As promised, there’s lots of Starsky h/c in this story.  But hey - - I’m a Hutch girl, so I had to squeeze in some h/c for him too!  A very grateful thanks to Theresa for doing the beta on this, even though the timing could have been better.  It just wouldn’t have felt right posting this without your usual meticulous eye, my friend!  Thanks to Kass for such a snazzy fic home and a special thank you to Nancy for the “inspiration.”

 

Also, a special thanks to all of my readers.  Yeah, I know this isn’t exactly the right place to be doing this, (pardon my gaffe on ‘Net etiquette) but as I’m not active on the S&H lists, it’s the only “public” voice I have.  So . . . I just wanted to express my sincere thanks for all those Torinos in the 2005 awards.  To say I was overwhelmed is an understatement!  WOW!!!!  It’s truly nice to know my vision of S&H is enjoyed by so many others.

 

That said, I hope you like this tale just as much . . .

 

The Jade Club

By Kate (CMT)

 

Yawning widely, Starsky scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.  It was five o’clock in the afternoon, and he felt like he could sleep for a week.  Strangely enough, it was a good kind of tired - - the kind that came from over sixteen straight hours of exhaustive police work.  It told him he was back in full swing, on the street, doing the job he still loved to do.  Over the years he’d had a lot of mishaps and near-misses but Gunther’s assassination attempt had almost put him out of commission permanently.  He’d spent three long weeks in the hospital, followed by three months of intensive physical therapy and another three months of deskwork.  Now, almost eight months after a hail of gunfire had nearly ended his career in the police garage, he was finally back on full-time active street duty. 

 

Maybe it had only been two weeks and maybe he was already overdoing it, but he felt invigorated and alive. Even if he was exhausted and bothered by an occasional cough.  At least he was accomplishing something, contributing again to his partnership with Hutch.  It didn’t matter how tired his body was, this time the fatigue came from his own physical exertion and not the result of a debilitating injury. 

 

“How ‘bout tacos or pizza?” he said to the silent figure beside him.  “Or there’s that new burger joint over on Nineteenth.  They got something called a ‘colossal burger’ - - piled with fried onions, tomatoes and some kind of ranch dressing.”

 

“I don’t think so, Starsk.”  Hutch palmed the wheel of his Olds Cutlass and took the final turn toward Starsky’s apartment.  The black sedan had replaced the short string of mostly disposable cars that followed his doomed LTD and Bess to the scrap yard.  Like its predecessors, he’d bought the Cutlass used and, although it came with a number of dings on the left rear panel and a backseat that had already been converted into the inevitable Hutchinson garbage can/stray junk bin, it was semi-reliable and not too overly appalling in appearance - - once you got past some mismatched paint on the passenger’s door and trunk.

 

“You need to eat something a little healthier,” Hutch continued, sparing a quick glance for his partner as he maneuvered through afternoon traffic. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, the lenses tinted with a gradient-mirrored effect.

 

Which is just a clever way to disguise the fact he’s fried too, Starsky reflected.  “I don’t feel like cookin’,” he groused aloud.

 

“I will,” Hutch said quickly.  “How ‘bout I do some chicken?  Or broil some steaks with a salad and potatoes. You can’t be eating pizza and tacos, Starsk.  You had one of those burrito-egg things for breakfast and donuts and tacos for lunch . . .”  Frowning, Hutch twisted his right arm to look at his watch. “  . . . and ‘lunch’ was at 8 a.m. this morning.”

 

“So?”

 

“So,” Hutch persisted.  “I’m going to make us a decent dinner.  This case and these hours have us all fouled up.”

 

“But nothing’s defrosted,” Starsky whined, hating to think of the delay and the fuss.  All he wanted to do was eat and tumble into bed. “Think of the mess . . . and all that cleaning up afterwards.”

 

“I’ll do it,” Hutch said without missing a beat. 

 

It didn’t surprise Starsky.  For the last eight months his friend had been doing everything and anything needed relative to Starsky’s health and general well being.  Foolishly, Starsky had thought the excessive fussing would stop when he was back on active street duty, but Hutch was still hovering a little too closely, worrying and scrutinizing his every move.  Starsky tried to overlook it as much as possible, but sometimes his partner’s constant mother-henning was suffocating. 

 

The last eight months had been grueling for him, but they’d been equally taxing on Hutch. They’d both dropped weight, but at least Hutch was trying to offset the loss with healthy eating and daily workouts.  He’d taken to running again each morning and working out at Vinnie’s gym whenever he needed to unwind and blow off steam.  He’d even gotten Starsky out on the beach for long hikes up and down the sand, telling him the fresh air and routine walks would do him good.  In the end, it had paid off for both of them.  It helped rebuild Starsky’s diminished lung capacity to a near 100%,  and it helped Hutch deal with the daily stress of nurturing his partner back to physical and mental well-being.

 

Hutch was a little quieter than before, but he seemed more at peace than he had in the days before Gunther’s hit.  If he still had reservations about remaining on the force, he didn’t voice them to Starsky.

 

“Tell you what,” he said, smiling a little as he looked at Starsky.  His time outdoors had once again bleached his long hair to an excessively pale shade of sun-whitened gold, his neatly trimmed mustache just a few tints darker.  With his mirrored sunglasses and platinum-streaked hair, he looked more lifeguard or professional surfer than a veteran police sergeant.  “I’ll drop you off and you can catch some sleep while I run down to the store.  I’ll pick up something for dinner and - -”

 

“No,” Starsky said flatly.  He frowned.  “Come on, Hutch, admit it - - you’re tired too.  Let’s just order a pizza so we can both crash and catch some Zz’s.  It took sixteen hours to wrap the final phase, but we finally nailed Lynch.  I wanna celebrate with a few cold beers and a pepperoni pie.  Besides - - ain’t you suppose to have a late dinner with Janet?”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch heaved out a tired sigh.  “I wonder how disappointed she’d be if I cancelled.”  The Olds rolled to a stop in front of Starsky’s apartment.  Hutch sat for a minute, staring straight ahead before killing the engine.  “Okay,” he decided.  “Pizza and beer, but tomorrow I’m cooking, and you’re going to eat an actual meal - - not something from a paper bag or cardboard box.  Deal?”

 

Starsky grinned broadly.  “Deal.”

 

Forty-five minutes later he sat on the couch contentedly munching a slice of pepperoni pizza, a cold can of Coors just a few inches away on the coffee table.  He was on slice number four to Hutch’s one, but then his friend still had to eat dinner three hours from now with his steady girlfriend, Janet Morrisey - - a critical care doctor who had been one of the attending physicians on Starsky’s case after the incident with Gunther. In the beginning she and Hutch had butted heads over his care, his blond friend making anything but a favorable first impression.  After some initial antagonism they’d developed a cordial relationship that unexpectedly veered into romance a few months down the road.  Now, six months later, Hutch and the red-haired doctor were still going strong.  Unlike a lot of his previous girlfriends, Janet tended to be understanding of Hutch’s long and often bizarre work hours, mainly because her own weren’t that much better.

When Hutch had told his father he was dating a doctor, the seasoned physician had dissolved into laughter, citing it as poetic justice. 

 

“I finally make peace with the fact you abandoned med school to become a cop,” Starsky remembered overhearing Grant tell Hutch during his last trip to Bay City. “And you end up dating a doctor.”

 

It was funny when he thought about it, especially given Hutch’s initial hostility for the woman he now professed to love.

 

“So . . .”  Shoving the last bite of pizza into his mouth, Starsky licked his fingertips.  The combination of food and alcohol was beginning to exact a toll, a pleasant feeling of drowsiness washing over him.  “Where are you and Janet headed tonight?”

 

Hutch yawned, filtering long fingers through his pale hair.  “I don’t know.  Maybe the Galaxy Pub.”

 

“Galaxy, huh?”  Starsky gave a low whistle.  “Kinda pricey - - and definitely too artsy if you ask me.  You two goin’ dancin’ later?”

 

“Not if I can help it.”  Hutch chuckled softly.  “I’m beat, Starsk.  I should probably cancel but we haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks, and phone calls just aren’t cutting it anymore.”

 

Intrigued, Starsky raised a brow.  He snatched his beer from the coffee table and swallowed a gulp, feeling it spread a numbing lethargy through his sore muscles.  “If you’re too beat to go dancin’ you probably ain’t got the stamina to do much else, pal.  Maybe you should take a raincheck.  I mean you wouldn’t wanna end up lookin’, uh . . . incapacitated.”  He grinned brashly.  “Especially not with a doctor who’s liable to get all clinical about why you can’t perform.”

 

“Stuff it, Starsky,” Hutch countered, but grinned all the same.  “For the record, I don’t know the meaning of the word incapacitated.  At least not in the sense you’re talking about.”

 

“My, my.  Ain’t we cocky?”  Starsky’s grin turned toothy with his play on words, one brow waggling into his hairline.

 

Hutch dismissed him with a chuckle and a weary shake of his head.  “You are such an ass sometimes.”

 

Having too much fun, Starsky kept the conversation rolling.  “Well, we were talkin’ anatomy and your prowess with certain parts of it, right?”

“We were talking about you getting some rest,” Hutch contradicted, standing and confiscating the pizza box from the coffee table.  “Or at least we should have been.”  Flipping the lid shut, he carried the leftover slices to the kitchen and slid the whole mess into the refrigerator.  “I can’t wait until we’re back on a regular work schedule,” Starsky heard him call from the vicinity of the sink. “These double shifts are getting old.  At least we have tomorrow off.”

 

“Yeah.”  Starsky yawned and stretched.  Initially he was going to protest he didn’t need any rest, but he could feel his muscles stiffening now that he wasn’t moving around.  Occasionally, he still felt a residual pain in his back and chest from the bullet wounds he’d sustained in the hit . . . a phantom ache that served to remind how perilously close he’d come to dying.  If he was honest, he’d been pushing it the last three days as they’d worked on bringing down Rufus Lynch, a commercial real estate developer suspected in the murder of his partner. There were a number of times he could have opted to handle paperwork and let Hutch track down street leads on his own, but he’d stubbornly insisted on mirroring his partner’s workload.  Neither of them had gotten much sleep over the last few days, and while Hutch was clearly fatigued, Starsky knew he couldn’t allow himself to become equally winded. 

 

His endurance and stamina were different post-Gunther.   Janet had told him he’d probably never get 100% of his lung capacity back again, but keeping it in the mid 90s was a realistic goal.  Unfortunately, when he overdid things, he had a habit of developing a raspy cough . . . something he knew could easily slide into bronchitis or pneumonia if left unchecked.  Rolling his hand into a fist, he pressed it against his lips to stifle an urge to hack out loud.

 

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked the sound of closing cupboards and running water coming from the kitchen.

 

A few seconds later Hutch appeared, drying his hands on a towel.  Exhaling tiredly, he dropped to a seat on the couch, turning so his back was wedged in the corner and his left leg rested half on the cushions. “How ‘bout you and Bonnie and Janet and I head up the coast to Shelter Pointe?  There’s a Renaissance Faire going on - - music, games, wine, a little romance . . .” He shrugged and grinned.  “Could be fun.”

 

“Bonnie was three weeks ago, Hutch.”

 

“Oh . . . I guess I meant Brenda.”

 

“Brenda was last week.”

 

Hutch’s brow dipped in a frown.  “Then who are you seeing?”

 

“No one,” Starsky said flatly.  He scuffed a hand through his hair.  It had been hard enough going through physical therapy and tedious months of desk duty without the added complication of a steady girlfriend.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to find one even now, his last four or five relationships glaringly superficial. Maybe it was nearly dying that changed his perspective, but suddenly he wanted something more from a girl than just giddy laughter, a swimsuit model figure and the ability to enjoy herself at a disco.  He actually envied Hutch his grounded and mature relationship with Janet.  The downside was not being able to do “couple things” when he was currently coupleless. 

 

“I’m officially unattached,” he told his friend.  “Up until two days ago there was Sharon, but she didn’t like being stood up when our last shift went over sixteen hours.”

 

“No problem,” Hutch said, completely unfazed.  “The three of us will go.  Janet always says we’re her two favorite men anyway.  Uh . . . that is if you feel up to it, buddy.”

 

“Renaissance Faire.”  Growing increasingly sleepy, Starsky scrunched down in the couch, twisting to stretch his legs across Hutch’s lap.  “Is that one of those things where the guys run around in tights and wave fake swords?”

 

Hutch snorted.  “Something like that.  Janet’s brother is one of the actors in the knight tournament.”  He slipped a hand onto Starsky’s leg, molding the back of his calf just above the ankle, rubbing gently. 

 

The sensation was wondrously relaxing, an addictive narcotic that seeped through Starsky’s veins and tugged on his eyelids.  Nothing like a full stomach, two beers and an attentive partner to have him teetering on the threshold of sleep. The apartment was quiet and soothing, the light low and dusky with the faded gold of early evening.  Barely audible, the TV droned in the background, a commercial advertising the buttery taste of pancake syrup lodging in the corner of his mind. The sound of passing traffic faded into white noise, the warm touch of Hutch’s hand sliding now to track up his leg and massage his knee.

 

The next thing he knew he was floating, blissfully content, pillowed by cottony clouds of drowsiness.  He woke an hour later, a blanket draped over him. Cracking his eyelids, he spied Hutch sitting in an adjacent chair, scribbling on a tablet.

 

“What’re ya doin’?” he asked sleepily.

 

Hutch looked up, startled to find him awake.  “Writing out a grocery list.  When’s the last time you went to the store, Starsk?  Cupboards are pretty bare, and the refrigerator and freezer aren’t much better - - aside from an endless supply of fudge sickles.”

 

“I like fudge sickles,” Starsky countered.  Groggy, he dragged a hand over his face.  “What time is it?”

 

Hutch returned to writing.  “Time for you to go back to sleep.”  His pencil scritched over the tablet then stilled as he raised his head.  “You’d probably be more comfortable in the bedroom.  How about it?”

 

Starsky rolled onto his side. “I thought you had to leave . . .get ready for your hot date?”

 

“Soon,” Hutch countered.  “And you didn’t answer my question.  How ‘bout going in the bedroom?”

 

“How ‘bout I stay here?”  He smiled.  His friend really was a worrywart at times.  He should have been used to it by now.  Hutch had practically lived with him during his long convalescence, doing everything from helping him bathe, to assisting with his therapy exercises, to cleaning his apartment, doing his laundry and running any multitude of errands.  He’d had to juggle doctors, family (on both sides) and co-workers, all of whom required varying levels of attention.  And in the midst of the upheaval, he’d had to hold down his job, mucking through with a temporary partner while Starsky struggled to heal.

 

Unfortunately Hutch hadn’t completely disengaged “hover mode” or his mother hen instincts. 

 

Starsky coughed weakly but this time there was a loose rattle in the sound.  Hutch immediately stood and prowled closer.

 

“That doesn’t sound good.”  He frowned, staring down at Starsky.  “I should’ve never let you do those double shifts.  Come on, Starsk - - let me help you back to the bedroom.” 

 

Because he knew the cough had doomed him and Hutch would now stubbornly refuse to back down, Starsky consented.  Wearily he climbed to his feet, letting his friend take control and guide him to the bedroom. Stripping to his briefs with Hutch’s help, he crawled under the blankets, secretly admitting it wasn’t such a bad idea. His body felt achy and stiff, limp with exhaustion at the same time.   It felt strange to be going to bed - - the gold-tinged light of late day still streaming through the windows - - when the rest of the world was just gearing up for the glitz and sparkle of nightlife in the city. 

 

Long accustomed to seeing the ugly scars left by the bullets on his partner’s chest and back, Hutch pulled the blankets up without flinching.  In the back of his mind he wondered if Starsky’s revolving carousel of short-lived relationships didn’t have something to do with the disfigurement.  Was he uncomfortable, possibly embarrassed or just self-conscious and awkward about letting someone else see those hideous reminders of what had almost been?  Their long work hours and rotating shifts were obstacle enough to most relationships, but throw in the psychological impact of being permanently disfigured and suddenly, connecting on an emotional level became a lot harder. 

 

If Starsky had just been looking for a sexual, feel-good relationship, no strings attached, Hutch knew he’d have little problem in scoring.  His friend had a kind of swaggering, magnetic charm that practically oozed sex appeal.  Most women couldn’t resist Starsky when he was on the prowl.  The problem was he rarely craved gratuitous sex, unlike Hutch who’d had his fair share of one-night stands before hooking up with Janet.  Starsky almost always engaged his heart when he was involved in a relationship, letting his natural innocence and vulnerability bleed through.  It meant he could be hurt a lot easier, a painful predicament he appeared to studiously avoid lately.  So there was Bonnie, Brenda, Sharon, and probably two or three others Hutch had forgotten about. 

 

Eight months down the road and Gunther was still impacting their lives.

 

“You need anything, buddy?”  Feeling deeply protective of his tired partner, Hutch sat on the edge of the bed. Reflex made him brush a hand through Starsky’s hair, the near-black curls creating a tumultuous mass on the crisp white pillowcase. Beneath his fingertips, Hutch could feel the familiar texture of impossibly thick ringlets, soft and coarse at the same time. He knew that texture with the same intimate familiarity as the satin cascade of Janet’s long cinnamon-gold tresses. 

 

“Starsk?”  Concerned, he fingered one inky curl, watching the dance of natural light arc across the tip.  “Do you need some water . . . maybe a pain pill?”

 

Starsky sighed.  “No, Hutch.  I don’t need a pain pill.”

 

Like you’d admit it if you did.  You’re getting as bad as I am, buddy.

 

Starsky had pretty much been off the pills for months now, but every once in a while they were still needed to help him sleep comfortably through the night.  Especially after a grueling workday - - and two back-to-back double shifts definitely qualified.  Rufus Lynch hadn’t gone down easy.  They’d been working the case for two weeks, but had intensified those efforts over the last three days, finally gathering enough ammunition for an arrest warrant. Lynch’s high-priced, double-talking lawyers were still screaming things like “entrapment.”

 

Hutch was about to push the pill again when the doorbell interrupted his thoughts.  Starsky gave a jerk, frowning at the intrusion.  Maybe he wouldn’t admit to needing a pill, Hutch thought, but he was clearly existing on fumes. 

 

“ . . . ain’t expectin’ anyone,” he mumbled sleepily.

 

“Don’t worry about it, babe.  I’ll get it.”

 

Pushing from the bed Hutch walked swiftly toward the door, hoping to catch whoever it was before they rang again, disturbing Starsky’s rest.  He was almost there when the unknown caller pressed their thumb over the bell and held it down, sending an annoyingly shrill ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong reverberating throughout the quiet apartment.

 

“Knock it off!” Hutch called, certain he was going to find some kid playing a practical joke.  Irked, he wrenched open the door and came to an immediate halt, shock rapidly replacing anger. “Nick.”  Stunned, he stared at Starsky’s younger brother. 

 

Nick stood on the threshold, a suitcase in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other.  Dressed in navy slacks, an open-necked pink silk shirt and a fitted burgundy jacket, he looked like he’d just stepped off the dance floor.  A trio of gold chains, each progressively larger than the last, encircled his neck. 

 

“Hey!”  Nick’s smile dimmed, losing its blinding wattage, becoming abruptly forced and plastic.  “Hutch.  Um . . . what’re you doing here?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Hutch returned, ignoring the question.  With effort he forced silent his dislike of Starsky’s brother.  From the very first time Nick had arrived in Bay City, dragging his brother into the middle of his unscrupulous problems, he and Nick had been at odds. Once Starsky was injured, that brittle distance and aversion only increased. 

 

Nick had called as soon as he’d heard the news of Gunther’s hit, but he’d been too busy with his own life to fly in until weeks later when Starsky was out of the hospital and at home.  Even then, he’d seemed disappointed his brother couldn’t cruise the streets with him, party-hopping from disco to disco.  He’d been looking for fun and a good-time high, doing the dutiful brother role only because it was expected.  He’d asked after Starsky’s health, then spent the rest of the trip talking about himself, a recent foray into real estate, and the three “hot babes” he’d met at the LAX terminal. 

 

Hutch had put up with his selfish indulgence for two nights, quietly seething while Nick carelessly ignored his brother’s restless agitation and pain. Frustration eventually funneled into aggravation, prompting him to kick the freeloader out in search of a hotel while Starsky was in therapy.  His partner had been miffed at first, but the anger hadn’t lasted long.  Both men knew he was in no condition to tolerate the strain of a houseguest, much less one who was glaringly high maintenance.  Hutch sometimes found it hard to believe two people from the same bloodline could be so diametrically different.  Throughout their partnership, Starsky had talked so fondly of Nick that Hutch had truly wanted to like him.  But within minutes of meeting him just over a year ago, Hutch had formulated an opinion of a selfish, shallow man who didn’t know the meaning of the word “responsibility.”

 

 “What about it, Nick?” he prompted, trying to keep his voice neutral.  For Starsky’s sake, he forced himself to be nonjudgmental. “What are you doing here?”

 

“What do you think?  I came to see my brother.”  Recovering, Nick brushed past him and breezed into the apartment.  He dropped the suitcase with a thud. “Hey, Davey!  Davey, where’re  ya hidin’?”

 

“Quiet!”  Hutch hissed, trailing behind him, quickly grabbing his arm.  “He’s sleeping.”

 

“Nicky?”

 

Hutch groaned mentally when he saw his friend in the doorway to the bedroom, bare-chested and barefoot, just zipping his faded jeans.  “Perfect,” he muttered.  Nick gave a delighted whoop and scrambled forward to embrace his brother, still clutching the bottle of champagne.   For his part, Starsky looked truly elated, his blue eyes sparkling with a burst of animation that had previously been lacking.  Hutch felt a strange twinge in his gut watching the two together, both so closely matched in height, build and appearance. He hated the reactive instinct that told him Starsky’s reasoning ability went soaring out the window where his little brother was concerned.  Even now, tired and mentally drained, he’d put his own discomfort aside and focused his energy on Nick.

 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Starsky asked, pushing his brother to arm’s length with a delighted grin.  “Why didn’t you call?”

 

“What  - - and ruin the surprise?”  Nick was beaming, flawless and smooth.  “I just wanted to breeze in and visit for awhile.  See how my older brother’s doin.  Ma said you were back fulltime on the streets again.”

 

“Two weeks ago,” Starsky confirmed.  “Come on, sit down.  You wanna drink or something?”

 

Nick hoisted the bottle of champagne.  “How ‘bout some of the good stuff?  I just closed a high-end deal that netted me a five-figure commission.”  He grinned shamelessly, waggling his dark brows.  “How d’ya like them apples, big brother?  All legal, nice and neat, and I’m rolling in the dough, while you’re doin’ what - -?” He glanced back and forth between his brother and Hutch.  “ - - workin’ double shifts by the look of you two.  A single commission check and I probably cleared your annual salary in one transaction.”

 

“I’ll get the confetti,” Hutch snapped acidly as he walked past, snatching the champagne from Nick’s hand.  He carried it to the kitchen where he plunked it on the counter.  “Looks like Starsk is all out of glasses, Nick.  Too bad.”

 

“Don’t be such a sourass, Blondie,” Starsky called from the living room, but there was humor in his voice.  “The good glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge.”  Hutch heard him steer his brother to the couch.  “Too bad we don’t got any of those fancy hors d’oeuvres to celebrate.”

 

“Too bad you aren’t in bed,” Hutch countered, returning to the living room with the champagne and three glasses.  Not bothering to look at Nick, he shoved the bottle at him, his gaze locked on Starsky.  “I thought you could barely keep your eyes open?”

 

Starsky frowned.  “I thought you had a date?”  This time there was a trace of underlying annoyance.

 

“Hey, that’s great!” Nick exclaimed, snatching the bottle from Hutch, beginning to peel away the foil wrapping over the cork. “That leaves Davey free to go cruisin’ with me. I met this really hot chick in the terminal and she told me about this hotspot up the coast.  You know - - one of those glitz discos where they pick and choose who they’re gonna let in - - like you gotta know somebody and be part of the in-crowd.  It’s for the ‘beautiful people.’”

 

“Guess that leaves you out,” Hutch muttered before he could stop himself.  He felt Starsky glare at him, but Nick continued as though he hadn’t heard.

 

“She gave me four passes - -”  Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of slender tickets, each  about the size of a standard bookmark, produced in gold foil and stamped V.I.P. Pass in looping green ink. “It’s called the Jade Club,” he continued, waving the passes in the air.  “About thirty miles north of the city line, but well worth the drive if what Brandi says is true. I’m supposed to meeter there around 9:00.”  He winked at Starsky.  “If you don’t got anyone you wanna bring, big brother, I’m sure you can find a date there.  Plenty of girls.”

 

A little uncertain, Starsky shrugged.  “Okay.”

 

Hutch felt his mouth drop.  “Starsk!  What happened to going to bed and getting some sleep?”

 

Uncomfortable, Starsky hedged.  “Well, that was before Nicky got here.  I mean come on - - it ain’t like I never did a sixteen hour shift before, then went clubbin’.  I’ll take a shower.  It’ll wake me up.”

 

“Great!”  Nick popped the cork on the bottle, launching it into the air with a loud crack.  Foam immediately bubbled over the side.  Laughing, he licked it off his hand then quickly tilted the neck to fill the waiting glasses.  “And I’m drivin’,” he continued.  “I sprang for a Firebird at the rental window - - puts your aging Torino to shame, big brother.  Tonight’s my night to play chauffeur and cart your butt around town.” 

 

“You can cart his butt back into the bedroom,” Hutch countered icily, not moving to take the glass Nick offered him.  He knew he was being difficult, knew he needed to tone down his anger for his friend’s sake.  Already he could feel contention creeping into the room, brewing between him and Nicky. No matter how much he tried to the contrary, he just instinctively disliked Starsky’s brother.

 

“Hey,” Starsky said, the edge in his voice harder than before.  “I think I can make my own decisions.” 

 

Surprised by the frost, Hutch shot him a frowning glance. Starsky’s expression softened when their eyes met, a silent plea to be understanding and supportive of Nicky coming through in the non-verbal communication.  Relenting, Hutch accepted the glass, feeling much like a traitorous in-law who wasn’t open-minded enough to see the potential residing in a poor, misunderstood black sheep. “I’m going along,” he told Nick through gritted teeth.   

 

Surprised, Starsky blinked.  “What about Janet?”

 

“Nick has four passes,” Hutch countered mildly, offering a flawlessly staged smile.  He found it amazing he could perfect such a pleasant demeanor while inwardly seething. He really had been looking forward to a quiet evening with the woman he loved, but there was simply no way he was going to entrust Starsky to Nick’s care when his partner was operating at a subterranean level.  It wasn’t that he faulted the brothers wanting to spend time together, but rather Nick’s usual disregard of everyone but himself.  With a single glance, it was obvious to any sane individual Starsky needed rest, but in typical Nick-fashion, having a good time took precedence over his brother’s health.

 

“You could just stay here,” Hutch tried again.

 

“And miss a V.I.P. event?” Nick cracked, waving the notion aside as if it were absurd.  He thrust a glass of champagne at Starsky.  “Come on, Davey.  We’re celebrating!”

 

“Okay.”  Starsky grinned, pushing from the couch to stand at his brother’s side.  “So what’re we toastin’?  A successful career in real estate?”

 

“How ‘bout ‘new beginnings?’”  Nick suggested.  He glanced slyly at Hutch, the corner of his mouth crooking upward.

 

When Starsky seconded the toast, Hutch complied, taking a sip of the bubbly drink. From the corner of his eye, he could feel Nick watching him, a slow almost predatory curl spreading over the younger man’s lips. Starsky was oblivious to the glance, too wrapped up in the euphoria of the unexpected visit.  If Hutch knew anything about Starsky, his friend was bursting inside, secure in the knowledge his younger brother was making a success of himself in a legitimate profession.

 

Nicky had gotten involved in real estate shortly after his first disastrous trip to Bay City.   For a man who wanted quick money without investing forty hours a week, it seemed like an ideal occupation.  Except that Hutch had a few friends involved in the field, and it was hardly the “work-when-I-want-and-make-big-commissions” trade most people thought it was.  Some of his friends, while admittedly very well off financially, were also putting in close to fifty hour work weeks.  Most associates who didn’t invest ample time simply fared as middle-of-the-road producers.  Nick liked the highlife far too much for an average income, but he also struck Hutch as being too lazy to invest the time necessary to get a career off the ground - - especially in a time frame as short as fourteen months.  His supposed windfall just didn’t make sense.

 

So was he boasting, lying, or doing something unethical?

 

“Where’re ya stayin’?”  Hutch heard his partner ask.  He cringed in anticipation of the answer, remembering the suitcase Nick had carted in with him.  For someone who’d recently fallen into a lot of money he was traveling very light and had clearly decided not to pamper himself with a costly hotel suite.

 

“Don’t got a place,” Nick returned brightly.  “Thought maybe I’d bunk with you.”

 

Welching off your brother, like normal. 

 

“Perfect!” Starsky blurted.

 

Hutch took a slow sip of champagne.  “With all that money, Nick, I’m surprised you didn’t want to stay at The Plaza or some other swank hotel.”  He smiled disarmingly.  “You know - - Jacuzzis, room service and hot tubs.  I mean, you’re on the road to success now, right?”  The smile stayed in place, but all three men knew the observation was anything but innocent.  Hutch was clearly testing the waters, fishing for cracks in Nick’s story.

 

For a second as their eyes met, Nick’s gaze went flat and cold.  The hostility vanished just as quickly, an effortless grin sliding across his lips.  “Nah.  Where would the fun be in that?  A Jacuzzi’s great, but it can’t compare to quality time with my big brother.”  Still grinning, Nick looped an arm around Starsky’s neck.

 

Hutch fought the instinctive urge to gag.  Instead he sat his glass down and looked around for his jacket.  “I better go shower and pick up Janet,” he mumbled.  The swill in the room was getting a little too thick, and as always where his younger brother was concerned, Starsky couldn’t see through it.  Snatching his coat from the back of a nearby chair, Hutch looped it over his arm.  He paused on the way toward the door, letting his hand rest on Starsky’s shoulder.  “See you back here in a little while, okay, pal?”

 

Starsky parted with a loopy grin.  “Can’t believe you’re passin’ on a hot romantic evenin’ to stagger around on a dance floor.”

 

“I can’t either.”  Hutch gave his arm a squeeze and headed for the door.

 

An hour later, he was back at Starsky’s apartment - - alone.

 

+++++

 

“Starsk, will you quit worrying.  I told you everything is fine.” 

 

Hutch stood in the doorway of Starsky’s bedroom, one shoulder braced against the frame, arms folded across his chest.  He’d showered and changed, opting for a pair of snug black jeans, a sky blue button-front shirt, open at the throat, and a black sport coat.  Janet always told him she loved the contrast of ebony against his sun-whitened hair, which was why he’d chosen the outfit.  But Janet had bowed out of the evening after he’d phoned and explained Nick’s unexpected (and not particularly welcome - - at least from his viewpoint) arrival.

 

She’d listened to him rant, then remained silent while he apologized for wrecking their evening.  Afterward she’d told him she loved him and to go to the club without her.  He’d been hesitant at first, but quickly realized she was bowing out so he could concentrate on his partner.  There weren’t many women who’d willingly take a back seat to a best friend, but Hutch knew his worry over Starsky had come through in his voice even when he’d been trying to silence it.   Intuitive enough to sense his concern and secure enough in their relationship to know he wasn’t going to cheat on her, Janet had given him the green-light to enjoy the evening without her. 

 

“As long as you promise me tomorrow night, Kenny.”

 

The words bounced around in his head even now, sending a streak of unexpected desire through his groin.  He could almost smell the flower-fresh scent of her hair, the subtle jasmine of her perfume . . . feel the enticing brush of petal-pink lingerie across his chest as he lowered her to the bed.

 

“Uh . . .” Coughing awkwardly, he straightened and shoved the erotic thoughts from his mind.  After two long weeks apart, it was amazing how quickly his hormones could take over. “I’m telling you, Starsk,” he said, refocusing with effort.  “Janet is okay with everything.  She wanted us to have a ‘boys’ night out.’  She and I are getting together tomorrow - - after the three of us do the Renaissance Faire like we planned.  And yes - -” he said with an overly theatrical, long-suffering sigh.  “We can even drag Nick along if you want to . . . maybe throw him in front of a few archery targets or hope a band of outlaws makes off with him.  

 

Adjusting the collar on his white button shirt, Starsky frowned from his spot in front of the bedroom mirror.  “Quit beatin’ up on my brother, Hutch.”

 

Grinning, Hutch plopped onto the bed, tucking one long leg, bent at the knee, onto the mattress.  “Killjoy,” he tossed back. “You take all the fun out of life.  Where is the little vermin anyway?”

 

“In the bathroom.”  Starsky gave a jerk of his thumb to indicate the direction.  “And he ain’t that bad, Blondie.”

 

“I know, I know.”  He’s worse.   Sighing, Hutch rifled a hand through his long hair.  “Sorry, Starsk.  I just like to ride his butt.  I’ll ease up - - I promise.”

 

In the mirror his friend flashed a grin and Hutch felt his spirits lift.  Nicky had definitely soured his mood and worrying about Starsky wasn’t helping.  His partner looked more alert since he’d showered and changed clothing, but he was still coughing occasionally, and the loose rattle troubled Hutch more than he wanted to admit.  Wearing tight-fitting dark blue jeans with a silver-buckled black belt and crisp white shirt, Starsky looked vibrant and alive even with that sporadic cough. “You got a jacket, Gordo?  It’s gonna be cold tonight, especially north, up the coast.”

 

Starsky nodded, rounding the foot of the mattress to snatch a black leather jacket from the bedside chair. “You ever hear of this place Nick got tickets to - - the Jade Club?”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “Leave it to Nick to scope out the new local hot spot before he even leaves LAX.”  Pausing, he bit his lip, sending his partner a guarded glance.  “How’re you feeling, Starsk?”

 

“Will you quit worryin’ already?  I told you a shower would wake me up.”  Scowling, Starsky nudged him on the shoulder.  “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

 

“Okay.”  Hutch stood.  “But aren’t you forgetting your brother’s still in the bathroom making himself pretty?”  Unable to stop himself, he flashed a wide smile.

 

Starsky glowered.  “Hutchinson!”

 

“Okay, okay.” Hutch held up both hands.  “No more cheap shots.  At least for awhile.”

He was still grinning when Nick breezed into the room, having changed into ridiculously tight white slacks offset by a gold silk shirt and navy jacket.  He’d left the shirt unbuttoned to the waist and added six or seven new gold-link chains to the three already looped around his neck.  The ends of a long white aviator scarf dangled on either of the jacket’s lapels, his heeled shoes, white patent leather. 

 

“Time to par-tay!” Nick proclaimed, with a flamboyant grin for his brother.  “Come on, already - - I wanna dance the night away!”  The last four words were sung in verse to the popular song as he did a quick one-two-three step and hip swivel. 

 

Hutch bit his tongue to keep from making a sarcastic comment.  It was already going on 8:00.  By the time they reached the disco, it would be almost 9:00.  It irked him to think Starsky should be in bed sleeping off their double shift but was instead indulging his selfish younger brother.  By the time they came home, it would likely be after midnight and that was far too long for an ailing Starsky to be out.  If he let Nick drive, he’d never get Starsky home at a semi-decent hour.  “How ‘bout I drive, Starsk?” he said conversationally as they headed for the front door. “I’ve got the largest car.”

 

Starsky gave a mild snort.  “No offense, Blondie, but I don’t think your Cutlass is ready for the V.I.P. scene.  We’ll take the Torino, and you can drive on the way back while I sleep.  Deal?”

 

Hutch grinned in appreciation, catching his partner’s glance from the corner of his eye.  The outcome was pretty much as he’d planned, his sole intent keeping Nicky’s hands off the wheel.  “Deal.”

 

“Hey!”  Nick protested loudly.  “I thought I was driving?”

 

They’d reached the bottom of the outside steps now, Hutch and Starsky immediately heading for the Torino, a stunned Nick stopping a pace behind.  Opening the driver’s door, Starsky flipped the seat forward.  “Come on, Nick.  You’re holdin’ things up.  Get in the back.”

 

Nick balked, clearly appalled by the thought.  “You’re shovin’ me in the back?”

 

Standing on the passenger’s side of the car, Hutch glanced across the roof at his partner’s younger brother.  He supposed he could concede his usual seat and offer to ride in the rear, but Starsky clearly didn’t intend that. 

 

“But . . .” Half angry, half miserable, Nick glanced at Hutch.  “I thought he would ride in the back.”

 

Hutch felt a finger stab in his direction.  The heat on the word “he” was a little hard to miss, but Starsky remained oblivious to the strained undercurrent.  “Hutch’s legs are too long to squash into the backseat.  Besides, he always rides up front with me.  Come on, already, will ya?”

 

Muttering beneath his breath, Nick complied, shooting Hutch a hostile glare.  Unfazed, the blond detective shrugged and slid into the car.   There was no love lost between him and Nick despite the forced niceties he tried to maintain for Starsky’s sake.  Niceties that sometimes made him gag with the effort, biting his tongue when he wanted to launch into a blistering tirade about responsibility and the duties of a brother - - all foreign concepts in the selfishly superficial world of Nick Starsky. The best Hutch could hope for was to get through the night without taking the little twerp’s head off.  Hopefully, once Starsky spent a few hours at the disco, he’d come to his senses and be ready to head home for some much-needed rest. 

 

Which is where he’d be right now, if not for Nick’s party-central lifestyle.

 

As if on cue, Starsky coughed, wincing beneath the spasm as he pulled the Torino onto the street.  Hutch peered from the corner of his eye, inwardly cringing at the loose rattle he heard burbling from his friend’s chest.  He tried to assure himself it was nothing more than the fatigue of the last sixteen hours catching up with Starsky, but a gnawing voice in the back of his mind fretted it might be more. Restlessly, he tapped the fingers of his left hand against his thigh.  It was a means of anchoring himself when he really wanted to reach across the seat and soothingly rub his partner’s arm. Touch had always been an integral part of his relationship with Starsky, something they’d shared from the early stages of their friendship.  It had been a strange, awkward barrier to cross, an oddity for two heterosexual men, but once crossed, it had deepened into an unshakable forever-bond.  Even now he felt the tug, wanting to calm his own frazzled nerves by brushing his fingertips across Starsky’s sleeve . . . assuring himself his partner was fine and the cough was just an annoying fluke of the moment.

 

He knew Starsky wouldn’t stand for it, especially with his brother in the car.  Hutch’s partner hadn’t minded comforting during his recuperation, but now that he was officially back on active duty, his tolerance for coddling had bottomed out.  Eight months of having someone fuss over him made him all the more determined to function on his own.  Unfortunately, Hutch couldn’t switch off his protective instincts on the spin of a dime.  Job or no job, Nick or no Nick, he hadn’t outgrown the obsessive need to safeguard his partner.

 

Gunther had almost succeeded in taking Starsky from him, a grim reality that terrified him on a level he never wanted to experience again.  He’d been crazed, suffocated by fear as Starsky’s life had hung in the balance.  Thankfully, through the infinite grace of God, they’d been given a second chance, a situation Hutch was determined never to take for granted.  If Starsky so much as sneezed, his anxiety shot through the roof.  He should have been used to the coughing, something that routinely happened when his partner overexerted his weakened lungs.  Yet despite that common frequency, he couldn’t help cringing at the loose cough. 

 

Nick, on the other hand, was totally oblivious to his brother’s discomfort.  Leaning forward from the back seat, he rambled on about how much he was looking forward to hooking up with Brandi and cutting loose on the dance floor.  His inane chatter was endless, covering everything from the latest dance craze to a woman in New York named Carla who couldn’t keep her hands off him. Next came details on the hot car he’d just bought and his flashy new apartment, complete with wet bar, skylights and hot tub. 

 

When he got bored talking about his sexual prowess and his overflowing bank account, Nick gloated over his skyrocketing career as a top-producing real estate agent.  For five minutes Hutch listened to the nauseating particulars of how the CEO of a major financial institution wanted to buy a resort property from Nick, the price tag sickeningly obscene.

 

Unable to stomach the boasting any longer, he ground his teeth together and silently counted to ten. “Get your ass back on earth, Nick, before somebody sticks a pin in your ego.  And you might wanna ask your brother how he’s feeling since you haven’t seen him in almost seven months.  News flash, kid - - the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

 

“Oh - - hey!”  Nick managed to sound mildly affronted.

 

“Play nice, Hutch,” Starsky warned with a reproachful glance.  He coughed weakly, as if the mere act of talking aggravated his lungs.

 

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Hutch muttered.  This time he couldn’t stop the reach, his hand settling on Starsky’s thigh.  “I don’t like the sound of that cough.”

 

“Yeah, well . . .” A flicker of annoyance crossed Starsky’s face. “I don’t like the sound of you mother-hennin’ me to death either.” Irritably he butted Hutch’s hand aside.  “I ain’t a toddler and I ain’t an invalid.  Quit treatin’ me like one.” 

 

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw Nick’s lips curl in smug satisfaction.  Suddenly quiet, the New Yorker was also clearly attentive, thriving on the brief spat of friction between them.  The realization he enjoyed the discord made Hutch swear silently.  For his friend’s sake, he attempted to keep his emotions under control.

 

“Starsk - -”

 

“Forget it.” Starsky waved a hand in the air before he could speak.  “I’m sorry I snapped at ’cha.  Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight, huh?”

 

Nick scowled, apparently not relishing apologies anywhere near as much as contention. 

 

“Yeah, okay,” Hutch told his partner neutrally.  He could feel Nick’s gaze, suddenly hostile, on the back of his head.  It was a shame when he thought about it.  They should have been allies, working together to do whatever was best for Starsky, instead of constantly finding themselves at odds.  Yet at the moment, he just wanted to shake a healthy dose of reality into the conniving little weasel.

 

Forcing himself to relax, Hutch eased back in the seat, determined not to be on the defensive all night.  Nick had a way of making him respond impulsively, turning his normally precise and cool demeanor into instinctive reactionary behavior.   He closed his eyes briefly, loathed to admit he was exhausted too.  He’d done the same sixteen-hour shift as Starsky.  The last thing on his mind was partying at some out-of-the-way disco reserved for A-listers, suck-ups and wannabes.

 

After a while Nick’s chatter started all over again, this time flavored with an excess of obnoxiously fawning “Daveys,” plainly designed to irritate Hutch. 

 

“Davey, remember when we were kids and . . .”

 

“You’d be proud of me, Davey.  Real estate’s not hard, ya know?  I bet you could even do it . . .”

 

“Know what we should do, Davey?  We should take a trip together.  Just you and me.  You know, like  a brother thing . . .”

 

“Ma misses you, Davey.  She really wishes you’d come home to New York . . .”

 

Hutch ground his teeth together on that one.  Not “back” to New York, but “home” to New York.  It was amazing how slippery and skilled Nick could be with word choices and inflection of voice when he wanted.  Of course throwing a reference to Rachel Starsky into the mix didn’t hurt either.  Although Starsky talked to his mother every week over the phone, a part of him had always felt guilty they were separated on opposite coasts.  Nick knew that.  He also knew New York hadn’t been “home” to Starsky in roughly twenty years. 

 

Turning his head, Hutch looked out the side window.  The climb up the coast road was scenic, peppered with sheer cliffs and a yawning expanse of ocean on one side, treed hillsides on the other.  They’d left the city limits behind about twenty minutes ago, canyons and ragged terrain replacing the congested sprawl of urban and metro areas.  Cranking his window down, he let a stream of fresh air into the car, feeling it tug through the edges of his sun-bleached hair.  It smelled of dry earth, tangled undergrowth and the sharp salt-tang of the Pacific.  He couldn’t conceive of a disco buried so deeply out of the way, an oddity that kindled a momentary twinge of doubt.

 

“Nick, you sure this Brandi wasn’t just feeding you a line?  Who puts a disco thirty-some miles outside of town?”

 

Gulping breath in the middle of yet another “Davey” line, (“Davey, you wouldn’t believe how much things have changed back home.  You’d really like it . . .”) Nick blinked owlishly.  “That’s the point,” he said as if speaking to a slow-witted child.  “The drive makes the whole thing worth it.  Jeez, Hutch - - it’s friggin’ exclusive!  Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

 

Yeah - - like you’re a frigging vain idiot who’s working on my nerves.

 

Tightening his hand over the door handle, Hutch applied pressure until his knuckles grew white. Deciding it was better to keep his mouth shut, he turned his head and silently stared out the window.

 

+++++

 

Starsky sighed. 

 

He could feel mounting tension in the car, though he knew his brother was totally oblivious to it.  It wasn’t Nicky’s fault.  Not really.  He just wasn’t astute enough to pick up on Hutch’s moods or interpret body language.   The kid was all about having a good time - - and why not?  He’d lost his father when he was five, then his brother a few years later when Starsky had been sent to California.  If Nicky was a little egotistical and gratingly cavalier, who could really blame him?  He’d had a miserable childhood.

 

Starsky hadn’t been there - -  the wise and sheltering older brother helping Nicky navigate through life’s rough spots.  No matter how many times or how many ways he’d tried to rationalize that truth, it always ended in guilt.  He hadn’t been there to look out for Nicky, steering him in the right direction.  Instead, because of his own rebellious youth, he’d been shipped off to his uncle in California when his brother was only eight.  

 

Nicky had adored him then, but the last thing he’d cared about was a little brother’s fawning adulation. He’d been too focused on his own pain - - angry, reckless and wild, pissed at the world for the loss of his father.  He’d vented that hostility in the streets, running with the wrong crowd, always one step shy of some blatantly criminal act.  His uncle had eventually made him recognize and come to terms with his self-destructive behavior.  But by the time he came to his senses, the years had gouged a massive gap between him and Nicky. 

 

Starsky had been able to heal his relationship with his mother.  She’d always loved him unconditionally, even at his worst.  But Nicky was different.  The long separation had made them virtual strangers with shockingly contrasting value systems.  Nicky was out for the quick buck and easy score - - the most for the least effort.  He craved instant gratification, and if he had to trample someone along the way to get what he wanted, he thought nothing of it.  Plain and simple, he was a consummate survivor.  A skilled game player who thought nothing of changing convictions to suit the whim of the moment.  Beneath the bluster and showy façade, Starsky truly believed Nicky was redeemable.  He could overlook the egotistical ramblings and thoughtless remarks.  He owed his brother that much. 

 

But Hutch was another story.

 

Starsky turned one ear to his brother’s tale of making it with a cocktail waitress during intermission at some pricey New York play, while glancing unobtrusively at his partner. 

 

“This chick was hot, Davey!  She couldn’t get my zipper down fast enough.”

 

From the corner of his eye, Starsky saw Hutch’s mouth strain in a thin line.  His partner’s hand was wrapped tightly over the door handle, his knuckles bleached almost as pale as the sun-whitened highlights in his fair hair.  Starsky wanted to tell him to ease up but was afraid he’d get only a cold glare or snapped reply in return.  Hutch had clearly moved into coiled-tension-mode.  Rather than spit out what he was thinking, he’d chosen to seethe quietly, letting his anger fester and build.

 

Not good, Hutchinson.  ‘Specially ‘cuz I don’t wan’ you playin’ pit bull with my kid brother.

 

There was no question Nicky was high maintenance even for him, but allowances had to be made, and Hutch had to learn to make them. Starsky had adjusted to the multiple and highly complex layers of Hutch’s ever-evolving relationship with his father.  The least his temperamental partner could do was to make the same attempt with Nicky.

 

Starsky knew mixing his brother and his partner was a little like ringing the bell between two Siamese fighting fish.  Left alone, they’d be at each other’s throats in a matter of seconds - - or more correctly, Hutch would be at Nicky’s throat, the younger man loudly squealing his innocence. 

 

Sighing, Starsky scuffed damp fingers through his hair.  Hutch had the window down, but it still felt overly warm in the car despite the cooler January evenings.  Either that or his partner’s stony silence was getting to him, working his fatigue-fried nerves into a growing sweat.  He knew he probably should have stayed home and slept off the double shift the way Hutch wanted, but how often did he get to go clubbing with his younger brother?  Okay, so he was coughing a little, but that tended to happen when he got tired.  Over the last eight months he’d become intimately acquainted with how far he could push his body.  He knew his limitations inside and out, and a few hours at a disco weren’t going to land him back in the hospital.   It was time Hutch let go of the strings and turned off his instinctive need to hover. 

 

Then again, Hutch was pretty much everything he had.  Yes, Starsky loved his mother, but she was clear across the country, and Nicky, well . . . Nicky was his younger brother but, in truth they barely knew each other.  Maybe he should have loved Nicky more, but his extreme devotion to Hutch had sucked up all the room in his heart, leaving little space for anyone else. They’d been through so much together their souls were effortlessly locked for eternity  - - an infinite bond neither would have any other way.  Even now, Starsky felt his partner’s irritation and concern as strongly as if Hutch had spoken aloud. 

 

So why was the blond detective sitting hunched in the passenger’s seat, clearly miserable, having a wretched time when he could have been making passionate love to the woman he cherished?

 

‘Cuz he’s worried about me.

 

Starsky’s hands tightened on the wheel as he eased the car through a hairpin turn.  Nicky had directed him off the main road a good twelve minutes ago.  Since that time, the drive had taken them up and down narrow tree-lined lanes, each forking deeper into wooded hillsides and canyons. Nicky was still gabbing about getting it on with the cocktail waitress, but Starsky’s mind was stuck on his sulky partner.

 

This sucks.  He should be with Janet, not here worryin’ about me.

 

A cough collected in his chest, putting pressure on his tired lungs.  He wheezed out a hiss of air and saw Hutch’s head snap around.  Concern quickly replaced anger in his friend’s sky-dusted eyes. 

 

“Starsk?”

 

The pressure built and exploded, knifing through his chest with a ferocity that made him groan even as he succumbed to a violent fit of coughing. Sudden heat washed over him, and his palms grew damp, sweat-slippery on the wheel.  Stomping on the brake, he forced the car to a jarring halt, hunching forward as the spasm ratcheted up from his lungs.

 

“Hey!” Nicky sounded upset, but it was a strange kind of protest as if he resented being interrupted while detailing his latest sexual conquest.

 

“Easy, buddy.”

 

Starsky felt strong fingers grip his upper arm and hold him upright, supporting him through the worst of the attack.  Hutch’s knee bumped his own as his friend slid to the middle of the seat.  A gentle hand molded his back, tracing slow circles to help ease the constricting pain in his chest.  The touch was intimately familiar, a soothing caress that enveloped him in a protective pocket of warmth.

 

“Come on, Starsk . . . you know the routine . . .”  The hand on his arm shifted to his chest, splaying flat to help mute the internal sting. “Slow breaths,” Hutch said near his ear, his voice calming and soft, all anger shed in a single heartbeat.  “Not so deep, buddy . . . it’ll pass . . .”

 

Starsky nodded, fumbling the gearshift into park.  His eyes blurred with tears, the brutal force of the spasm making him gasp aloud. He hadn’t had a coughing attack of this degree in weeks. 

“ ‘M okay,” he choked.  Exhausted, he flung himself back against the seat, inadvertently ending up with Hutch’s arm looped around his shoulder.  The coughing subsided, but it left him weak and trembling, shaken by the unexpected assault.  Hutch made no attempt to draw away, one hand still splayed flat on his chest, their thighs butted up against each other.

 

“You okay, pal?”

 

Starsky nodded, not trusting his voice.  His throat felt sore and raspy, grated by sandpaper.  His chest ached with each minor inhalation of breath.  So maybe that sixteen-hour shift wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever done.

 

Behind him he heard a grunt of distaste.  “You two wanna quit cuddling up there, so I can see where the hell we are?”  Nicky asked peevishly.

 

Tension streaked through Hutch like a bolt of lightning.  Incensed, he whipped his head around.  “Listen, you asshole - -”

 

“Don’t.”  Starsky clamped his hand on his partner’s thigh. “ ‘S my brother,” he managed, knowing the few short words would explain everything. His voice was weakened from the coughing jag, preventing him from saying anything further but he knew he didn’t have to.  As much as Hutch might hate doing it, he would back off as expected.

 

Still seething, the fair-haired man glanced at Starsky.  The moment their eyes touched, Hutch’s anger drained, his expression running the gamut from frustration to reluctant acceptance.  His fingertips gently pressed the back of Starsky’s neck.  “Okay, you win.  But you’re going home.”

 

“Forget that!” Nicky protested hotly.  “Besides, look  - - we’re here!”  He pointed jubilantly between the trees to a building tucked off the road.  Unlike any nightclub Starsky had seen before, it nonetheless had a contemporary flair with a sprawling front deck, smoked green glass windows and a rambling pitched roof rising sharply on one side.  A lighted neon sign depicting a martini glass and olive, brazenly proclaimed The Jade Club in lime green letters.

 

“So why is the parking lot deserted?” Hutch snapped.

 

“Who knows?”  Nicky did a quick drumbeat on the back of Starsky’s seat.  “Come on, big brother - - let’s go!  Pull this hunk-a-junk into the lot.  Maybe the doors don’t open until later, and Brandi invited us early.  Remember, she gave us V.I.P. passes.”

 

“Starsky, you should be in bed,” Hutch said evenly.

 

From the back seat, Starsky heard his brother mutter something he didn’t quite catch, but it was obvious Hutch heard judging by the slow flush of anger on his face.  Starsky caught the word “queer” in Nicky’s mumbled comment but didn’t want to consider the context. Surely his brother wouldn’t be that crass or rude. Nicky didn’t like Hutch, but to insinuate the blond detective had unwholesome motives for wanting him in bed was crossing the line even for him. 

 

Hutch suddenly had a hard time controlling his temper.  His free hand fisted around the bottom of his black blazer and it was only through obvious effort he kept himself from snapping back. Starsky had to give him credit for trying.  Hutch was easygoing most of the time, but his temper tended to be volatile when it cracked.  He didn’t tolerate fools lightly, and he’d clearly decided some time ago that Nicky was a prince in the category.

 

Ignoring the insult and the younger man entirely, Hutch tried again.  “Starsk, that cough - -”

 

“Just a few hours, Hutch,” Starsky pleaded, attempting to diffuse the situation.  He wanted to make them both happy, and the only way of doing that was finding safe middle ground. “Look - - we’ll go check it out, have a drink or two.  Nicky can hook up with his girl, then you and I will split.  Sound good, partner?”

 

“Why are you asking his permission?”  Nicky demanded.

 

Starsky ignored him, more concerned over Hutch’s reaction than his brother’s whining selfishness.  Nicky just didn’t understand what Hutch meant to him, would probably never understand, but that was okay.  His relationship with Nicky, while rooted in blood, was glaringly superficial compared to the deeply devoted friendship he had with Hutch.

 

Pulling his arm free, Hutch nodded and moved back to his side of the car.  The tension was gone again, neutral ground and tolerance reached temporarily.  Thankful for his partner’s consent, Starsky shifted the Torino into drive and banked the car into the parking lot. 

 

As Hutch had pointed out, it was deserted, not a single vehicle in sight.  Now that he thought about it, they hadn’t seen a car, person or house since pulling off the main road.  There’d been a utility shack tucked into the trees approximately twelve miles back, but other than that, the terrain was barren and sparse - - a combination of trees, rocks and wooded hillsides.

 

Starsky parked at the main entrance, staring up at the lighted sign.  He was aware of Hutch scowling heavily.

 

“I don’t like it, Starsk.  Something doesn’t feel right.”

 

“You mean like it’s this super flashy disco and nobody’s here?”  Starsky tossed back dryly.  “Why do my cop instincts tell me darlin’ Brandi sent Nick on a wild goose chase?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Hutch’s hands tightened on the dash.  “Mine tell me she sent him exactly where she wanted him.  Or maybe wanted us.”

 

Starsky glanced at him sharply, reading between the lines.  A set-up?  Behind him, Nicky pushed on the seat. 

 

“Come on, Davey!  Let me out!”

 

“Might as well check it out, as long as we’re here,” Starsky suggested neutrally.  He suddenly regretted not bringing his gun, but knew there was a spare pistol in the glove box.  Before he could mention it, Hutch slid it free and eased it into the back of his waistband.  Deciding there was nothing left to do but investigate the Jade Club, Starsky popped the door and stepped outside, Nicky barreling out behind him. 

 

“Slow down,” Starsky called to his brother who immediately bolted for the entrance.  Ignoring him, Nicky clambered up the steps and disappeared inside like an overeager kid.  The loud beat of disco music could be heard through the semi-open doorway, prompting Starsky to shrug at his partner.  “Maybe it really does get a late crowd,” he said half hopefully.  A glance at his watch told him it was still a few minutes before 9:00.  Beside him, Hutch was scowling heavily, clearly disturbed by the empty parking lot.  Most of the pole lights had winked on, creating a soft white glow against the steadily creeping haze of twilight.

 

Stuffing his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, Starsky used his elbow to butt Hutch on the arm. “So ya gonna take me dancin’ or what?  The night ain’t gettin’ any younger, Blondie. How ‘bout we check out the party?”  He nodded in the direction of the door.

 

Hutch spared a quick glance, his expression grim. Nicky’s preening chatter over the course of the long drive had turned him stoic and sour, the aloof side of his personality firmly taking center stage. “Stay here,” he instructed crisply, heading for the entrance.

 

“Excuse me?”  Starsky feigned affront, eyeing the suddenly empty air beside him. “Guess again, pal.”  Ever since Gunther, Hutch could be a little too overprotective, wanting to keep him tucked safely in the background.  Starsky knew half the time his partner didn’t even realize he was doing it.  Like a reflex action, Hutch had grown accustomed to taking the lead, putting himself in the risk-seat whenever there was a possibility of danger.  It was something Starsky frequently had to call him on.

 

Rather than make an issue of it now, he opted for levity. 

 

“Hey, blond and beautiful.” Starsky grinned crookedly, catching the sideways glance of Hutch’s eyes as he drew abreast. “Cut me some slack, huh?  My dates don’t usually ditch me before the first dance.”  His smile inched a little broader at the marginal curl of Hutch’s mouth.  In Starsky’s opinion the taller man was far too tense, turning an empty parking lot into a potential ambush, shades of Gunther.  Realistically, Brandi was probably just out to have a good laugh at Nicky’s expense.  The younger man had probably come on like a conceited ass, and she’d just wanted to take him down a peg. Either that or she was into some seriously kinky stuff and was hoping for a foursome.  Whatever the reason, it looked like the evening was going to be a bust.

 

Which really wasn’t a bad thing, Starsky mused.  He could catch some much-needed Zzzs, and Hutch could get back to playing romantic White Knight with Janet.  Strange how she’d been his doctor, yet Hutch was the one who’d ended up in a committed relationship with her.  Then again, romance had been the last thing on Starsky’s mind during the adjustment and therapy phase of his recovery.  With any luck, the next time he visited a disco it would be with a real date on his arm and not a sulky, 6’1” flaxen-haired partner who was clearly operating on irritation and buried concern.

 

“Not too shabby, huh?”  Starsky asked, indicating the club.  He got a non-committal grunt in return, Hutch’s eyes narrowed in speculation as he considered the building. 

 

The front was illuminated by a criss-cross of green floodlights, bright angled beams splashed against a stucco and brick facade.  Flashing lights lined the sidewalk and doorway, strobing in time to the pulse of loud disco. 

 

Starsky blinked as he stepped through the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside.  Lacquered red tables surrounded an empty dance floor over which a slowly revolving ball was suspended. Metallic silver, the sphere twinkled and glittered, reflecting the bouncing beams of colored spotlights recessed into the floor and ceiling.  A large s-shaped bar dominated the left side of the room while the right was comprised of several dance platforms, each raised a step above the next in a staggered tier. Hidden speakers blared loudly, pumping out Donna Summer’s Hot Stuff at a decibel level that made the floor vibrate and thrum.

 

“Good P. A. system!”  Starsky yelled to be heard over the music.  Across the room, Nicky was rounding the bar, calling for Brandi.  Ever the ham, he danced as he went, showing off his latest moves. 

 

Hutch shook his head.  “This is a waste of time, Starsk.  The girl obviously set your brother up for a fall, not that I blame her.  Let’s get out of here.”  Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed back toward the door.

 

Starsky hesitated, caught between leaving with his edgy friend and rounding up his brother, who obviously still thought there was a party to be had.  “Nick!  Hey, Nicky!”  Frustrated when he didn’t get an answer, Starsky started toward the bar.  He was halfway across the floor when the ball overhead suddenly made a shrill pinging noise.  Caught off guard, he raised his head in time to see the sphere shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.  A pressurized burst of air caught him in the chest, lifting him bodily from the floor, slamming him backward into the nearest ring of tables. A loud backwash of sound struck him in the face.  It was then the noise of the explosion registered, booming through his head and chest with a force that left him deafened.  His back collided with a table, and his body careened to the side, buffeted by the blast.  He tucked and rolled, only half conscious of striking the ground, debris raining down on him in deadly chunks of mortar, metal and glass. Something sliced through his arm and he screamed, unprepared for the shocking burst of pain.

 

It shot straight to his head, made him gasp for air like a cold-water fish beached on dry land.  He choked on dust, the coarse grit of metal and ash clogging his throat.  Gagging, he rolled to the side, desperately trying to kick clear from a tangle of upended tables and chairs. The air stank of smoke and ozone, layered underneath by the sickening reek of overheated lacquer.  He heard a ponderous creak and glanced to the ceiling where a heavy tier of track lighting dangled by a thinly stretched wire. Within seconds he knew the massive weight would send the rail plummeting to the ground, directly where he’d fallen.

 

“Hutch!”  Pinned beneath a chunk of wallboard, Starsky strained frantically to free himself.  He could feel blood leaking from his lacerated arm, pooling on the back of his hand, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy.  Soot burned his throat and made him hack on the bitter dregs of dry dust.  His eyes burned and his chest screamed in protest, the delicate tissue of his lungs seared by heat and carbon.

 

Shit!  Shit!  Hutch had been right to suspect a set-up.  Rather than back his partner’s suspicions, he’d sided with his brother and let them walk into a calculated bomb blast, courtesy of Nicky’s perpetual need to score.  He should have been thinking like a cop instead of an eager-to-please older brother.  For all he knew Nicky and Hutch could both be dead, killed in the blast. 

 

Oh God, no!  God, please!

 

“Hutch!”  Once again, Starsky tried to kick free of the debris pinning his legs.  Above him, the track lighting groaned and creaked as the wire unraveled and frayed, unable to support its cumbersome weight.  A second later, he heard a loud snap.  The broken rail swung free, angling from the ceiling like a deadly pendulum.

 

Shit! 

 

Flinging up an arm to protect himself, Starsky dove as far as he could to the side. An earsplitting clatter reverberated through the ruined club as the metal framework crashed behind him.  It hung momentarily upright, suspended for a pivotal second on its tip before Newton’s Law sent it careening sideways.  He tried to dive free, but the broken wallboard kept him pinned. 

 

He screamed when the framework cracked across his back, the force so staggering it sucked every droplet of air from his lungs.  His chest screamed in agony as pain rocketed from his shoulders to his waist, knifing deeper into his legs.  Desperate, he tried to cling to consciousness, but darkness sucked him under, leaving a cold trail of sweaty fear in its wake.

 

+++++

 

Hutch blinked, staring up at a pewter-laced sky, a handful of stars just beginning to emerge where twilight bowed to deeper night.  A shell-white half-moon crept above tattered wisps of clouds, each more delicate than the last.  It took him a moment to realize he was lying on his back just outside the club door, something hot and sticky trailing down the side of his face.  A second later he became aware of countless aches and bruises in his legs, arms and back.  He felt like he’d been battered by a hurricane and dropped on a rock-strewn shore.  His head throbbed mercilessly, a sharp knife of pain streaking from his neck into his shoulders and back.

 

It took him a moment to realize what had happened . . . to remember the strangely deserted club and the unexpected blast.  A single terrified thought followed: Starsky!

 

He was on his feet before he even had time to take stock of his injuries.  A punishing shock of vertigo, combined with the pull of gravity, immediately tumbled him to his knees.  The pain in his head spiked hotter, and he lurched forward, bracing his hands on the glass-littered earth to hack up a bitter string of bile.  Ignoring the protesting lurch of his stomach, Hutch shoved back to his feet and stumbled into the ruptured shell of the club.  “Starsky!”

 

He looked about frantically, forcing his way through the destruction, flinging aside battered tables and chairs, broken chunks of the wooden dance floor and misshapen pieces of metal.  The air was thick, brimming with smoke and dust.  It collected in his throat and made him labor for each breath, painfully heightening the atrocious buzzing in his head.  It was hard to see much of anything among the ruin of wood, butchered wire and metal.  His heart thumped madly, his body drenched in the sweaty grip of fear.  “Starsky!” he yelled again, petrified when silence was his only answer.

 

Ohgod, babe, don’t do this.  It’s not the garage, it’s not Gunther.  Answer me!

 

“Starsky!”  Angrily he swiped blood from his eye with a scratched and battered hand.  A cut beneath his hairline bled profusely, sketching a thin red trail from his temple to jaw. The side seam of his jeans had split apart over his right thigh, tiny particles of glass embedded in the exposed flesh. Once black as ink, his jeans and jacket were now white, coated with a thick layer of dust, the jacket ripped raggedly over the left arm and chest.  For a minute it was all he could do to suck in a breath and leash his ballooning panic.  “Starsky!”  Fear bled into fierce anger.  “Answer me, damn it!”

 

“Hutch.”

 

He jerked, pivoting around in a giddy surge of hope.  Relief tumbled down a notch when he saw it was only Nick, stepping gingerly through the rubble.  The younger man held his right arm bent at the elbow, snug against his body.  His face was scratched and his once pristine white pants were filthy, but otherwise he appeared whole.  The flashy aviator scarf dangling off his jacket looked somehow absurd, as though he were a refugee from a disgraced fashion show.  Although Hutch was glad to see he wasn’t seriously hurt, he couldn’t help feeling cheated Nick was fine while Starsky was missing.  Wasn’t Nick the one who’d led them to the Jade Club in the first place?

 

“Davey,” the New Yorker squawked as he neared Hutch, his eyes round and wide with terror.  “Have you seen Davey?”

 

“No.”  Hutch’s reply was short, choked off in bitter anger.  His chest felt tight, like he was suffocating from the inside out.  The mere thought Starsky might be seriously injured, buried somewhere beneath the rubble, left him trembling with tension. It was like reliving the horror of finding his partner’s crumpled, bullet-ridden body in the police garage all over again.  I can’t do that.  Can’t live through it again. Can’t watch you suffer and hurt like that.  Please Starsk, I need to know you’re safe.

 

Gathering his wits, he drew a shaky hand over his face and pointed Nick toward the left side of the room.  “Look over there . . . I’ll check the opposite side.  Make sure you’re careful.”  He cast a wary glance at the ceiling, partially ripped away by the blast.  “This place is like a house of cards.  Move something the wrong way and the whole thing might crash down.”

 

Nick swallowed audibly, his eyes rounding in alarm.  Hutch gave him a shove to get him moving.  “We need to find your brother, Nick.  Hurry up.  Whoever set that bomb is gonna show up eventually to make sure it did its job.”

 

Too rattled to speak, Nick nodded dumbly and darted away.   Hutch picked through the rubble as carefully as he could, flinging smaller obstacles clear in his frantic search for Starsky.  Glass crunched loudly under his feet, every crack and pop magnified in the ruptured shell of the wrecked club. Sweat and blood mingled on his brow, seeping into his bangs, threading glistening veins of red through his pale hair.  He swiped at the perspiration on his face, streaking blood and soot across his cheek.  He was almost to the edge of what had been the bar area when he saw a mop of dark hair sticking out from beneath a heavy brace of track lighting.

 

Hutch’s heart rocketed to his throat.  “Starsk.”  He closed the distance in a few scrambling steps, dropping to his knees beside his friend's still body. Starsky lay motionless on his stomach, his face turned to the side, one arm extended above his head, the other pinned beneath his body.  A heavy metal brace of track lighting lay across his back and large chunks of wood, plaster and mortar covered his lower legs. The curls of his hair were tipped with white dust. More coated his back and arms and clung to the side of his face where his skin was grazed and bloody. A deep cut in the corner of his mouth left thick fingers of blood splayed over his chin.  By contrast his skin was bleached and chalky, so pale and colorless that for a moment Hutch feared he wasn’t breathing.

 

“Starsky!”  The anguished cry ripped from his heart, sending Nick barreling to his side.

 

“Davey!  Davey!” 

 

The frantic appeal wrenched movement from Starsky, who shifted sluggishly and groaned without opening his eyes.  Instant, giddy relief raced through Hutch.  “Nick - - help me get this shit off him.  Come on, move it!”

 

Together they cleared away the tangle of debris, lifting the heavy rail of lighting from Starsky’s back, shoving aside the wallboard that pinned his legs.  Hutch’s palms were scratched and bleeding when he was done, but he barely registered the sting.  His eyes were on Starsky.  Bending forward, he brushed dust-whitened hair from his friend’s brow.  “Hey, buddy can you hear me?  Come on, Starsk.  Open your eyes.”

 

His heart thumped into his throat when he saw the heavy black line of Starsky’s lashes flutter.  There’d been no flutter in the garage after Gunther’s hit - - only a silence so vast and sterile it still had the ability to leave him shivering in a cold sweat whenever he thought about it.  Can’t do that, not again.  I need you, buddy.  Ohgod, Starsk, please don’t be hurt again.  Not like that.

 

With soothing strokes, he flecked aside dirt and grit from Starsky’s face.  Blood smeared beneath his fingertips, drawn from a series of small cuts and abrasions layered over Starsky’s cheek.  The velvety lashes fluttered again.

 

“That’s it,” Hutch coaxed, encouraged by a thin sliver of electric blue.  “Buddy, I’m right here.”  His voice was suddenly soft, panic effectively quelled beneath gentle concern.  “Starsk . . .”  Hutch touched his cheek, ran trembling fingers over his neck and shoulders looking for obvious damage.  “Babe, I want you to concentrate.  You need to wake up and answer me.”

 

He got a groan for the effort and felt his heartbeat quicken. He knew Starsky was trying to respond, desperately needed to respond because Hutch was the one asking. The bond that held them joined soul-to-soul would have it no other way.

 

“Davey . . . Davey . . .” Kneeling directly across from Hutch, Nick looked consumed by wide-eyed fear and uncertainty, his cheeks sunken in garish hollows.  “Davey, you gotta wake up!  We gotta get out of here!”  His voice cracked, lurched up an octave in growing hysteria.  Desperate, he gave Starsky’s shoulder a hard rattle.

 

Hutch immediately butted his hand aside, glaring at the younger man when his partner groaned.  Starsky’s eyes opened and he blinked groggily, his vision unfocused.  “H-Hutch?”

 

“Right here, partner.” 

 

As whisper thin as his name was, the sound was pure bliss to Ken Hutchinson.  At least Starsky was semi-coherent and talking, an encouraging reality that loosened the stranglehold on his heart.  “Starsk?”  Bending forward to assure he was in line with his friend’s wavering vision, Hutch cupped his cheek. “Buddy, can you see me okay?”

 

Starsky blinked. The unfocused haze in his eyes thinned, then vanished altogether as clarity took its place.  A confused frown creased his brow.  “Your hair’s white, Hutch . . . I mean really white, not just blond.  So’s your jacket.”

 

Relieved that his friend was speaking coherently, Hutch parted with an audible sigh of relief.  A faint smile crossed his lips. “So is yours.  Now I know what you’re gonna look like when you’re sixty.”  Shifting onto his knees, Hutch ran his hand up and down Starsky’s arm, then onto his back.  “What hurts?”

 

“What doesn’t?”  Wincing, Starsky closed his eyes.  A second later, he opened them and tried to focus again.  “Where’s Nick?”

 

“Behind you, big brother.”  With a trembling hand, Nick touched his shoulder.  “There was a bomb blast, and the whole club came down.  Hutch says we gotta go, Davey . . . that whoever planted the bomb is gonna come snoopin’ around to make sure it did its job.”  His voice cracked again, threaded with pure hysteria as his words tumbled over each other in their haste to escape.  “I don’t know what happened, Davey.  Why Brandi would wanna . . . I mean - - she don’t even know me!  Like shit!  She don’t even know who the fuck I am!  Why would she . . . ?  I mean, I-I-I - -”

 

“Nick!”  Hutch tried not to lose his patience. All of his energy was directed toward helping Starsky.  He had little leniency or sympathy for a panicked, selfish snot who’d been puffed up with preening bravado only moments ago, and who was now behaving like a - -

 

Like any rational human being who isn’t used to being shot at, chased, beaten up or blown up, Hutch thought grimly. In truth, Nick was reacting like most anyone who wasn’t accustomed to a healthy dose of daily peril. 

 

“Nicky,” he said more calmly, trying to bury his irritation.  “Go check the car and radio for help. Use the mic and call dispatch.  Tell them ‘officer down, officer needs assistance.’  You got that?”

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, okay.”  Nick’s head bobbed up and down in eager agreement.  “I can handle that.”  As if thankful to have something to do, he scrambled hastily to his feet and bolted from the club.

 

Starsky sighed.  “He’s scared.”

 

“Yeah, babe . . . well, so am I.”  Hutch fingered a curl of black hair, flecking away the thick coating of white dust.  He was unwilling to go further and admit to the slowly twisting terror in his gut. From the corner of his eye he could see the rail of track lighting that had fallen on his friend’s back . . . remembered how he and Nick had grunted with effort, trying to shove the bulky weight aside.  Worried, he bit his lip.  “Starsk, can you feel your legs?”

 

“What?”  Starsky sounded half annoyed.  “Course I can feel my legs.”  He moved his feet to prove the point, but his face darkened from the exertion and he moaned.  “Almost wish I couldn’t, ‘cuz the right one hurts like hell . . . almost like there’s a rod goin’ from my hip to my knee.”   He tried to roll onto his side. 

 

Hutch leaned forward, gripping his arm to guide the movement. “Easy,” he warned, fearful what hidden damage Starsky might awaken with the action.  He immediately became aware of a large amount of blood puddled beneath his friend’s body.  “Starsk!”  This time he couldn’t keep the alarm from his voice.  

 

“It’s my arm,” Starsky panted.  The movement had left him white and trembling, his face streaked with cold sweat.  Ducking his head, he fingered a deep gash over his bicep, the sleeve of his jacket wet and streaked with blood.  The heavy leather was ripped, the crisp white shirt beneath also torn, exposing lacerated flesh.  Bits of dust and mortar had collected in the open wound, stuck fast by congealing blood.  The cut looked raw and ugly, far too deep to be superficial.

 

Hutch immediately thought of infection and gangrene. “Can you sit up?” he asked.  In the back of his mind, he worried about getting Starsky out of the club as quickly as possible. The explosion had been timed for a little after nine o’clock.  How long would it take Brandi’s employers to show up and examine their handiwork, gloating over what they probably perceived as a sure thing? “Buddy?”  Hutch held fast to Starsky’s good arm.  “We gotta get to the car.  Does your back hurt?”

Starsky gave a quick nod.  “I can stand though.  Help me up.”

 

Hutch had serious doubts, but he was out of options.  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt his partner. Starsky had already suffered through so much courtesy of Gunther’s botched assassination attempt. Even thinking about Starsky in pain made Hutch’s stomach rebel with nausea.  “Okay, pal.”  Bunching his muscles, he prepared to help Starsky to his feet.  “On the count of three, okay?  And you tell me if it hurts.”

 

Starsky nodded absently, clearly intent on gathering himself for the effort.

 

“One. Two.  Three.”  Trying to absorb as much of his friend’s weight as he possibly could, Hutch pulled him to his feet.

 

Trembling, Starsky leaned into him, his face clouding with pain as he bit back an obvious groan.  “Okay . . . that hurts.”  Favoring his right leg, he leaned into Hutch’s side, his body racked by sudden tremors.  “Think I messed up my back,” he wheezed.  “Just give me a minute.”  He was breathing too fast now, dust-riddled air collecting in his lungs, making his chest draw and contract with each pained inhalation.  Gagging, he pitched forward, a vicious coughing spell making him grasp desperately at Hutch to stay upright. 

 

“Easy.  Easy, babe.”  Hutch slid a hand onto his bowed back, rubbing to soothe the spasm.  The sound terrified him, made him think of the many nights Starsky had lain in the hospital, tears of frustration and pain streaming from his eyes as he’d gasped for breath.  The thought came again, fiercer this time:  I can’t do this anymore.  I can’t watch you suffer.  Something has to change in our lives, because I’m not going to lose you!

 

“Hutch!”  Suddenly Nick was back inside, clambering through chunks of fallen debris to make his way across the ruined floor.  The haunted, panicked look was still in his eyes as if he couldn’t grasp the nightmarish turn of events.  He’d just been out to have a good time, maybe score in the bedroom and, suddenly, he was the target of a deranged bomber.  “The radio doesn’t work,” he said frantically.  “It’s fried, man, really fried.  And the car’s toast.  A light pole went through the hood . . . ripped the engine all to hell.  We’re screwed man, really screwed!  We don’t got no wheels, no radio, no - -”

 

“Nick!”  Hutch snapped, his own frazzled nerves one step shy of shattering.  “Shut up and listen to me.”  He drew a breath, studiously trying to collect his thoughts.  Starsky was still clinging to him for support, but he’d stopped coughing and was breathing a little easier. Pressed hip to hip, Hutch could feel the minute trembling in his body, each rippling shudder making his heart clench in despair.  Ripping the long aviator scarf from Nick’s neck, Hutch wound it around his partner’s lacerated arm.  Starsky flinched at the contact, sucking down a startled breath, then stilled.

 

“There are flashlights in the trunk,” Hutch told Nick with a distracted glance, his concentration riveted on Starsky as he tied off the ends of the scarf.  “Might even be a blanket.  Look around and see what else you can find.” Lowering his voice, Hutch dipped his head closer to his partner’s ear, speaking softly.  “Where’s the keys, babe?”

 

“Pocket,” Starsky said simply.

 

Maintaining his grip on his injured friend, Hutch shifted slightly.  With his free hand he dug in the front pocket of Starsky’s jeans until he found the Torino’s keys.  Pulling the ring free, he tossed it to Nick.  “Get going,” he told the younger man, as if dismissing a subordinate.  He saw a quick flash of anger on the other’s face.  Clearly out of his element, Nick grumbled something unflattering then turned to obey.

 

Ignoring his irritation, Hutch concentrated on his partner.  “We gotta walk out of here, Starsk.  At least get away from the club and into the trees.  I don’t know who set that blast, but whoever they were, you can bet they weren’t aiming for Nicky.”

 

Starsky’s head bobbed.  “My back’s stiff and my leg hurts.  Get me walkin’ and I’ll be okay.”

 

And then there’s all that blood you lost and that cough, Hutch thought worriedly but kept the ugly fears to himself.  With one hand wrapped around his partner’s waist, the other grasping Starsky’s good arm, Hutch steered him through the rubble of the ravaged club.  Outside, the pewter of twilight had deepened to gunmetal gray, thickening to denser jet between the trees.  Hutch took one look at the ruined Torino and cringed.

 

“Oh, shit, my car!”  Starsky moaned. 

 

It was worse than Hutch expected.  The roof was flattened, and the hood had been accordioned beneath the massive weight of an uprooted light pole.  With its nose smashed into the asphalt, its rear end raised marginally, the battered car looked like it was sticking upright from the ground.  As much as Hutch had never liked the flashy muscle-machine, he knew it was Starsky’s pride and joy.  A disorienting stab of virulent anger streaked through him.  “We’ll get it fixed, Starsk,” he said quickly, surprised by the strange catch in his voice.  He’d never liked the car.  Hell, he’d been after Starsky to ditch it for years, so why was he suddenly getting choked up and enraged over its destruction?

 

Because it means so much to him.

 

Nick appeared at his side, a blanket tucked under his arm, two black-barreled flashlights clutched in his hands.  “This is all I could find,” he said helpfully.

 

With a terse nod, Hutch took one of the flashlights and switched it on.  Once they maneuvered deeper into the woods, they’d definitely need the lights for guidance.  “Let’s get going.”

 

Nick gaped.  “Where?”

 

Hutch gave a nod to the bordering thicket of trees.  “There.  We need to stay off the road and stay out of sight.”

 

“But . . .”  Bewildered, Nick shook his head.  “Look there’s no reason in the world some girl’s gonna try’n blow me up.  Maybe I should stay and try’n reason with these people.  I could get help.  I could - -”

 

“You could get yourself killed,” Hutch snapped irritably.  “You think it matters you’re not a cop?  You were a pawn, Nick - - a frigging pawn to get to your brother . . . probably me too.”  His voice dropped, low and deadly, his patience with the younger man quickly reaching an end. “You’re gonna shut up and do exactly what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it.  You got that Nicholas Starsky?”

 

“I - -”  Anger and pride clashed on Nick’s face.

 

“Listen to him,” Starsky said softly before he could spit out a single affronted word.  Sighing, the dark-haired detective leaned into his friend.  “I’m tired, Hutch.”

 

“I know, babe.”  Anger forgotten, Hutch pressed his brow to Starsky’s hair.  “Let’s just get back in the woods a little . . . put some distance between us and this club, then we’ll think things out.”

 

Wearily, Starsky nodded. 

 

Keeping an arm around his friend, Hutch led him into the trees.

 

+++++

 

Nicky fumed silently.  He’d never liked being told what to do even when it was for his own good.  Worse was the knowledge he’d submissively cowered to the orders of his brother’s arrogant partner.  Hutchinson was all about intimidation.  He saw that now, even as he scrunched his hands into fists and licked his injured pride.  The walk through the woods had left his brother panting and weak, curled up on the ground, Hutchinson fussing over him like a damn lover.  The sight sickened Nicky, made his stomach turn.

 

Yeah, he was afraid of Hutch, but who wouldn’t be?  Hutchinson was a trained cop with a deadly side to his normally reserved personality.  Nicky knew his type, had run across crime bosses like him on the streets of New York - - all polish and control on the outside, lethal and cruelly unforgiving beneath.  People like Hutchinson thrived on dominance.  It certainly didn’t hurt to be tall and good-looking with a commanding nature.  Who ever cowered from a short fat man with a quavering, squeaky voice?

 

No . . . Hutch was controlled, smugly confident.  From almost the start they’d clashed, a situation that had only grown worse once Davey was almost killed in that botched assassination attempt at the police garage.

 

Nicky really didn’t know all the details.  He supposed he should have asked at some point, but why dredge up all the unpleasantness?  Okay, so maybe he’d been a little scarce when Davey was recovering, but he had responsibilities too.  It wasn’t like he could just pick up on a whim and fly across the country whenever he felt like it.  There were people he had to answer to . . people who answered to him.  Maybe he didn’t have the squeaky-clean job Davey wanted him to have, but he was doing okay for himself.  So he’d exaggerated the truth a little with all that real estate hogwash, but what did it really matter if Davey was proud of him?

 

Maybe it would get him away from that blond pin-up and the unhealthy relationship Hutchinson had dragged him into.  It wasn’t natural.  Just not freaking natural for two men to fuss over each other like that.  Every time Hutchinson touched his brother, Nicky felt his stomach coil in revulsion.  To make it even worse, he’d seen how Davey responded - - as if he actually liked the blond cop pawing him, talking to him all soft and soothing, calling him those sickening names - - babe, buddy, pal.

 

He’s just a freaking closet fag.

 

If Nicky had the nerve he’d pay somebody to beat the shit out of Hutchinson.  He was realistic enough to know he’d never stand a chance himself, but a couple of thugs could do a damn good job.  He didn’t want Hutchinson killed - - he’d never go that far - - just humiliated and worked over.  A couple of beefy guys could probably end his police career permanently  - - or at the very least, give him something to think about the next time he wanted to paw Davey. 

 

The thought was immensely satisfying.  What he wouldn’t give to see the proud Ken Hutchinson beaten into submission.  It wasn’t a sadistic fantasy, not exactly.  Just realism and payback for stealing his brother . . . for always being the one Davey turned to in good circumstances and bad.  Hutchinson was too critical of others, too damn perfect for his own good. 

 

A girl-pretty queer.

 

Nicky allowed himself a small smile.  He liked to think about Hutch that way.  Somehow it made the tall blond less intimidating.  Maybe he really would buy himself a couple of street thugs and

turn them loose on the arrogant detective.  They’d probably get their rocks off beating the shit out of a cop, especially one that looked like Hutchinson.

 

Yeah, that’s a plan.  What Davey don’t know won’t hurt him.

 

Shifting to get more comfortable, Nicky crossed his legs and propped his back against a squat fir.  He really didn’t know what they were doing in the woods, surrounded by inky darkness, but he’d lost his say in the matter ages ago.  Hutchinson was calling the shots, and as always, was too damn tight-lipped to bother explaining. Nicky didn’t know how far they’d walked.  It seemed like a forever-eternity with Hutch dragging his brother along, Davey clinging to the blond cop with a dependency and trust that was nauseating to watch.

 

Hutchinson had polluted and corrupted his brother, no doubt about it.  Davey had never been clingy.  He was a Starsky, and that meant street-savvy and testosterone-driven sex appeal.  Their father had set the bar, and it was up to them to carry it further.  Nicky wasn’t stupid.  He’d seen how women behaved around his brother . . . how they checked him out when he wasn’t looking and all but tumbled into his lap when he flashed his patented crooked grin.  Let Hutchinson try that, he thought snidely.

 

All boasting aside, Nicky wished he could get half the action his older brother saw.  In his book Davey had it all - - a hot car, a job that turned chicks into conquests with the bat of an eye, a swaggering girl-magnet style, and a hard-knocks past with a respected gritty edge.  In short, Davey was everything he wanted to be.

 

Except for the way he behaved when Hutchinson was around. 

 

Their father would turn over in his grave to know his oldest boy was a little too attached to another man.  If Michael Starsky were still around, Nick wouldn’t have to hire thugs - - his father would beat the shit out of Hutchinson himself and send the overconfident ass packing.  He’d set Davey straight too, make him realize what a sap he was for sticking by his partner . . . how he should ditch his job, California, and most especially Hutch and move back to New York where he belonged.

 

Where he’s always belonged.

 

Nicky gnawed on a fingernail.  Too bad that blast hadn’t taken care of things for him.  He really didn’t want Hutch dead, but he did want him out of commission.  If he were a burden . . . incapacitated, laid up, maybe Davey would abandon him. 

 

Nicky had no idea why Brandi had tried to set him up, but it obviously involved his brother and the annoyingly Nordic blond cop.  Probably Hutchinson’s fault, he decided.  Davey’s been off street duty.  I bet Brandi was workin’  for someone who wanted to blow Hutch away. The damn asshole’s probably got a whole list of people wantin’ to off him.

 

His eyes narrowed when he heard his brother moan softly.  Immediately attentive, Hutch bent over him, brushing a mat of heavy curls from his forehead.  “Starsk?”  The velvety tone of Hutch’s voice went through Nicky, making him grimace.  “Just take it easy, babe.  We’re gonna rest for awhile.”

 

Nicky swallowed hard, annoyed that it wasn’t him fussing over his brother, doubly annoyed that he didn’t know how.  When it came right down to it, he and Davey were virtual strangers.  As much as he wanted to be part of his brother’s life, he’d been shut out of it.  For every year they’d been separated, they’d grown apart.  He hated the fact that Hutch knew Davey better than he did . . . that his brother responded to the blond-haired man with blind trust and devotion. He’d been aware of that strange underlying connection the very first time he’d met Hutch.  The arrogant cop had been in his face from almost the start, telling him his own life didn’t matter but Davey’s did. 

 

At first he’d thought it was just a bunch of hoopla and preening, but then he’d seen them together while Davey was recovering from gunshot wounds.  Their unusual closeness had infuriated him, made him feel like he had no place in his brother’s world.  So he’d plotted and he’d lied.  Maybe he wasn’t the highbrow real estate agent he made himself out to be.  Maybe he wasn’t rolling in dough with a top model car and exclusive penthouse, girls falling at his feet to crawl into bed with him, but he was a far sight better than a fag blond cop who didn’t know the difference between friendship and sick attraction. 

 

Davey needed to be pried away from Hutch before the taller man’s twisted sexual orientation destroyed them both.  Nicky had made the decision months ago to do whatever was necessary to save his brother.  He’d bided his time, caught up in the giddy extremes of his own life - - there were parties to go to, scams to be run, money to be made - - but in the end he’d trotted out to California intent on destroying his brother’s strange infatuation with the fair-haired cop.

 

Davey belongs in New York.  If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna make sure he winds up there.

 

In the gathering darkness, Nick smiled malignantly. Let Hutchinson fawn over his brother all he wanted.  In the end it wouldn’t matter.  He’d make sure Hutch’s career was over, and Davey was more than ready to put the soiled relationship behind him.

 

+++++

 

Starsky blinked, darkness replacing the gray paste of the ruined club.  Vaguely he recalled struggling through the woods, held upright in Hutch’s strong grip.  He’d wanted to sag, his right leg on fire, his left arm throbbing to the bloated pulse-beat of his heart.  Twice his knees had buckled, dragging him to the ground, Hutch right along with him.  Both times his friend had spoken softly, coaxing him on when he’d thought he couldn’t go any further.  But it was Hutch asking and that made all the difference. 

 

He trusted his partner implicitly, knew Hutch would never ask him to do anything beyond his means.  So he’d pushed forward, forcing himself through a hazy cloud of pain until his friend lowered him to the ground and whispered he could rest.  Until the blessed touch of long fingers stroking his hair made him feel comforted and loved through the barbed agony of escalating pain. 

 

His left arm was on fire, a torrid ball of discomfort that made him whimper even as he sought to escape the gouging heat.

 

“Take it easy, babe,” Hutch said, cupping his cheek, lightly feathering a thumb over his cracked and abraded skin.  “We’re gonna rest for awhile.”  His voice broke, sounding oddly thick.  “I know it hurts, Starsk.  I’m sorry I made you walk so far.”

 

A blanket was tucked around his shoulders, holding the cold veins of night at bay.  It reduced his shivering but did nothing for the wintry chill in his heart.  He blinked groggily, struggling to focus on a crown of medallion bright hair and worried blue eyes. “Not your fault,” he mumbled, unsure if the words even made it past his tongue.  Everything felt disjointed and fish-eyed, rammed into an obscenely-sized bubble oozing a residue of pain.

 

Raising his good arm, he grazed his fingertips through his friend’s long hair.  Beneath the moon, the mesh of white-gold and ash gleamed with the touch of spectral enchantment. Starsky tried to find his breath amid a pocket of uncertainty.  “Hutch.”

 

Long fingers caught his hand and closed over his, tightening in a grip that locked them flesh to flesh. The touch made him breathe a little easier despite the tight ache in his chest.  “You need to go for help,” he whispered.

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Hutch said.  A shadow crossed his face - - the fleeting phantom of remembered pain and nightmarish fear. It made everything else seem inconsequential.  In a single heartbeat, Starsky understood his partner had never truly cast aside the ugly specter of Gunther.  Hutch was still living with it, day by day, circumstance by circumstance.  He wanted to protest the ridiculous folly of clinging to the past but his chest tightened and a cough bubbled up from his throat.  Light at first, it quickly dissolved into a wretched fit of violent hacking.

 

In agony, he clutched his chest, the punishing torture making him draw up his legs and groan aloud.  Debilitated, he trembled in the grasp of the merciless cough, his entire body quaking under the force.  It left him sputtering and nauseous, drenched in the cold sweat of fear.  He choked and gasped, frightened when his lungs wouldn’t respond . . .when air became precious and its lack made water brim in his eyes. 

 

Terrified, he clutched Hutch’s arm.

 

Immediately his friend leveraged him upright, sliding behind him to ease the ruthless pressure.  Starsky felt himself gathered against a warm chest, Hutch’s chin tipping forward to rest on his shoulder.  “Easy, babe . . . I’m right here.  You’ve been through this before, Starsky.”  Calming fingers splayed flat on his chest, gently massaging his lungs through the wilted linen of his sweat-soaked shirt. “Just breathe easy, buddy.  It’ll pass.”

 

Starsky nodded, greedily sucking air like an oxygen-starved fish.  He’d been here before many times, felt this same agony, same pain, Hutch’s arms wrapped around him in an enveloping cocoon. Exhausted, he sagged against his partner, the cough dwindling to a sporadic disturbance. The walk through the woods had left him weakened and fatigued, his stomach churning with nausea.  His left arm throbbed with pain, the heat almost unbearable, a sickly odor wafting from the butchered flesh.  He tried not to think about it.  Tried not to visualize the pockets of pus and blood he felt oozing beneath the filth-encrusted aviator scarf.  Instead he turned his head, tucking his face against the hollow of Hutch’s neck.  “Can’t stay here,” he mumbled.

 

Hutch’s fingers threaded into the back of his hair applying just enough pressure to make him shiver in appreciation.  “You’re not going anywhere,” the blond-haired man whispered, his voice soft and velvet-smooth.  Starsky felt the whisper of his breath against his earlobe, the exquisitely insubstantial touch as familiar as his own heartbeat.

 

It made him feel safe, if only momentarily, his friend’s arms wrapped around him, their bodies pressed together in a bond of soul-to-soul contact.  He wanted to disappear into the heat and steady comfort, the security unlike any he’d every known.  Yet even as he burrowed closer, he knew Hutch was fighting his own fatigue, struggling against the creeping lethargy of a sixteen-hour shift, a slight head wound and the damage of a bomb blast. 

 

Starsky had seen tracks of dried blood ribboned over his cheek, his white-gold hair threaded with veins of scarlet.  They were both battered and bruised, Hutch struggling to distance them from the Jade Club when he was ready to topple himself. 

 

Sighing, Starsky tried to occupy his mind . . . anything to keep his thoughts off the rabid heat building in his butchered arm. The pain made him lightheaded and he twined his fingers in Hutch’s blue shirt to keep himself anchored.  “So . . . who do you think set the blast?”

 

He didn’t really care.  Eventually it would matter, but right now he just wanted to get back to civilization . . . to a concentrated dose of antibiotics to help blunt the excessive heat in his mangled arm.  Closing his eyes, he nestled his cheek against his friend’s neck, comforted by the soft thrum of Hutch’s heartbeat and the steady pressure of long fingers threading through the loose curls splayed over his neck.

 

“I don’t know.”  Hutch’s voice was strained, a little too low, as if the thought bothered him.  Starsky felt the taller man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he talked, Hutch’s words vibrating against his cheek.  He liked the feel and familiarity of it, the intense closeness that told him whatever happened, they were in the mess together. 

 

Then suddenly he spied his brother watching, Nicky’s eyes cold with a toxic dose of snake venom. As soon as he registered the disgust, it was gone, replaced by a strangely blank apathy that made him wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.  Bewildered, he raised his head.  “Nick?”

 

Hutch’s hand immediately stroked his cheek, guiding his head back to rest on his shoulder.  “Stay still, babe,” the softly chiding voice admonished.  “I want you to rest for awhile.”  The observation conjured another black glare from Nicky, and this time there was no mistaking the hostility behind it.  

 

Starsky tensed.  “Nick, what’s wrong?”  A cool breeze scraped over his face, bringing with it the loamy scent of dark earth and wild fauna. The slipper-thin whisper of air through leaves and tree limbs overhead was almost mesmerizing but for the magnified beat of his heart.  He could smell the brittle edge of early winter, an acrid scent underscored by fermenting mold.  A few feet away Nick sat impassive and unmoving, moonlight silvering his eyes with an unnaturally alien gleam.

 

“This is his fault,” he said, openly glowering at Hutch. “Whoever that girl was, she wasn’t after me.”

 

Hutch gave a dismissive snort as if the observation was beneath his notice.  “Maybe she didn’t like your pick-up line.”

 

“Screw you!”  Nicky snapped.

 

With a groan, Starsky tried to leverage upright.  “Stop it,” he demanded.

 

“Sorry, Starsk.”  Immediately contrite, Hutch bowed his head, pressing his brow to the soft crown of black curls.  “We’ll worry about blame later,” he relented.  “The trick is getting you out of here without a vehicle or a radio.  The closest thing I saw to a house was that utility shack off the main road.”

 

Starsky nodded.  “It might have a phone.”  Too drained to remain sitting upright, he wilted against his partner, eternally grateful when Hutch’s arms closed around him in a snug embrace.  Another time he might have resisted the coddling, shrugging it off with a gruff rebuke, but he was cold and abysmally tired.  In truth, he craved the familiar security of his friend’s comfort.

 

“One of us should go,” Nicky said, stating the obvious.

 

Hutch shot him a direct glance.  “Take a flashlight and keep to the trees.”

 

The younger man balked.  “Why me?  I’m not a cop - - I sell real estate, remember?”

 

Starsky felt more than saw Hutch frown.  “Someone has to stay with your brother.”

 

“Yeah, like me,” Nick snapped.  Shooting to his feet, he took three steps forward, towering over the two men twined together on the ground.  “I can look after Davey just as good as you can, Hutch. He don’t need you fawnin’ all over him and pawin’ him every time he stumbles.”

 

“And what are you gonna do when someone creeps up on the two of you in the woods?” Hutch spat irritably.  “Don’t be an ass, Nick.  I know it comes naturally, but - -”

 

“Hutch,” Starsky groaned, curling a hand around his neck.  “He doesn’t get it, babe.”  Acid churned in his stomach, the heated argument adding to the throbbing pain in his arm.  Swallowing convulsively, he pressed his face against Hutch’s throat.  “ . . . gonna be sick,” he mumbled.

 

“Ssh.”  Instantly solicitous, Hutch shed his anger.  Starsky felt a large palm flatten over his stomach. “I’m sorry, buddy,” Hutch breathed against his ear.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

His voice had settled into a soothing timbre, a gentle tone Hutch reserved solely for him.  Yet as much as Starsky wanted to bask in that benevolent comfort, the sour acid in his gut made it impossible. Shuddering, he knotted both hands in his friend’s shirt, his whole body snapping taut.  He sucked down a puff of cool air, sweating even as the icy draft chilled his lungs.  Beside him, Hutch suddenly stiffened.

 

“Someone’s coming,” his partner hissed. 

 

Starsky heard the crack and pop of twigs, the grind and crunch of small stones as someone moved along the edge of the roadway.  Tucked fairly deep in the sheltering fringe of trees, he knew they were safe from prying eyes as long as they remained quiet.  Even as he squinted, his stomach roiling convulsively, he spotted a trio of dark silhouettes inching along the bordering road.  Moonlight glinted off the barrels of exposed pistols.

 

Clearly terrified, Nicky dropped to a frightened crouch, rigid and immobile as a statue.  Starsky wanted to touch him . . . offer some fleeting measure of reassurance but the queasiness in his gut was turning violent, making him fight the urge to gag.  Cold sweat collected in his bangs, dripping onto his lashes, stinging the open cuts on his cheek. His fingers had become possessive claws on Hutch’s shirt, quietly relaying his desperation.  One fleeting choke of air and he’d give their position away.  They both knew it, each as morbidly tense as the other.  Hutch had one gun.  While he might manage to take out two of their pursuers before they got off a shot, he wasn’t likely to score all three.   If Starsky gagged, the end result would be a bloodbath.

 

Shaking with effort to control the nausea, he bit his lip and pressed his face against Hutch’s chest.  His body tensed with each punishing stomach contraction.  Hutch’s arms tightened around him, willing him quiet but the reflex was unavoidable, beyond his control. His restraint shattered, Starsky pitched forward across his partner’s lap, sweaty sickness burbling up from his gut.

 

Before he could so much as breathe, Hutch clamped a hand over his mouth, muffling his instinctive groan, blocking the putrid rush of regurgitated food.  The stench alone was enough to make Starsky gag again, his whole body quaking with the violent need to dispel the rancid sickness.  Hutch rolled him to the ground, pressing him flat, keeping one hand clamped over his mouth even as he parted his fingers to let the sodden mass through. Then suddenly a weight draped over him, and he felt Hutch's body pressed against his, pinning him to the earth, forcing his face down into cold soil and damp grass. Hutch’s heart pounded fiercely, the wild vibration felt through Starsky’s back. 

 

The dark-haired man choked soundlessly, the sour stench of vomit clogging his head.  Grimacing, he closed his eyes, each painful gag blocked by Hutch’s hand and a muffling cushion of earth.  He could feel his friend’s breath on the back of his neck, the touch of Hutch’s cheek snug against his hair.  “I’m sorry,” the blond-haired man whispered.

 

A second later, Nicky exhaled loudly.  “They’re gone,” he said in relief.

 

Hutch’s hand blundered free and Starsky gasped for air, spitting the rank taste of sickness from his mouth.  His stomach convulsed again, and he heaved liquid and bile onto the already soiled ground.  Hutch drew back, giving him room as if he feared touching him.  “Buddy, I’m sorry.  I didn’t know what else to do.  If they’d heard . . .”

 

Starsky shook his head.  “You did . . . what you had to,” he rasped.  Wearily he pushed to a sitting position and dragged the back of his good arm across his mouth.  The mere memory of being pinned to the earth, choking on vomit was making him sick again, his stomach roiling dangerously.  “We should keep goin’,” he said weakly, not even sure he could stand.

 

Hutch shrugged free of his jacket, using it to scrub his hand clean. Moonlight braided his fair hair with metallic veins of silver . . . made the sky blue linen of his shirt beacon-bright. The next time they might not be so lucky to escape notice, Starsky thought, watching his blond friend. Tossing the soiled garment aside, Hutch shot him a hesitant glance, clearly unnerved by what he’d done.  “Did I . . . hurt you?” he asked softly.  “Your arm?”

 

Starsky shook his head.  He was shivering again, doing his best to ignore the pulsing flares of pain in his damaged limb, the acid in his stomach and the wretched tightness in his chest.  He felt lightheaded strangely disoriented.  “Help me up?” he asked.

 

Before Hutch could move, Nicky rushed to his side, clumsily pulling him to his feet.  Starsky stumbled, unaccustomed to the awkward grip his brother held on his arm.  Everything was wrong - - stance, grasp, the way Nicky stood rigidly beside him instead of leaning into him as Hutch would have. 

 

Standing slowly, the blond-haired detective watched uncertainly.  There was no mistaking the tangle of guilt and rejection in his eyes.  “I . . . I’m gonna h-hike down to the utility shack,” he said hoarsely.  “See if I can find a phone.”

 

“Wait!”  The pain in Starsky’s arm was sending rods of fire into his head.  As much as he loved his younger brother, he knew every step at Nicky’s side would be sheer agony as they blundered through the woods. The younger man just didn’t know him the way Hutch did  . . . the nuances of his body . . . when to help and shelter and when to ease off, letting him muddle through on his own.  Even now he wanted to wilt into the steadying embrace of Hutch’s lean body and have his friend support him. 

 

Knowing his brother would bristle at the request, Starsky wet his lips.  His eyes were on Hutch, a silent plea passing between them.  “Buddy, I need help,” he managed thickly.  “Maybe Nicky should go instead.”

 

It was all Hutch needed to hear.  The misery faded from his eyes, replaced by determination.  Stepping to Starsky’s side, he slipped an arm around his waist. Responding to the familiar embrace, Starsky melted against him, dragging his arm free of Nicky’s grasp to clutch the front of his friend’s shirt. “Next time you wanna sprawl over my back and shove me face down on the ground, have the decency to buy me dinner first,” he mumbled.

 

Laughing softly, Hutch chuckled against his hair.  “You had me worried.”    

 

“Shit, Blondie - - I had you worried?”  Starsky’s lighthearted relief thinned into sober silence when he realized Nicky was glaring, silently fuming.  Too tired to worry about the politics and bruised feelings involved, he only leaned heavier into Hutch.  In a perfect world his brother and partner would be on the same page, but it had ceased being a perfect world hours ago.  “I’m countin’ on you, Nick.  If there’s no phone, you’re gonna have to hike down to the road and try’n flag a car.  It ain’t gonna be easy.”

 

“Yeah.  I got that.”  Nicky’s black gaze flecked to Hutch, flaring briefly with malice before settling into something less obvious.  The hostility waned, and he cast his brother an encouraging glance from beneath his lashes.  “I’ll hurry, Davey.  I promise.”

 

“Just keep safe,” Starsky said.

 

A moment later, Nicky was gone, disappearing into the phantom mesh of trees and sulking shadows.  Starsky didn’t want to think about his inexperienced brother dodging gunmen and hoodlums, unarmed in unfamiliar territory.  It wasn’t Nicky’s fault they were in the mess they were.  The kid had just been acting on raw impulse, trying to hit on a pretty girl at the airport and doing what came naturally.  If he ended up hurt . . .

 

“He’ll be fine, Starsk,” Hutch said as if reading his thoughts.  “It’s not like he’s naïve.  He’s been around the block a time or two.  He’ll manage.”

 

“What about us?”  Starsky asked as they started walking again, Hutch supporting him.  Clutching the blanket tightly around his shoulders, he tried not to dwell on the cold . . . on the gnawing pain in his lower back or the stinging lick of fire swaddling his right leg.  His mangled arm throbbed mercilessly, pus and blood draining beneath the soiled aviator scarf with a trickling slowness that made him itch to clutch the wound.  With effort, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, breathing evenly to calm the razor ache in his lungs.  “What’s your best guess on the bomb?”

 

“Dunno.”  Hutch shook his head, clearly worn out himself.  The blood on his face had congealed and dried, sticking like mud-encrusted ink to his cheek, temple and jaw.  “If they’re after both of us, it limits the possibilities, you being out of commission lately.”

 

“There’s Lynch,” Starsky reasoned, thankful for the distraction.  Overhead the moon had thinned into a witch-shell of white, boned and shadowed with clouds like an empty eye-socket.  If he’d been with a woman that same moon might have been enticingly seductive and empyreal.  But he was with Hutch - - best bud, partner and soulmate, yet hardly romantic material - - traipsing through a tangled pocket of trees after nearly being blown into the stratosphere.  Great date night, Hutch, he thought with a tight smile.  Aloud, he was more concise.  “We’ve been houndin’ Lynch for over two weeks.  He knew we were onto him . . . knew it was only a matter of time before we took him down.  He can’t afford to have us in court.  Think about it - - maybe this was his way of stackin’ the deck in his favor.”

 

“Maybe,” Hutch agreed.  “But it’s a long trail connecting California to New York and you to Nicky.”

 

“Not really.  How many Starskys you think there are?”  He paused to catch his breath, coughing lightly.  The ground was starting to feel spongy under his feet, like it lacked substance.  Then again, maybe it was just the foggy spiral of disorientation that made everything seem sketchy and surreal.  “We ain’t like you blond, blue-eyed Hutchinsons, poppin’ up like rabbits all over the place.”

 

“I’m the only blond in my family, Starsk,” Hutch returned evenly, “And the last time I looked, there weren’t a whole lot of Hutchinsons in the phonebook.”

 

Starsky waved the observation aside.  “Technicalities.”  He drew a deeper breath, felt his lungs tighten like rolled sandpaper, a beaded row of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  He sidestepped a root and his ankle folded clumsily, the fire in his leg gouging a direct conduit into his lower back and hip. “Oh, shit!”

 

He would have crumpled but for Hutch’s attentive grip around his waist.  Unable to keep his legs from buckling, he slumped forward, groaning as his weight sagged to the ground.  Hutch folded with him, easing him to his knees, his free hand acting as a brace on Starsky’s pain-seared chest.

 

“ . . . sucks . . .” Starsky grumbled, frightened when he couldn’t say more.  It was too hard thinking, too hard breathing, his chest knotted in a strength-sapping fist of agony. Within seconds he was coughing, sweaty fingers gouging into Hutch’s thigh as he fought the debilitating seizure.  It reduced him to a shuddering tangle of limbs, tears wrenched from his eyes by sheer force.  “Hutch! . . . ohgod! . . .”  Desperately he sucked air, each torturous breath a knife of barbed steel.  The ache in his chest aggravated the agony in his back and leg, the glut of fire in his mutilated arm.  Shaking, he curled into a ball, wrapping both arms around his stomach, willing the spasm silent.  “Ughnn  . . .”

 

“Easy, Starsk.” Hutch’s voice seemed to come from a great distance but even that abnormality couldn’t mask a ripple of underlying fear. “Buddy, please.  You can’t do this to your lungs. . .” A hand stroked his back, long fingers attempting to ease balled knots from his pain-cramped muscles.  “I need you to concentrate.”

 

Yeah.  Because, shit . . . let’s face it - - if I don’t hack up a membrane, somebody might hear me.  Starsky grimaced, knowing the result would doom not only him but Hutch as well. Grinding his teeth together, he fought down the incessant needle-prick in his lungs.  It felt as if fire ants had invaded his chest, each second bringing the overwhelming need to cough uncontrollably. When the worst finally passed, all he could do was collapse, dizzy and trembling, too weak to hold his head up. 

 

“Ah, damn it, Starsk - -”  Hutch’s voice caught in his throat.  “You’re burning up with fever.”

 

Fever.

 

He tried to twist his mind around the forbidding word.

 

That explained his uncontrolled shivering and the punishing lick of rogue heat frying him from the inside out. He felt Hutch’s knuckles track across his cheek, collecting tears - - knew more had snagged in the long fringe of his lashes.  His blurred vision turned the trees into elongated prisms of green and black, the moon into a leering face that bled mockingly into the horizon.  “Hutch . . .”  Barely conscious, he raised a directionless arm, his hand flailing feebly until strong fingers trapped his sweat-soaked skin. 

 

“Right here, pal.”

 

It was growing difficult to see, the stifling threat of blackness lumbering abhorrently close.  He had a vague sense of Hutch - - light infused white-gold hair and concerned river-blue eyes - - but even that ethereal vision grew faint, shrouded in a menacing pall of fading consciousness.  He tried to tighten his fingers around his friend’s hand, succeeded in pressing lightly. “Need you,” he managed, his voice unraveling like a broken string. 

 

His eyes rolled into his head, eager darkness swallowing him whole.

 

+++++

 

Starsky stirred and groaned, waking from the crusted silt of unhealthy sleep.  The first sensation he felt was pain - - pinging through his arm, chest, back and leg.  The agony was immediately followed by a distracted kind of awareness.  Flat on his back, he lay wrapped in a dew-damp blanket, his head cradled in Hutch’s lap. Tiny stones and twigs bit into his shoulders and legs. Moaning, he shifted restlessly, hating the taint of wet-cold and the invading press of uneven earth against his back. 

 

“Ssh . . . it’s okay, buddy.  I’m right here,” a quiet voice soothed and somehow that was immensely important.  More so than the overbearing musk of bark and soil in his nostrils, the specter of a white moon gallows-bobbing overhead. 

 

Hutch’s fingers slipped into his hair, tangling in a bed of unruly black curls.  Shivering, Starsky moaned and tucked closer, knees curled to his chest as those same long fingers ghosted over his scalp.  The effect was devastating, wringing a half-whimper from his throat.

 

“It’s okay,” Hutch said softly, draping an arm over his chest.  The contact was warm and assuring, bringing a sense of security to his fog-displaced world.  He blinked up at his fair-haired friend, but his eyes were red-veined and cloudy, his vision as muddled as his brain.  Pain and fever made it all but impossible to think, one sluggish thought clumsily tripping over the next.  He could feel sweat trickling down the side of his face, contouring the curve of his jaw.  Overcome by sudden heat, he kicked the blanket aside.

 

“Gotta leave,” he mumbled.  “ . . . outta here . . .”  His fever-addled mind conjured images of Hutch lying lifeless in the bomb-desecrated club . . . of Nicky lost and injured in the woods.  Groaning deep in his throat, he struggled to leverage himself upright but Hutch held him easily, pinning him to the ground.  Grunting, he twisted his head to the side, his cheek scraping over the ripped denim of Hutch’s thigh.  Agitated, he tried to free himself.

 

“Starsky.” His partner’s voice was firmer now, no longer so distant.  “Quit struggling.  Do you hear me, Starsk?”  The arm around his chest tightened noticeably, giving him a firm shake. “There’s nowhere to go.  You need to stay still and rest.”

 

He blinked, still unsure of himself - - of misery that was darkness, crippling pain and flash-fire heat rolled into one.  He couldn’t breathe, felt the air choked off in his lungs, the sky pressing down with obscenely bloated elephant-weight.  He wanted to shrivel into nothing, to let his body bleed into the earth where the soothing embrace of cool soil might drown the incessant pain.  Shaken, he tried to claw upright, a noiseless gasp ripped from his throat. Blood drained from his face, leaving his cheeks sunken like the death mask of a cadaver.

 

“Oh, babe, I’m sorry - -”  Hutch made a choked sound, half horror, half plea.  “Starsky, please hang on.  I’ll get you out of here - - I promise.”

 

And suddenly he was gathered close, eased upright to alleviate the pressure on his chest, his face crushed to Hutch’s ripped shirt.  A tart tangle of perspiration, blood, dirt and ground-in grass made his head swim.  Rather than draw away, he locked his hands in his friend’s shirt, inhaling the deeply layered scent. The whisper of Hutch’s aftershave was almost nonexistent, buried beneath the grime, lingering faintly like an afterthought.  It was a clean scent, lightly blended with citrus and fragrant aquatic herbs.  It made Starsky think of sandy beaches and breeze-laced meadows . . . of water-smoothed stones on shaded riverbanks and rolling fields gleaming gold with wheat . . .

 

 . . . of a tall blond man with sun-whitened hair and flashing blue eyes.  It was Hutch’s scent.

 

“Hutch,” he choked.

 

His partner’s arms tightened around him.  “Ssh,” Hutch chided gently.  “If you talk, you’ll just aggravate your lungs.”

 

And if he didn’t, he’d go crazy with worry.  “We . . . can’t stay here,” he managed, distressed to hear how rasp his voice had become, thankful he managed the words without coughing. 

 

“Nick will be back soon,” Hutch said quietly.  “You’ve been sleeping for hours, Starsk.”

 

He didn’t see how that was possible when he felt so exhausted but decided not to argue the point.  It would take too much energy and Hutch tended to win most of their arguments anyway.  Letting his weight sag into his friend’s embrace, he closed his eyes.  Had he really slept for hours?  In his mind he could still see the gleaming crown of Hutch’s long hair, the pale strands almost luminous in the jet-thick darkness.  “Think Nick’ll make it?” he asked sleepily.

 

“He’s your brother,” Hutch countered as if that was endorsement enough.  He paused, kneading his fingers against the back of Starsky’s neck.  “You know what I think?”

 

Starsky grunted.

 

“Good answer,” Hutch said lightly.  “Stick to that and I’ll do the talking.”  Diligently, he continued to work corded muscles and tendons until Starsky felt a loosening of knots in his neck and shoulders.  He groaned in appreciation, always thankful when his partner applied his skilled fingers to a massage.  He might have sprawled on his stomach and let Hutch go to work on his back if he hadn’t scrunched himself into a tight sweaty ball.  At least the fever seemed to be easing a little.  A passing breeze ruffled his hair and dried the sweat on his forehead, feeling like a breath of heaven.

 

“I think . . .” Hutch said evenly, stringing out the words for effect.  “That your brother came out here to feed you a line.  This probably isn’t the best time to bring it up, but you can’t seriously believe all that garbage . . . the job, the penthouse and car?”

 

Scowling, Starsky forced his eyes open.  “Why not?”

 

Hutch sighed.  “Come on, Starsk.  We’re talking about Nick.  He’s an ace at finding the next hot deal - - making a quick buck and scoring an easy ride.  I don’t wanna bash your brother, but we both know he doesn’t believe in honest work.  Who knows what he managed to get tangled up in at home?  Maybe that explosion really was meant for him.”

 

“Nicky?”  Starsky’s brows drew together.  Suddenly the massage wasn’t as relaxing as it had been just seconds before.  He tried to shake off the abruptly unsettled edge creeping up his spine.  Hutch tossing out the occasional cheap shot about his brother he could handle, but Hutch having a serious discussion about Nicky’s ethics meant his friend had moved past joking.

 

“I know Nick embellishes things,” Starsky muttered, “But it doesn’t matter as long as he’s tryin’.  So what if he lied a little?  He only did it to impress me.  The kid thinks he’s gotta live up to some kind of lofty standard with me like I’m so much better than him - - ” 

 

“Because you are,” Hutch said quickly and immediately clamped his mouth shut.  He swore softly.  Sliding his arm around Starsky, he smoothed his hand over his partner’s forearm, the gesture familiar and warm, a little too intimate for most heterosexual men, but not friends who sidestepped the conventions of society.  “Look, babe - - I don’t wanna freak you out.  Especially not now.  I know you’re hurting and the last thing I wanna do is add to that.”

 

“But?”  Starsky prompted, hearing the unspoken word.  His stomach clenched in anticipation.  All he wanted to do was stay where he was . . . fairly comfortable, snuggled up against Hutch until help arrived or he felt rested enough to try walking again.  But Hutch felt compelled to dredge up the one subject that had the potential of becoming an unpleasant thorn between them.

 

“But,” Hutch said slowly, finishing the thought.  “It’s hard for me to stand by and watch that kid play you . . . use you . . .”

 

“Hutch, he ain’t usin’ me - -”

 

“Starsky, he’s been manipulating you since he walked through the door, you’re just too damn blind to see it.  And I guarantee you before he leaves he’s gonna drag you into his latest problem, whatever it is.  Starsk - -” His hand tightened on Starsky’s arm, his voice dropping to a soft plea.  “I know you don’t wanna hear this, buddy, but when it comes to your brother, you just don’t think straight.  You’re too gullible.”

 

Pushing away, Starsky shook his head.  “That’s not true.”

 

“It is.  You’ve got this ridiculous guilt trip about not being around when he was growing up.  It makes you do and say crazy things.”  Hutch leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes.  “It’s not your fault. When are you gonna realize that?  You’re not Nick’s father.”

 

“Don’t.”  Drawing completely free, Starsky held up one hand to halt the condemning flow of words. Hutch had struck a nerve he’d repeatedly tried to silence.  It ate at his stomach even now, washing over him with a sickening pall of acid guilt.  He owed Nicky, and not just because he hadn’t been there when his brother was growing up.  He owed him because Nicky was blood.  They had the same mother . . . the same father . . . the same working-class Brooklyn roots, and yet - -

 

And yet I love Hutch more.  More than my own flesh-and-blood brother.

 

Drawing his knees up, Starsky inched further away, wrapping his arms around his legs to sit hunched and separate.  “I don’t wanna talk about this.”  Air tickled the back of his throat forcing a weak cough from his lungs.  His head was pounding, making him wish he could curl up and go to sleep.  He wanted to sleep so badly - - warm and comfortable in a soft bed without rocks poking him in the back and tree roots for his pillow.  The last thing he wanted to do was argue with Hutch, but his friend was straying a little too close to the truth and the only way of combating that was with anger. 

 

“Starsk, the kid barely came around after you got shot - - and he rarely ever called.  Then when he did, it was only to talk about himself and try to wring another guilt trip from you.  Face it- - he’s a game player.  A selfish brat who preys on your sympathy for all he can get.”

 

“That’s enough, Hutchinson!”

 

“No.  It’s not.”  Leaning forward, Hutch gripped his arm.  “You wanna get pissed at me, go right ahead and get pissed, but I’m not gonna let that little shit drag you into whatever filth he’s tracked across the country.  I’m done watching you suffer, Starsky.  I did it with Gunther.  I’m not about to do it with Nick.  You don’t have to keep paying for being his brother instead of being his father.”

 

“Knock it off!”  Starsky flung his arm aside.  Brother?  Hell, he was hardly that.  He was a screwed-up cop who’d chosen California over New York and an introspective blond partner over his own flesh-and-blood.  It was no wonder Nicky bristled and preened whenever Hutch was around, inventing stories and embellishing half-truths.  It was probably the only way he felt he could compete. 

 

“I ain’t gonna do this, Hutch.”  Aggravation forced another cough from his throat, and he hacked louder this time.

 

“Okay - - ssh, I’m sorry.”  Immediately contrite, Hutch smoothed a hand over his bowed back, rubbing gently until the spasm passed.  “Let’s forget it.  It was stupid of me to bring it up anyway.”  He flashed an uncertain smile, his eyes asking for understanding.  “You cold, buddy?”

 

It was the easy way off the hook and Starsky took it.  Lowering his eyes, he shook his head.  He didn’t want to argue with his friend, especially when he felt so miserable. The tightness was back in his chest, the kiln-hot pain in his arm turning his fingers numb.  Unable to stop a moan, he pressed his face to his drawn up knees.  Somewhere off to his right, a twig snapped loudly in the darkness.

 

He tensed, hearing Hutch’s hissed intake of air.  His partner pivoted, dropping into a crouch as he pulled the pistol from the back of his waistband. 

 

“Whoa!  It’s just me!”  Nicky held up both hands as he stepped from the trees, his face streaked with sweat as if he had just run a great distance. Smiling shakily, he exhaled in relief and bent forward bracing his hands on his knees as he drank in a huge gulp of air.  “I did it,” he said proudly.  “I got down to that shack and found a phone.  You should have seen me, Davey!”  Exhilarated now, he deliberately pushed past Hutch and dropped to his haunches in front of his brother.  “I was fired up . . . racin’ through the trees, never knowin’ if those dudes with the guns were following.  I almost got lost, but I kept paralleling the road, you know?  And then  - - boom! - - there’s the shack.  I had to pry a window to get inside and use the phone, but I made sure the cops and an ambulance are on the way.”  He grinned broadly, clearly pleased with himself, still soaring on a kick-ass adrenaline high.

 

Starsky couldn’t help grinning in return.  “That’s great, Nicky.  You did real good.”  He looked at his partner who was tucking the gun back into his waistband.  “Didn’t he do good, Hutch?”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch’s voice was soft, his smile slight but sincere.  “He did good.”  His gaze shifted to Nicky.  “Nick, stay with your brother.  I’m going to scout around a little and make sure it’s safe to wait here.”

 

Nick’s head bobbed up and down in eager agreement.  Starsky looked at his partner, wanting to say something but unsure what that something was.  He just knew the air felt unsettled between them, an ugly rarity that heightened the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Before he could sort it through, Hutch disappeared into the trees. 

 

Shivering, Starsky wrapped himself more tightly in the blanket and listened to his brother rattle on about sizing up the shack before he’d attempted to pry the window.  Nicky was sitting across from him now, legs tucked close to his body Indian-style, seemingly intent on recounting every detail of his race through the woods.  Starsky listened as attentively as he could, his strength fading as misery and growing discomfort caught up with him.  Bending double, he hacked into his hand, grimacing when the painful spasm brought tears to his eyes.  Nicky paused only briefly, absently patting him on the back, before going off on another overeager tangent about how fast he could run.  

 

Oh God, Nick.  Say something . . . do something . . . ask me how I’m feelin’.  Show me you’re not as self-centered as Hutch thinks you are.

 

But Nicky was oblivious to his misery, so Starsky sat hunched forward, his face white and streaked with cold sweat, the blanket clutched close in trembling hands to trap warmth.  He couldn’t really fault Nicky his excitement.  The younger man simply wasn’t used to being blown-up and chased, risking himself on a mad dash through the woods.  He was just pumped full of adrenaline, too distracted to realize how badly his brother was hurting.

 

Starsky bit his lip, wishing his partner were back.  Hutch would help him . . . softly-spoken words and gentle touches easing the sting in his lungs, the sickle-sharp pain in his lower back.  Uncomfortable, he shifted, wishing he could relax . . .wishing there were some way to ease the agony of fever, nausea and pain.  He grimaced, ducking his head as he squirmed around, but Nicky only leaned forward to look him in the eye, never halting his rapid-fire delivery about how brave and fearless he’d been.

 

Starsky didn’t know how much time passed.  He only knew Nicky never stopped talking, and he never stopped hurting.  He was beginning to fade with fever when Hutch appeared from the trees and immediately moved beside him.

 

“It won’t be long now, Starsk,” his friend assured quietly.  The hint of a smile touched his lips as he collected one dark curl and gave a gentle tug.  “You looked wiped, buddy.”

 

Starsky nodded, listing to the side in a move he knew would not be rebuffed.  Hutch looped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close, adjusting the blanket over Starsky’s chest to trap heat.  It was pure bliss - - the attentive touch and comfort of his friend.  The knowledge he didn’t have to stay awake any longer, that he could close his eyes and Hutch would keep him safe and protected.  His shivering eased as the golden warmth of his friend’s body soaked into his.

 

Drowsy, he closed his eyes, content to rest against Hutch.  He suddenly realized there was only silence where Nicky had yammered so incessantly before.  The hush was welcome like a blanket itself, but its abruptness worried him.  Cracking an eyelid, he found his brother staring at him, watching intently.

 

It’s okay, Nicky.  Hutch knows how to take care of me.  He knows what I need.

 

It was the last coherent thought he had before slipping into an exhausted sleep.

 

+++++

 

Nicky found an all-night bar and crawled into a beer.  The sign outside said “The Tops,” but the place reeked of vomit, fried onions and piss.  A blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, turning scattered patrons into murky silhouettes hunched over whiskey and beers.  A hole-in-the-wall dive worthy of cockroaches, hustlers and addicts, Nicky felt strangely at home.  He’d visited his fair share of similar establishments in New York, made more than a few connections there too.  Yeah, he’d done some things he wasn’t proud of, but it was his life to screw up any way he wanted and right now he was tempted to add to the list.

 

He supposed he should be at the hospital, checking up on his brother, but there was little chance of getting close to Davey with Hutchinson fawning over him like a damn bitch in heat.

 

He didn’t understand why his brother put up with it. Hutchinson had even ridden in the back of the ambulance with Davey on the way to the hospital while he’d been relegated to catching a lift in a squad car.  Like some damn redheaded stepchild!  Didn’t the cops realize how important he was - - that he was the one who’d saved the day? 

 

For a time, waiting for rescue, he’d even imagined his picture splashed all over the front page of the newspaper - - reporters tripping over each other in their haste to get his story, flashbulbs going off in his face.  Man of the Hour, Fearless Hero.  But it wasn’t like that at all.

 

Three black-and-whites and a single ambulance had arrived on the scene, sirens blaring, lights flashing.  Just like in a movie, he’d thought, his chest swelling with pride.  He was the one responsible for bringing them.  He was the one who’d made that hasty heart-pounding dash through the woods, never knowing if some goon with a gun was just a few steps behind.  He’d thought the cops would have been all over him, asking questions, wanting to know what he’d seen and what he’d done.  But instead Hutchinson had taken charge, directing them to the bombed-out club, instructing them to fan the area and call for a backup sweep. 

 

And Hutch had been the one to fuss over Starsky, even climbing into the back of the ambulance when they loaded his brother’s stretcher.

 

At the hospital it hadn’t been any different, Hutch interacting with the ER staff while he’d stood by like some forgotten relative.  Yeah, his brother had a bad cough and his arm was cut, but it wasn’t like he was going to curl up and die.  It wasn’t like he risked everything to run through the woods and get help.

 

What was the big deal anyway?  Davey was a cop.  He was used to shit like that.  It was probably just Hutchinson’s influence, turning something half-assed into a critical injury.  It wasn’t like Nicky hadn’t gotten hurt in the explosion, yet no one was fussing over him.  He’d ripped his good white pants and a stray board had taken a chunk of skin out of his knee.  Not to mention the scratches he’d gotten on his face from running into tree limbs in the dark.  He might just as easily have taken out an eye.

 

Irritated, he sucked the head off his fourth beer and fished in his pocket for a smoke.  The pack came out crushed and mangled, his five remaining cigarettes busted near the filter. “Shit!  That’s just great!”  Disgusted, he threw the pack on the bar, working himself into an overdue snit.  He was halfway through a string of mumbled curses when he spied a vending machine by the door  - - after all, what was a lowlife bar without a few grimy vending machines peddling everything from Marlboros and breath mints to condoms and gum? 

 

Digging a handful of change from his pocket, Nicky headed for the machine and purchased a pack of Kools.  He was halfway back to the bar, head down as he fumbled open the pack, when he suddenly collided with someone walking in the other direction.

 

“Oof!”  Releasing a startled breath, Nicky stumbled backward.  His initial reaction was to take the idiot’s head off, until he saw the size of the man who blocked his path.  Easily 6’5” the other had the calculating look of a predator.  His eyes were flat, a broad face deformed by the grisly presence of a knife scar slanted prominently over one cheek.  Swallowing audibly, Nicky felt his heartbeat ratchet up in fear. “Uh . . . sorry.”

 

“Bet your ass you are,” the man spat. “I eat shit like you for lunch.”

 

“No problem.”  Knowing he was hopelessly outclassed, Nicky held up both hands and offered an ingratiatingly submissive smile.  “I just wanted a smoke, you know?”  He pointed to the pack of Kools with a trembling finger.

 

“Yeah.” A wolfish grin spread over the larger man’s face.  “Think I want one too.”  He popped the pack of cigarettes from Nicky’s hand.  “I’ll just keep these as payment for havin’ to talk to a weasely little shit like you.  Next time watch where you’re walkin’.  I bust people up for a livin’ - - you hear what I’m saying, asswipe?”

 

Nodding hastily, Nicky backed away, relieved to be left off the hook with nothing more than a confiscated pack of Kools.  He watched as the big man shook a cigarette from the pack and headed toward the rear of the bar, joining two others at a corner table.  Both looked as surly and intimidating in size.  It wasn’t long before a guffaw of laughter erupted from the table, making Nicky’s face flame red.  At least I came out of it with my ass intact, he thought, returning to the cigarette machine for another pack.

 

Later, seated at the bar, he took a long drag on the smoke, letting the taint of menthol and tobacco soothe his frazzled nerves.  So he’d almost gotten his butt kicked for not looking where he was going in a scum-infested bar . . . a perfect end to a perfectly shitty day.  And why not?

 

Hutchinson had already belittled him, shuffling him aside and making him feel like an insignificant cockroach crunched under a very large shoe.  His own brother had ignored him, overlooking his selfless contribution to their rescue - - Hutchinson’s fault yet again, because the blond queer had poisoned Davey’s mind against him.  And now the overbearing cop was at the hospital, fussing over his brother while he’d been booted out the door. 

 

Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true.  He’d left on his own, but it had been boring as hell sitting around waiting for news with that girl-pretty fag calling all the shots.  Why shouldn’t I have a few smokes and a couple beers?  I had a rough day, damn it!  I deserve a break.  But Hutchinson would disapprove.

 

Like I give a flyin’ fuck.  

 

Hutchinson was the sole reason he and Davey couldn’t connect the way they should.  The irksome cop was constantly coming between them with his holier-than-thou, smug, self-righteous attitude. What he needs is to get the shit kicked out of him.

 

As he’d done in the woods, Nicky once again entertained the fantasy of ending Hutch’s involvement with his brother.  It was a simple thing - - let him get busted up enough that he couldn’t work as a cop, and his career would be over.  After that, there wouldn’t be any reason for Davey to stay in California.  Who wanted a disabled partner or a friend who couldn’t pick up at a moment’s notice to go out and have a good time?

 

Warming to the idea, Nicky polished off his beer and motioned for another.  Maybe it didn’t even have to be to that extent - - just a bad enough beating to shake the arrogant blond with a much-needed dose of humility. . . make him rethink his relationship with Davey.  Nicky didn’t really hate Hutch.  He just disliked him intensely.  And more than anything, he disliked the domineering detective’s too-close friendship with his brother.  That’s my place!

 

Shaking another cigarette from his newly-purchased pack, Nicky glanced over his shoulder to the three men in the corner.  I bust people up for a livin’, the gorilla had said.  It wouldn’t be the first time Nicky hired somebody to break a few bones. He felt a tiny thrill race through him, a shiver of excitement that hinted of something underhanded and deadly. Davey would never forgive him, but Davey didn’t have to know.  The only downside was that Nicky wouldn’t be able to watch and enjoy the show when Hutchinson finally crumbled.

 

Collecting his cigarettes and beer, Nicky cautiously approached the three men in the back.

 

+++++

 

Hutch sat in the bedside chair, knees braced apart, elbows propped on the dirt-splattered denim of his thighs.  Head bowed into the cradle of his hands, he listened to the soft flow of his partner’s breathing. The sound was smooth and unobstructed without the loose rattle Hutch had heard too frequently in the woods.  The paramedics had kept an oxygen mask on Starsky in the ambulance, but once out of the ER and into a regular room, a clear tube snaking beneath his nose had replaced the plastic mask.

 

It was progress of sorts for which Hutch knew he should be grateful, but when all was said and done and a sedated Starsky was wheeled into a private room, Hutch found he couldn’t stop shaking.  The tremors set in when the nurses and doctors finally left, long after a sulking Nick had disappeared with tail between his legs, grumbling about needing a drink to steady his nerves.

 

Hutch had fought the urge to hit him, unsure how anyone could contemplate drinking when their own brother was having emergency surgery.  The deep gash to Starsky’s arm had needed more than just a few stitches, requiring an operating room and the attention of a surgeon to repair tissue and tendon damage. 

 

Now, with the nightmare behind them, Hutch found himself trembling with an all-too-familiar sickness.  Sitting at Starsky’s bedside brought back every terrifying memory of how he’d felt following Gunther’s hit.  He hadn’t known if Starsky would live or die, his faith tied up in clinical respirators, ICU nurses and doctors he didn’t know.   

 

He remembered the agony and starkly cold fear that had crawled into his belly . . . the labored hiss-and-wheeze of Starsky’s breathing, the chalky whiteness of his flesh.  It was like someone flipped a switch, and he’d tumbled eight months into the past, mushrooming dread making him sweat and shiver at the same time.

 

I can’t keep doing this.  Oh God, Starsk . . . what if there hadn’t been a phone in that utility shack?  What if those armed thugs had caught us in the woods . . . or the blast had been worse and you never made it out of that club?

 

“Kenny?” 

 

He felt a hand slide onto his shoulder and jerked in startled reaction.  The room was completely dark, a band of star-diffused light from the window acting as milky illumination.  It took Hutch’s mind a moment to catch up with his gaze - - to make out the gleam of red-gold hair and cat-green eyes looking down on him.  Thankfully, Janet Morrisey would never have the icy poise of his ex-wife, but she was able to be just as unrelenting when she chose. 

 

“You should have called sooner,” she chastised.

 

Hutch heard sympathy rather than anger.  Leveraging himself from the chair, he gathered her to his chest.  

 

She didn’t say anything, just clung in response, both of them thankful the bomb hadn’t done worse damage.  Still trembling, he slid his fingers into her long hair, overcome by the sight and scent of her. She smelled of cotton and fresh soap, her face scrubbed clean of makeup.  Her hair was disheveled, lying rumpled and loose over her shoulders, a sure sign she’d been sleeping.  He thought of nestling against her in bed, of tasting the exquisite satin and curves of her body . . . ghosting his fingers over responsive flesh and melding his naked skin to hers. As tired and emotionally drained as he was, he felt a staggering flicker of need.  “I missed you,” he said hoarsely.  

 

Tilting her head back, he brought her lips up to his. He hadn’t seen her in almost two weeks, a reality that would have been overwhelming on a good day. But he was one step shy of exhausted, his emotions bordering on breakdown.  He kissed her hungrily, an unmistakably desperate act, laced with all the frustration and fear of the last seven hours.  Shocked to find her responding with the same reckless need, Hutch savored the honeyed sweetness of her mouth, the intimate press of her body.  Drawing back, he bowed his face to her hair, eyes closed.

 

“They did surgery on his arm,” he managed in a raw voice as if that explained everything.

 

“I know.  Here - - sit down.”  Janet guided him back to the chair.

 

He folded gratefully, too weary to let macho posturing get in the way.  His eyes immediately tracked to his partner, noting unhealthy shadows contouring his cheeks, the intrusive glint of starlight on tumbled black curls.  Sighing, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, then blinked up at Janet.  “Some night at the disco, huh?”

 

Her mouth curled slightly.  “You never could dance anyway, Ken.”

 

He snorted, letting the humor roll over him.  It had a good sound, a familiar sound, safe and routine.  “That’s okay.”  He took her hand, shooting her a suggestive glance - - as suggestive as he could manage under the circumstances. “I’ve got other talents.” 

 

She had the decency to blush even though he knew he looked about as sexy as a rain-bedraggled cat. Two weeks without seeing each other made even a grimy, blood-splattered, glazed-eyed, sweaty cop look good.  He flashed a warm smile, appreciative she hadn’t crushed his ego. 

 

“Well . . .”  Moving to his side, she fingered the edge of his collar.  “Maybe when you’re feeling better, we can put those talents to use.  In the meantime, I took a look at Dr. Fletcher’s chart.  I thought you’d want the opinion of your favorite doctor.”

 

“Fletcher?”  Immediately serious, Hutch frowned.  “Is that the one who did the surgery or the one who treated Starsk in the ER?”

 

“Surgery,” Janet clarified. “But I looked at the other one too.”  She smiled reassuringly.  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, Kenny.  At least nothing of a drastic nature.  The surgery went well. Given time, Dave’s arm should heal without difficulty.  He’ll have an adjustment period, of course, and he’s probably going to need physical therapy.”

 

“More therapy?”  Groaning, Hutch bowed his head into his hand.  If the thought sickened him, what would it do to his partner?  Hadn’t Starsky already been through enough therapy to last two lifetimes?

 

“It’s not the end of the world,” Janet said, crouching beside his chair.  “The two of you survived a bomb blast.  You need to look at the positive side.”

 

“You don’t get it,” he said wearily.

 

“Yes, I do.”  Gingerly, she fingered his hair, frowning at the clotted blood on the lank blond tresses.  “You’re worried about him - - worried how he’s going to react to hospital time and more therapy.  Kenny, it isn’t that bad.  He had a misaligned disc that’s going to require some monitoring and was probably the cause of the pain in his lower back and leg. It probably happened in the blast.  Therapy will help, just like it will help him regain full mobility of his arm a lot sooner.”

 

“What about his lungs?”  Worried, Hutch wet his lips. He knew he needed a shower, that his hair was limp and lifeless, his face smeared with blood and dirt.  His shirt was torn and his jeans were ripped, giving him the appearance of a strung-out vagrant.  He was hardly a prime candidate for cuddling, yet Janet smiled gently and kissed his cheek.

 

“Still strong.  His fever’s down, and he’s on antibiotics to combat infection.  With a little rest and concentrated care, he’ll be fine. I’ve already spoken to the duty nurse and his doctor.  You’re clear to spend the night if you want, though it’s only a few hours from dawn as it is.”  Frowning, she slipped her fingers into his hair, gently weeding the blood-encrusted strands away from his scalp. “You haven’t had this gash checked out.  I don’t think it’ll take stitches, but I can’t tell until I get it cleaned up.”  Dropping her hand to his shoulder, she met his gaze squarely, her own determined.  “I want you to come to a treatment room with me.”

 

He thought about arguing but opted for levity instead.  “Sorry, Jan.  You’ll have to wait until we can find a bed with a bit more privacy.  I know how you like to moan and carry on.”  He grinned brashly.  “We wouldn’t want to wake anyone up.”

 

“Detective Hutchinson, you’re forgetting you’re on my turf now!”  Her voice carried the crack of a whip, but her eyes sparked with humor and affectionate tenacity. “I can have you cleaned up and comfortable inside of twenty minutes, back in this room.  Or - -”  She paused, looking a little too much like a feline sharpening its claws.  “I can summon security and have you taken downstairs for a doctor-ordered enema.”  Planting her hands on her hips, she tilted her head and smiled sweetly.  “What’s it going to be, Sergeant?”

 

Laughing, he dragged a hand over his face.  “You’ll do anything to get my pants off, won’t you?”  Before she could feign outrage, he caught her wrist and pulled her into his lap.  Palming her neck, he slid his hand upward, tilting her head back until his lips claimed hers.  He loved that she sparred with him so effortlessly, almost as well as Starsky . . . that in the beginning she'd even defied him, calling him things like arrogant and overbearing.  He’d thought she was a temperamental shrew in those days, loudly comparing her to the grim Valkyries of his Viking heritage.  She’d stubbornly corrected him by pointing out that Valkyries presided over death while she fought against it. He’d been too stunned by her quick comeback to do more than blink stupidly, which only gave her more ammunition.  She’d likened him to a ­“long-haired Neanderthal with an ape-like mentality,” promptly ordering him from her office before she called security and had him arrested for “obscene idiocy.”

 

Caught off guard, he found himself more than a little intrigued.  After that, each argument ended with a strange twinge of growing attachment.  One month into Starsky recuperation, he was sure Janet Morrisey felt it too.  For a brief time he tried to be cordial with her, but his attraction invariably got in the way.  She was too professional to make a move, so he’d taken her to dinner.  Before he knew it, he was sprawled on her couch, shirt gaping wide as the cat-eyed Valkyrie rained kisses on his chest. 

 

They’d both felt guilty afterward, thinking it was selfish of them when Starsky was struggling so fiercely to heal.  For three weeks they’d tiptoed around their attraction, stealing kisses and private conversations when they could.  Eventually the relationship made its way into the bedroom and that intimacy factored in yet another obstacle of guilt.  Janet wasn’t Kira, but she was Starsky’s doctor and somehow that felt like forbidden territory to Hutch.  It wasn’t until Starsky actually caught them kissing that Hutch reluctantly confessed they’d been spending most nights together.  He’d expected anger or moodiness from Starsky, but his partner had only laughed and said he’d known it was inevitable from the first moment he’d seen them together.

 

Wrenching him back to the present, Janet broke off the kiss.  “I think that’s enough,” she managed breathlessly.  “You’re not going to sidetrack me, Kenny.  I really do want to take a look at that cut on your head.”

 

She squirmed to get up, but he held her trapped, enjoying the way she wriggled on his lap.  As tired as he was, it brought a distinctive reaction to a certain part of his anatomy.  She felt it too and laughed lightly. 

 

Bending forward, she kissed him again. “You really are a Neanderthal, you know that?  Let me up, Hutchinson, before I call a nurse to ease the pressure on your pants.”

 

“Hutchinson?”  Releasing her, he let his head fall back against the chair. “What happened to ‘Kenny?’”  He grinned sleepily.  “I think I want a different doctor.  One with a sexy bedside manner and some red lingerie.”

 

He watched the track of one perfectly tweezed brow arch into her hair. “I thought you liked pink and black?”

 

He grinned unabashedly.  “That too.”

 

She stood and held out a hand.  Suddenly sober, he looked up at her uncertainly.  Starsky had been groggy and incoherent since being transported to the hospital.  If he woke in the room, disoriented and alone, it might resurrect the terror of Gunther all over again.  “I don’t want to leave him,” he admitted quietly.

 

Her face softened.  “It’s just for a few minutes, Ken.  I promise it won’t take long.”

 

Still uncertain, he hesitated, his eyes flecking to the bed.  He knew Starsky was sedated, would likely sleep for hours but the unreasonable fear persisted.  “Jan, can’t you just . . . you know . . .”  He rolled his eyes to indicate the cut on his scalp.  “Look at it here?”

 

“All right,” she relented after a lengthy pause. “In the bathroom.  I have to go get a few things, but I’ll be back.  I want you to shower too, Kenny.  I swung by your place and picked up some clean clothes before I came to the hospital.  You’ll feel better.”

 

He pressed his luck with a breezy grin.  “Join me?”

 

“You’ll wish you hadn’t said that when David’s out of the hospital.”  The feline gleam was back in her eye.  Bending forward she let her hand ghost high on the inside of his thigh.  “I know what you like in the shower and where you like to be touched.  I’m not the only one who moans and carries on, you know.”

 

He shivered, wired with exhaustion and the sudden hot spike of desire.  But she only kissed him and left the room, making him tug at his jeans in order to ease the quickening pressure at his crotch.  Some professional doctor!  He wondered if he had a case for malpractice or sexual assault and, with a grin, decided he’d willingly submit to the second. 

 

+++++

 

Janet was right - - he did feel better after a shower.  He’d let her clean and tend the cut on his scalp but sent her from the bathroom before he stripped. He was on edge - - emotionally, physically, but also sexually. It would have been far too easy to grow aroused with her helping - -  each stroke of her fingertips on his overly sensitized skin an open invitation to greater intimacy. He set the shower as cold as he could stand it, hoping it would help clear his head and drown the sensual awareness coursing through his veins.  

 

Later, dressed comfortably in faded jeans and a black denim shirt with metallic snaps, he sprawled in the chair at Starsky’s bedside.  He’d left the tails of the shirt hanging loose over his waistband, the snaps open at the throat.  It was 5:00 in the morning, but he was too far gone to calculate the ridiculous amount of hours he hadn’t slept compiled on top of a sixteen-hour shift.   He’d moved past tired into a strange kind of bleary-eyed wakefulness that left him yawning even as his mind kicked into overdrive.

 

Nick had yet to return from his drinking binge, and Starsky was still sleeping soundly.  He’d sent Janet home for a few hours sleep, knowing she had to be at the hospital come mid morning.  It sometimes still amazed him that he’d ended up in love with a doctor, given his own aborted medical background. A few months past forty, she was six years older than he was, but he’d never let it faze him. She’d already met both of his parents, Kelly too, but the real seal of approval came from Starsky.  I like that she makes you happy, Hutch, his friend had said.

 

Sighing, Hutch curled his fingers over Starsky’s limp wrist.  We gotta stop doing this, babe.  Gotta stop this hospital crap.  It’s time to rethink where we’re headed.

 

Given time, Starsky could accumulate the course credits he needed to take the Lieutenant’s exam.  The problem was when they passed, they wouldn’t be partners any longer, and that possibility sat sour in Hutch’s stomach. Safe . . . possibly in the same building, but no longer working together.  Starsky was such an integral part of how he thought and behaved, Hutch wasn’t sure he wanted to function on his own. They’d still interact, but the dynamics would be different  - - the friendship solidly intact, but the partnership dissolved.

 

Grimacing, Hutch rubbed his friend’s arm, feeling the fervent spark of their connection through Starsky’s drugged slumber.  Shifting, he bowed his head to the mattress, resting his brow on the edge.  I’m never gonna get used to seeing you hurt, no matter how many times I sit at your bedside.  Face it, Starsk - - our career choice sucks.  It was okay when we were in our twenties and fresh out of the Academy, but I can’t stomach seeing you in pain any longer.  It scares the fucking shit out of me that I’m gonna lose you.

 

Even thinking about it sent a hot spike of dread ripping through his gut.  Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine a life outside of Metro. The alternative to the police force was establishing an investigative firm in the private sector.  It kept their partnership intact and allowed them to be more selective about the cases they took.  Being a cop had already cost him his marriage.  He wasn’t about to let it cost him his best friend.

 

Frazzled, Hutch sat up and dragged a hand through his hair. He could feel the crust of a small bandage beneath his bangs where Janet had taped the wound on his scalp.  Lack of sleep was finally starting to catch up with him, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy.  Knowing he needed a distraction to stay alert, Hutch reached for the phone, requested an outside line and clumsily dialed his parents’ home. 

 

It was 3:00 in the morning in Minnesota, hardly a time to be entertaining phone calls, but after Starsky there was only one other person Hutch trusted to talk him through emotional hurdles.  His mother was a heavy sleeper, and in all likelihood, would never even hear the intrusive ring, but his father would wake almost immediately. 

 

As expected, Grant answered within seconds, a strident note of alarm in his voice at having been roused abruptly from sleep.  “Hello?”

 

“Dad?” Slumping in the chair, Hutch clutched the base of the phone to his chest and stared at the ceiling. “I’m sorry for waking you.  I . . . I needed someone to talk to.”   I needed to hear your voice . . . needed to let someone else be strong for few minutes while I crash.

 

“Ken?” 

 

Hutch could almost hear his father trying to focus.  A phone call in the wee hours of the morning usually boded ill, especially when your son was a cop who often put his life on the line in the performance of his duty. There had been a day when Grant Hutchinson might have tried to conceal his anxiety, but those moments were long past.  His voice grew instantly sharp with concern.  “Kenneth, where are you?”

 

“The hospital.”

 

“Hospital?”  Concern lurched into full-blown worry.  “Why?  What’s happened?  What’s wrong?”

 

Warmed by the solicitude in his father’s voice, Hutch parted with a fleeting smile.  “Nothing, Dad.  I’m fine.”  Amazing that a little over a year ago he would have read those same questions as blunt accusation instead of fatherly concern.  “It’s Starsky,” he said, feeling his throat tighten up.  Sliding the base of the phone onto the bedside table, he leaned forward, pressing trembling fingers against his temple.  Suddenly it was hard to think, the fatigue-dulled ache in his head ballooning into something ghastly and fierce.  He winced.

 

“We . . . we got caught in a bomb blast at a deserted nightclub.  I think it was a set-up - - big surprise there, huh?”  He laughed bitterly.  “I walked away with a scrape on my forehead, but Starsky got the worst of it.”

 

There was a pause while Grant digested the news.  “Is he conscious?” he asked at last.

 

“Sleeping,” Hutch clarified. “But he’s not comatose, just heavily sedated.  He got banged up pretty badly.  Messed up his back and leg, and his arm took surgery to repair tendon damage.  Janet says he’s gonna need therapy.”  Depression bled through in his voice.  “Dad, I-I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

 

Another slight pause and this time Hutch heard rustling on the other end of the line.  He imagined his father climbing out of bed, wrapping his robe around him and stretching the phone cord as far as it would go into the hallway so as not to wake Hutch’s mother. 

 

“I’m bothering you,” Hutch said miserably.

 

“Kenneth,” this time the concern was underscored by stern disapproval.  “Don’t be absurd.  I just don’t want to wake your mother.  Now tell me what’s going through your head.”

“I - -”  Sucking down an unsteady breath, he struggled for words.  As a child and young adult, his father would have been the last person he’d gone to with a problem, especially one that left him emotional and vulnerable. But their relationship had changed over the last year and a half, morphing into an exceptionally close bond.  Whereas Grant Hutchinson had once been his greatest detractor, he was now Hutch’s staunchest supporter.  Before he knew it, the blond detective found himself unloading all of his fears  - - the ugly turmoil of watching Starsky suffer, the bleak uncertainty of their future and his growing conviction he could no longer function as a cop.

 

“I can’t keep doing this, Dad,” he said in a strained whisper.  “I can’t keep watching him suffer like this, never knowing if the next bullet, the next blast or the next freak with a gun is gonna be one too many.  That blast could have killed him.”  Agitated, he stood and paced behind the chair, snapping the phone cord tight against the wall.  “I had to drag him through the woods when he was crippled up with pain  . . . clamp my hand over his mouth to keep him from being sick, because I was afraid the sound would tip off the guys who were following us.  Dad, I . . . I had to shove him face down on the ground.”  His voice cracked.  “I had to hurt him to keep him quiet.  It’s just not fair.” 

 

“Is that what you want?”  Grant asked softly. “Fairness?”

 

Hutch sighed.  It didn’t come close to touching what he wanted . . . to sorting through the prickly snarl of his confusion. “I’m tired, Dad.  I’m just so freaking tired.  If I’d become a doctor I wouldn’t be watching my best friend go through hell every time I turn around.”

 

“That’s the fatigue talking, Ken,” Grant countered quickly.  “If you’d become a doctor, you never would have met David.”

 

Hutch snorted.  “Maybe that’s for the better.  With a different partner he might not be facing so many constant risks.”

 

This time it was Grant who sighed.  “Ken, listen to me.  Better yet - - listen to yourself.  You’re exhausted.  I can hear it in your voice.  You’re not thinking straight and you’re saying things that contradict who you are.  Do you really believe David would be better off if he hadn’t met you?”

 

Defeated, Hutch slumped against the wall.  “No.”

 

“And do you really think you’d be happy dispensing medicine?  Day after day of diagnosing sore throats, earaches and sinus infections?  You’re a detective, Kenneth.  It’s what you like to do - - what you excel at doing. You’d be miserable attempting anything else.  Are you going to tell me that’s changed too?”

 

“No,” Hutch said, lower this time, knowing he’d been backed into a corner.  It was terribly ironic when he thought about it - - the father who’d once spent countless years demeaning him for quitting medical school, now attempting to convince him he should remain a cop.  A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened the back of his throat but he bit it silent.   “I . . . I wish you were here,” he said at last.  “I’d feel better if you were taking care of Starsky.”

 

“Janet’s there,” Grant reminded him.  “She’s gotten him through a lot worse.”

 

“But she’s not his doctor  . . . not on this one.”  His eyes tracked to the bed, to the pale, motionless form of his friend.  He thought again of how Starsky had lain broken and still beneath the row of track lighting, debris humped over his legs, white dust and ash coating his hair.  “I’ve made up my mind, Dad.  Starsky means too much to me.  Something has to change after this.  Maybe I’ll convince him we should become P.I.’s or . . . or public information officers for the department or something safe like that.  I just know I don’t want to grow old this way.”

 

“Ken, you’re only thirty-four,” Grant tried to reason. “You’re a young man in the prime of life--”

 

“It doesn’t feel that way,” Hutch interrupted. “You were married at twenty and had me at twenty-one.  I haven’t even given you a grandkid.”

 

“I’m too young for grandkids,” Grant said quickly, then chuckled.  “Will you listen to yourself, Ken?  There’s still plenty of time for you to settle down and start a family.  The last time we talked you told me you thought Janet was the one.”

 

Thoughtful, Hutch fingered the phone cord.  “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, though part of him was afraid to venture in that direction.  He was in love, no doubt about it - - the big L-O-V-E.   The last woman who’d made him feel even remotely similar had been Gillian.  After she’d died, his relationships had revolved around superficial attraction and sexual gratification.  He’d become king of the one-night-stand, always in lust, never in love.  But it was different with Janet. He’d even entertained looking at engagement rings though he hadn’t quite worked up his nerve.  Part of him was afraid of destroying their love the way marriage had destroyed his relationship with Vanessa. Could Janet be happy if she were married to a cop?  And how would either of them ever find time for children - - a critical care doctor and a police sergeant?  For that matter, Janet was forty. Any pregnancy at such a late stage was bound to be difficult.   They’d once talked about children over a midnight bottle of wine and an interlude of lovemaking on a deserted stretch of beach - -a few minutes of whimsy and fantastical what-ifs between sensual, open-mouthed kisses.  Hutch knew Janet wanted children but she was also practical enough to understand time was against her. For too long her career had taken priority over men and relationships.  Like him, she’d had a few close calls, even a short three-month engagement before reality and responsibility made the whole thing go belly up.  The man - - an insurance adjuster - - was now happily married with four children and a two-story home in an affluent suburban neighborhood. 

 

Just not meant to be.  Was their relationship any different?

 

Easing back into the chair, Hutch wet his lips.  “The way I feel about Janet is all the more reason I shouldn't be a cop.  Someone tried to kill me today, Dad.  They tried to kill Starsky.  I just want a shot at normal life like everyone else. I’m tired of being a target, of having my friend be a target. You know what Starsky means to me . . .”  He faltered, uncertain how to finish, the ugliness of the last eight hours adding an emotion-roughened edge to his voice.  Leaning forward, he steepled one hand against his temple, his elbow propped on his knee.  “I’m sorry I’m dumping all this on you at 3:00 A.M.   You probably think I’m delusional.”

 

“Confused,” Grant contradicted.  Hutch could almost hear him smile, an affectionate pause stretching momentarily before he continued.  “Don’t do anything rash, Ken.  I still think you’re just overly tired and not thinking clearly because you’re worried about David.  You need time to recover and put everything back into perspective.  I remember when being a cop was all that mattered to you.  It was important enough for you to quit med school - - to openly defy me and risk your marriage to Vanessa. That isn’t a whim, Kenneth.  That’s a passion.”

 

“Or a mistake.”

 

Grant sighed heavily.  A long pause stretched over the phone line.  “Maybe I should fly out,” he suggested softly.

 

Hutch felt a warm tingle in the pit of his stomach.  It made him feel understood and cherished, briefly displacing the looming specter of doubt.  He found it hard to conceive of a time when he and his father had ever been at odds, much less antagonistic toward each other. “No, that’s okay,” he said in the same soft tones. “Having you listen to me ramble is help enough.”  He paused, enjoying the once-impossible closeness between them. “Sorry I hit you up before coffee but I really should go in case Starsk wakes up.  I’ll keep you posted on how he’s doing - -”

 

“ - - on how both of you are doing,” Grant corrected.  His voice grew a little firmer, the closeness displaced by gruff worry.  “Make sure you call if you need me, Ken.  I could use a trip to California - - anything to get away from this damn Minnesota winter.”

 

Hutch laughed.  “Okay, Dad.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Later, when he hung up the phone, he found his spirits had lifted slightly.  He hadn’t really resolved anything with the phone call, but somehow just hearing his father’s voice made his circumstances a little less bleak.  Starsky was still hurt, still facing therapy and he was still in a quandary about their future on the police force, but at least now he could face the problems with renewed stamina.

 

Setting the phone on the bedside table, Hutch eased back in the chair and dragged a hand through his shower-damp hair.  His gaze wandered to Starsky and he immediately felt a reactionary tightening in his chest.  His friend had only been back on the job two weeks and already he was in the hospital again.  It was hard to believe their evening had started out with a simple discussion about what to have for dinner.  What he wouldn’t give to turn back the clock and do things differently - - to insist that Starsky stay home rather than go clubbing with Nick.  It suddenly dawned on him in all the confusion and worry, he hadn’t bothered to call Dobey and fill his captain in on what had happened.

 

He was just debating the wisdom of making the phone call when Starsky groaned.  Immediately attentive, Hutch leaned forward, reaching for his friend’s hand.  “Starsk?”  Biting down on his bottom lip, he tried to quell his eagerness  - - the overwhelming need to see a familiar glint of electric blue beneath Starsky’s long lashes, to feel the firm pressure of his friend’s fingers deliberately squeezing his.  “Starsk?” he tried again, slightly louder this time.  Resting his free hand on the pillow, he fingered the edge of a coffee-dark curl, noting its contradictory texture - - coarse and smooth, much like his mercurial partner.  

 

It made him think of how divergent his friend’s personality could be  - - equal parts steel and wide-eyed naivete. One moment street-tough and resolute, Starsky could also be blindly trusting and childlike . . . easily excitable and just as easily crushed by circumstance.  He might never admit it out loud, but it was one of the characteristics Hutch cherished most about his friend.  Whatever the situation, Starsky simply reacted.  He didn’t weigh options, analyze and calculate, he responded with his heart - - a trait that often left him emotionally wounded, suffering in silence.  Strangely, that inherent vulnerability had been far from evident at their first meeting.  Instead, Hutch had formed an opinion of a street-wise upstart with little patience for authority or arranged structure.  He was the last person Hutch expected would want to become a cop.

 

But then few cadets had thought all that differently about him.  From his start at the Academy he’d been seen as haughty and detached. Once his background leaked out his credibility plummeted further, and he was regarded as a pretty, rich boy, likely to buckle under the moment he had to tough it out in the real world.  Even a number of his instructors took to taunting him, forcing him into the position of having to constantly prove his capabilities. 

 

And then as a joke he was partnered with Starsky - - the wise-assed, volatile street-tough and the coolly aloof rich kid.  Hutch had kept a reserved distance at first - - it was how he was accustomed to interacting with others - - but Starsky’s natural exuberance and off-the-cuff personality made that next to impossible.  Within two days even their instructors had to admit they worked together as if they’d known each other for years.

 

It had been Starsky’s idea to turn the tables. 

 

“Look, Hutchinson, they only paired us together because they wan’ us to bottom out.  I’m the loudmouthed troublemaker and you’re the snotty rich kid.  I say we stick it to ‘em where it hurts and show ‘em what a crack team we can be.  Personally I don’t give a shit if you wanna stand around and look decorative, but it wouldn’t hurt to crack a smile once in awhile.  Yeah - - like that.”

 

Hutch grinned with the memory.  “We showed them, huh, Starsk?”  he asked softly.  His hand threaded into the familiar disarray of rumpled curls crowning his friend’s head.  “All these years later and there’s still no one I’d rather have at my side.”  He paused, sucking in a reflex breath at the barely-there flutter of Starsky’s jet lashes.  “Buddy?”

 

Another moan, deeper this time, followed by a drawn out twitch of sluggish movement.  Starsky turned his head on the pillow, forcing his eyes open.  His gaze zipped around the room, flighty and unfocused, before settling on Hutch.

 

“Hey . . .”  Squeezing his hand, Hutch leaned forward, a soft smile curving his mouth.  “How are you doing?  You’ve been out of it for awhile, buddy.”  The smile inched higher, warm and affectionate as he saw clarity return to his friend’s gaze.  “You thirsty?  You want a drink?”

 

Wetting his lips, Starsky shook his head.  “Hospital?” he asked.

 

Hutch hesitated, but the answer was obvious.  Nodding, he fumbled with the sheets, tucking them closer around his friend’s side, not wanting to dwell on what the answer implied.  “It’s just for awhile,” he said, inwardly cringing at the lame reply.  “Janet was by . . . said you’re going to be fine.  You just have to give your arm a chance to heal.”

 

Starsky’s eyes traveled to the heavily bandaged appendage.  “Can’t feel it,” he mumbled.  Groggily, he prodded the padding as if to test the theory. 

 

Hutch caught his hand and pulled it aside.  “It’s the morphine, dummy.  Trust me  - - it’s all in one piece.  If you can’t feel it right now, I’d count that as a blessing.  Once they take your happy drug away, it’s going to hurt like hell.”

 

“Gee - - thanks for cheerin’ me up.  I wouldna thought of that one.”

 

Hutch grimaced, uncertain why he was suddenly being so bleak.  “Starsk, I’m sorry - -”  I’m not doing anything right lately - - letting you go out with Nick against my better judgement, leaving that shitty club when I should have been watching your back, dragging you through the woods when you were already messed up and hurting . . . “I guess I’m not thinking straight.”

 

“Small wonder.  You look like hell, Blondie.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “Is that your attempt at cheering me up?”

 

The hint of a smile touched Starsky’s lips but it vanished all too quickly, crushed beneath a sudden fit of coughing.  Groaning through the spasm, he leaned forward, pressing a rolled-up fist against his mouth to curb the hacking.  His face grew strained, what small trace of color remained in his cheeks, quickly fading.

 

“Hey - - easy!”  Hutch slid a hand behind his shoulders, rubbing gently.  The injury to Starsky’s arm was critical enough, but the ragged cough terrified him.  Even after eight months, Starsky’s lungs were still weak and could easily cave to infection or worse.  The threat was always there, dormant in the background, waiting to erupt into a full-blown nightmare. Hutch doubted there would ever come a time when the possibility, no matter how remote, didn’t immediately alarm him.

 

“I’m okay.”  Gasping, Starsky slumped back against the bed.  Sweat had collected in his bangs and the dewy sheen of perspiration glinted on his cheeks.   Pressing a hand to his chest, he breathed deliberately, willing the sharp rise and fall of his ribcage to return to normal. His eyelids drooped as a flicker of pain crossed his face.  Gritting his teeth, he forced a tight smile.  “It’s just a little pressure, you know?  I’ve had worse.”

 

Hutch slid his hand beneath the blanket, onto the scratchy fabric of his friend’s hospital gown. He splayed his fingers, pressing lightly to help ease the strain.  “You need to give that cough time to heal.  I never should have let you do a sixteen-hour shift much less go out afterwards.  Next time we go with my gut.”

 

“You gut likes weird shit like moon kelp and fermented tree fungus, Hutch.  Next time we go to a disco I know.”

 

“Next time we send Nick on his own.”

 

“Hey.”  Mention of his brother made Starsky frown.  His eyes darted around the room before returning to Hutch. “Where is he anyway?”

 

Abruptly uneasy, Hutch withdrew.  He had no intention of telling Starsky his brother preferred to drown himself in beer rather than wait for the results of his surgery.  Hutch’s opinion of Nick couldn’t sink any lower, but he wasn’t about to burden his partner with that same ugliness.  It was better Starsky thought Nick was sleeping off bone-crushing fatigue somewhere.  Keeping his expression neutral, he offered a halfhearted shrug and rubbed the back of his neck.  “He’s around somewhere.  He just needed a break.  It’s after 5:00 in the morning, Starsk.  It’s been a long night.”

 

Uncertain, Starsky narrowed his eyes.  “Where’d he go?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Agitated, Hutch stood and paced in a small circle.  “Maybe he’s lying down in the waiting room or getting coffee in the cafeteria.  He’ll be back.  What’s it matter?”

 

“It matters ‘cuz he ain’t here.  And he ain’t been here for a long time, has he?”  Exasperated, Starsky huffed out a sulky breath and looked away.  “You’re a damn lousy liar, Hutchinson.”

 

“Starsky, just forget it, huh?”  Wandering back to the bed, Hutch stood looking down on him.  It just wasn’t fair - - Nick Starsky had gotten them into this mess and rather than be at his brother’s bedside where he belonged, he was off somewhere tossing back a six-pack. The perennially selfish brat was utterly clueless when it came to consideration or anything that didn’t involve his own pleasure.  “Just rest for awhile, okay?”  Tentatively, Hutch fingered the short sleeve of the hospital gown. His gut tightened at the sallow look of Starsky’s face, the heavily resigned sorrow in his eyes.

 

“He’s off partyin’ somewhere, ain’t he?”  Starsky asked thinly.  “You’re here ready to keel over ‘cuz you ain’t had any sleep and he’s off havin’ a good time.”

 

“Starsk, he needed some air, that’s all - -”

 

“Oh, so now you’re defendin’ him?”  Angry, Starsky stared pointedly.  “I don’t get it, Hutch.  One minute you’re tellin’ me he’s shit and the next you’re makin’ excuses for him.  How do you know he ain’t out somewhere drownin’ his sorrows ‘cuz he can’t face me bein’ sick?”

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Hutch said quickly, anything to forestall Starsky’s growing agitation.  After everything that had happened, the last thing he wanted to do was debate the highly questionable merit of Nicholas Starsky.  He knew his friend was irrational when it came to his younger brother.  Even sick and in the hospital, Starsky couldn’t be counted upon to see reason.  For too long he’d nurtured a perpetual blind spot for Nicky, letting it grow to near-obsession to willingly acknowledge it now. 

 

Starsky coughed weakly, and the sound, feeble as it was, went through Hutch like the flame-fired tip of a needle.  “Buddy, just take it easy, okay?”

Irked, Starsky shifted restlessly.  “I would if I didn’t have you bein’ all smug and self-righteous about my brother.  So he ain’t here - - so what?  That don’t mean you gotta be a martyr and camp out at my bedside.”

 

Surprised by the backlash, Hutch scowled.  “Is that what you think I’m doin’?”  In spite of his better judgement, he felt a prickle of anger.  “I’m here because I care about you . . . because I’m worried about you.”

 

“Well, I don’t need you worryin’,” Starsky snapped back.  “I ain’t an invalid, you know?  Maybe if you weren’t hoverin’ over me all the time, I’d snap back a lot quicker.  Nicky knows I need space - - that’s why he ain’t here.  Maybe you should just back off too.”

 

Hutch blanched.   He could understand Starsky being depressed, even irritated, but not outright nasty.  Through the long eight months of Starsky’s recuperation they’d butted heads more than once, Hutch often walking away with bruised feelings.  In each circumstance he’d been able to chalk his partner’s insensitivity up to pain or Starsky’s bleak uncertainty of recovery. 

 

But this was different.  Maybe it was just the wretchedness of being in the hospital so soon after getting his life back on track that had Starsky reacting belligerently but the blunt hostility was difficult to swallow.   With effort Hutch tried to overlook his friend’s anger.  Striving for patience, he wet his lips. “Starsk - -”

 

“I mean it, Hutch,” Starsky interrupted before he could say another word.  “Go get some sleep.  Call Dobey, do whatever you gotta do, but give me a few hours to myself.  I ain’t gonna shrivel up and die.”  His gaze narrowed, flinty and unyielding.  “Got it?”

 

“Got it,” Hutch snapped back, his voice clipped.  Realizing anger would only make matters worse, he drew a deep breath, keeping his wounded feelings to himself.  Starsky wasn’t feeling well and he wasn’t thinking straight.  Compounded with Nick’s glaring absence, it was no wonder he became defensive. “I-I gotta call Dobey anyway,”  Hutch said awkwardly.  “ . . .let him know what happened at the club.”  He hesitated, still not ready to surrender his position as guardian.  Long-standing worry eventually overcame his irritation.  “You want me to get you anything before I leave?”

 

Glumly, Starsky shook his head.

 

“Oh . . . okay, then.”  Feeling abruptly awkward, Hutch trailed his fingers down his friend’s arm.  “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay, buddy?  Try to get some sleep.”

 

“Yeah.  Sure.”  Starsky said the words without looking, without responding to the touch.

 

Hutch winced.  Even when words failed, touch had always been a reaffirming anchor between them, yet it might as well have been non-existent for all the reaction it brought now.  He left the room quietly, nursing his hurt, biting back misery and agitation. It simply wasn’t fair Starsky was suffering again, once more confined to a hospital bed . . . that the ugliness responsible for putting him there had somehow wormed into their relationship.  He knew his friend’s hostility would pass once Starsky had a chance to think more clearly, but right now his ability to reason had struck rock bottom.  Until he came to his senses, Hutch needed to occupy himself otherwise.  All other priorities aside, he decided to concentrate on who was responsible for bombing the Jade Club.

 

At the very least, it would keep his mind off Starsky’s rejection.

 

+++++

 

Starsky stared at the ceiling, vaguely aware the morphine was gradually loosening its hold on his mangled arm.  He felt a prickle of heat in the bicep - - not pain really, but an uncomfortable sensation that made him shift restlessly.  Most of the last eight hours were a blur of jumbled images and half-dreams.  He remembered stumbling through the woods, clinging to Hutch, the smell of earth, soil and blood clogging his head.  He remembered getting sick or trying to, Hutch choking off the vile flow, pinning him to the ground and warning him silent. 

 

And Nicky talking . . . always talking . . . about what he’d done or what he wanted to do, tales of stealthily slipping through the trees blending with boasts of penthouses, fast women and cars. 

 

Nicky bragging and Hutch worrying.

 

It was no different than when Starsky had awakened just a short while ago, finding his clearly exhausted friend sitting at his bedside, Nicky nowhere in sight.  He knew Hutch would never abandon him, but it irked him to find his friend proven right yet again about his brother.  Starsky desperately wanted to believe Nicky had his best interest at heart, but the younger man’s actions confirmed exactly what Hutch had been saying all along - - when it came right down to it, Nicky only thought about Nicky.

 

That realization, coupled with finding himself back in a hospital, had quickly soured Starsky’s mood. Having Hutch trying to cover for Nicky and spare his feelings only made it worse.  He knew he’d been short with his friend, but he also knew Hutch would get over it.  Besides - - maybe sending him from the hospital would make the blond detective get some much-needed sleep.  They were both fried - - nerves shot, tempers emotionally unstable. Hutch belonged with Janet, relieving some of his pent-up sexual tension from the last two weeks, not nurse-maiding an ailing partner.

 

Sick again.  Moodily, Starsky fingered his bandaged arm.  Wonder how long I’ll be doin’ desk duty this time.  He grimaced, annoyed to find himself incapacitated over something so stupid. A freakin’ night at a disco.  Eventually he’d have to start thinking about who was responsible for setting the blast and why, but right now he was too aggravated to concentrate.

 

He hated the feel of the hospital gown against his skin, the familiar weight of starchy sheets resting on his bare legs.  Even the drab oatmeal-colored walls brought back memories of long days and longer nights when he’d struggled for breath and mobility, the astringent reek of antiseptic making his head pound.  God, I hate this place!

 

“Hey, Davey!  Wow . . . you’re sitting up.”  Nicky breezed into the room with an airy smile, looking much like he hadn’t a care in the world.  There were a few scrapes on his cheek but he’d taken the time to clean up somewhere, brushing debris from his jacket and straightening his shirt.  His pants were ripped at the knee, but he’d scrubbed most of the dirt from the pricey white fabric. Unlike Hutch who clearly hadn’t slept or eaten, Nicky looked upbeat and refreshed.

 

“Where ya been?”  Starsky asked evenly.

 

The younger man shrugged.  “Just takin’ a moment to recharge.  That run really wiped me out,  big brother.  I got myself some food and a drink.  Cost me a bundle for a taxi, but I feel a helluva lot better.”  Grinning broadly, he plopped in the bedside chair, splaying his legs out as if he’d just run a marathon and deserved the extra comfort. “I checked with the nurse down the hall and she said you’re doin’ fine.”

 

Starsky frowned.  “You mean you flirted with the nurse down the hall.”

 

“Checked . . . flirted . . . what’s the difference?”  Nicky cocked his head, looking at him directly.  “Speaking of flirtin’, what happened to your shadow?”

 

Confused, Starsky stared blankly.  “Huh?”

 

“Hutch,” Nicky clarified.  “What happened to Hutch?  Every time I turn around he’s glued to your side like a clingy second skin.”

 

Surprised by the underlying venom in his voice, Starsky frowned.  “What the heck does that mean?”  He had an idea what it meant, but was surprised to hear the insinuation from his own brother.  He’d gotten so used to it from others, it rarely bothered him anymore.  Most of his co-workers and the guys on the force understood his relationship with Hutch, but there were always one or two who liked to stir up speculation.  For the most part he ignored them, but his brother was a different story.

 

“Look, Nick, you don’t get how it is between me and Hutch,” he said before the younger man had a chance to speak.  “I spend most of my day with him - - we’re partners and we’re friends.  You spend that much time with someone and you’re bound to be a little close.”

 

Nicky snorted.  “Davey . . . he’s always fawnin’ over you . . . touchin’ you . . .”

 

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Starsky stared.  “What are you sayin’?”

 

Uncomfortable, Nicky squirmed.  “Come on . . . you know what I’m sayin’ . . .”

 

“Oh, shit!”  Starsky laughed out loud.  “You think Hutch is gay!”  His anger evaporated, bludgeoned into submission by the absurdity of the notion.  He shook his head, incredulous, still laughing.  “That’s friggin’ priceless, Nicholas!  You couldn’t be further from the truth if you accused him of being an alien.”

 

“But . . .”  Nicky bristled. “He’s got tendencies toward - -”

 

“But nothing,” Starsky said, cutting off the foolishness before it could go any further.  “The only ‘tendencies’ Hutch has are towards women, and they’re all about gettin’ laid.  And if I know my partner, he’s horny as hell right now ‘cuz he ain’t been with his girl in almost two weeks.  Which he shoulda been last night, ‘cept he was too worried about me goin’ club-hoppin’ with you.”

 

“You let him fuss all over you,” Nicky persisted, making the accusation sound perverted.

 

Annoyed, Starsky stared at his brother.  “That’s just the way we are,” he explained.  “You don’t have to ‘get it’ to accept it.”  Pressing his mouth into a tight line, he remembered how selfless Hutch had been through the last eight months, whereas Nicky had rarely visited or called. And as Hutch had noted, on the rare occasions he did, his conversations had revolved solely around him.

 

Just like last night and this mornin’ - - Hutch sittin’ at my bedside while Nick is off somewhere gettin’ a drink and something to eat.   Now that he thought about it, he could smell alcohol on his brother’s breath and guessed the ‘drink’ amounted to a few beers at some sleazy bar. 

 

Still - - this was Nicky, his brother.  The kid who had grown up without his influence or the influence of a father.  For that Starsky could and would make allowances.  He shuffled his agitation aside.  “Don’t worry about Hutch, Nicky.  Our friendship is just a little too intense for most people.  You’ll get used to it eventually.”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Nicky muttered.

 

Uncertain he’d heard correctly, Starsky narrowed his eyes.  “What?”

 

“Nuthin’.  Nuthin’ that’s gonna matter anyway.  Besides - - I gotta tell you about the nurse I was talking to.  Man, what a fox!  She was soooo fine, Davey, and so freakin’ hot for me, we coulda put on a show right there in the hallway.  I got her number and we’re going out tonight- -”

 

“Tonight?”

 

“Yeah, you don’t mind, do ya?  I mean it’s not like you’re gonna be able to do anything anyway, laid up in here.”

 

“No. I guess not.”  Starsky tried not to let his disappointment show.  “I just thought maybe you’d come around and visit.  We ain’t seen each other in awhile, Nicky.  I thought we could catch up.”

 

“Hey, what do you think we’re doing now?”  Nicky flashed a showy smile. “I’d just be killin’ time tonight.  No reason for us both to be miserable, right?”

 

Inwardly, Starsky cringed. So spendin’ time with me equals bein’ miserable ‘cuz I’m stuck in a hospital?  God, Nick, you really are selfish as they come.  How the hell did you ever get so screwed up and self-centered in the first place?

 

Oblivious to the fact he’d said or done anything wrong, Nicky continued chatting happily, spelling out his plans for the evening and his date with the nurse, named Sally. After awhile his voice actually grated on Starsky’s nerves and he tuned him out, abruptly nauseous. It was one matter to realize his brother was irresponsible, another to learn he lacked any redeeming qualities.

 

Unfortunately, Nicky looked camped out for the duration of the morning, wholly intent on talking about himself.  Starsky instantly regretted sending Hutch from the room.  As minute slipped into minute and hour into hour, he found himself longing for the companionship of his always-attentive partner. When Janet showed up three hours later to see how he was feeling, he gratefully booted Nick into the hallway, glad for the interruption.

 

+++++

 

It was close to 10:00 a.m. when Hutch left Metro and headed for home.  He’s spent most of the morning tracking down all available information on the Jade Club and had traced the deed back to Rufus Lynch.  In custody at the time of the explosion, the developer was officially in the clear, but it reaffirmed a feasible and potentially solid connection to their current case.  The difficulty lay in tying it back to Brandi, and ultimately to Nick.  A warrant was issued to search Lynch’s headquarters despite the developer’s protests of being a “victim” who’d lost a sizeable investment property.  Hutch knew he’d have to get more detail from Nick on Brandi, and planned on having the younger Starsky detail her description for a police sketch artist.

 

In the meantime, he needed a few hours sleep and another shower before he headed back to the hospital to visit Starsky.  He’d considered calling his friend to see how he was doing, but had lost his nerve at the last minute and checked in with Janet instead.  She gave him an update and he told her he expected to be at the hospital somewhere around 3:00. 

 

He’d taken a cab to Metro, but gotten a lift from a fellow officer to his apartment.  Four hours of sleep and a shower later, he felt halfway human again.  He threw on a pair of navy cords and a yellow turtleneck, strapped on his gun, then shrugged into his black leather jacket and headed out the door.  He was just getting into his car when he sensed someone behind him. The barrel of a pistol jabbed into the small of his back.

 

“Let’s take a walk, Hutchinson,” an unfamiliar voice rumbled near his ear.  “Around back, into the alley.  I got a few friends anxious to meet ya.”

 

A large hand reached around his chest and withdrew the Magnum.  Hutch watched as it was tossed through the open door onto the floor of the Cutlass. He caught a glimpse of close-cropped brown hair and a broad pock-marked face in the sideview mirror as the door swung shut.  He’d barely registered the image before he was urged around the building, the gun wedged tightly against his spine.  Jerked to a rough halt a few feet into the alley, he found himself confronting two men, each approximately three inches taller than he was.  Built like professional wrestlers, their upper arms and chest buffed with slabs of muscle, one could have easily taken him down with a lucky shot, but three just wasn’t fair odds. The man on his right made a deliberate show of cracking his knuckles, grinning maniacally.  Hutch thought he looked vaguely familiar, a thug-for-hire he’d busted before.

 

“Hey, guys,” he mocked as coolly as he could.  “Tough luck, I’m all out of steroids.”

 

“No sweat,” the man behind him snickered.  “We’re after blood anyway.” 

 

A fist cracked across the back of his neck.  He staggered off balance, dropping to one knee.  Before he could recover, a second blow drove him facedown onto the blistered macadam.  He tasted road salt and street tar, felt the press of sun-heated asphalt against his cheek.  Dazed, he barely had time to suck in a breath before a steel-tipped workboot thudded into his ribs.  The kick flipped him onto his back and he instinctively wrapped his arms across his vulnerable middle. Then all three were on him at once, spitting insults and slurs with every blow, each more brutal than the last.

 

Unable to defend himself, Hutch curled into a protective ball, fervently praying the savage beating would end.

 

+++++

 

Starsky tuned out the perpetually perky voice of the TV weather girl and glanced at the clock on his bedside table.  6:23 p.m.  Hutch was over three-and-a half hours late if what he’d told Janet about returning to the hospital was true.  He could have fallen asleep or gotten tied up at the station, but the odds were against it.  Even if he’d been delayed, he would have called by now just to check up, regardless of their earlier friction. 

 

Restless, Starsky shifted on the bed and plumped the pillows at his back.  His doctors were slowly weaning him off morphine, replacing the potent painkiller with an oral narcotic.  As a result, the discomfort in his arm was manageable, but it carried a sharper edge than it had that morning.  It left him irritable and frustrated, his confinement to the hospital souring his already bleak mood.  He knew Nicky was off somewhere with Sally, his brother’s cavalier spirit undaunted by family responsibility.   

 

Dobey had called earlier to fill him in on everything Hutch uncovered regarding Lynch and to let him know the Torino had been towed to Merle’s shop.  He’d just had the car repaired eight months before and already it was facing major bodywork and parts-replacement all over again.  Any sane man would have seriously considered switching professions, but the damage to his body and vehicle only made him that more determined to get back on the street.

 

With another glance for the wall clock and a mounting flicker of worry that his blond friend had yet to make an appearance, Starsky pulled the phone from the table and dialed Hutch’s apartment.  There was a chance he’d been too abrasive when he’d told his partner to leave that morning.  Maybe Hutch was simply allowing him the space he’d selfishly insisted he’d needed. 

 

‘Cept how come he told Janet he’d be back here by 3:00?

 

Pressing the receiver against his ear, Starsky listened as the phone cycled through a series of brittle rings.  He counted twelve before he plunked the handset into the cradle and immediately dialed again.  Suddenly all he could think about was the Jade Club and the bomb blast meant to kill them both.  What if someone had set another bomb - - this one meant solely for Hutch?  He counted ten rings this time, then abruptly severed the connection.  “Damn it!”

 

“David.”

 

He jerked, startled to find Janet framed in the doorway.  With his hands still hooked around the phone, Starsky raised his head.  He felt a fierce stab of dread at the look on her face . . . knew instinctively something was wrong and that ‘something’ most assuredly involved Hutch.  

 

“What is it?” he demanded.  

 

Rather than answer, she took a step closer to the bed and he saw that she’d been crying.  Like a bolt of lightning, cold fear streaked through him.  His heart pushed into his throat, the blood-pulse of raw terror shrieking in his ears.  “Janet, what the hell’s goin’ on?  Is it Hutch?”  When she didn’t answer immediately, he thrust the phone aside and flung the sheets back, dead-set on ripping every floor of the hospital apart if that’s what it took to find the answer.

 

“Don’t.” Shaking her head, she lifted one trembling hand to her lips and swallowed back tears.  “Not yet, David.  He isn’t ready yet.  He isn’t even conscious.”

 

“What, the - -oh, fuck!”  His world crashed, tumbling down with the shocking weight of an avalanche.  His mind lurched into overdrive, conjuring one ghastly scenario after the next, all of them ending with Hutch crippled, maimed or worse.  “Tell me it isn’t bad,” he pleaded, terrified to learn the truth, desperate to know regardless.  Hutch.  Ohgod, Hutch, I’m so freakin’ sorry I wasn’t there.  “What happened?  Where is he?”

 

“He’s here . . . in the hospital.”  Regaining some of her composure, Janet moved to the bedside and reached for his hand.  Her grip felt desperate but uniquely reaffirming, giving and taking strength through the intensity of their shared bond - - commitment and devotion to a man they both loved. 

 

“An ambulance crew brought him in a few hours ago . . . he’s been in the ER most of that time.  A couple of kids found him in the alley just outside of his apartment.”  She bit her lip, fighting tears. “David, he’s um . . . he’s been beaten very badly.”  Drawing a shaky breath, she wiped a hand across her cheek, collecting a track of moisture and forced herself to continue.  “He has a couple of cracked ribs and a broken wrist . . . contusions and cuts, most definitely a concussion.  On the plus side there are no internal injuries, but a number of his organs are swollen and enlarged, especially his spleen.  He’s going to have to stay confined to bed until the swelling goes down.”

 

Starsky swallowed hard, each injury driving a flame-tipped nail into his gut.  Oh shit, buddy, oh hell, we got careless.  We shoulda known they wouldn’t just go away when that blast failed.  Forcing himself to concentrate, he looked into Janet’s tear-reddened eyes.  There was only one thing that mattered now and that was making sure Hutch knew he wasn’t alone. “Where is he?”

 

“We have him in a private room on the fifth floor.”

 

Agitated, Starsky shook his head.  “He doesn’t need a private room.  He needs me.  Find one and put us together.” 

 

She blinked, caught off guard by the blunt request.  “It’s not that simple.”

 

“The hell it’s not!”  Starsky grimaced, immediately regretting the outburst.  Janet didn’t deserve his anger.  She was obviously shaken herself, having discovered the man she loved, the victim of a vicious beating. “Look - - I’m sorry.” He lowered his voice, temporarily leashing his churning emotions.  “I don’t mean to take things out on you, but you know Hutch and you know me.  He’s hurt and he’s gonna be hurtin’ a lot more when he wakes up . . . and, um . . .” His eyes flitted away almost guiltily.  “He’s got a thing about morphine and drugs - -”

 

“I know all about that, David,” she said softly.  “ . . . about the heroin.”

 

Starsky blinked, surprised.  To the best of his knowledge, Hutch had never told any woman he’d dated about Forest and what the vindictive gangster had done to him. If he’d told Janet, then he really was in love, and more than love was probably contemplating marriage. 

 

Recovering, Starsky cleared his throat.  “Well, okay, then - - you ain’t seen him when he’s hurtin’ and needs medication, but I have.  He’s gonna kick up a ruckus and make himself worse.  I can keep him calm, probably even get him to take the morphine if you let me talk to him.  Face it, Janet - - he’s gonna heal a lot quicker if I’m there with him.  He got me through that mess with Gunther.  The least you can do is let me help him, since I’m stuck here too.”

 

“All right.”  Sniffling, Janet parted with a shaky nod and wiped aside more tears.  “I’ll work on getting it arranged.  It may take awhile though, David.  In the meantime, maybe you could say a few prayers.  I don’t understand the type of people who could do something so heinous, then just leave him there in the alley.  An officer met the ambulance at the scene and according to him, Ken wasn’t even mugged.  Whoever did this, did it out of sheer vindictiveness and spite.”

 

“Because he’s a cop,” Starsky said quietly and looked away.  Suddenly the job he was so anxious to keep wasn’t as golden as he’d once thought.

 

+++++

 

It was after 10:00 o’clock by the time Starsky was settled in a fourth floor room with Hutch.   There’d been some minor grumbling from the staff on his own floor that saw no legitimate reason to uproot him and move him to another location.  But a few choice words and a reprimanding glare from Janet quickly ended the muttering before it could spread.

 

When word leaked the blond-haired man in the window bed of Room 442 was Dr. Morrisey’s boyfriend of several months and that he’d suffered multiple injuries from a vicious beating, additional allowances were hastily made.  Suddenly there was no questioning Starsky’s presence in the door-side bed or his intervention in the man’s care - - all circumstances Dr. Janet Morrisey seemed to accept and acknowledge with gratitude.  Gossip circulated further when it became known the man - - Detective Kenneth Hutchinson of the Bay City Police force - - had likely sustained his injuries as the result of an attempted murder plot.

 

Several of Janet’s colleagues stopped by the room to offer encouragement and support, the long night dragging into the early hours of the morning. Dobey showed up with two uniformed officers in tow, one left standing guard at the doorway given what appeared to be two assassination attempts within the last twenty-four hours.  It was after midnight when the captain finally left and Janet fell into an exhausted sleep, curled up in a chair by Hutch’s bedside.

 

Starsky knew he should be resting as well.  His lower back was starting to bother him and the oral narcotics they’d given him just weren’t strong enough to effectively dull the ache in his arm.  Pinned snugly to his chest in a sling to prevent movement, the mangled limb flared with pain each time he shifted.  Like Janet, he’d drawn a chair close to Hutch’s bed, seated on the opposite side. 

 

Cloud-filtered moonlight bled through the open blinds, mingling with the mustard haze of outside streetlamps.  All the lights in the room had been switched off, but a waxy glow trickled in from the hallway, seeping through the partially opened door.  It splashed a narrow yellow cone across the foot of Hutch’s bed.  Heavily sedated, the blond detective lay on his back, his face turned in profile away from Starsky. 

 

His face was badly bruised, veined with ghastly patches of scarlet and plum splayed outward over his jaw and cheek.  The corner of his mouth was cut, a deep red gash marking the spot where the skin had split apart and bled profusely.  Surprisingly, there was no swelling around his eyes, but the usually smooth flesh above his brow was cracked and discolored.  Starsky didn’t have to see his chest and sides, hidden now beneath a light blue hospital gown, to know they bore signs of the same grisly bruising.  He’d seen Hutch when Janet had checked his injuries a short time ago - - knew that even his hips and thighs were bruised, a sure sign his friend had been kicked repeatedly. Hutch had several cracked ribs and a broken left wrist, the latter already set in a cast, but what scared Starsky the most was the potential of kidney failure and any latent damage arising from his enlarged spleen.  Janet had ordered a catheter to relieve pressure to his bladder and appeared thankfully optimistic the internal swelling would eventually subside without further complications.  

 

This wasn’t a simple beating, but one viciously designed to do the most damage.  It didn’t make sense that someone would try to kill Hutch at the Jade Club, then beat him senseless in an alley.  If the bomber wanted him dead, why hadn’t they killed him in the alley?

 

Unnerved by the whole experience and the thought of his friend in pain, Starsky scrubbed both hands over his face.  Was this going to become the pattern of their lives from now on - - botched assassination attempt after assassination attempt until someone finally got it right?   He’d survived Gunther, they’d both survived the Jade Club and now Hutch survived this, but how much longer would their luck hold? 

 

I should have been with you. 

 

Disturbed by the thought, Starsky gently grazed a knuckle across his friend’s battered cheek.  Lightly, he fingered a long strand of pale hair then traced one finger over the edge of Hutch’s mustache.  Even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to the facial hair and the way it transformed Hutch’s classical good looks from boyish charm to suave charisma.  He remembered Dr. Judith Kauffman saying Hutch had looked like a little boy when he was curled up sleeping, suffering from the plague.  That much was still true, golden bangs splayed over his forehead, one hand clutching a fistful of blankets and sheets as he slept.  Not even the presence of unsightly bruises could harden the classical lines of his face.  But the longer hair and mustache did what time could not - - visibly defining the man who’d grown world-wise and noticeably guarded in the last year and a half.  He still had a carefree surfer look to him - - all sun-gilded and blond, but there was a gauntness now too that hadn’t been present before. While Hutch hadn’t changed how he interacted with Starsky  - - if anything they’d grown closer - - he’d become markedly less open with others.  He still cared and responded with the same compassion that made him such a good cop, but his idealism was now tempered with reality.  He conceded issues easier than he had in the past, no longer chasing the airy Arthurian dreams of a visionary. 

 

He would always be the White Knight, but he was learning to accept some of the things he couldn't change.

 

Wrapped in the still hush of the room, Starsky listened to his partner’s even breathing, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.  He lowered his hand, molding it around Hutch’s shoulder, desperate to reaffirm their bond.  He’d felt guilty all day for the way he’d treated his friend that morning. His irritation at Nicky’s absence had bubbled over onto Hutch, who’d been completely undeserving of the behavior.  Just remembering the incident left Starsky wallowing in misery.

 

“I’m such a screw-up sometimes,” he whispered.  “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

 

Hutch wet his lips.  “Starsk?”

 

The rasp inquiry burst through Starsky like an explosion of wildfire.  Shocked, he held his breath, his body abruptly rigid.  “Hutch?” he ventured, certain he’d imagined the name.

 

His friend moaned softly and turned his head, attempting to shift on the bed.  Instantly, his breath caught in his throat, his face crumpling in pain.  “Uhgnn . . . ohgod, Starsk . . .”  One arm folded over his ribs, then swept lower to cradle his tender abdomen.  “I - -”

 

“Ssh.”  Hastily, Starsky stood, bending over the bed.  “Just take it easy, buddy.  I know everything hurts.  Try not to move around.”  Soothingly, he rubbed his hand over Hutch’s arm, the reassuring track of his fingers cementing their bond . . . transferring his own assurance of peace.  “That’s it,” he coaxed, noting Hutch made a visible effort to relax.  “Try not to breathe so deep.  You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs.”

 

He saw Hutch’s eyes wander to the cast on his wrist, then flick to the IV tubing snaking from his arm.  Reactionary panic flared in his eyes and he fumbled clumsily for the needle.  His breath whistled between his teeth in an audible hiss of alarm.

 

“Don’t!”  Starsky caught his hand before he could rip out the IV.  “Damn it, Hutch, it ain’t gonna hurt you.  Trust me, pal, you need it for the pain.”

 

“What  . . . is it?”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

“What is it?”  Hutch snapped, panicked.

 

Starsky sighed.  “Morphine.  But - -”  He said quickly when Hutch’s eyes rounded on him, wide with fear. “Janet administered it and she’s keepin’ tabs on the dosage.  You think I’d let anyone pump you full of shit, knowin’ how you feel about drugs?  Ah, Hutch, buddy . . .”  Just thinking about what his partner was feeling sent a hot streak of acid through his gut.   Damn Ben Forest for what he did to you all those years ago.  And damn the lowlife scum responsible for puttin’ you in this hospital bed.  “Babe, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, you know that.  Trust me, Hutch.”  His voice caught, cracked.  Ashamed, he lowered his eyes.  “I shoulda been with you today.  Shouldna said those things I said this morning . . .”

 

Breathing raggedly, Hutch fumbled for his hand. Starsky felt sweaty-sticky fingers close around his. “We  . . . would’ve  . . . both gotten our asses kicked,” Hutch said in a strained whisper.  Grimacing, he squeezed Starsky’s hand.  “Wish . . . wish I could be the strong silent type,” he gasped, “but it hurts like hell.”

 

“There’s always more morphine,” Starsky suggested.  His voice was light but the pain he felt showed on his face.

 

Hutch snorted.  “Ass.”

 

“Ssh - - you’ll wake the doctor.”  Managing a thin grin, Starsky indicated Janet, curled up and asleep in the bedside chair.

 

Hutch twisted his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of the woman he loved.  Groaning, he closed his eyes.  “Shit. I-I don’t want her seeing me like this.”  As soon as he said the words, he ground his teeth together, a spasm of pain contorting his features.  In the reflected glow of moonlight, his eyes were too blue, glittering with unnatural brightness as though fired from within. He twisted back toward Starsky, panting softly with pain, clearly trying to keep from waking Janet.

 

Concerned, Starsky leaned forward, brushing sticky strands of hair from his forehead.  “She’s been glued to your side, Hutch, ever since the ambulance brought you in.  You ain’t gonna get rid of her.  Just take it easy and let the morphine do its stuff.”

 

“Starsk - -”  Choking on the name, Hutch buried his face in the pillow, muffling a groan.  He stayed that way, tense and sweaty, breathing raggedly, one hand clamping down on Starsky’s uninjured arm. 
 

“It’s okay, babe.  I’m right here.”  Easing his lacerated arm from the sling, Starsky gingerly unfolded the stiff appendage and slid his fingers into Hutch’s hair.  A hot lick of pain scampered into his shoulder, but he bit his lip and kept his hand twined in the moon-gilded strands, unwilling to break contact.  Hutch’s fingers were clamped in a death-grip on his opposite wrist, clinging in mute desperation and need.  Starsky could feel him trembling, quietly fighting the incessant barrage of bone-sapping fatigue and residual pain.

 

“Ahh, buddy, I know you’re hurting . . .”  Starsky spoke softly, gently feathering aside long strands of platinum hair until he could see the curve of Hutch’s face - - the stark reality of battered skin offset by a lush veil of gold-tipped lashes.  Hutch quivered, silently managing the agony, each punishing shudder a testament to how badly he was hurting.  Unable to stomach the sight of his friend in such misery, Starsky exhaled loudly.

 

“This sucks, pal . . . really sucks.  I’m startin’ to think you were right all those months ago.  Maybe we don’t belong on the force any more.  Maybe we should just kick the whole shitty thing and think about doin’ something else.”  He leaned closer, his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Janet.  “You got a shot at a decent life, Hutch - - a woman who loves you, and who I think maybe you wanna marry.  How much longer you wanna be a target?  You almost got killed twice today.”

 

“Starsky . . .”  Hutch wet his lips, turning his head on the pillow.  Underlying pain made his eyes luminous and overly bright.  “I thought that way for a while too . . . decided I couldn’t watch you suffer anymore . . .”

 

“So let’s quit this shit . . . become travel agents or something.  See the world.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “Travel agents?”

 

“Yeah.  How else am I gonna meet some rich sophisticated woman who’s gonna sweep me off my feet and fall head-over-heels in love with me?”

 

Wearily, Hutch closed his eyes, but his lips curved in a purely affectionate grin.  “Gordo, you aren’t with a woman because you haven’t wanted to be with a woman in a long time.  Not in a relationship anyway.”

 

Starsky hedged.  He’d meant for his comeback to be light, sidetracking Hutch from his cocoon of constant pain, but his friend had struck a nerve too close to home.  Shrugging, he managed a short laugh, cringing when it came out hollow and tinny.  “Don’t know what you mean.”  To distract himself he smoothed a hand down his friend’s forearm, distressed to find a multitude of defensive bruises he hadn’t noticed before.  Damn, it ain’t fair.  He tried to protect himself and they still beat the crap outta him.

 

Hutch released his wrist, sliding his palm over Starsky’s hand where it rested on the mattress.  “Admit it, Starsk, you were too freaked over what happened with Gunther, but I think you’re ready now.  Too many Brendas and Bonnies and weekend girlfriends.”  Grimacing, he shifted onto his back trying to find a position where the pain wasn’t so demanding.  “Janet’s got a friend who’s been after her for a month to set up a double date.  We were gonna invite the two of you to dinner at her place, but I told her the timing wasn’t right.”

 

Intrigued despite his better judgment, Starsky tried to hide his interest.  He adjusted the pillows at Hutch’s back, careful to gently lift his friend’s head while he plumped the foamy padding.   “So the two of you are tryin’ to set me up on a blind date?” 

 

“No, dummy.”  Hutch gave a grateful sigh as Starsky eased him back into the mound of pillows.  “You’ve already met her once or twice.  Lee Riley - - black hair, blue eyes. . . Jewish mother, Irish father.  About as cross-pollinated on the religious angle as you are.” 

 

Starsky concentrated until he conjured the image of an attractive woman in her early thirties with a sleek twist of shiny black hair and ingenuous blue eyes.  “Yeah, I remember now.  I parked her in at Janet’s one time when I was pickin’ you up.  Ain’t she in sales or something?”

 

“Real estate,” Hutch said with a strangely bitter laugh.  “Like your brother.  She sold Janet her townhouse two years ago and they’ve been friends ever since.” 

 

“Hey, I like that!”  Starsky grinned broadly, the sound of his friend’s cynical laughter soaring over his head.  Across the bed, Janet shifted slightly in sleep, a soft whimper escaping her lips.  Quickly lowering his voice, Starsky turned his attention back to Hutch.  “So you and Janet can invite me for dinner and have Lee over at the same time - - but that still don’t solve our problem, partner.”  Humor fading, he studied his friend candidly.  “I’m serious, pal.  Someone tries to blow us up, then you get the shit beaten out of you not even twenty-four hours later.  It ain’t worth bein’ a cop anymore.  Tell me you got some kind of make on the scum who did this.”

 

Uncomfortable, Hutch looked away. 

 

Starsky read reluctance into his silence.  “Hey,” he prodded gently, settling one hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “What gives?  Did you make the guys or didn’t you?”

 

“One of them,” Hutch said. The strain of talking was beginning to show on his face, his skin growing sallow beneath the mottled web of bruises.  “He looked kind of familiar.  I think I busted him before - - big guy with no neck and droopy eyes . . . looks like he walked into a wind tunnel backwards.  I think he goes by Tork, or something like that . . . hangs out at that dive The Tops over on Warrington.”  He stopped suddenly, frowning.  “Starsk, you should be in bed.”

 

“I’m fine,” Starsky countered quickly.  Actually focusing on trying to make Hutch feel better and identifying the culprits had taken his mind off his own pain.  “I’ll sleep in a little bit, buddy.” 

 

Raising his hand, Starsky threaded it through Hutch’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead.  Part of him couldn’t stop touching, hanging onto the cherished friend he’d almost lost.  He’d been selfish earlier, shutting Hutch out about Nicky.  All he wanted to do now was reaffirm and strengthen the link that meant eternity to him . . . to somehow make his partner hurt less . . . to absorb and ease his discomfort in any manner he could.  “How many were there?” he persisted. 

 

If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure the thugs responsible for hurting Hutch were tracked down and thrown behind bars. Preferably in some ratty dank hole without a key.  “I know you’re tired, babe,” he soothed, still stroking Hutch’s hair, his fingers buried knuckle-deep in moon-silvered strands of ash and white-gold. “And I know you wanna rest, but the sooner we get a lead on these guys the better chance we have of nailin’ ‘em.”

 

Distinctly uncomfortable, Hutch twisted his head to the side and looked away. “Maybe later,” he whispered.

 

Starsky frowned, a cold prick of comprehension washing over him. “No, you don’t,” he said softly.   He’d known Hutch too long and too closely not to be able to read into his withdrawal.  Hutch wasn’t evading the topic because he was tired - - he was evading it because he was hiding something.

 

Abruptly suspicious, Starsky narrowed his eyes.  “What ain’t you tellin’ me?”

 

“Don’t.” Hutch paled, his gaze flighty and apprehensive.  Dragging an unsteady hand over his face, he squeezed his eyes shut.  “Don’t make me do this.  Please . . . not now . . .”

 

Starsky’s heart thumped upward into his throat, gripped by panic.  What could possibly be so bad Hutch wouldn’t talk about it . . .would plead to avoid discussing it?  “Babe, what is it?”  Sickened by worry, his imagination running wild, Starsky leaned forward and clasped his wrist.  “Did something else happen?  Did they  . . . did they hurt you in some other way you ain’t tellin’ me?  Hutch, you’re scarin’ me.”

 

“No.”  Miserable, Hutch shook his head.  “It’s nothing like that.”  With a grunt of effort, he raised his left hand, his arm weighted by the recently applied wrist cast and gripped Starsky’s fingers.  Too exhausted to hold on, he gave a gentle squeeze and sank back into the pillows.  “There were three of them,” he said in a strained whisper.  “Tork, and another guy with a scar across his face.  He’s the one that got me as I was getting into my car . . . came up behind me and shoved a gun in my back.  We, um . . .” Hutch licked his lips, struggling to continue.  “ . . . went into the alley.  That’s were Tork was waiting with another guy I’ve never seen before.”

 

“Did they say anything?”  Starsky asked intently, desperate to decipher what occurred and why Hutch was so reluctant to discuss it.  “Did they say why they were doin’ it?”

 

“Not at first.”  Hutch closed his eyes again, a look of pure pain crossing his face.  “I didn’t even get a chance to think, Starsk.  They were just all over me.  B-But th-they said s-some stuff . . .”  Grimacing, he broke off, both arms wrapping impulsively over his middle as if to protect himself from phantom blows.

 

Starsky zeroed in on the reaction and tell-tale stutter, a sure sign something was gravely wrong.  “It’s okay,” he soothed, one hand instinctively palming Hutch’s forearm. He tracked his thumb over the bruised flesh, rubbing reassuringly.  “We’re gonna get the guys who did this to you, buddy, I promise.  First the Jade Club, then this.  They can’t get away with it.”

 

Miserable, Hutch glanced at his partner. “Starsk, what happened to me in that alley had nothing to do with the Jade Club.  I-I didn’t get beat up because I’m a cop.”  He gulped down a breath, the thread of apprehension in his gaze growing stronger, swelling into silent fear.  “I-I got beat up b-because I’m your fr-friend.”

 

Starsky blinked, unable to make a connection between what Hutch was telling him and what had happened.  Confused, he shook his head.  “No, buddy.  You’re not thinkin’ straight right now, that’s all.  I shouldn’t be pushin’ you like this.”  Beneath his fingertips he could feel the rapturous bond of warm flesh, the giddy thrum of Hutch’s pulse, racing much too fast. He knew Hutch was panicking, worked up over something he couldn’t explain.  “Just take it easy, babe.”

 

“Starsky, listen to me,” Hutch said firmly, the marked effort of concentration plain on his face.  He kept his voice low so he wouldn’t wake Janet, but the hesitation was gone, as if he’d come to a conclusion.  “The whole time those creeps were pounding me, they were saying things - - ugly things.  About how I needed to back off from a certain friendship . . . called me things like queer and fag.”  Now he did falter, wrapping his left arm tightly over his ribs, drawing the IV tubing taut.  A sheen of perspiration clung to his cheeks, his skin alarmingly ashen beneath the bruising.  “Starsky, I hated what th-they said about our friendship . . . made it sound perverted and ugly.  I . . .”  He grimaced, clearly distraught over the vile memory.  “ . . . at first I th-thought it was just  someone wanting to bust up our partnership . . . like we were getting too close to s-something . . . maybe to do with Lynch, you know?  But it didn’t make sense for them to call me the things they did . . . t-to talk about our friendship instead of our jobs as cops.”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed softly.  He tracked his hand across Hutch’s cheek, wiping aside the unhealthy sheen of sweat.  Inside he boiled, one step shy of violent eruption.  He wanted to lash out - - strike, pound, hurt someone for the appalling cruelty Hutch had suffered.  God help those slimy bastards if I ever get my hands on ‘em.  To Hutch he spoke gently.  “Just forget about it now, buddy.  We’ll figure it out later.  I don’t wan’ you talkin’ about it anymore.”

 

“Starsky, you don’t understand.”  Agitated, Hutch tried to sit straighter.  “It wasn’t about Lynch, or any other case.  When they were done, they stood around and laughed about it, thinking I was unconscious.  They talked about the guy who’d paid them off.  It was Nicky, Starsk.”  With a tortured moan, Hutch slumped back into the pillows.  “I’m so sorry, Starsk.  It was Nick.”

 

Starsky froze.  It took him a moment to realize Hutch was actually apologizing for getting the crap beat out of him . . . a moment longer to realize he was accusing Nicky of setting the whole thing up. 

 

Of course it wasn’t Nick.  Hutch was just whacked out his head, not thinking straight from the double cocktail of mind-altering morphine and pain.  For a quicksilver splinter of time, Starsky’s mind simply refused to function.  No dice.  No way.  Not Nicky.  When he could think semi-rationally again he wasn’t sure if he should laugh at the absurdity of the ridiculous scenario, pity Hutch for his confusion, or lash back in anger.

 

No, not anger.  He doesn’t deserve that.  He’s hurt and he’s messed up. He just ain’t thinkin’ straight.    

 

“Kenny?”

 

Janet’s voice delayed any immediate decision.  He blinked stupidly across the bed, watching as the leggy doctor uncurled from her slumber. Disoriented, she looked down on Hutch, stretching forward to gently touch his face, his hair.  “Oh, Kenny, thank God!”  Relief tangled with raw emotion in her voice.  Gently, she touched his cheek, tears spilling onto her own.  “I was so worried . . .”

 

Feeling like an intruder, Starsky pushed himself from the chair, his body awakening with the aches and pains he’d studiously denied during his long bedside vigil.  Nicky.  No way, Hutch.  You don’t know what you’re sayin’.  

 

Pulling the privacy curtain between the beds, he slumped to a seat on the edge of his own. Even then he could hear Janet’s quiet sobbing, Hutch’s whispered assurances that he’d be fine, that he loved her.  Curling onto his side, he laid on the bed, slipping his stiffening arm back into the sling. Even then he couldn’t stop the thoughts, his mind hustling into overdrive:  Why would a couple of street thugs call Hutch “queer” and “fag?”  His friend was good-looking, a little on the pretty side for a man, but common variety goons usually didn’t go that route.  As a rule, beating up a cop generated slurs like “pig” or the ever popular “mother-fuckin’ pig” for the snide and long-winded.  And why dredge their friendship into it?

 

Feeling suddenly queasy, Starsky closed his eyes.  It was quiet on the other side of the curtain, making him think there was some gentle kissing going on. 

 

Nicky had been stupid enough to misinterpret their friendship.  And as much as Starsky wished it were otherwise, Nicky didn’t like Hutch.

 

But he wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .he don’t even know anyone out here . . .how could he hire some guys?

 

But he’d vanished for awhile and came back later smelling of beer and cigarette smoke.  And Hutch - - much as he disliked Nicky - - would never make such a shocking accusation unless he was certain of his facts.  But he’s messed up.  He was lyin’ in an alley, barely conscious.  He coulda heard wrong, got confused about what was said.  Yeah, that’s it - -

 

Even as he tried to convince himself, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach spread roots and grew stronger.  Oh, Nicky.  Shit, Nicky, tell me you didn’t do this.

 

Groaning, Starsky turned his face into the pillow.  He wanted to curse out loud, but in the gentle quiet of the room with Janet and Hutch only a few feet away, all he could do was suffer in silence.

 

And pray he was wrong.

 

+++++

 

Hutch slept most of the morning and into the afternoon.  He woke once or twice to find an LPN or Janet fussing over him.  While she allowed the nursing staff to monitor his vitals and check his IV, she handled his personal care herself - - checking his wounds, applying salve to the worst of his bruises, helping him refresh with a sponge bath.  He’d wanted the catheter off, going so far as to tell her to “get the damn thing out of me” but the order did little good and he didn’t have the strength to pursue it.  The morphine IV had been replaced that morning with an intravenous antibiotic.  Since then he’d been on a potent oral narcotic that left him more than a little dazed.  He would have protested the drug but he knew Janet, like Starsky, would never let him be given anything that might become habit forming.

 

He’d caught a glimpse of his reflection in the blank TV screen mounted on the far wall and knew his face was horribly discolored, the right cheek swollen down to his jaw, his bottom lip cut and split in the corner, a deep gash above his eyebrow.  The left side bore little damage, only a faint, feathery bruise at the crest of his cheekbone.  But his left side had stood the brunt of kicks and hard-shoed stomps, the reason his wrist had been broken and his ribs and hip throbbed mercilessly even now. Surprisingly, though his spleen was enlarged, his right side didn’t hurt nearly as bad.

 

He had hoped to see Starsky when he woke, but his moments of lucidity were few and far between.  He had a vague memory of sunlight streaming bright and golden onto the bed, his friend beside him, speaking softly and stroking his hair.  He wished he knew if the memory was dream or reality, but the morphine had muddled everything together in his mind.  He remembered telling Starsky about Nicky, but hadn’t been able to see his friend since.  That absence worried him more than the gnawing pain in his ribs and the crippling ache that banded across his stomach every time he moved.

 

Was Starsky angry with him?  Had he flat out refused to believe what Hutch had told him?  Would he side with Nick if the younger man denied it?

 

“It’s hopeless,” he whispered aloud, dropping his head into the cushioning mound of pillows at his back.  Moodily, his eyes tracked to the wall clock, noting it was 2:15.  Starsky had started therapy today for his lower back and arm.  At least that’s what Janet had told him when she showed up to fuss over him just half an hour ago.  She’d looked exhausted, circles under her eyes, her long hair caught in a disheveled pony tail, lines of worry etched around her mouth.  Her normally precise lab jacket was wilted and unkempt.  He’d told her to go home and get some real sleep but she’d stubbornly refused, telling him she didn’t trust any other doctor to oversee his care and as long as she was at the hospital she would keep to her regular rounds as much as possible. 

 

Stubborn.  Just like Starsk.

 

He loved that about her, knew that he’d been dancing around the marriage thing for far too long.  Janet wasn’t Vanessa, and while she’d made it clear she loved him and would wait for him, it wasn’t fair to put their future on hold because of his insecurities.  She knew what he was - - a cop - - and yet she still loved him.  There’d been no temper tantrum last night, no histrionics about finding a safer line of work.  She understood it was his passion just as medicine was hers.

 

And now he understood it too.  All the upheaval of the last two days aside, law enforcement was his chosen profession.  True, he’d almost gotten blown up and Starsky had been seriously hurt at the Jade Club, but he’d gotten beat up in an alley just for being who he was - - Starsky’s friend.  That incident had nothing to do with his career.  In fact, it was being a cop that would allow him to track down the thugs responsible and see they were brought to justice.  They’d made no attempt to hide their faces, clear indication of their arrogance or stupidity, maybe a bit of both.  Or maybe they planned on skipping town after collecting whatever it was Nicky had promised them.  Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to let it go and he wasn’t going to rely on some other officer to track them down, shoving the case to the bottom of a stagnating work pile at first snag.

 

 Someday he’d probably turn in his badge and become a consultant or private investigator (assuming Starsky wanted to make a go of it with him) but that day was still a long time in the future.

 

And speaking of futures, the moment he was back on his feet he vowed to quit screwing around and buy Janet an engagement ring.  In a few years maybe he could even give his parents grandchildren.  The thought was shockingly pleasant - - the idea of being a father, of having a family.  Suddenly his insecurities about Vanessa and his failed first marriage seemed foolish.

 

“Davey?”

 

Hutch gave a startled jerk, his eyes darting to the doorway.  Nick strolled into the room, apparently looking for Starsky.  The younger man glanced first to the vacant bed by the door before looking around the privacy curtain to Hutch.  A smug smile flickered over his lips, gone too quickly for Hutch to truly register. 

 

“Oh, hey, Hutch.”  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Nick feigned nonchalance.   He strolled closer to the bed.  “I stopped by Davey’s room on the other floor and one of the nurses told me what happened . . . why he got moved up here.  Um, it looks like you got messed up pretty bad.”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch ground his teeth together.  He thought about just blurting out what he knew and confronting Nick about hiring the thugs but decided the timing was wrong.  Nick would just deny any knowledge and protest his innocence. “Your brother’s in therapy.”

 

“I can wait.”  Nick wandered to the foot of the bed, staring openly.  His eyes lingered on Hutch’s face and broken wrist, the IV tube snaking from his arm and the catheter hanging over the side of the bed.  He looked away but not before Hutch caught the flicker of a snidely gloating grin. “So I guess even cops aren’t invincible, huh?  You’re probably gonna be laid up for awhile . . . need to back off the force and partnering with Davey.”

 

Hutch felt a stab of irritation.  “No, Nick, that’s not how it works with me and Starsk.”  He kept his voice hard, unwilling to let his growing fatigue or pain show. “We don’t partner with other cops, so he’ll do desk duty for as long as it takes me to get back on my feet.  He’s gonna be laid up with his arm out of commission anyway.  We’ll probably end up spending more time together than we do already.”  He grinned, inwardly pleased by Nick’s startled reaction.

 

“Huh?” the younger man gaped.  “I mean . . . I thought you’d . . . you’d - -”

 

“What?”  Hutch prompted.  His smile turned sharp.  “You thought Starsk and I would just abandon each other?  You’re an ass, Nick.  I don’t know where you got the money to pay those guys off, but it’s no surprise you didn’t have the balls to face me yourself.  I always knew you were a coward.”

 

Nick colored furiously. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he hissed, his face screwed up in outrage. “And you got no reason to insult me.  I always did right by you Hutch.”

 

“Oh, that’s a gem!”  Hutch laughed bitterly.  “You call payin’ three guys to beat the shit out of me, doing ‘right’?”

 

Trapped, Nick shook his head.  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, and I don’t like being accused of - -.”

 

“Stuff it, Nick!”  Hutch spat angrily. Even hurting he managed to pull off intimidation, savoring Nick’s reaction when he visibly flinched.  “I overheard them - - all three of them when they thought I was unconscious.  They mentioned you, called you ‘Starsky’s whiny little brother’ . . .  said you paid for a half-assed beating and that was all you were gonna get for the dough you spent. See, I busted one of those guys before.  They already knew who I was . . . knew who Starsky was.  You must have fed them a load of shit about what a queer I was, huh?  Is that how you see me and your brother?  Does that piss you off, Nick?”  He grinned acidly. “Well, guess what, asshole?  I do love him, but not like that, you sick pervert.  How could you even think that about your own brother?”

 

“Shut up!”  Nick clamped his mouth shut.  For a minute he looked like he would deny everything then his eyes grew cold and malignant, anger thinning his lips in a white line.  “Okay,” he spat.  “I came out here to get Davey away from you . . . made up all kinds of trash about what a big deal I was back home.  Yeah, I tried to do the honest thing - - took that damn real estate test and even sold houses for a while.  But you know what?  It sucked!  So no, I don’t got any big time penthouse or flashy car or girls fallin’ all over me, hot to get in my pants, but Davey’s my brother!  I came out here with flash money I won on the horses and made up a bunch of shit, figurin’ he’d come home if he thought I was successful . . . if he thought he had a shot at another life in New York.  Without you, Hutchinson!  You make me wanna puke, you blond fag.”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “You are such an ass, Nick.  If you weren’t Starsky’s brother I’d take you apart.”

 

“Don’t let that stop you.”  Gloating, Nick puffed up to his full height, his mouth curling as his eyes flecked disdainfully over Hutch.  “But then I ain’t the one in a hospital bed with a plastic tube shoved up his dick.  Yeah, I paid those guys to beat the shit out of you and my only regret is not being there to see them do it!”

 

“You piece of filth, gutless bastard!”

 

The words were low, cold as ice, spoken directly behind Nick.  Shocked, Hutch looked to the edge of the privacy curtain, still partially closed.  “Starsk.”  The name slipped from his lips on a startled hiss of air.  Judging by the livid anger on Starsky’s face, he’d been in the room for some time. 

 

“Davey - - ”  Panicked, Nick started to turn.

 

But he never got any further.  Starsky drove his fist into his brother’s face, sending him sprawling.  Before he could recover, Starsky lurched forward, fisted his hand in the front of Nick’s shirt and hauled him to his feet.  “How could you?” he snarled, giving the younger man a vicious shake.  “I trusted you!  Made excuses for you!  Believed in you even when I shouldn’t have, and this is how you repay me?  You hurt the one person who means more to me than anyone else?  God, Nick!” Starsky thrust him backward against the wall.  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?  Those guys could’ve fuckin’ killed Hutch!” 

 

“Starsk, let him go,” Hutch said.

 

“Bullshit!” Dragging his bandaged arm from the sling, Starsky brutally backhanded Nick across the face.  “You’re done, you hear me, Nick?  You’re goin’ down for this!  I will personally make sure you do time.  I will personally be there to see you locked up.  And I will personally make sure you serve every friggin’ day you deserve, you spineless sonuvabitch!”

 

“No!”  Nick shook his head violently.  “All I wanted was for you to care about me the way you care about him!  But you couldn’t do that, could you, Davey?”

 

Starsky struck him again.  “You ain’t turnin’ this back on me.  You stupid shit!  Hutch would have been your friend, bent over backwards to do anything for you, if you hadn’t been so damn selfish and underhanded . . . if you’d only had a shred of decency in that black hole you call a heart.”

 

Nick was sobbing now.  “Give me another chance,” he pleaded.  “God, Davey, I didn’t mean it.  Really - - I was out of my head, remember?  I thought he was gay.  I didn’t know . . . I didn’t understand.” 

 

“Get out of here.”  Starsky flung him toward the doorway, stalking behind him and calling for the uniformed officer in the hall.  “Cuff this bastard and take him to Metro,” Hutch heard him tell the patrolman. “I’ll file charges later, but you can start with conspiracy and accessory to attempted murder.”

 

Drained, Hutch slumped back against the bed, his heart beating a jackhammer cadence in his chest.  He waited, tense and sweaty, listening to the door sweep shut.  In the sudden silence and engulfing stillness of the room he felt a momentary stab of fear.  Would Starsky ever look at him the same way again, knowing he was responsible for driving Nick away?  He knew his friend had to be hurting over the bust up, however angry he was at Nick.  More than anything Hutch longed to comfort Starsky and offer solace, but he was afraid he’d be rebuked. He was responsible, after all, for everything that had just happened.

 

As if on cue, Starsky appeared at the edge of the privacy curtain. His eyes burned with anger and Hutch immediately perceived that smoldering rage directed at him. His stomach flip-flopped, bowled over by a sharp wave of misery.  “Starsk . . . I’m sorry.  I-I didn’t mean f-for you to overhear - -”

 

“Hutch, will you fuckin’ stop apologizin’!”  Starsky exploded.  As soon as the words were out of his mouth his face contorted.  With a strangled cry he dropped into the bedside chair, blindly reaching for his friend.  A sob broke from his throat.  Shuddering, he buried his face against Hutch’s chest, clinging for all he was worth.  “My fault,” he choked.  “My own brother . . . ohgod, babe, I’m sorry . . .it hurts so bad . . .”

 

Feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes, Hutch looped his right arm around Starsky’s shoulders, hugging him close.  Hot pulses of pain throbbed behind his temples, the ugliness and turmoil of the last few minutes exacting a brutal toll.  “It’s okay, buddy,” he soothed, his voice thin and unsteady. “What Nick did is never gonna change anything between us.”  Thankful for the physical contact, he rubbed a hand down Starsky’s arm, soaking in the familiar closeness.  Half fearful, he forced the remaining thought:  “As long as you don’t let it.”

 

Tilting his head, Starsky stared up at him. His face was wet, streaked with tears, his eyes soft and uncertain.  “Hutch, you don’t think - -”  He swallowed hard, struggling to formulate the thought.  “It hurts to know I’ve lost Nick for good, but  . . . it hurts a lot worse knowin’ he was responsible for hurtin’ you.  Hutch, you don’t really think I’d let him get between us . . . after Gunther, after nine years of friendship?”

 

“No.”  Relieved, Hutch brushed a mass of black curls from his forehead.  “I wish it could be different, Starsk,” he whispered, fatigue and pain tugging on his eyelids.  “For you and Nicky.”  His eyes dipped, noting how Starsky cradled his damaged arm close to his body.  “You messed up your arm, didn’t you?” he chided softly. This time he tugged on a curl, a wondrous familiarity he would never take for granted, never find commonplace.  That Starsky allowed him such closeness and allowed it willingly spoke volumes about their comfort level with each other.  “I think you should get back in bed, Starsk.”

 

“Too far,” Starsky groused and laid his head on Hutch’s chest.  Within seconds his eyes drifted shut, lines of pain and contention fading from his face.  “Hutch?”

 

“Yeah?”  the blond detective asked quietly, absently threading his fingers through Starsky’s tousled hair.

 

“You really gotta work on that apologizin’ thing.  I didn’t mean to snap at you.  It just makes me crazy when you do that, like everything’s always your fault.”

 

“Okay.”  Hutch smiled fondly, affection for his partner momentarily replacing the steady influx of low-level pain.  With Starsky huddled against his chest, falling asleep, he was almost deliriously comfortable, something he hadn’t felt in days.  He closed his eyes, surprised to find there were no more leering faces or remembered taunts resurrected like a grisly nightmare in his memory.  Foggy images of being trapped in the alley, unable to defend himself no longer had the power to wound and terrify.  Content, he let his hand slide down the back of Starsky’s neck.  Thick curls brushed his skin, the touch sheer bliss to carry him into a restful, dreamless sleep.

 

+++++ 

 

Five days later Hutch sat in bed, anxious to leave the hospital and return home.  Starsky had been discharged two days ago, his arm still in a sling but healing nicely.  Twice-a-week therapy would keep him on the mend, while forced rest in the hospital had reduced his cough to a sporadic annoyance, nothing more. 

 

Hutch was feeling better himself, though his body was still stiff and unresponsive. The worst of the pain had passed, his medication reduced to a prescription strength dose of ibuprofen. The catheter came out three days ago and he was managing the bathroom on his own. Janet had bought him a comfortable new pair of dark green pajamas and brought his orange robe from home along with a stack of magazines and some paperbacks. Unfortunately, he was sick of reading, sick of watching TV, sick of limping up and down the hall and tired of making small talk in the solarium with the other patients on his floor.  But worst of all, he was sick of the swill that got shoved under his nose three times a day and passed for food.  If he had to look at another plate of processed meat, plastic vegetables and green Jello he was sure he’d vomit.

 

It was absurd when he thought about it.  He was sleeping with his doctor, yet still couldn’t coerce her into signing his release, all his calculated charm falling flat. The problem with being so completely in love was that he was also at Janet’s mercy, however much he wanted to pretend otherwise.  Right now she was treating him as a patient, not a lover, a situation he hoped to rectify as soon as possible.  Bored and disgusted, he made a halfhearted attempt at working the daily crossword puzzle in the Bay City Dispatch.  

 

“Hey!” Grinning broadly, Starsky breezed into the room, looking more like himself than he had in days.  Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a blue knit shirt and his worn brown leather jacket, he appeared remarkably upbeat.  A dark blue sling held his right arm snug against his chest, but he didn’t seem bothered by the restriction. “How’s the patient?” he asked.

 

“Bored,” Hutch complained, but managed a smile. Starsky’s company was a welcome distraction, easily surpassing the Dispatch, TV, King’s latest paperback, and the tedium of counting ceiling tiles for the umpteenth time.  “I’m hoping Janet signs me out today.  If she doesn’t, I’m ready to do it myself.”

 

“And piss off your doctor?”  Starsky plopped into the bedside chair.  “That ain’t smart, Hutch.  She’ll cut off your sponge baths - - or at the very least lock you out of her bedroom.”

 

“Funny.” Hutch smirked.  “You’re a real wit, Starsk, you know that?”  He gave his friend a light cuff on the head. “Besides - - the bedroom’s gonna have to wait for awhile.”  Wanting to go home and sprawl on his couch was one thing, but he was realistic enough to know he didn’t have the stamina for much else, including intimacy with Janet. He still tired easily from a walk to the solarium, and as much as he hated the dependency, was downing 800 milligrams of ibuprofen twice a day.

 

Starsky pulled the crossword puzzle from his hands. “Then I guess you’ll just have to stick with this kind of stimulation for awhile.” He eyed the half completed puzzle.  “Hmm . . . let’s see . . . eighteen down: Rate of recurrence.  Nine letters, starts with ‘F.’”  Biting his bottom lip, he stared at the paper thoughtfully. 

 

“Frequency,” Hutch returned blandly after a moment’s pause.

 

Starsky’s eyes widened.  “Hey - -“  Snatching Hutch’s pencil, he leaned forward on the rollaway table and hastily scribbled in the letters.  “ - - that college degree really was good for something.  It fits!  Damn, this is excitin.’ Better’n watchin’ paint dry.”  

 

Hutch gave a short snort of laughter.  “Then how ‘bout you stay here and do the crossword and I’ll go home and water my plants?”  He eyed Starsky critically, a suspicious thought forming.  “You did water my plants?”

 

“Yes.”  Starsky parted with a sigh of extreme patience, curly head still bent over the puzzle.  “Even that spiny thing by the piano.”

 

“It’s an aloe plant, Starsk.  What about the fichus?”

 

“The what’sit?”

 

“The tree in the corner,” Hutch clarified.  “The tall one in the rattan planter.”

 

“Oh.  Yeah, even that one.” Bored with the paper, Starsky shoved it aside and leaned back in the chair.  “I watered ‘em all, Hutch.  Even talked to that fluffy thing with the striped leaves on the terrace you’re always fussin’ over.  And I adjusted the blinds, just like you wanted. If anything dies, it ain’t my fault.  Janet was there gettin’ your robe and a few other things, so I had plenty of adult supervision.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “Thanks, Starsk.” The thought of his friend assisted by the woman he planned to marry was surprisingly heartwarming.  Slumping lower into the pillows, he relaxed, momentarily shoving aside his agitation at being confined.  Part of him wanted to ask about Nick but simply didn’t have the nerve.  If Starsky wanted to talk about his brother, he’d broach the subject eventually.  “How’s your arm?” he asked.

 

Starsky eyed the sling and flexed his fingers.  “Gettin’ there.  Therapist says I should be able to ditch the sling in another week.  Maybe till then you’ll look half human again too.”  Leaning forward, he gripped Hutch by the chin and tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing the discoloration on his cheek and jaw.  “Hmm  . . . yellow, purple, green and black. You got a regular rainbow goin’ on there, buddy.  Does it hurt?”

 

“No.”  Self-conscious, Hutch lowered his eyes.  “It looks worse than it feels.” 

 

Starsky released him, pausing long enough to ruffle his hair.  “I saw Nick today,” he ventured.

 

Hutch swallowed hard, hesitant to meet his partner’s eyes.  Instead he focused on a stray thread poking from the edge of the blanket.  He felt like an idiot, unsure of what to say.  How was he?  How’d it go?  Did he whine and call you Davey . . . make you think he was some poor misguided sap?  “I’m sor - -” he started to say then caught himself.  Apologizing wouldn’t change what happened, even if he did feel partially to blame. Aware Starsky was watching him closely, he met his friend’s gaze and awkwardly cleared his throat.  “I guess that was pretty rough,” he offered lamely.

 

“Not really.”  Conscious of his hesitation, Starsky laid a hand over his wrist where it rested on the bed.  His fingers tightened, giving Hutch’s arm a gentle squeeze.  “We talked about Brandi and the Jade Club and I think I made the connection.”

 

Surprised, Hutch looked up sharply.

 

“Nick told you he passed the real estate exam, right?”  Starsky prompted.  “And that he worked as a salesman for awhile before deciding it took too much effort?”

 

Hutch nodded blankly, unsure where the conversation was headed. 

 

“Well, it turns out the guy Nick worked for in New York is Kurt Lynch - - younger brother and devoted sibling of our boy and suspected murderer, Rufus Lynch.  A couple of phone calls between ‘em and they pieced together the fact Nick and I are related.  Real stroke of genius, right?  So Kurt gets wind Nick was comin’ out to visit me and tells his brother - -”

 

“ - - who arranges for Brandi - - probably a girlfriend,” Hutch inserted following the logic.  “- -to show up at LAX with passes for the Jade Club.  Nick, being Nick, thinks she’s hot for him, totally clueless he’s really being set up - -”

 

“ - - and we use the extra tickets to walk right into the blast as planned,” Starsky finished.  “Nice, neat package, except the explosion wasn’t strong enough.  Bomb squad says not all the detonators went off or we’d be toast right now, Nicky included.  And you wanna hear the real kicker?  Aside from being a bogus nightclub, the Jade Club doubles as a hub for high-end prostitution.  Corporate level . . . white-collar guys and politicians.  Looks like Brandi really was one of Lynch’s girls in every sense of the word.”

 

Hutch raised a brow.  “Think you can make it stick?”

 

“All of it,” Starsky confirmed.  “Baker and Sullivan already picked up Brandi and she’s lookin’ to deal with the D.A.  Said she was a witness when Lynch wasted his partner too . . . can even point us to the murder weapon.”

 

Hutch gave a low whistle.  “Good work, partner.  Looks like you’re back in the swing of things.”

 

“Yeah, well . . .”  Starsky shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable.  “You didn’t ask about the guys who jumped you.”  Idly, he rubbed Hutch’s arm, his eyes dipping momentarily.  Sudden tension etched lines around his mouth.  “We got them too.  Nick fessed up about the whole deal and fingered all three of ‘em.  Guess he thought I’d go easier on him, but I’m done with the little shit.   It’s like . . .”  He wet his lips, searching for the right words.  “Like I don’t even know him, Hutch.  He’s some kinda stranger.  When I think about how screwed up his morals are, I wanna puke.  My dad mighta had some grays in his life, but he knew right from wrong.  He was a good cop.  He’d be sick to learn how Nick turned out.”  Starsky lowered his eyes.  “I had to tell Ma.  She took it hard.”

 

“Starsky, I’m sorry.”  This time Hutch couldn’t stop the apology, didn’t want to.  He placed his hand over his friend’s, offering what support he could.  “I wish it could’ve been different.”

 

“Me too.” Shaking off his moodiness, Starsky sat up straighter.  “It doesn’t matter. Nick made his choice and I made mine.”  He flashed a loopy grin.  “Never was any doubt who I’d side with, Blondie, I hope you know that. Sad truth is me and Nick are virtual strangers and he never made an effort to change that.  I should have seen what he was a long time ago, but I let myself make excuses for him. I just wanna shove it behind me and get on with our lives.”

 

“Does that include staying on the Force?” Hutch asked evenly.

 

Caught off guard, Starsky blinked.  “Hell, Hutch whatever you wanna do is fine with me.  I overacted when you got beat up, but, um . . . seein’ you lyin’ there like that - -”

 

“Now you know a little of how I felt after Gunther,” Hutch countered softly.  “I’m not ready to retire yet or turn in my badge, buddy.  The only thing I’m gonna do for sure is buy an engagement ring and hopefully ask you to be my best man in a few months.”

 

“I knew it!”  Starsky grinned goofily.  “It’s about friggin’ time, Hutchinson.”  He leaned forward.  “Does Janet know?”

 

“Not yet.”  Comfortable, Hutch slid down into the pillows mounded behind him.  Feeling supremely satisfied, he laced his hands over his stomach and grinned. “I can’t believe I’ll be adding another doctor to the family.  My dad’s gonna be impossible, gloating for weeks when he finds out.  I can hear him now . . . telling me it’s karma or something.”

 

“You’re assuming she’s gonna say yes,” Starsky pointed out.  “You know . . . you ain’t exactly the easiest person to live with.  We’ve done enough overnight cases that I can honestly say you ain’t all that pretty and charmin’ in the mornin’.  Truth is, you’re kinda like an acquired taste.  About nine years worth.”

 

“Stuff it, Starsky.”

 

Starsky laughed out loud.  “That sounds pretty good, babe.  I guess it means you ain’t changin’.”

 

Hutch looked at him steadily, a fond smile curling his lips.  He and Starsky had nine years of ups and downs, of a once-in-a-lifetime extraordinary friendship.  There’d been some low points and rough hurdles, but the utter devotion they felt toward one another far outweighed every obstacle, large or small.  No matter what happened in the future, Hutch knew his life had been exceptionally blessed the day he’d met David Michael Starsky at the Academy.

 

“Nothing’s gonna change,” he promised, suddenly serious, his words layered with deeper meaning.  Hadn’t Starsky turned his back on his own brother?  Raising his hand, he waited until Starsky’s fingers locked firmly over his.  Like the infinite bond of their souls, the contact cemented them for eternity.  “Me and thee,” he vowed.

 

Starsky nodded.  “Me and thee,” he affirmed.

 

Past, present and future - - that single reality would never change.

 

+++++

 

-         - end The Jade Club - -

 

I hope you’ll join me for the next tale - - Season 1 or early Season 3 (I’m still deciding!).  As always, comments and feedback are welcome in my mailbox:  veniceplace12@verizon.net