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 61st 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 61st 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 61st 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 61st 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!