcing himself into his partner’s line of vision.

“Starsk.” Instinctively, he reached for his friend’s face and neck, the only parts of Starsky’s battered body that could still experience sensation. His fingertips traveled over the familiar features, stroking cool flesh, beard stubble, the curling tips of heavy black hair. But Starsky’s eyes remained vacant, lost somewhere in the horror of waking and finding himself trapped in a hideous nightmare. Hutch gripped his chin, forcing his attention through the bubbling terror. “Starsk . . . Starsk, look at me, I’m right here.”

Starsky’s eyes shifted, dark as midnight against the bleached pallor of his face. Hutch saw terror there, a fear so great it threatened to overwhelm both of them. “Buddy . . . buddy, I need you to listen to me. I know you’re scared, I know you can’t move, but I need you to concentrate on what I’m saying.” He kept the pressure of his fingertips light, contouring the lines of Starsky’s cheek, his brow, the tight column of his neck. He knew his fingers were shaking but couldn’t seem to still the tremors in his hands. He felt like he was falling apart from the inside out.

By contrast his gaze was steady, his voice reassuring. He smiled softly when Starsky focused on him at last, the thread of terror in his eyes dimming slightly. “That’s it, babe. Keep your attention on me. The rest of this stuff . . . it’s all just temporary, Starsk.”

Hutch wet his lips, maintaining the gentle pressure of his hands . . .touching, stroking, feathering his fingertips through a mass of velvety black curls. What he couldn’t convey with words, he did with his hands, instilling a small measure of peace in his partner’s abruptly nightmarish world. “See, buddy, I found the hypo. It was Professor Jennings, Cheryl’s father - -” He saw Starsky’s eyes widen at the revelation, and rushed to continue, wanting to get the sordid tale over with.

“Dr. Franklin came up with an antitoxin, but you’ve just been through so much, pal . . .” Even voicing the words brought a tightness to his throat. He swallowed with difficulty, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. “The antidote worked, but it was a bit too much for your body to take. The important thing is you survived the poison, Starsk. You’re not in any danger of dying, no matter what it feels like. All that shit is in the past. You’re gonna be fine.”

He forced a tight smile, the effort igniting a throbbing ache in his temple. “It’s um . . . hell, I don’t know . . . somewhere after six in the evening the next day.” He laughed softly, still stroking, still touching, giving warmth as much as he was taking it. “The days kinda went together on me. What you need to remember is that all of this garbage - - the respirator, the paralysis you feel - - it’s all just temporary. Do you hear me, Starsky? I know you can’t move, and I know you’re scared, but everything will get back to normal. You’ve got to concentrate on getting better. The rest will come in its own time.”

Starsky closed his eyes, a single tear leaking from the corner, tracking down the side of his face.

Hutch felt the reactive burn in his own eyes. He couldn’t even begin to fathom what Starsky was feeling after the uncertainty and pain he’d lived through. The sheer terror of thinking he was dying and the excruciating agony of Jennings’ poison had been replaced by something as equally grim - - the staggering horror of paralysis, emotional trauma, raw confusion. How much punishment could one person possibly endure?

Another tear slid from beneath the heavy black fringe of Starsky’s lashes.

“Ohgod, babe, please don’t do that.” Hutch brushed the back of his knuckles over Starsky’s cheek, shakily collecting the glimmering tracks of moisture. The sight of his normally street-tough friend crying left him feeling abruptly winded, like he couldn’t breathe.

“Ssh . . . buddy, please. I know it seems like the whole world is turned upside down right now, but this is just temporary. You’re gonna get feeling back . . . movement back. Before you know it, you’ll be chasing down perps, driving that ugly tomato you call a car, and stuffing your mouth with burritos.” He gave a strangled sort of laugh, blinking back tears as the moisture came faster from beneath Starsky’s closed eyelids. “Babe, please . . . please don’t . . .” Not knowing what else to do, Hutch bent forward, pressing his brow to his friend’s forehead. His voice dropped to a soft whisper. “I’ll get you through this, Starsk. I promise I’ll be here. I’m not going to leave you - - I’ll never leave you. Trust me, buddy.”

He drew back. Starsky’s eyes were open, staring up at him through a watery veil of tears. Hutch smiled gently, dusting his fingertips across his partner’s wet cheeks. He could see faith and belief behind the fear now, the bond of their friendship stronger than the bleak terror of the unknown. What did I ever do to deserve someone who trusts me so completely . . . to be blessed by such an irreplaceable friend?

He watched as Starsky’s eyes drifted shut, fear and exhaustion exacting their toll. Starsky tilted his head toward Hutch’s palm, the lines of strain gradually fading from his face. A second later a nurse appeared in the doorway. Noticing Starsky’s half-conscious state, she immediately shuffled Hutch to the side, bending to fuss over the patient.

More poking and prodding, Hutch thought as he watched the procedure with a dazed sort of detachment. And Starsky can’t feel any of it. It’s like a freaking horror show!

He blinked, trying to shake aside the stupor. Starsky had finally woken up. How much longer before he was sitting up in bed? Talking? Walking? Franklin said the duration of the paralysis could be as short as an hour, or as long as - -

He winced, choosing not to remember the doctor’s halting admission that the paralysis could be permanent. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna let it happen . . . Starsky won’t let it happen. He dragged a hand over his face, feeling abruptly light-headed. Oh shit, I’m so fucking tired.

He got lost in the muddle of what happened next . . .was vaguely aware of the nurse calling Dr. Franklin who appeared in the room within moments to check on his patient. Starsky stayed sleepy but half-awake. Hutch watched from a corner, slumped against the wall, bone-tired, all but dead on his feet. After a while the nurse left and the doctor wandered closer, eyeing him with frank disapproval.

“All right, Sergeant Hutchinson - - your partner has woken up and you’ve had a chance to talk to him. Now I’d like you to leave the ICU as we agreed.” His voice was professional and cool, a little too clipped.

Hutch realized he probably harbored a good deal of resentment over the scathing remarks he’d made in the man’s office. Got your feathers ruffled, Doc? Too fucking bad! If it meant being an S.O.B. to get results out of the man, Hutch could pull off nasty in his sleep. At the moment he didn’t feel like arguing or apologizing. Dobey had laid down the law, and he knew if he didn’t head home soon, the captain wouldn’t be above having him handcuffed and physically dragged from the hospital.

“Sure . . okay.” He rubbed his eyes, his vision going fuzzy at the corners. “When can I come back? When can I see him again?”

Franklin scowled. “Not for twenty-four hours. That’s as much for your benefit as his. Have you looked at yourself lately, Sergeant? I suggest you go home, get something to eat and sleep for a day.”

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Hutch said flatly, overriding the doctor’s orders. He shoved away from the wall, swaying slightly at the sudden movement. Starsky was already asleep, his eyes closed in peaceful exhaustion. Leaning over the metal bedrail, Hutch stroked his cheek. “I gotta go now, buddy, but I’ll be back in the morning. You sleep and concentrate on getting better. I’ll see you soon, pal.” Another stroke of his hand, this time laced through the riotous curls scattered on Starsky’s brow. How many times had he done that over the years? What friend in the past had ever allowed him such blessed familiarity, something to be treasured and cherished?

His vision darkened again, accompanied by a loud rush of buzzing in his ears. Leaning into the bed, he gripped the top rail with both hands, hanging on as the room did a cut-rate impression of a merry-go-round on acid.

“Detective . . .?” Franklin was suddenly beside him, one hand reaching out to hover in his general vicinity as if fearful he might collapse. Despite that close proximity, the doctor’s voice sounded muddy and thick, impaired by distance. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Hutch snapped. He could feel sweat break out on his brow, knew that his hands were shaking.

“I think you should sit down. You’re white as a sheet.”

Hutch swallowed. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said flatly, turning his back while he still had the strength to walk out of the hospital. In the lobby he paused long enough to phone Dobey and bring him up to date on Starsky’s condition. His head was pounding, the glare from the overhead fluorescents hurting his eyes. When he finished the phone call he went in the direction of the cafeteria and mechanically downed a bowl of vegetable soup along with a few club crackers. The warmth felt good in his stomach, but the food stuck in his throat.

He knew he should feel better. Starsky had woken up and that was a step in the right direction, but the whole thing still felt like a nightmarish ordeal. It was after 7:30 by the time he wandered in the direction of the parking lot. From the passing stares cast in his direction, he knew he looked like some drugged-out lunatic. The food had helped a little. At least his legs felt steadier and his vision wasn’t waffling in and out, but the pounding in his head was merciless, reducing his eyes to light-sensitive slits.

He was halfway to the back of the lot when he realized he didn’t know where his car was, or even what vehicle he was driving. A black-and-white, the LTD, or did he have Starsky’s Torino? Frustrated that he couldn’t remember, he dug in his pocket, fumbling out a wad of keys, the ring for the Torino among them. That’s right, I drove it back here. Parked it, um . . .

He raised his head, glancing across the lot, frustrated that his mind wouldn’t cooperate. A woman gave him a wide berth as she steered two young boys to a station wagon three rows over. Irritated, Hutch laced a hand through his unkempt hair. He spied the Torino halfway across the lot in the opposite direction, silently cursing his lack of memory.

“Excuse me, Sir. Do you need help?”

“What?” Irritated by the interruption, Hutch glanced over his shoulder. A black-and-white had cruised to a stop behind him, its officers zeroing in on his strange rambling behavior. Both men had exited the car, one standing just off the passenger door, the other - - the driver - - standing by his shoulder.

Hutch frowned. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” the officer closest to him observed. His name tag read J. Mercer. The older of the two, he appeared in his mid-thirties, his hair straight and brown, offset by a neatly-trimmed mustache. His partner was a good deal younger, too far away for Hutch to tell much about him other than the fact his hair was dark and closely cropped.

Irked, Hutch rubbed his temple. “Look, I’m fine. I just forgot where I parked my car for a moment, okay?”

“Sure. But why don’t we talk about it over here.” Mercer motioned to the patrol car. “You don’t look in any condition to drive.”

Hutch felt his anger flare. “Look, you ass, I’m a cop. I’ve just spent the last thirty-eight hours with my partner, trying to keep him alive after some vengeful hood pumped him full of poison. I haven’t slept and I’m irritable as hell. Right now all I wanna do is find my car and get the fuck out of here.”

“I think you should step over to the patrol car, Sir.”

Hutch ground his teeth together. “I told you I’m a cop.” He reached for his ID, but suddenly Mercer’s gun was in his face and the other patrolman had moved around to the front of the vehicle. Hutch fought to hold his temper in check. “I just wanna get my ID.”

Mercer’s expression was tight. “You know what I think? I think you’re juiced on something. I know an addict when I see him. Get the hell over by the car and assume the position.”

Hutch closed his eyes. This simply wasn’t happening. Not after everything he’d been through in the last day and a half. If it weren’t so aggravating it would be almost comical. At the very least, it was a shame Franklin wasn’t around to enjoy the show. He supposed he deserved a jarring dose of humility after the grief he’d given the physician.

Raising his hands into the air, Hutch walked toward the vehicle, doing his best to constrain a slow burn of anger. As he neared the car, the junior officer suddenly gripped him by the back of the neck and slammed him face down against the hood. For all of eight seconds Hutch blacked out, the abrupt movement shattering his overly taxed stamina. He felt himself slipping toward the ground. Someone gripped the back of his belt, hauling him roughly upright. Hands patted down his sides.

“Hey, Jared - - this guy’s packing!” The startled voice sliced into his mind, rekindling the ruthless ache behind his eyes. He felt his jacket ripped aside, the Magnum wrenched from his holster. “Holy shit!” the younger cop breathed. “Check out the size of this thing!”

Hutch’s head was still spinning. “Back pocket,” he wheezed. “My shield . . .”

He felt Mercer dig in his jeans, the slim leather case sliding free. Experimentally he lifted his head, aware the junior officer held his own gun pointed at him. A few people had stopped to gawk in the background, pausing on their way to or from the hospital. He heard Mercer curse softly and stood up the rest of the way, thankful when the movement didn’t send the ground bucking and heaving beneath him.

“Put it down, Sam,” Mercer told his partner with a nod for the Magnum. Wincing at their blunder, he passed Hutch’s shield back to him. “I’m sorry about this, Sergeant Hutchinson . . .”

The blood drained from the younger officer’s face. “Sergeant? Oh, shit.”

“You got that right.” Hutch turned, snatching the gun from the man’s suddenly limp grip. He was ready to rip someone’s head off over the fiasco, and the stupidly eager rookie who’d slammed him into the car seemed a better choice than the more controlled Mercer. “Let’s get this straight, Officer . . .” His eyes dropped to the name tag pinned to the man’s shirt front and he blanched. “Impala?”

“Yes, Sir!” Snapping to attention, Impala sent a nervous glance skittering to his older, wiser partner. “Samuel Impala, Sir. 33^rd Precinct, West Side Division. I’m sorry about the rough stuff, Sir. I really thought . . . that is, we thought you - -”

“Stuff it!” Hutch snapped getting some of his composure back. He holstered the Magnum and sent an aggravated glance to Mercer who had approached cautiously. “Don’t you know how to rein him in, Patrolman?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mercer gave a repentant shrug. “I guess I was on the wrong track too. You really do look a sight, Sergeant, and the way you were wandering around the lot . . .” Another shrug. “Someone’s pushing pills from the hospital. We’ve had four buys in the last two weeks, including a sixteen-year-old-girl who OD’d. Her parents buried her three days ago. I guess we were just desperate for a lead.”

Slightly mollified by the explanation, knowing he probably did look like an addict, Hutch glanced back to Impala. The younger man was trim and fit with vibrant black eyes and glossy short-cropped hair. Though he looked slightly nauseous at the moment (Most likely thinking he just ended his career, Hutch thought with some satisfaction) he didn’t have the same hooded expression Hutch remembered so well from another Impala. This man’s face was more open. He could almost imagine him being friendly and helpful under other circumstances. “Are you related to an Anthony Impala who used to work out of the 61^st?” he asked.

“Uh . . . yeah.” The younger officer dropped his eyes as if momentarily ashamed by the admission. He stared at his feet for a long time. “My Dad.”

Looking at his bowed head, Hutch felt the last of his anger drain. “Vlad” Impala had left the force in disgrace just last year. Whatever Samuel Impala had to go through to win the respect of his fellow officers was surely a lot worse than anything the senior Impala had put Hutch through. “I was partnered with him when I was a rookie,” Hutch announced, not really sure why he bothered to share the information.

Samuel’s head snapped up. He grew even paler as something seemed to dawn in his eyes. “You’re . . . you’re him. I-I mean, you’re Ken Hutchinson.”

Hutch narrowed his eyes, uncertain how the younger officer knew him. “Last time I looked,” he said carefully.

Mercer cleared his throat. “Sergeant, we really should get back on patrol. If you don’t need us for anything else . . .”

Hutch shot him a frowning glance. Part of him wanted to know why Sam Impala had reacted so strangely to his name, but the other half just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. His mind was too numb to function anyway. “Yeah, okay,” he said, lacing a hand through his hair. “Next time, be sure of yourself before you pull the commando routine.”

“I’m really sorry, Sergeant,” Mercer offered.

Hutch waived the apology aside, his eyes darting back to Samuel even as he forced a final burst of energy and sprinted across the lot. The younger man watched him go, a strange mixture of confusion, loathing and respect in his gaze. Too tired to sort it out, Hutch found the Torino and slid inside.

Back at his cottage, he peeled off his jacket and gun, heading for the bathroom, deliriously intent on a hot shower. A single glance in the mirror wrenched him up short and he suddenly realized why Mercer and Impala had pegged him as a user. He looked wired, his eyes red and glossy, his cheeks sunken into harsh shadows. His normally immaculate hair was tangled and unkempt and he was in dire need of a shave. The jet hue of his turtleneck made his skin look sallower by contrast, as if he’d just recovered from a lengthy illness.

Gripping both sides of the sink, Hutch hung his head. He needed a shower and he needed sleep. After both maybe he could put the pieces of his life back together again and force a brave front for Starsky.

The thought of his friend lying defenseless and alone in a hospital bed sent a sharp cramp ripping through his gut. Hutch groaned, leaning further into the sink. It just wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t the injections have worked the way they were supposed to . . . why had Professor Jennings turned into such a vindictive killer in the first place? After everything that had happened to Starsky, he had no sympathy left for the confused, grieving father. Even after all of Cheryl’s help, he knew the best thing he could do right now was to stay away from both of them.

He needed to concentrate on Starsky. Do whatever was necessary to speed his healing.

Whatever’s necessary.

Hutch raised his head, staring at his reflection in the mirror. There was one thing he could do immediately . . . something he should have done sooner. Rushing into the living room, he snagged the phone and dragged it with him onto the couch. His hands shook as he dialed the familiar phone number, his heart beating wildly as he listened to the connection cycle through a series of rings.

He didn’t think he had the strength to talk to his mother just now. She would instinctively know something was wrong, alerted by the intuition all mothers seemed to possess. She’d pry and question, gently encouraging with love, and he’d end up losing it. God, please don’t let her answer. Please don’t let her . . .

“Hello.”

The clipped masculine voice in his ear was familiar, and Hutch breathed a thankful sigh of relief.

“Dad?”

“Ken.” There was nothing overly warm in the greeting. “Were you calling for your mother?”

“No!” The word came in a hasty rush, prompted by his fear the phone would be passed off to his mother before he had a chance to correct the misconception. “N-No, Dad. I . . . I need to talk to you. I-I need some advice about Starsky.”

“Starsky?”

The one word answers were starting to get to him, but Hutch closed his eyes, forcing himself to talk calmly. “David Starsky. You remember - - my partner. We went through the Academy together. You met him at my police graduation.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Yes.”

Well, bully for that. He’d gotten two whole words, even if they were one syllable a piece. Wrapping his hand around the phone cord, Hutch fought down his instinctive anger. They could be discussing something as simple as the weather, and they’d each find fault in the other. Tone of voice, choice of words, it didn’t matter. There was always something to pick apart. Determined the conversation wouldn’t deteriorate into an argument, Hutch drew in a ragged breath. His nerves really were one step shy of shattering. “Dad, I need your help.”

A soft chuckle came across the line. “You’re joking, right Ken? You haven’t spoken to me in three months and now you call from out of the blue claiming to need my help?”

“Dad, please!”

This time there was no judgment, no mockery. “What’s wrong?”

Hutch heard concern in the rapidly spoken question. It surprised him, leaving him floundering uncertainly at the jarring shift in mood. Was his father actually worried about him?

Ducking his head, he rubbed his eyes. They were burning again. He could understand that he’d get weepy with his mother but not his overly critical father. “Something . . . something terrible has happened to Starsky.” In a halting voice he relayed the whole ugly tale, starting with Bellamy poisoning his partner and ending with Starsky waking up on a respirator, paralyzed from the neck down. “So Franklin keeps saying it’s only temporary,” he explained, his voice cracking slightly as the ugly memories of the last thirty-eight hours bubbled back to the surface. “But I don’t know if I should believe him. Then he tells me there’s a chance the paralysis could be permanent and I feel like I’m going out of my head - - up, down, not knowing what to believe. Dad - -” He sucked in a quavering breath. “Starsky’s more than just my partner. He’s my closest friend. I guess I just need some reassurance it’s going to work out.” He paused, making sure his father understood what he said next . . . what it cost him to admit it. “I need to hear it from someone I trust.”

If Grant Hutchinson was surprised by such vulnerability from his normally reserved son it didn’t show. He waited only a heartbeat before giving a clinical answer. “Ken, I’m not there. Without actually examining your friend . . . without seeing his test results there are just too many variables to factor into play. It sounds like this Dr. Franklin is doing everything he can, and from what you’ve told me he appears competent. Do you have any reason to doubt his diagnosis?”

Groaning, Hutch bowed his head into his hand. He’d been hoping for something more from his father. He needed something more. Some concrete reassurance from a man he was often at odds with, but whom he respected for his medical brilliance. The last thing he wanted was dispassionate doubletalk, especially when he was a hair shy of sobbing into the phone and making a fool of himself. “Dad, isn’t there anything you can do?” he persisted, ignoring his father’s question entirely. “I mean maybe if you called Franklin, told him who you were, he’d share Starsky’s test results with you.”

“I don’t think so,” Grant told him. “More than likely he’d be irritated I was poking my nose where it didn’t belong. Besides, doctor-patient privilege doesn’t permit it. It’s his case, Ken, and I haven’t been asked to consult. You’re going to have to ride this one out.”

Angry frustration made him abruptly short-tempered. “You’re not listening!” he snapped. “Didn’t you hear what I said about Starsky? You don’t know what he means to me.”

“I know that he’s your friend and you’re upset,” Grant said a little too tightly, prompted by the heat in Hutch’s voice. “But I’m half the country away and you’re asking me to make a blind diagnosis about a critical patient I haven’t even seen. I’m not a miracle worker, Ken, and I’m not in the habit of butting my nose into another, fully competent doctor’s caseload, regardless who might be asking. If you’d stayed in the field, you’d realize medicine isn’t an exact science. Sometimes all a doctor can offer are best and worst case scenarios. The rest is often up to the patient.”

“So you’re not even going to try to help? For the first time in my life I’m practically begging you to do something, and you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out, Kenneth - -”

“Then what the hell do you call it?” he snapped, his patience shattering. Surging to his feet, he began to pace, holding the base of the phone clamped against his leg. “I guess if I wanted reassurance, I picked the wrong person to give it, huh, Dad? Big surprise there. You never knew how to do it when I was a kid, and you don’t know how to do it now!”

A long silence crackled over the receiver. Hutch found himself closing his eyes, desperately trying to calm his hostile anger. Yet even as he struggled to bring his panic-induced rage under control, he knew he’d crossed the line, drawn first blood. Your turn, Dad.

“Ken.” Grant’s tone when he finally spoke was measured and cool, clipped with frost. “I’m not in the habit of making false promises. You’re upset and you’re overwrought. I can hear it in your voice. If you want answers, I suggest you talk to the doctor in charge of your friend’s case. Maybe - -”

“That’s not why I called you!” Hutch yelled into the phone, the last feeble strands of his control snapping. “For crying out loud, Dad, don’t you get it? I was hoping you’d come down off your freaking ivory pedestal and act like a father for a change.”

“Kenneth - -” Stern now.

“Yeah, yeah.” His own voice dripped bitterness. “You can skip the lecture. I get it.”

“I don’t think you do - -”

“Bullshit! Let me tell you what I get, Dad. I get that nothing between us has changed.”

Seething, Hutch slammed the phone down. An influx of rage and adrenalin left him physically quaking, his legs suddenly weak, gut knotted and sour. Choking back fury, he stalked through the small house, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths, the suffocating ugliness of the last thirty-eight hours catching up with him all at once. Worry, panic, confusion, too little sleep, lack of food, too much caffeine, frustration, fear - - it all came crashing down in wave after sickening wave.

Ohgod, what if Starsky’s paralysis is permanent?

Panicked, he stalked to the bedroom, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to quiet his ratcheting heartbeat. On the verge of hyperventilating he dropped to a seat on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. Damn it, Dad, why couldn’t you just tell me it’s all going to work out? Why couldn’t you say what I needed to hear, if for no other reason than I needed to hear it?

He’d never felt so utterly helpless in his life - - first watching his friend slowly die, minute by minute, second by second. Unable to stop time, unable to ease Starsky’s excruciating pain . . . trying to hold it together, to be strong when he so desperately wanted to crack, to break down and sob. To scream and curse, to demand that heaven and earth hear the agony of his soul . . . that he didn’t want to be left alone, bereft of his friend, part of his very life, his flesh-and-blood purpose for being . . . that Starsky didn’t deserve to die, that fate wasn’t playing fair and his friend was too young, too treasured, too loved, to have his life ended so callously and abruptly.

Why couldn’t I help him? Oh damn it, why can’t I help him now!

The tide of emotion burst.

Sobbing, Hutch fell back on the bed. Blindly, he snagged a pillow and hugged it close to his chest, burying his face in the soft linen. His tears flowed hot and furious. He cried like he hadn’t cried since he was a child - - wrenching, choking sobs that left him panting for breath, his chest heaving, his head clogged and pounding. During any other time of distress he would have physically curled against his partner, only his partner wasn’t there for him . . . might never be there for him again, and the twisted selfishness in that thought horrified him as much, if not more, than his pain for Starsky. The guilt brought more sobs, heavier tears, until eventually fatigue caught up with him. Long hours of suppressed emotional turmoil and lack of sleep took their toll.

Completely drained, his tears spent, Hutch fell into an exhausted slumber.

+++++

The bright glare of morning sunlight slanting through the bedroom blinds drew Hutch groggily awake. Tossing an arm over his eyes, he rolled onto his back, groaning as his stiff body protested the movement. The sleep should have done him good, except he’d spent the night fully dressed, cramped and curled around a bed pillow. At first he couldn’t fathom the reason for sleeping so strangely, anymore than he could explain the gritty sensation of dried salt on his cheeks. Then the ugliness of the last two days hurtled violently back. Shaken, he pushed up on one elbow, trying to focus his red-veined eyes on the alarm clock by his bed. 9:20 a.m.

Guilt knifed through him.

Starsky could have been awake for hours . . . lying helpless and alone, hooked up to all those revolting machines, no one to talk to him, to reassure him and quiet the rush of renewed terror he was sure to experience on waking. Flinging the pillow from the bed, Hutch shoved off the opposite side and staggered toward the bathroom. He had a splitting headache. Likely the result of his hysterical sobbing bout the night before, he thought with a wince. And he’d overslept. He should have been at the hospital hours ago, demanding admittance to ICU. What kind of friend was he, sleeping and feeling sorry for himself, leaving Starsky to the dispassionate mercy of hospital personnel?

Cringing at his negligence, Hutch hurried through the mechanics of showering and dressing. He knew he should eat something, but the thought of food turned his stomach. He managed to force a glass of milk, two Tylenol, and a piece of wheat toast for sheer necessity. The bread stuck in his throat but the milk helped quiet his gut. He thought about calling Dobey then decided he could do it from the hospital. The less time he wasted now, the quicker he could be at his partner’s side.

No one challenged him at the hospital. Maybe it was because the medical staff had already experienced his blunt single-mindedness when it came to the dark-haired patient in ICU Ward 23. Or maybe Franklin had told them to give him a wide berth. A few stray glances wandered in his direction, but the nursing staff left him alone. Thankful he didn’t have to bully his way into Starsky’s room, Hutch paused just outside the door, mentally gathering himself.

With a deep breath, he entered the room.

+++++

Starsky didn’t think he’d ever look at white the same way again. There was too much of it - - the ceiling, the walls, the sheets on the bed, even his flesh. It was bloodless and pasty . . . no living color. And wasn’t that appropriate considering his body felt dead? Is dead. The difference was really schematics, right? Tomato, To-moto.

He might have laughed if he wasn’t on the verge of crying. Lack of color, that’s what white was all about - - a lack of life.

Last night he’d dreamed in vibrant hues . . . seascapes and cloudscapes of cobalt blue, lush, green woods where streams burbled softly over water-smoothed stones and the ground lay wrapped in dense purple shade . . . sandy deserts baked gold beneath a champagne sun, arroyos of wind-blasted stone bordered by soaring pinnacles of jagged red rock . . .

It had all seemed so real, an explosion of color, sight and sensation in his mind. But he woke to a dark room, the gray light of predawn seeping cold and onion-pale through the blinds. He woke to terror and the cruel shock of immobility, a tube in his throat . . . alone in the darkness, alone with the horror.

He thought he’d go insane, trapped, unable to move, unable to talk. For one fragile second, he thought he was living a nightmare. That the dazzling landscape of his dreams was the real reality, and he’d wake up any moment back among that harvest of blazing color. Then the memories tumbled back: Bellamy, the poison, desperately scrambling to find the antidote, shooting to death the only man who could save him. He’d consciously made that choice, fully aware of the consequences, and he’d make it again in a heartbeat. Even if it meant ending up in the same grisly condition, this barbed mockery of life.

At least Hutch was alive. One of them could live and breathe outside of the white.

He remembered his friend yesterday in this very room, talking to him, touching him, stroking his face and hair. He’d almost shriveled up and died from the terror that first time he’d wakened, horrified to realize he couldn’t move, that his body was dead. But Hutch was there, speaking softly, assuring him it would all be fine, that the ugly paralysis he felt was only temporary.

Starsky closed his eyes.

He’d said goodbye to Hutch twice. Once at the police station, clasping hands across his desk.

Y’know, if this were a cowboy movie, I’d give you my boots. You’re my pal, Hutch.

And again in the ER, when he was certain he was going to die, nothing but a long look passing between them. A look that spoke volumes. Emotion and love without words, all the things he held cherished in his soul. Things he wanted Hutch to know. Eternal words, eternal love.

But it hadn’t ended there.

He’d lost track of time even though he could see a clock on the wall across the room. 9:55 a.m. It meant nothing to him - - seconds, minutes, hours. From the moment he’d awakened last night to find his world turned upside down, time only had two measures - - when he was alone and when Hutch was there. Nurses had been in and out of his room all morning, talking to him, checking his vitals, emptying the foley tube he’d come to realize was hooked to his bladder by means of a catheter . . . marking the chart at the foot of his bed, replacing the IV bags. Once or twice he dozed, waking to find himself alone again, almost glad for the solitude, except for the lack of a particular 6’1” blond.

Throughout the long morning he lay still and listened, every infinitesimal sound magnified and snared by his ears - - overhead pages, the creak and whine of carts wheeled across waxed linoleum, the muffled sobs of visitors as they came and went from the rooms of their loved ones. A short while ago he’d overheard two nurses talking outside the doorway of the patient parallel to his.

. . . brought him in last night . . . gunshot . . . Polly was on . . .

. . . looks bad . . . another cop . . .

. . . took two units of whole blood . . .

. . . Dr. Garner wants updates every hour . . .

He moaned softly, needing Hutch as he’d never needed him before. Was it worse to be shot and critical or paralyzed and helpless? Tormented, he willed himself to move, but the cruel deadness in his body only mocked him. Depression sent a silent scream ripping through his head. He hated his uselessness, his utter lack of being. He felt like a husk, ravaged and discarded. In desperation, his eyes flicked to the door, hoping to see a familiar crown of blond hair, the glint of compassionate blue eyes. But there was only emptiness, a reality that sank deeper and heavier into his badly lacerated soul.

He hated himself. There was a cop dying in the room across the hall, others critical and clinging to life further down the ward, yet he couldn’t stop feeling sorry for his own miserable existence. Didn’t that make him a loathsome, selfish S.O.B? And yet he couldn’t stop the feelings . . . the horror, shame and choking remorse. When it came right down to it, he was scared out of his skull.

Please, Hutch.

Too much white. He was drowning in it, suffocating, pulled under in a quicksand of fear. Ohgod, babe, where are you? Hutch, I need you. I . . .

From out of nowhere a thoroughly horrifying thought struck him. What if Hutch was the cop across the hall?

Starsky’s heart stopped beating. And then almost immediately, something warm washed over him, as shocking for its suddenness as it was welcome for its blissful relief. He turned his head on the pillow, the sight of the man in the doorway filling his mind, heart, and soul to bursting.

Hutch!

In four quick strides his friend was across the room, those large, gentle hands reaching out to touch his face, his hair. The contact was electric. Starsky closed his eyes, revealing in the giddy sensation. He wanted it to go on and on, warmth and tenderness magnified in every exquisite stroke of Hutch’s fingertips. For a time he’d forgotten he could feel at all, his body numb to touch. But his partner had reawakened that awareness like bringing food to a starving man.

He’d never really thought about Hutch’s hands before. They were larger than his, powerful and strong, but gentle at the same time, the fingers long and supple. Hutch had a musician’s hands; the fingertips calloused from the strings of his guitar, his right palm toughened further by the weight of his Magnum. And yet, the stroke of those wonderfully imperfect hands was the most beautiful thing Starsky had ever felt in his life.

“Starsk?”

The gentle prodding of Hutch’s voice drew his eyes open and he stared up into the face of his friend.

Hutch smiled softly, compassion shining in his blue eyes. “How you doing, buddy?” One hand fell to his side, but the other kept up its steady pressure, lightly sculpting an eyebrow, contouring a cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I, um . . .” Hutch licked his lips and looked away as if uncomfortable with the reason for his absence.

Starsky scrunched his brows together. He knew that look even as Hutch tried to hide it. Feeling guilty. If he’d had his voice, he would have told his friend what an idiot he was being, but Hutch was already off on another track.

“I called Dobey. Told him where I was. He’s worried about you too.” Hutch’s eyes returned, crimped with a shadow of pain. “Everyone’s worried about you, Starsk. The guys at the station, the garage . . . even that goof Bigelow down in Supply. Everyone’s sending up prayers for you, buddy. They all just want you to get better.”

Starsky felt fingers thread into his hair, the light pressure sheer magic. If Hutch stayed like that, his fingertips twined deeply in loose curls, Starsky thought he might be able to fall asleep contented. He would have preferred to pillow up against Hutch, the steadying pressure of his partner’s arms around him, but his cursed body wouldn’t allow it. At least the fear was withering now, ebbing slowly in Hutch’s calming presence.

It wasn’t fair. Not only to him, but to Hutch as well. What would become of them if he couldn’t shake the paralysis, if Franklin was wrong? Starsky knew his friend would never leave him.

He told me that last night. I remember . . .

It came back in a rush, the remembered tears of frustration and fear spilling from his eyes, Hutch bent over him, pleading with him not to cry, so close he might as well have been in the same bed. He’d vowed never to leave, and Starsky knew he wouldn’t. He’d grind himself into bone-weary fatigue first, doing whatever was necessary to remain at Starsky’s side, even if it meant quitting the Force and abandoning the career he loved. Through doctors, treatments and therapy, Hutch would be there. Through medications, in-home care, wheelchairs and ramps, hospital beds, toilet and shower modifications . . .

Starsky groaned, smothered by the violent return of horror.

“Ssh, babe, it’s okay. I’m right here.” Hutch’s fingers swept through his hair then slipped lower to stroke his cheek. “We’re going to get through this, Starsky. You’re going to get through it.”

He wanted to believe . . . desperately and completely, but knew the hopelessness he felt lay bare in his eyes. With one hand, Hutch reached behind him, dragging a chair close to the bed. His other hand stayed pressed against Starsky’s cheek. “I know you,” Hutch said firmly. “And I know you’re not going to put up with this for long. Just remember, buddy - - it’s only temporary. A couple of days, maybe a little longer . . .” He swallowed hard. Once again his eyes darted away, but this time it wasn’t guilt Starsky saw there.

He’s keepin’ something from me.

The thought was staggering. He knew Hutch would never lie to him, never deliberately deceive him. Yet if his friend thought he was withholding information for Starsky’s benefit, he’d be as tight-lipped as a clam. Hadn’t he done the same to Hutch before, hoping to spare him from ugly gossip and rumor?

Unable to grasp the vicious twists and turns of the present, Starsky’s mind retreated into the past.

Rookie patrolman David Michael Starsky was still wired on adrenalin as he headed for the locker room at the end of his workday. Shift change had already taken place, most of the remaining teams having called it a night. He and his partner, George Klinger had been tied up with a robbery bust, but it was textbook clean and he couldn’t help feel exhilarated by the tidy outcome. No one hurt, money recovered, and the perp had been caught red-handed with the goods. Best of all, he’d been instrumental in bringing the guy down.

He couldn’t wait to tell Hutch about the experience. They’d already planned to get together tomorrow night at Huggy Bear’s for a beer, but he knew he’d be calling his blond friend as soon as he got the chance. Hutch’s car had been missing from the lot when he and George returned, but that was to be expected. Hutch’s shift had ended two hours earlier, something Starsky was certain he was immensely grateful for.

Hutch had already endured five days of nonstop verbal abuse from his partner Anthony “Vlad the Impaler” Impala. Of all the senior officers to draw as a partner, Hutch had to snag the worst. There was always talk around the precinct about how Impala treated rookies, but even those doing the gossiping admitted they’d never seen him ride anyone as hard as he did Hutch.

And it wasn’t just the usual rough-riding all rookies endured. This was spiteful in nature, deliberate attempts to humiliate and degrade. Starsky had tried to convince Hutch to say something to their captain, but his friend would have none of it, fearing he’d lose the respect of his fellow officers. And so he took the abuse in stride, did as he was told, and suffered silently.

Starsky knew their captain, Royce Claremont, was a bit of a jerk anyway and probably would have sided with Impala. They were both “old school,” felt that rookies who couldn’t cut it needed to be weaned out early. If Impala was a little rough with his car-mates, so be it. He was doing the Force a favor by washing out the ones who’d only go belly up later anyway.

His mood soured by the thought, Starsky stepped into the locker room. He rounded the corner and drew to an immediate halt, surprised to find Impala still there. The older man stood with his back turned, dressed in his street clothes, the door of his locker hanging open. His head was bent and he was muttering something under his breath.

Starsky’s first reaction was to blurt a sarcastic remark, but something about Impala’s tone made him stop. The man sounded almost breathless, a sort of hitching gasp coming between the low mumbles. Drawing back to the edge of the lockers so he couldn’t be seen, Starsky peered around the corner. Something about Impala’s demeanor made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge. The older cop shifted, leaning heavily into the metal lockers, and Starsky realized he held a photograph in his hands. From the distance he couldn’t see the actual picture, just the gloss sheen of an 8” x 10” image, but he could see Impala’s eyes.

And what he saw there made him sick.

There was something perverted and goatish in the dark-eyed gaze, an ugly sort of lust that he would have expected from a rutting pig. He guessed the photo was probably from a porn shop, likely a naked woman in a provocative pose. Surely nothing else could have provoked that kind of sick immoral gaze. So Impala wasn’t without his own ugly little secrets. He was just about to step from his hiding place, hopefully shocking the shit out of the scumbag, when a detective team strolled around the corner from the opposite end of the room.

“Hey, Tony, how’s it going?” one of the men greeted.

Impala jerked, hastily thrusting the photo behind his back, the image turned toward Starsky, who was still tucked in his hiding place.

He stared, unable to believe his eyes, the room suddenly reeling chaotically like it had been clamped on an unstable axis. The blood drained from his face, shock and rage rocketing through him. The high-gloss image clutched in Impala’s hand was a picture of Hutch, towel wrapped around his waist as he stepped from the shower. Starsky guessed it had been taken from a distance with a close-up lens, his friend never even aware he’d been photographed . . . or that he was the unfortunate subject of depraved infatuation for a filthy, bottom-feeding pervert.

Ducking back into the first row of lockers, Starsky fought to keep his chest from heaving, his whole body trembling with rage. He wanted nothing more than to rip the photograph from the man’s hand, confront him and tear it into tiny pieces. He wanted to spit, curse, and drive his knuckles into that sickly lecherous face. But what would Hutch do? What would Hutch say? And what if . . .

He blanched.

What if Imapla’s sick obsession for Hutch wound its way through the department? Would that affect Hutch too, make him the subject of malicious and unfounded gossip, possibly smear his service record? Was Starsky ready to risk his friend for his anger? Wasn’t there a better way of handling this?

He glanced back around the corner in time to see Impala shove the photo into his locker. The man grabbed his coat, said something to the two detectives then left the same way they’d entered.

One thing was for certain - - Hutch couldn’t stay partners with a pervert like that. Not when the dirtbag was practically hyperventilating just from looking at a photograph. Yet if he said anything to Hutch, his partner would probably just tough it out, still unwilling to go to their captain. Which meant Starsky had to take care of it in his own way.

Grimly determined he headed for his locker.

Blackmail would work best, bluntly spelled out in an anonymous letter. At least he’d stay anonymous for now. His friendship with Hutch was too well known, and he didn’t want Impala thinking his friend had anything to do with the ultimatum Starsky planned on giving - - “Request another partner, or risk the exposure of your dirty little secret.”

“Starsk?”

He blinked, abruptly aware the locker room had faded and he was awash in white again - - walls, ceiling, blankets. Except now there was color too - - soft ash and gold, sky blue - - the cherished colors of his friend. He looked toward Hutch and saw him smile hesitantly.

The gentle pressure of fingertips lodged in Starsky’s hair. “You went away there for awhile, buddy. Are you tired?”

Starsky gave a small shake of his head.

“Okay.” Again the smile, surer this time. “How about if I just talk for awhile and try to keep you entertained?” The corners of Hutch’s lips tipped higher and Starsky felt his heart quake. How could one person have such a blessed all-consuming effect on him?

There were deep lines etched into Hutch’s face and his cheeks were gaunt. Starsky knew he hadn’t been taking care of himself, but he also selfishly wanted him to stay. Just a while, babe. Just ‘till the world makes sense again. He gave a tiny nod, momentarily contented when Hutch started to talk.

He listened for awhile, but it was really the sound of his friend’s voice he wanted more than the actual words. After awhile his eyelids dipped and he fell into a light doze. When he woke an hour later, Hutch was slumped in the bedside chair, sound asleep, his hand still nestled in Starsky’s hair.

+++++

Two days later, Hutch arrived at the hospital before visiting hours had even officially begun. The ICU staff had grown used to him, allowing him to come and go pretty much as he pleased. There had been some token resistance at first until it was noted how much more alert Starsky appeared to be whenever he was around. Though he was frequently shooed from Starsky’s room when any detailed examination was required, he was allowed to return immediately afterward.

Hutch found it growing harder to keep his partner’s spirits up as Starsky entered his third full day of paralysis. It’s only temporary, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, hurrying from the hospital parking lot into the lobby. Lately it had become a mantra he repeated nightly, each twenty-four hour span bringing the niggling fear that it might become permanent. If only his partner could get off the damn respirator at least.

Scowling heavily, he hustled his way into the elevator, shaking water from his wet hair and jacket. The rain had started last evening, drenching him as he’d raced for his car, leaving him soaked and shivering. The downpour had continued throughout the night, finally tapering to a steady drizzle near dawn. It left him feeling moody and glum, emotions he couldn’t afford to display in front of Starsky.

He knew his friend was growing agitated and restless, Hutch’s fear the paralysis might be permanent waffling between anger and intense horror. Though Starsky couldn’t speak and couldn’t move, Hutch could see every transitory emotion conveyed in his expressive eyes. Doing what he could, Hutch tried to reassure him with touch and words . . .through the unspoken telepathy that crackled between them, but even that was failing. Starsky’s depression grew worse daily.

Determined to maintain a positive attitude, Hutch ran his fingers through his damp hair and stepped into the room with a smile. It died on his lips instantly at the sight of a young LPN bent over his partner’s bed, a bathing basin on a roll-away table beside her. Without even looking at his partner, Hutch felt Starsky’s sharp agitation coupled with something like shame.

“Starsk.” He was at the bedside in an instant, his hand instinctively moving to rest on the crown of his friend’s hair. His gaze shifted from his partner’s chalky face to the nurse. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Sergeant Hutchinson.” The LPN spared a dismissive glance as she continued to fuss with the wash basin, adjusting the height of the table. Hutch noticed towels, washcloth and water set to the side, along with lotion and a bar of soap. He’d just tended to his friend yesterday, bathing Starsky himself and didn’t understand what the preparation was about.

“You’ll have to leave, Sergeant. I need to give your friend a bath.” As she spoke, she caught the privacy curtain in her hand, crisply drawing it around the bed as if he weren’t even there.

Hutch found himself trapped on the inside, wedged against the mattress, which was just fine with him. He wasn’t about to leave Starsky when he sensed such restless agitation from his friend. Almost unconsciously, his fingers sank deeper into Starsky’s hair.

“He had a bath yesterday,” Hutch said tersely, prompted by the resilient mental tension radiating from his partner Starsky’s acute anxiety confused him, and the nurse - - young as she was - - had a dispassionate, business-like manner that already rubbed him the wrong way. Irritated, he glanced at the woman’s nametag. “Look . . . Nurse Orley, I think you - -”

“You really are in the way, Sergeant,” she cut him off bluntly. “Kindly leave so I can get started.”

“He doesn’t need a bath.”

“I’m afraid he does.”

Hutch’s anger got the better of him. “What the hell for? It’s not like he’s been outside wallowing around in the mud.”

Her stare was pointed and chill. “It’s not mud he’s wallowing in.”

Realizing what she meant, Hutch’s gaze dropped to his friend. Mortified, Starsky closed his eyes, his face crumpling in shame. And suddenly that look, the wretchedness of seeing his friend so vulnerable was too much to bear. Starsky shouldn’t have to endure any of this. Not the paralysis, the respirator, the heartlessness of this cold, clinical nurse, and certainly not embarrassment over something that was beyond his control.

“Get out!” he hissed at the woman, his teeth clenched in rage.

“Sergeant - -”

“I said get out. I’ll do it myself.” He moved to wrench the curtain aside, his fury over the situation leaving his face white and strained. From the corner of his eye he caught Starsky’s gaze and suddenly stopped.

Starsky was ashamed, yes. Angry, yes, but there was something else in his eyes - - an almost-pleading quality that sent knives ripping through Hutch’s heart. He recalled October, five months before when he’d endured a hellish 48 hours of forced heroin withdrawal. He’d been the one who’d needed bathing then, his body filthy and fouled by a lack of control over normal digestive functions. He remembered the degradation and burning shame, memories that could wake him from a sound sleep even now, leaving him drenched and shivering in a cold sweat. Through it all, Starsky had tended to his soiled body, silently and quickly. Never saying a word about what he was doing, never mentioning it again.

Hutch dragged a hand over his face, understanding. As humiliated as Starsky was feeling, he didn’t want Hutch to be the one to bathe him. He could suffer the paralysis, the respirator, even the helplessness of being unable to talk or move, but he wanted that single dignity to remain intact where his friend was concerned. Starsky wanted him to leave. Was practically begging him with his eyes.

Anger draining, Hutch bowed his head. “Starsky, I’m sorry.”

The nurse’s initial shock at being ordered from the room had faded. Recovering, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Sergeant, am I going to have to call security and have you physically removed?”

“No.” His voice was low, despondent. Leaning over the bed, he smiled gently down on his friend. “I’ll be back in a little bit, buddy.” Hutch brushed his fingertips over Starsky’s brow, noting the heightened flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. He hated that he couldn’t make that ugly emotion go away, but knew the best thing he could do for his mortified partner was to leave.

With another gentle smile for his friend, and a less than forgiving glare for the nurse, Hutch ducked from inside the curtain and walked into the hallway.

+++++

Four hours after Starsky’s bath, Hutch sat in the room opening cards that had arrived from numerous well-wishers, making sure Starsky saw the cover and inside of each before he actually read them. It seemed almost every single person at the precinct had dropped a get-well wish into the mail or sent a scribbled letter plastered with smiley faces. Dobey had come by earlier, allotted a brief 15 minutes by the ICU staff. Despite his higher rank, he didn’t rate Hutch’s virtually unrestricted status, probably because he wasn’t as volatile about getting his way.

Hutch was down to the last couple cards when one of the RN’s breezed in to check on Starsky. Hutch had grown so accustomed to their constant coming and going he barely noticed anymore until he heard the woman gasp. “Did you see that?” she cried excitedly.

Puzzled, more than a little concerned, Hutch raised his head. “See what?”

“Detective Starsky. He was taking a few breaths on his own!”

Shoving the cards aside, Hutch pushed from the chair where he’d been sitting, leaning over the bed. The nurse was finagling with the respirator, checking readings, scribbling notes on the chart she’d grabbed from the foot of the bed, but her animation was obvious. “For every few breaths of the respirator, he’s taking one for himself.”

“Buddy . . .” Hutch reached for Starsky’s hand, desperate hope in his eyes. He gripped the limp fingers and squeezed. At first there was nothing, just the same dead unresponsiveness he’d known for days, but then he felt a faint pressure in return.

Giddy elation streaked through Hutch. “He just squeezed my hand!” His words spilled out in a rush of excitement, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Had he really just felt the impossibly wonderful sensation of his partner’s fingers tightening over his? “Starsk!” Ecstatic, he leaned over the bed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s it, buddy. It’s all coming together now. You’re going to be fine.” The fingers tightened again, harder this time and Hutch felt tears sting his eyes.

Starsky’s face was upturned to his, theirs eyes locked together, the nurse, the respirator and every other distraction around them quickly forgotten. He was vaguely aware of her paging a doctor to the room in the background, but the sound got lost in the crackle of a bond that could never be broken . . . an intrinsic connection that defied time, fate and impossible odds. Hutch expelled a sighing breath, half sob, half laughter. “What took you so long?” he whispered.

A second later he was shuffled aside as a glut of doctors and nurses converged on the bed. He didn’t mind though. This time the attention was over something positive. A nurse steered him from the room and pointed him down the hall to a small waiting area reserved for family. He went numbly, still grinning, sending up silent prayers of gratitude.

Once there, he found he couldn’t sit, his body surging with adrenalin, despite the fact he hadn’t slept more than a few hours each night since Bellamy had first injected Starsky. He paced back and forth in the empty room, dragging nervous fingers through his hair. When he heard footsteps behind him, he turned quickly expecting to see a nurse, but found only a forlorn-looking man with brown hair.

Vague recollection tugged at Hutch’s senses and he frowned. “Mercer?”

The patrolman looked different out of uniform, dressed in a pair of brown cords and a gray sweatshirt. His face was thinner, his shoulders tucked in a despondent slump. Jerking his head around, he stared owlishly at Hutch, before sluggish memory fired in his brain. “Sergeant Hutchinson.” The hint of a smile touched his lips, but it was too tight to be warm. “You look different, Sir. Not as, uh . . . frazzled as the last time I saw you.”

Taking a step closer, Hutch tilted his head to the side. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting.” Mercer’s gray eyes suddenly took on a bleak haze. “We got the guy who was pushing out of the hospital two days ago, but my partner took a bullet in the scuffle. Sam’s down the hall, critical . . . a gunshot wound to the stomach. They, uh . . . they’re not sure he’s gonna make it. I keep coming back . . . hoping, you know? They let me in to see him for a couple minutes then shove me down here. He’s been in a coma ever since it went down.”

“My God . . .” The words tumbled from Hutch’s lips from sheer reflex. “I’m sorry.”

Mercer glanced at him sharply as if gauging his sincerity. “I know the kid’s just a rookie, but we’re close. He’s had to put up with a lot of shit because of who his father is and he’s done it with grit, you know? It shouldn’t end like this.”

“No,” Hutch agreed quietly. He wet his lips. “That doesn’t mean it will, Mercer. He’s hung on for two days. That has to count for something . . . tell you about his will to live.” He paused, fully understanding what the man was going through. “Is there any improvement?”

Mercer gave a half-hearted shrug. “A little. Which should have me doing cartwheels, I guess, except I can’t forget how he looked when that creep shot him . . . all that blood gushing out of his stomach. He was scared out of his skull, telling me he didn’t want to die, and all I could do was hang onto him . . . plead with him not to give up.”

“You were with him, that’s what counted.”

The gray eyes returned, piercing this time. “You say that like you mean it, Sergeant.”

“Call me Hutch.” Motioning Mercer to a seat on one of the vinyl-padded chairs placed throughout the room, Hutch sat adjacent to him. “My partner’s in here too.”

“That’s right.” Mercer blinked as if suddenly remembering Hutch’s comment from their initial encounter in the parking lot. “You said something about him being poisoned.”

“Yeah. I think he’s on the upswing though.” Hutch gave an abbreviated version of what had happened to Starsky. Mercer seemed okay, but he wasn’t ready to start sharing Starsky’s condition with the world at large, even fellow officers. His relationship with his partner had always been on the private side. While they readily interacted with others, their extraordinary bond was jealously guarded, sectioned off by a boundary no one else could cross. It was the “me and thee” element of their relationship . . . a clearly defined line visibly excluding the rest of the world. And that was the way Hutch wanted it - - his partner to himself. “I guess we’re both kind of in the same situation,” he finished quietly.

Mercer nodded thoughtfully. “Hopefully it won’t be long before Sam turns the corner too. Like I said - - we’re close.” He frowned suddenly, eyeing Hutch almost critically. “He’s not like his dad, you know? The kid’s had a lot to live down, least of all his father’s legacy. I guess you’ve got no love lost for his old man, huh?”

Caught off guard by the observation, Hutch was momentarily at a loss for words. His days of working with Anthony Impala were buried deep in the past, memories he rarely visited. Arching a brow, he eyed Mercer speculatively. “What does that mean?”

The other man shrugged. He looked tired. As worn and exhausted as Hutch felt. “Just that . . . well, I know you were partnered with him. You know how it gets on stakeout . . . long hours night after night. After awhile, that’ll make anyone talk.” Another shrug, this one clearly uncomfortable. “Sam told me some stuff about his dad. Guess he knew I’d keep it to myself, but I figure you already know the half of it, huh? Must have creeped you out big time when you realized the old man had a thing for you.”

Hutch blinked, unable to comprehend the words. Thing for you. What the hell exactly was a “thing?” He felt himself flush, unable to stop the preconceived notion. Surely, Mercer didn’t mean - - couldn’t possibly mean . . .

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”

He jerked, startled to realize his nerves had balled into taut wire. The same RN who had been in the room with him when Starsky squeezed his hand was standing in the doorway, a smile on her face.

“It’s all right if you want to go back to the room now, Sergeant,” she told him. “Your friend is still on the respirator, but Dr. Franklin is extremely optimistic with the progress he’s making. I think Detective Starsky would probably like to see you. I’m no psychic, but he seemed highly agitated when we sent you away.”

And I’d bust down doors to see him.

Like a marionette on a string, Hutch was instantly on his feet, concern plain on his face. He itched to be with Starsky, to make sure his friend knew he hadn’t been deserted. Shooting Mercer a parting glance, he smoothed his hands nervously over his jeans, eager to be away. “Look . . . I’m on the same floor. Keep in touch, huh? And I’ll be thinking about Sam - -” He paused suddenly, realizing how horrible Mercer had to feel . . . that he had to be experiencing the same bleak emotions Hutch had lived with for the last five days. Deliberately slowing his words, he held out his hand. “I’ll check in if they let me. I hope it all works out for both of you.”

“Yeah.” Mercer nodded, but his expression had turned bleak. He shook the hand Hutch offered, then dropped his eyes to the floor. As much as Hutch wanted to offer reassurances, Starsky came first. He left the room behind the nurse, darting swiftly down the hall. The pressure in his chest didn’t ease until he was back at Starsky’s side, his fingertips reaching out to lace through a riotous mass of inky curls.

Starsky had squeezed his hand. Starsky had taken a few faltering breaths on his own. It was a start.

He could almost believe the mantra he’d been repeating nightly, that the paralysis was temporary, that it would all work out in time and the world would eventually return to normal. For the first time in a long time, Hutch felt blissfully optimistic.

+++++

He slept fairly well that night, an indulgence he hadn’t enjoyed since Bellamy had first injected Starsky with poison. As per his normal routine, he was at the hospital the next morning before the start of visiting hours. A sheer moment of panic ensued when he arrived at Starsky’s room only to find it glaringly empty. Before he could fall apart completely a nurse appeared at his shoulder and informed him Starsky had been moved to a regular room on the fifth floor - - private, but without all the constant monitoring and round-the-clock care of ICU.

His heart lightened twofold, Hutch sprinted toward the elevator, bursting with impatience. A regular room meant further improvement. It meant that Starsky had turned the corner, that the worst was past and he - -

Hutch came to a dead halt in the doorway of Starsky’s room.

He had expected the respirator to be gone. He had not expected Starsky to be sitting propped up in bed, his eyes at half-mast as he tried to focus on some inane game show muted to half-volume on the TV.

“Starsk?” Barely daring to breathe, Hutch took a step closer to the bed.

Starsky’s eyes slid from the TV on the far wall to touch on him with undisguised warmth. “Hey.” The corner of his mouth curled slightly as he extended his right hand.

Elation, profound relief and giddy confusion sent Hutch bolting for the bed. His hand reached out, sliding from Starsky’s palm all the way up his forearm, wrapping tightly just beneath his elbow in an arm-to-arm grip. “My god, Starsk!” His breath came in a rush too fast for words, euphoric thought tripping over lightning-fired euphoric thought. “The respirator . . . your hand, your arm . . .”

Unable to articulate what he was feeling, Hutch glanced down at the hand locked on his forearm. The grip lacked strength, but it was warm, blessedly mobile and pulsing with life.

“Kinda . . . happened quick,” Starsky said weakly, his voice shorn and rasp.

Hutch immediately zeroed in on the sound. “Don’t talk,” he said hastily. Instinctively he reached with his other hand to touch Starsky’s cheek. A dazzling smile spread over his lips. “I mean . . . don’t talk, but, ohgod, babe, it’s so good to hear your voice . . . to see you smile.” Emotion caught in his throat and he had to look away briefly to collect himself.

Starsky gave a soft chuckle. “You always were . . . the sensitive one.”

“Got that right.” Hutch’s head was still bowed. His eyes traveled over Starsky’s body, propped up in bed, the daze of euphoria slowly fading. He tightened his grip on Starsky’s arm, splaying his fingers to feel the warmth of responsive flesh beneath. “You, uh . . . you don’t mind if I just hang on to you for awhile? I mean . . . the fact I can actually touch you - -”

“Hey . . . I can actually feel it, Blondie.” Starsky’s voice grew thinner and thready. He winced slightly, shifting his shoulders on the fluffy brace of pillows at his back. “It ain’t the whole way though, Hutch.” His eyes dipped and his jaw tightened as if he struggled with pain. “I . . . I can’t feel my legs, buddy. Just down to my waist . . . that’s all . . .”

The euphoria dimmed further. “That’s okay. It’ll come eventually, Starsk.” But Hutch wasn’t thinking about the paralysis now. Starsky’s fingers tightened reflexively on his arm, his shoulders and upper body going abruptly taut. The dark-haired man ground his teeth together, his brow crimping down as he turned his face away. A sliver of perspiration trickled from his temple to his jaw.

Hutch felt a flicker of alarm. “Starsky, what’s wrong?”

“Mmm . . . nuthin’.” Spoken too quickly, too tightly.

Recognizing the onset of pain, Hutch reached across him for the call button, but Starsky clamped a hand on his wrist. “Forget it. Won’t do any good.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Franklin says it’s ‘cuz of all the drugs . . . body’s tryin’ . . . to get back to normal.”

Hutch frowned, hating the breathless pauses in his friend’s shorn voice. The respirator had left Starsky’s throat blistered and raw. His breathing capacity still wasn’t at maximum and it showed in how easily he became winded. Hutch tried to remind himself that the setbacks were normal, that miraculous healing didn’t just happen overnight, and the road to Starsky’s complete recovery was likely to be a long one. Even now, he still lacked feeling below the waist.

Easing onto the side of the bed, Hutch pulled Starsky’s hand into his lap. His fingers twined over the limp palm, sealing them together. “What about pain medication? Are they giving you anything?”

Starsky shook his head. “Too many drugs in my system . . . said it’ll just mess me up more. ‘Sides . . .” The hand that wasn’t entwined with Hutch’s pressed over his stomach. “Everything . . . everything makes me sick, Hutch.” He swallowed hard, licked his lips. “I get thirsty, and then spit it back up. Kinda like a bad joke, huh?”

Starsky tried to smile, but his mouth was dry. He didn’t see any sense in telling Hutch the small plastic basin on the nightstand had been his constant companion since 2:00 a.m., or that the nurses had already emptied it three times. When he’d first gotten sick, they’d given him a shot for the nausea, but that just made it worse and a half hour later he was throwing up again, hanging over the side of the bed, sweat streaming down his face.

He was just so damn glad to be off the respirator it almost didn’t matter. He’d willingly put up with the vomiting and cramps in his gut, if it meant he could actually feel something again. He’d been terrified, lying on his back in the ICU, certain his life had come to an ugly end. And when he hadn’t been able to care for himself, attend to his basic needs . . . that humiliation was worse than anything he’d ever imagined. He couldn’t even conceive how Hutch had managed to bounce back from such utter degradation. The day Hutch had interrupted the LPN who’d been ready to give him a sponge bath, he’d wanted to sink through the floor. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Hutch, nothing his partner wouldn’t do for him. But along with that unrestricted and utter devotion were certain matters of personal privacy Starsky didn’t want his friend to ever attend.

That dignity was tantamount to his recovery and Hutch had respected it when he’d left the room. Hutch had been there day in, day out since the hell with Bellamy began. And when Starsky had thought his life was over . . . when he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, Hutch had been the only stabling influence in an insane world.

His hand tightened over Hutch’s as the pain in his body spiked hotter. Clenching his teeth together, Starsky turned his head away. “Ughnn . . .”

“Easy.” Hutch’s free hand slid onto his shoulder. “Just take it easy, pal.”

Starsky felt the back of Hutch’s knuckles brush over his cheek. He was sweating, yet bitterly cold. He could feel trickles of perspiration seeping from the edges of his hair, soaking the back of his neck. The nausea had returned, acid hot, clotted with sharp edges. He wanted to curl into a ball, tuck his knees close to his chest and choke down the sickness, but his legs were dead. It was like being buried waist deep in cement. An electric pulse boomeranged from his shoulders to his gut and he groaned.

“Starsky?”

Hutch’s voice got lost in the seizure of pain. The spasms weren’t nearly as frequent as the sticky waves of nausea, but they were twice as crippling - - piercing bursts of agony that ricocheted pell-mell through his arms and chest and left him panting for breath. Instinctively he gripped the side of the bed, clamping down on a moan as he attempted to ride out the buffeting wave.

Hutch swore softly. “I’m gonna go find a nurse.”

“No!” Starsky hung onto him in desperation. “Don’t go.” Not you. Please, babe . . . not you. He couldn’t do it without Hutch - - not the pain, the nausea, the revolting lifelessness of his legs, but most of all the simple act of being. He needed Hutch to remind him of who he was . . . of the life that still waited for him outside of a confining hospital bed. Panting, he sucked down a lungful of air, his hand creeping higher on Hutch’s arm, knotting in the coarse material of his jacket. “Please . . . just . . . just give me a minute. Franklin says it’ll get better soon. I . . . I just gotta get rid of all these chemicals in my body. Sorta like . . . like sweatin’ it out, and - -”

“ - - and throwing up,” Hutch finished bitterly.

But Starsky wasn’t listening. He arched his head back, feeling the pillows beneath him, the cherished pressure of Hutch’s fingertips now laced in his hair. He closed his eyes, blotting out everything except the steadying warmth and acute compassion of his friend. It enveloped him, pushed through the pain and shoved it down a notch.

After a time Starsky breathed easier. Opening his eyes, he smiled slightly and focused on his partner. “You’re better’n pain meds, ya know that?”

“Starsk - - ”

Starsky shifted, angling his upper body toward his friend. “I . . . I wouldn’tna made it in the ICU without you.” Suddenly it was important that Hutch know that. He tugged, urging the blond-haired man closer.

Hutch leaned forward, looking into his eyes, no words spoken . . . just a measured gaze of trust that transcended everything around them. Starsky freed his hand. Raising both arms, he wrapped them around Hutch’s neck and pulled him into a hug. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispered softly, breathing the words into a mesh of ultra fine blond hair.

Hutch bowed his head, burying his face against Starsky’s shoulder. Resilient tension danced through his body and he clung tight. “It’s good to have you back, buddy.”

+++++

Starsky dozed fitfully, pain making it impossible to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. When he woke, it was to cramping nausea, his tender gut convulsing with a merciless round of dry heaves. There was little left in his stomach to actually spit up, but that didn’t stop the punishing contractions or the unrelenting agony that accompanied it. Exhausted and weak, he crumpled against the pillows, panting heavily while Hutch bathed his sweaty face with a cool cloth.

Within seconds his teeth started chattering, a barbarous chill displacing the weakening cone of torrid heat. Nothing his friend did - - adding extra blankets to the bed, tucking them tightly around his neck and body, briskly rubbing his arms for warmth - - nothing helped ease a fiercely abrupt onslaught of cold. Miserable, Starsky closed his eyes tightly and tried to ride it out. He wondered if this was anything like Hutch had felt when he’d been going through forced withdrawal - - hot then cold, his raw, empty stomach clamping down on acid. He’d never felt so wretchedly sick in his life.

Trying to check a groan, he ducked his head into the blankets, burrowing deeper for warmth.

“Ah, buddy, I wish there was something I could do for you,” he heard Hutch say in a forlorn voice.

He thought about telling his friend to go home. Hutch’s constant presence in the hospital was starting to take a toll, leaving the blond-haired man gaunt and haggard. Starsky knew he hadn’t been getting enough sleep or eating right, existing on caffeine and whatever Hutch managed to choke down in a quick ten minutes at the hospital cafeteria. Yet as much as Starsky wanted him to leave, he desperately wanted him to stay. As cold and miserable as he was, he knew he’d be ten times worse without Hutch at his side.

“G’home,” he mumbled, dismissing Hutch while he still had the strength to do it. He didn’t want to be alone, bereft of his partner, but he knew his friend desperately needed the rest. Shivering, he closed his eyes and tried to scrunch further beneath the blankets. It was impossible to trap his body heat with his legs stubbornly immobile, unwilling to bend. He fought to keep his teeth from chattering.

The bed gave slightly with pressure and he felt a staggering infusion of warmth beside him.

“Come here, Starsk.”

Dazed, Starsky opened his eyes, surprised to find his partner sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the same way he was. Hutch shifted slightly, easing closer until they were positioned hip to hip. Starsky could feel the shocking warmth of his friend’s lean body all the way down to his waist. Once there, that wondrous sensation suddenly vanished in a crippling dead zone. Even with the loss, the blessed infusion of Hutch’s body heat was like the touch of desert sun. Hutch looped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close against his chest.

Unexpectedly, Starsky tensed.

“Relax, babe,” Hutch said softly.

But Starsky’s heartbeat had jumped into overdrive. Okay, so they’d done this at home in the privacy of one or the other’s apartment - - nestled close for comfort or warmth when the need arose. But this was a hospital with doctors and nurses and all manner of people traipsing past the doorway every five minutes for one reason or another. He’d seen mothers pulling kids along to visit family members, recovering patients taking slow strolls down the corridor, interns, lab technicians, food service personnel, janitors - - it was like the whole freaking world paraded past his doorway on a regular basis.

And he was cuddled up against Hutch like a . . . like a - -

Starsky swallowed hard. The hell with it. If Hutch didn’t care, why should he? His blond friend was obviously more concerned with comforting him than he was about his own reputation. But then, Hutch had always been the more liberal of the two. When it came right down to it, Hutch didn’t give a shit about things like that. At least not when it involved Starsky. He knew he should be grateful to have someone who placed his welfare above the petty views of the world, but he still felt odd to be so publicly . . . dependent.

Relaxing slightly, he leaned into Hutch, coaxed by the warmth of shared heat.

Hutch’s hand skimmed up his arm, smoothing the blankets. “Go to sleep, Starsk.”

His eyes did feel heavy. With Hutch beside him, his gut had even quieted, but - - “You can’t stay like this,” he murmured. “We can’t stay like this.”

“Why not?” Hutch gave a soft chuckle. “I already had the whole ICU talking about us. Might as well let the fifth floor in on the action too. What are you worried about, partner? Think Franklin or one of his cronies is gonna walk in here and - -”

“ - - and have you arrested for perversion,” Starsky interrupted sleepily.

“Hey, let’s not forget who coaxed whom into bed. That ‘I’m cold routine’ is the oldest trick in the book.”

Starsky gave a soft snort. “Don’t know who could sleep with a big oaf like you anyway. You hog up too much room.”

Hutch looked down at the mass of curls bowed against his chest. “Want me to leave?”

“Shut up, Hutchinson. Let me sleep.”

“Okay.”

Starsky couldn’t see his friend’s face but he heard the grin in his voice. Strange that the two of them could be as close as they were and not think anything of it, while the rest of the world immediately tried to pigeonhole that relationship into something sexual. He and Hutch had laughed over the absurdity of the whole thing a time or two, but both knew heterosexual men rarely connected on the same level they did. As a result, their highly unusual friendship just couldn’t be grasped by most people - - those who were only comfortable when they could attach labels and break relationships into clearly definable categories. All the more reason to cherish their extraordinary friendship, Starsky realized, the haze of sleep tugging at his senses. As much as he loved Hutch there was nothing remotely sexual about it - - never had been, never would be. Hutch had an almost ridiculous weakness for women, easily turning into a love-sick idiot when he was wrapped up in a relationship. Starsky knew he wasn’t much better, but Hutch tended to cross the line, throwing his heart out there to get trampled over. Like he’d done with Vanessa and Jeannie and countless others.

Starsky coughed lightly, nuzzling closer as sleep seduced his weary body. He could hear a Dr. Garner being paged to the ICU on the overhead speaker, hear the soft inhalation of Hutch’s breath, feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Somewhere amid the warmth and contentment, Starsky’s mind spiraled back through time, tugged by his unique relationship with Hutch and another, darker relationship that had long hung unknowingly over his partner like a cloud.

Starsky chewed on the end of his pen, trying to decide if the guy he and Hutch had dropped off in booking looked more like Don Knotts or Don Rickles. Somehow he always got the two confused, even though he knew they were nothing alike.

“The scrawny one who played the deputy . . . you know, in that show . . .” He motioned to Hutch who was seated across from him at his desk, blond head bent over the monstrous manual typewriter that always tripped Starsky up no matter how careful he tried to be. He was thankful Hutch had gotten in the habit of volunteering to type their reports, even though he knew his partner only did it because he didn’t want to spend the night waiting for Starsky to finish.

There were occasional fringe benefits to being as slow as a snail on a typewriter, he thought with a grin. Of course, Bigelow in Supply had once complained to Dobey that Starsky went through typewriter erasers and carbon paper with the same reckless abandon he went through bullets.

Hutch pounded out a couple of keys, clickity-clacking like a pro, and raised his head. “Barney Fife.”

Starsky sighed theatrically. “No, dummy. One of the Dons - - you know . . . Rickles. Knotts.”

Hutch shook his head and reached for his coffee. “Try Knotts, Starsk. Barney Fife is the character he played. Besides, you’re out of your mind. That guy looked more like Jerry Lewis on speed.”

“Not even close.” Starsky kicked back and propped his feet up on the edge of his desk. “Hey, you wanna grab something to eat when we’re done here?”

Hutch shot him an arched glance. “Don’t you mean when I’m done here?”

Starsky was just about to grumble what a nitpicker he was when Phil Baker breezed into the room, followed by his partner Stu Gibson. Both were in the middle of an animated conversation, but Baker came to an immediate halt when he saw the two of them.

“Hey, guys - -” The wiry detective was across the room in a couple of quick strides. “You’re not gonna believe this.” His eyes darted between the two before briefly returning to Gibson as if to confirm what he was about to say. “We just heard about a shake-up at the 61^st. Word is one of our fellow cops was playing it fast and loose on the side. Seems like he was pressuring one of his busts for certain favors - - you know, a little blackmail to sweeten the pot. Only it turns out the perp had high brow connections.”

“Yeah,” Gibson chimed in. “The kid’s dad has a seat on the city council. He found out what was going down and hit the roof. Shit hit the fan and the whole thing blew up in the cop’s face. Word is he’s gonna be forced to resign.”

Hutch stopped typing long enough to exchange a glance with Starsky. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your old partner,” Baker told him with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Tony Impala. Didn’t you tell me you worked with that creep when you were a rookie?”

“Hey, guys - -” Starsky butted in, prompted by a rapid-fire streak of alarm. Dropping his feet to the floor, he hastily sat upright. The last thing he wanted was talk of Anthony Impala anywhere near Hutch. He’d kept the secret of the photograph and the man’s twisted infatuation all these years, hoping to spare Hutch’s feelings. He wasn’t about to see them ripped apart now. “We got a report to finish here, Baker - -”

“Wait a minute, Starsky.” Hutch leaned forward in his seat, intent on the other two detectives. “I don’t get it. Impala isn’t loaded but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d try to hustle money from someone he’d busted. I mean he was an S.O.B., but I can’t see him being on the take.”

“Who said anything about money?” Gibson asked.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Starsky shoved his chair back and stood. “I’m starved and I wanna get outta here while I still got an appetite. How ‘bout you two take’ a hike and let my partner finish his report?” From the corner of his eye he could see a crease form between Hutch’s brows, his face pinched in confusion.

“Sure, okay.” Baker rolled his shoulders. “I just thought Hutch would wanna know the guy who ragged on him so hard when he was a rookie turned out to be a queer.”

Hutch’s head jerked up at the revelation, but Starsky had physically pushed the other two out of the way, shoving them clear of the desks. He could feel Hutch’s eyes on him and did everything in his power to keep his expression neutral. Dropping back into his seat, he scuffed a hand through his hair. “Okay, enough dilly-dallyin,’ Blondie. I’m starved. You writin’ a novel or a report?”

Hutch looked at him steadily across the typewriter. “Starsky, that makes no sense.”

“Sure it does. See, when you write a novel, you - -”

“No.” Hutch shook his head emphatically, dismissing the inane observation. “I’m talking about Impala. All that guy ever did was try to insinuate that I was, well . . .” He stopped suddenly, flushing abruptly as he tripped over the uncomfortable words. “You know . . . that I was like that.’ He colored deeply. “ . . . gay.”

Starsky puffed out his cheeks, expelling a loud breath. If what Baker and Gibson had told them was really true, the scuttlebutt would be all over Metro by tomorrow. Sooner or later Hutch would hear it anyway. At least he didn’t know about the photograph, and that was what was really important. There was no way anyone was ever going to connect his partner to a filthy bottom-feeding leech like Vlad Impala.

“Look, Hutch.” Leaning forward, Starsky folded his arms on top of his desk and lowered his voice. “Sometimes when people can’t own up to things about themselves, they’ll . . . well, they’ll put other people down for the same thing. It’s like they hate what they are, but they can’t face it, so they gotta hate someone else.”

“That’s called projection, Starsk.”

“Huh?”

Hutch shook his head. “Never mind. I get what you’re saying.” Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temple. “What I don’t get is how I could’ve worked with the guy and not noticed.”

Starsky snorted. “Well, considerin’ he spent most of his days callin’ you a fag, you probably figured he was more bigot than queer - - you know, the kind of ignorant pig who figures women should be kept barefoot and pregnant, and it’s the duty of every red-blooded man to see they stay that way.” Even saying the loathsome swill turned his stomach, but it was better than having Hutch closely examine Impala’s less-than-heterosexual tendencies. “Hey, can we drop this and go get something to eat now? I think I’m gonna go belly up from hunger.”

“Sure, okay.” Hutch went back to the typewriter, putting the finishing touches on the report, but there was something guarded and pensive in his face. Lifting the platen, he pulled the sheets from the machine, scribbled his name at the bottom, then shoved them across the desk for Starsky to review.

Without so much as a glance, Starsky scrawled his name under Hutch’s, wanting nothing more than to get his partner as far away from police gossip as he possibly could.

Starsky groaned, dragged back to the present by the fierce cramping in his gut. Moving sluggishly, he tried to raise his head, trapped in a sticky wave of torrential heat. His cheek felt damp, plastered to Hutch’s shirt by perspiration.

“Starsk?”

He tried to move, but his muscles felt stiff and his legs were dead weight. Pulling away from his friend, he got his arms beneath him. Knuckling his fists into the mattress, he used that limited strength to push higher in the bed. “ . . . gonna be sick,” he mumbled, looking about dazedly for the plastic basin.

Hutch shoved off the bed, reaching across him to grab it. A second later it was beneath his chin, Hutch’s hand a steadying pressure on the back of his neck. He gripped the basin clumsily, shoving Hutch aside with his other arm. “I’ll do it.” He was only half conscious of what he was saying, his mind still fogged by a cloud of sleep. He had no idea how long he’d been out, but he knew it was the first truly restful slumber he’d had in a long time. Because of Hutch holdin’ me.

He gave a soft snort even as bile stung the back of his throat. Groaning, he hung his head, hating the wicked surge of nausea. It left him hot and trembling, his stomach contracting into a murderous fist. He panted, leaning away from Hutch to spit into the basin. Bile came first, just a trickle. Then the heaving started, leaving him white and trembling, sweat streaking his face in hot, sticky trails.

“Starsky . . .” Hutch’s hand was on his shoulder, trying to pull him back around. “Let me help you.”

He shook his head, made a choked sound through the heaving. His hand was trembling so badly the basin fell to the bed. Upright, thank God. Before he could retrieve it, Hutch had scooped it up, and was bending over him, holding it close to his face.

“Take it easy, pal.” Hutch’s hand slid over his bowed back, rubbing through the damp material of his hospital gown. “I don’t think you need this. It’s just heaves, huh, Starsk? There’s nothing left inside you.” The observation was bitter, as if it left Hutch physically hurting. He lowered the basin but kept it handy and in reach. “I wish I could help you, Starsk. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

Starsky wrapped an arm across his middle, choking as his stomach convulsed. He wanted to tell Hutch he was doing something - - more than anyone else could ever do. Doctors, nurses and pills were fine, but Hutch was the one who made him want to live again. Who gave him hope and determination enough to suffer through the agony.

The bout ended and he collapsed against the pillows with a sigh, completely drained. Hutch got him a cup of water to rinse his mouth, the cool liquid like sheer bliss on his ravaged throat. Hutch’s hand went to his forehead, brushing aside his sweat-sticky bangs. Once, then again, the soothing action completed over and over.

Starsky met his gaze, his friend’s eyes like pale moonwater, slivered with crystal and blue. “How long was I asleep?”

Hutch looked away briefly, consulting the clock on the wall. “About three hours.”

“You stayed like that the whole time?” Hutch was standing now, but Starsky knew his back had to be hurting from sitting cramped on the corner of the bed. “You shouldna done that, Hutch. I ain’t a little kid. I can sleep on my own.”

“I know that, Gordo.” The corner of Hutch’s mouth curved briefly. His hand dropped to Starsky’s shoulder where it rubbed gently. “See, the thing is . . .” The smile grew wider, dazzling and white. “I haven’t been sleeping too good myself, and well . . .” He shrugged. “I figured here was as good a place as any, since you didn’t mind sharing the bed.”

“Uh-huh.” Starsky watched him with clear affection. “And I bet you got some porridge in the cafeteria too, didn’t ya, Goldilocks? Think I don’t know bullshit when I hear it, Hutchinson?”

“I think,” Hutch said, tugging playfully on one black curl. “You could be a little more grateful after using my shoulder for a pillow. You aren’t exactly light, Starsk. And you snore.”

Starsky opened his mouth to toss off a reply, when he suddenly spied Dr. Franklin in the doorway. The man cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he entered the room. He shot Hutch a darting glance before focusing on Starsky. “I see you’re looking better today, Detective.” Grabbing the chart from the foot of Starsky’s bed, he gave it a quick perusal. “How are you feeling?”

Starsky shrugged. “About the same.”

“He’s miserable,” Hutch inserted flatly. “Sick to the stomach, dry heaves . . . cramps, muscle spasms. He can’t even sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Can’t you give him something?”

Franklin spared him a glance over the top of his clipboard. “I’ve already discussed this with your partner, Sergeant Hutchinson. Coming out of the paralysis is unfortunately equivalent to a double-edged sword. Whereas your partner now has movement and flexibility, the pain sensors in his nerves are on overload. Factor in all the drugs his system has absorbed and, well . . .” He adjusted his glasses again. “We certainly don’t want to mistakenly induce another toxic reaction.” His eyes shifted back to Starsky. “We can try to give you something orally to help with the nausea.”

Starsky shook his head. “Already tried that, but I just spit it back up.” He grimaced suddenly, his hand tightening over his stomach. “Sure would like to get the use of my legs back, Doc. How much longer you think?”

“Well . . .” Franklin considered. “Assuming that part of the paralysis is not permanent, I would say you just need to be patient for a few more days.”

Hutch blanched, instinctively curling his fingers around the lowered bed rail.

Starsky stilled completely. “What do you mean permanent?”

Franklin returned the chart to the foot of the bed. “As I told your partner, there’s always a slim chance this type of paralysis can be permanent. But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about, Sergeant. You’ve already made considerable progress. Give it a few days.” He smiled encouragingly. “I’ll check back this evening.”

As I told your partner . . .

Starsky listened to Franklin’s retreating footsteps, feeling like the rug had just been ripped out from under his feet. Beside him, Hutch stood ramrod straight, both hands locked in a death grip around the lowered bedrail, his face devoid of color. Of course he wouldn’t say anything . . . wouldn’t admit the truth hanging out there like a death shroud, because to Hutch it simply didn’t matter. Whatever happened, he intended to be there. If Starsky was confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life, then Hutch would be at his side, self-sacrificing as always. Only he was the one getting stuck in the frigging wheelchair. He was the one who had a right to know about it - - odds, longshots and skin-of-the-teeth possibilities spelled out up front, thank you very much! Just who the hell did Hutch think he was, holding something like that back, deciding what he should and shouldn’t know?

Heat flushed Starsky’s cheeks. “You lied to me,” he said acidly, the words tight and deliberate.

“I didn’t.” Hutch flexed his hands on the metal rail, his voice unsteady. “It wasn’t a lie, Starsk.”

Starsky hated the quiver in his partner’s voice, hated even more that he was the cause. Still he plowed ahead, terrified to the point of hostile anger. He didn’t have feeling in his legs because he was never going to have feeling in his legs, and Hutch didn’t have the balls to tell him.

“Then what the hell do you call it?” He was livid without even trying. From the time he’d first awakened in ICU there was only one thing that had gotten him through the long toll of emotion-sapping days - - the belief his condition was temporary. Isn’t that what his partner, his always devoted, trustworthy partner had told him? “You deceived me. You wanna split apples and oranges?” The anger came again, harder this time, spearing into his gut to twine with the hot misery already lodged there. “You told me the paralysis was temporary, Hutch. Temporary!”

“I told you what I believed!” Hutch defended himself. “What did you want me to do, Starsk? Sit by your bed in the ICU with that godawful machine breathing for you . . .your whole body dead from the neck down, and tell you there was a possibility you were gonna be like that for the rest of your life?” His lips were bloodless, white with shock. “Don’t be an idiot, Starsky. I care about you too much.”

“So when were you gonna share it with me, huh, buddy?” The word rolled from Starsky’s tongue with bitter emphasis, Hutch’s frank admission of devotion soaring over his head. Suddenly all the ugliness of the last week - - the agony, fear and humiliation he’d been forced to endure, never knowing from one hour to the next if he was going to live or how he was going to live, tumbled down like a ton of bricks. Frustration bubbled into volatile anger - - at himself, at Bellamy and Jennings, at the world in general. And even - - because he needed someone to hurt as much as he did, if only for a moment - - at Hutch. “You had no right to keep that from me. If you didn’t lie, then what the hell do you call it?”

Hutch was appalled. “Starsky, I told you what I believed. What I still believe. What I tell myself every fucking day when I come into this hospital and see you lying there.” His voice rose, impassioned and hot. “I’m not gonna feed you some downer shit that might never happen. Why are you so damn intent on knowing the worst? The world doesn’t end in this room, buddy. You’ve still got a life out there on the streets.” His voice caught in his throat, cracked. “A life that includes me.”

Not if I’m gonna be a cripple.

“Forget it.” Starsky shook his head, hating himself for treating his friend so cruelly but unable to stop. They’d had a great friendship - - a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenal bond, but he wasn’t about to let the other man throw his life away, chained to an invalid partner. He’d do whatever was necessary to survive without Hutch - - leave the Force, go back to New York, learn some career he could manage on his own. He’d gotten part of his mobility back, but Starsky was a realist. He knew the rest wasn’t coming. It would have all returned at once, not in teasing bits and pieces. Franklin and Hutch could play optimists all they wanted, but he understood as surely as he understood the tight sickness in his gut - - this was his fate, this vile half-life that would leave him forever paralyzed from the waist down. Permanent.

The truth hurt as much as Hutch’s deceit in keeping it secret. The strength of their partnership had always been rooted in their complete honesty with one another, but now that unshakable foundation had taken a nosedive. Bluntly, Starsky presented his back. “Just leave me alone, Hutch. Get out of here.”

He felt a quiver in the air near the bed. A shaken tremor of disbelief. Then softly, spoken with outright fear, he heard the shocked voice of his friend. “What?”

“I said get out.” The malicious words stuck in his throat even as tears burned the back of his eyes. “I don’t want you around right now, Hutch. Do I gotta be plainer than that?”

Apparently not. The quiver in the air intensified then violently burst from the room, leaving Starsky shaken and dazed. Miserable, he bowed his face into his arms Yeah, go ‘head, he taunted, brazenly furious at every denizen of fate who could hear him. Give me the ungrateful Bastard of the Year award. But while you’re at it, remind that overprotective blond what ‘me and thee’ is all about. If there was anything left to hate, including himself, he’d already exhausted it.

When the nausea struck, Starsky retched violently.

+++++

Hutch walked to the waiting room to blow off steam but there were too many people there to make him feel even remotely at ease. His nerves were shot, his already defenseless emotions fried by Starsky’s volatile outburst. The last thing he needed was the company of strangers.

Edgy, he took the elevator to the first floor and headed for the parking lot. Maybe he really should leave . . . let Starsky spend a few hours, even a day completely alone. Let him realize how stubborn and cruel he was being. Maybe then he’d come to his senses.

Oh hell, what am I thinking?

Dismayed, Hutch slumped to a seat on an outside bench. Starsky was out of his mind, wired by pain. He’s spewing his guts every hour like clockwork. He just went through the trauma of thinking he was dying, then wakes up to find himself paralyzed. Now he learns it could be permanent, and I’m pissed because he tells me to take a hike. Grow up, Hutchinson. He needs you.

It was true. How many times had he snarled and spit at Starsky when he’d been going through heroin withdrawal? His friend’s blunt dismissal had all the sting of a nursery rhyme compared to some of the nasty things Hutch had hurled at his dark-haired partner. But Starsky had stayed, swallowing his hurt and battered feelings, never holding Hutch responsible for his cruel words.

“Shit.” Hutch dragged a hand over his face. Why was he always hurting the one person he cared about? Even now his distance . . . his docile acceptance of Starsky’s anger meant his friend was alone and hurting, too stubborn to realize he needed help. If he had any kind of backbone, he’d march up to Starsky’s room and lay it on the line: You’re stuck with me, so you better get used to it, cause I ain’t going anywhere.

Okay . . . so he hadn’t been entirely truthful, keeping that one tidbit of information to himself. But why hold a might-never-happen, gloom-and-doom scenario over Starsky’s head when it was hope that would push him to recover? Even Franklin had said the odds of the paralysis being permanent were slim. S-L-I-M. How could his partner ever think he’d withheld the information to deliberately harm him? Especially when the complete opposite was true? I did it because I care about you, Starsk. Because no one, or anything, matters more to me than you do.

So why was he sitting on a bench watching lunch traffic come and go from the hospital parking lot when he should be upstairs laying down ultimatums for his stubbornly willful partner? Sighing, he rubbed his temple, fatigue collecting at the edges of his mind. How long since he’d really slept for more than a few scant hours . . . since he’d had a decent meal that didn’t come from a cardboard box or was warmed by a heat lamp?

“Hey, Sergeant.”

He glanced up to find Jared Mercer at his shoulder, a semi half-smile on the other cop’s lips. “Er, um . . . Hutch, right?” Mercer gave a nervous laugh, his grin brightening a little. He was off duty again, dressed casually in jeans and a pullover red sweater. The haggard lines had faded from his face and his posture was straighter than the last time Hutch had seen him. All things considered, he looked decidedly upbeat.

“Mercer.” Hutch forced a smile, though it reflected the strain of his mood. “How’s Sam?”

“Better.” Mercer grinned in obvious relief. “They moved him out of ICU to a private room last night. Looks like he’s in the clear. I even talked to him over the phone this morning. Can you believe the kid was sitting up, complaining about the lousy food they’re feeding him?” He chuckled indulgently, affection for his young partner clearly evident. “I’m on my way in to see him now . . . tell him I miss his overeager ass in the car.”

Hutch grinned. “That’s great.”

“What about you?” Mercer prodded. “How’s Starsky doing?”

“Getting there,” Hutch said carefully. He didn’t want to talk about Starsky. Not now, when his mind was so messed up over how to best help his resistant partner. “Maybe I’ll swing by and say hello to Sam with you.”

“Uh . . .” Mercer hedged, his expression clouding. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Sergeant.” He grimaced. “Hutch.”

A prickle of disquiet rippled through Hutch’s mind. “Because of his father?”

“Yeah.” Mercer shrugged uncomfortably, glancing at his boots. “I mean . . . I guess.”

Hutch exhaled, abruptly irked. For too long he’d been in the dark about Impala, while everyone around him seemed to know more than he did. Throw in Starsky’s dressing down a few minutes ago and he was suddenly out of patience. “Sit down,” he said curtly.

Mercer glanced up in surprise. “Why?”

Hutch slid further to the side, making room for him on the bench. “Because you’re going to tell me everything Sam told you about his father . . .” He cleared his throat, determined and uncomfortable. “ . . . and me.”

Mercer paled. “Why dredge that up?”

“Because I’m in the mood. Now sit down and start talking.”

Clearly reluctant, Mercer edged onto the bench. It was fairly common knowledge Impala had left the Force a year ago in disgrace after pressuring a councilman’s son for sexual favors. There’d been a scandal, short but ugly, shocking most people, leaving others gleefully snickering behind their hands. Hutch guessed Samuel Impala had likely had a rough time overcoming the stigma of his father’s name, but if Mercer was any indication, he’d been accepted on his own merit. Taking a bullet in the line of duty would only bump him higher in the eyes of his fellow officers.

“Look, it’s like I said before . . .” Mercer spread his hands wide with a shrug. “Sam told me some things when we were on stakeout. His parents’ marriage broke up after that scandal with the councilman’s kid. I guess he went home one night and found his dad drunk and the old man told him all sorts of things. Like how he never really had those kind of, um . . . urges before. That if he did, it didn’t amount to anything and he could just shrug them off. Then they partnered him with you, and . . .” Embarrassed, Mercer looked at his hands. “Look, Sergeant, no one’s saying anything about you, okay? But according to Sam, the old man couldn’t get you out of his head and he hated you for it. He wanted you to be gay so he could feel justified in how he felt, but you weren’t. And that made him hate you all the more. Then Starsky went and blackmailed him, and - -”

“What?” Hutch didn’t think he could be any more shocked than he already was. Blood pounded in his ears, left him suddenly cold.

Mercer peered at him closely, noting his obvious distress. “You mean . . .” He looked stunned. “ . . . you didn’t know any of this?”

Hutch shook his head.

“Then I’m not sure, I should be the one to tell you.”

“You don’t have a choice, Patrolman,” Hutch said bluntly.

Mercer winced. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Rank has its privileges and all that. You do remember what it was like to be a rookie, right Hutch?” His name was deliberate now. “Everyone knows Impala Senior was scum . . . how he ragged on rookies for kicks, but even down at the 33^rd I’ve heard how he treated you. Guess that made an impression on a lot of people, your friend Starsky most of all. Sam said his dad kept a picture of you in his locker. Some telephoto shot you didn’t even know he took.” Squirming, Mercer looked away, a flush of color creeping up his neck. “Um . . . Impala took it in the locker room. When . . . when you were coming out of the shower.”

Hutch swore, suddenly nauseous.

Mercer’s gaze returned reluctantly. “According to Sam . . . who got the story from his dad . . . Starsky found out about the photo and freaked - - big time. He basically told Impala to find another partner or he’d spill what he knew. That’s why the old man dumped you and went to the 61^st. He didn’t have a choice - - your partner backed him into a corner. After that, I think he probably hated Starsky more than he hated you. And he was jealous as shit over your friendship. So you see . . . Sam knows who you are and knows what you cost his father. He doesn’t blame you exactly, but he’s not ready to accept you either. His dad might be scum, but he’s still the kid’s dad, and in Sam’s eyes you’re the one who ruined his career.”

“By doing what?” Hutch snapped, abruptly hostile. The impossible situation turned his already abused nerves to pulp. It was devastating and humiliating to learn the true motive behind Impala’s harsh ridicule. And Starsky knew! All along he’d kept the seedy secret to himself. Suddenly his partner’s emphatic orders to stay clear of Impala all made sense.

“So let me get this straight - -” Hutch glared at Mercer. “I go through the Academy, bust my butt to come out tops in my class, do my job, and because some sadistic pervert has closet fantasies about me, I’m at fault for ruining his career? A career that was obviously shit to begin with, considering he was fifty-six when he resigned, still in a patrol car and is best remembered for antagonizing junior officers.”

Mercer flinched. “You’ve got every right to be angry, Sergeant. Sorry to be the one to dump this on you, but I just figured you knew. It never got out . . . the only reason I know is because of Sam. I just figured since Impala had a thing for you, he would’ve tried . . . you know . . .” Mercer swallowed uncomfortably and looked at the ground. “ . . . something.” He shifted, forcing himself to continue. “I figured he would have made a pass at you.”

“No,” Hutch said flatly. “If he had, he wouldn’t be around to talk about it.”

Mercer’s head came up with a jerk. “So your partner never told you what he did?”

No. He kept that from me, likely for my own good. Just like I kept the thing about the paralysis from him.

Hutch smiled grimly and shook his head. He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at - - Impala, Mercer, himself or Starsky. His idiot friend - - just a rookie at the time - - had knowingly blackmailed a senior officer. One who routinely devoured new cops for breakfast, then spit them out with the afternoon trash. And still Starsky had gone up against him.

To protect me. Stupid ass could’ve ended his career right there.

Affection warred with anger at the thought of his foolhardy partner putting his profession on the line over Impala. It wasn’t something just any friend would do.

Restless, he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Look, Mercer, I appreciate what you told me. I’m not going to cause problems for Sam or his dad, so don’t worry about repercussions. It’s just a lot to assimilate, especially after everything that’s happened to Starsky.” He found the grace to look mildly chagrined. “Sorry if I was rough on you. I guess between our first meeting and this, you must think I’m a real hard ass, huh?”

Relieved, Mercer stood. “Well, to be honest, Sergeant, I’ve heard that about you. But I’ve also heard you’re pretty easy going. I, um . . .” He laughed sheepishly. “I just haven’t been able to figure out how those two images piece together.” Grinning, he held out his hand. “See you around sometime?”

With a nod, Hutch shook his hand.

“By the way . . .” Mercer gave an awkward shrug. “Impala’s been in and out of the hospital to see his kid. I guess it’s just been luck the two of you haven’t run into each other yet. You might want to stay clear of the fifth floor, Room 536.”

“Sure, okay.” Hutch gave a vacant nod. So Sam was in a room located at the opposite end of Starsky’s hallway. All things considered, it was a miracle Hutch hadn’t crossed paths with Impala Senior over the last few days. Hopefully that same extraordinary luck would hold. Just the thought of seeing the man again - - knowing what he knew now - - made his skin crawl.

He watched Mercer walk away, heading for the main doors of the hospital intent on seeing Sam. His gut tightened as he thought of Starsky, alone and in pain. If he went back now, Hutch knew his highly excitable partner would just repeat what he’d already said, telling him to get lost. He was frustrated and irritable, hurt to be banished from Starsky’s room. Even so, Hutch knew he needed to give his emotional friend some temporary breathing space.

He’d wait a few hours. By evening Starsky would come to his senses.

+++++

When Hutch finally returned to Starsky’s room later that night, he found it occupied by Dobey and Huggy. He hung in the background as a result, letting the other two men do most of the talking. They didn’t stay long, however, but left after a short half-hour visit when it became apparent Starsky was still in a good deal of pain.

The moment they were gone, Hutch stepped closer to the bed, attempting to adjust the pillows at his friend’s back.

“Quit it.” With a grimace, the dark-haired man shoved his hands aside. “I might be dead from the waist down, but I’m not an invalid. At least not yet.” Bitterness clung to the muttered thought. “I wanna get some sleep - -”

“You’re in pain - -”

“No shit. And you ain’t helpin’.”

The blood drained from Hutch’s face. Swallowing his hurt, he reminded himself he’d said worse to Starsky when his partner had helped him through the torturous agony of heroin withdrawal. He made a feeble gesture - - a light stroke of his hand over Starsky’s arm - - but his friend pulled away, folding the arm over his chest. Starsky’s face was tight and strained, white with fatigue. Hutch knew he had to be in considerable pain, but also knew Starsky wouldn’t show vulnerability now. Not when he was still so angry.

Stupid jackass.

He didn’t know if he should be upset or furious. At the moment, being shut out hurt far worse than all the off-the-cuff-rage he could summon. “Buddy . . . don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

“Can’t do this right now, Hutch.” Tight-lipped, Starsky looked away. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Dismissal, plain and simple. Hutch swallowed hard, tempted to tell his friend what a stubborn idiot he was being, but couldn’t talk past the lump in his throat. He’d never been good at handling emotional pain, especially when it involved those closest to him. “Okay,” he returned, clearly miserable, unable to still the tremor in his voice. “See you tomorrow.”

He left quickly, his foremost thought one of flight and escape. He’d never needed to put distance between himself and Starsky before, but suddenly the pain was just too great. It made him feel empty and battered, wretchedly alone every time he thought of the repugnant wall slowly building between them. Blind to direction, Hutch walked briskly down the corridor, head bent, a flush of bitter anger heating his cheeks. He rounded the corner by the nurses’ station and public restrooms, nearly colliding with a burly, heavy-set man headed in the opposite direction.

“Sorry. I - -” He came to a dead halt, the words dying violently in his throat when recognition dawned. His whole body tensed in shocked reaction.

“Hutchinson.” Anthony Impala parted with a throaty snicker. “I heard you were in here with that spineless partner of yours.” His gaze raked Hutch from head to toe, the touch of his eyes sickeningly direct. Now that he was off the force, pretense was gone. “What’s the hurry, boy?” A wolfish smile spread over his fleshy lips, igniting an immoral glimmer in his eyes. “I got all night to get reacquainted . . . maybe even educate you on some of the things you’ve been missing.”

“Get the hell out of my way,” Hutch snarled. His stomach clamped down in a tight knot, anger and outrage jumbled together with the betrayal and lingering pain of Starsky’s rejection. It was betrayal . . . it was rejection, no matter how much he tried to tell himself differently. The one person he’d always believed would never turn away had coldly and pointedly rebuffed him. That knowledge was devastating, flooding him with a sense of delayed shock. He simply couldn’t face Impala now . . . not with his guts already twisted by the bitter dregs of a broken friendship.

Hutch ground his teeth together, trying to keep his seething anger in check. His voice dropped, cold and deadly. “One more time, asshole: get out of my way before I take your fucking head off.”

Impala snickered. With a mocking sweep of his arm, he stepped clear. Too wired to push the confrontation, Hutch shouldered past, his stomach constricted and sour. Laughter trailed behind him, tangling with the raw pain of Starsky’s rejection. It made his face burn hotter, his gut churn violently. In another moment he knew the contents of his stomach would be splattered all over the floor, a result of his tightly strung nerves. He stumbled into the restroom, immensely grateful to find it empty, and banged aside the door of the nearest stall. Parting with a low moan, he dropped to his knees and vomited.

The spell left him light-headed and dizzy, trembling with shame and fury. He hated the man, hated himself for not dealing with the situation . . . hated that he couldn’t juggle his anger and the pain of his parting from Starsky at the same time.

Minutes later he heard footsteps in the room and tensed involuntarily, thinking Impala had come in after him. Within seconds he heard two men talking and gradually relaxed. The easing of tension made him realize how tightly his nerves were wound. It wasn’t every day some sick pervert wanted to do a detailed check of his anatomy. Just the thought sent a new flush of anger creeping up his neck. Toss in his emotional turmoil over Starsky, and it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his cool in a berserker rage, emulating his Viking forefathers. Heaving a sigh, he stood and flushed the toilet, dragging shaking fingers through his hair. Spent, he tilted his head back against the stall to stare up at the ceiling.

He could handle Impala - - hell, he could handle virtually anything - - if the rest of his world wasn’t falling apart. The rest of his world, meaning his relationship with Starsky. His friend was being unreasonable, creating an argument where one didn’t exist. Tomorrow he’d make certain Starsky saw how ludicrous the whole thing was.

Drawing a deep breath, Hutch gathered what was left of his battered resolve and left the hospital.

+++++

He arrived the following morning after breakfast to find Starsky on the phone with his mother. Not wanting to interrupt the call, the blond detective waited in the background, hovering at a discreet distance. At least the pain seemed more manageable for his friend today, reduced to a minor discomfort. Hutch wanted to remark on the improvement but unfortunately the moment Starsky finished the call, a nurse arrived to take him to therapy.

He was gone all morning, returning at noon, lamenting the need for sleep. Hutch backed off again, going to the cafeteria for lunch. When he returned, Starsky was just being wheeled from the room for additional tests. Contenting himself with pacing in the hallway, Hutch tried to quiet his growing frustration but minutes soon dragged into hours, sending his frayed nerves through the roof. It had been nearly two days since he’d really communicated with Starsky on any level above sniping, and the strain was starting to show.

When his friend finally returned, he paced and fidgeted like a caged bear while the nurses got Starsky settled. The moment they left, he was at the bedside, all gentleness forgotten. “I want to talk to you.”

Starsky spared him a moody glance. “I’m tired.”

“Bullshit. You’re not pulling that crap on me again.”

Mildly surprised by his hostility, Starsky cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out,” Hutch snapped, his patience gone. “I’ve let you wallow around in self pity for two days. I think it’s time you got over it.”

Anger flared in Starsky’s eyes. “Well, aren’t you just a fuckin’ ray of sunshine? Who died and made you my conscience?”

“Look, Starsky - -”

“No - - you look! You don’t know shit what I’m feelin’, so don’t tell me everything’s going to be fine. I got news for you, pal - - everything is not fine. It’s a long way from it! I can’t feel my legs, and you and Franklin just happened to overlook mentionin’ that could be permanent . . . as in forever! By the way, Starsk - - ” he mimicked bitterly. “ - - you could be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, but don’t sweat it. I would’ve told you if I thought it was important.’ ” Curtly looking away, Starsky folded his arms over his chest. “Some friend you are.”

At a loss for words, Hutch simply stared. It took him a full ten seconds to find his voice. “That’s not fair,” he protested, his temper suddenly cooled. He felt empty, defeated by the brittle hostility in his friend’s voice.

“Oh, yeah?” Starsky’s gaze swiveled back, piercing and hot. “Let me tell you what ain’t fair. A week ago I was scared I was gonna die; now I’m afraid I might live.” Aggravated, he shook his head, his eyes fired with impassioned blue flame. “You don’t get it, do you, Hutch? Confined to a wheelchair . . . to a bed - - that’s not life. It’s an illusion of life. Sure, I know there are plenty of people out there who cope with it everyday, who turn it into something inspirational, but I’m not one of them. Guess I’m just not strong enough to deal with that kind of change. The least you could’ve done was own up to it, instead of feedin’ me false hope.”

“Damn it, Starsky.” Hutch felt his world collapsing. “Will you get off it already? Didn’t you hear Franklin? The chances of the paralysis being permanent are next to nothing - - slim. Marginal. You’re overreacting, buddy.”

“Think so?” The bitterness was back, heavier this time. “If the chances are so damn slim, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because - -” Hutch bit down on his lip. This simply wasn’t happening. How many days had it been since Starsky was moved from ICU? He’d lost track - - two? Three? Why had his friend gotten his mobility back everywhere but in his legs? Was it possible his recovery had stalled, or was this as far as it would ever go? Permanent.

Niggling doubt crept into Hutch’s mind. Starsky’s voice came again, trapped inside his head: A week ago I was scared I was gonna die; now I’m afraid I might live. What must it be like to recover from near-death only to discover a darker terror in life? Saddened, Hutch knew he couldn’t begin to understand what his friend was feeling. Suddenly all he wanted to do was comfort and help. He knew Starsky was hurting emotionally, his feelings battered and damaged, but the walls were still there, firmly in place. Reaching out a hand, Hutch wrapped his fingers over Starsky’s wrist. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I . . . I just did what I thought was best.”

Starsky dropped his eyes, but didn’t pull away this time. “Yeah, okay. I think you should go now.”

Dismissal again. It tore Hutch up inside, even as he knew it had to be doing the same to Starsky. Despite the obvious conflict, his stubborn friend persisted in weathering the storm alone. “Babe, why are you being this way?” Hutch persisted.

Starsky closed his eyes as if moved by the familiar endearment. For a moment Hutch thought he’d gotten through, that Starsky would concede the battle. In the end, his partner tugged his wrist free, his face hardening with grim determination. “I wanna be alone now, Hutch.”

“Starsky - -”

“I’m serious. Just go away. Don’t come back for awhile.”

Hutch tried to tell himself the banishment was only temporary. That he’d made some small progress and surely Starsky would realize how much he was hurting both of them. Yet even as he left, a long parting glance cast over his shoulder at his moody partner, the separation felt horribly . . . permanent.

+++++

Hutch shuffled through the files on his desk without really seeing them. He’d answered repeated questions about Starsky’s progress as optimistically as he could, keeping his own hurt and pain buried where it wouldn’t show. Phil Baker and a few of the other detectives and officers were anxious to see Starsky, but Hutch suggested his partner wasn’t ready for visits. After a short bout of sincerely expressed well wishes for his friend, the others returned to their various tasks and Hutch was able to slink away to the refuge of his desk, where he’d sat numbly ever since.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. He couldn’t focus, the files made no sense and the backlog of paper was overwhelmingly daunting. It was as though his mind had shut down, immune to everything except his pain. He sat morosely, staring at the jumbled mass of files, trying to remember why they were there in the first place. He could hear Baker in the background, good-naturedly harassing his partner Gibson and a junior officer. Someone said something he didn’t catch and the group erupted with laughter. Bowing his head, Hutch propped an elbow on the edge of his desk and rubbed his temple. He felt like crawling under a rock and disappearing for a few days.

It didn’t seem fair others were enjoying themselves when he was so miserable . . . when Starsky was stuck in a hospital wallowing in depression. Hutch’s inability to magically “fix” things for his friend made the sting dig deeper. He’d never felt so useless in his life, a sensation only compounded by Starsky’s blunt insistence he leave.

“Hutchinson.”

He raised his head to find Captain Dobey framed in the doorway of his office. The black man looked him over with a speculative eye then eased into the chair behind Starsky’s desk. “I figured you’d still be at the hospital,” he observed neutrally. “How’s he doing anyway?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Hutch located a pencil and made a half-hearted attempt to look busy. “He doesn’t want me there.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but it bled through anyway. Irked by his failure, he parted with a sigh, accepting the defeat. “He won’t talk to me, Captain. He’s pissed because I didn’t tell him there was a slim chance the paralysis could be permanent. The stupid idiot thinks he’s going to be crippled for life.” Just admitting the truth made Hutch want to curl up in misery. “Who knows,” he muttered, melancholy tangling with sick frustration. “Maybe if I’d gotten to Jennings sooner . . . thought it through and realized he was the one behind the poisoning . . . maybe if - -”

“Stop it,” Dobey said harshly.

Startled by his tone, Hutch raised his head.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dobey demanded. “Is it your fault Jennings turned into a vindictive old man or that Bellamy was scum enough to carry out his plan in the first place? Think you could have done Franklin’s job or made a better diagnosis? While you’re at it, how about rewriting the rules of medicine in general?” He frowned, bracing an arm on top of the desk. “Look Hutch, you and Starsky did everything you could. He needs to ride it out and you need to let him.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said bitterly. “Alone.” He prodded one of the folders. “He’s scared, Captain, and he’s channeling it into anger . . . shoving me aside. Damn it.” Closing his eyes, he let the pain wash over him. “I don’t know how to help. He’s such a stubborn jackass sometimes, I just want to choke him.”

Dobey was silent a moment, his expression softening. “And then tell him how worried you are?”