More new territory for me - - something short!  This string of missing scenes for “Fatal Charm” takes place after Diana’s rampage at Hutch’s apartment when she stabs him, preceding the final tag.  Thanks to my exceptional friend and beta reader, Theresa, not only for finding my goofs but keeping me entertained with amusing feedback; and to Kass for the spiffy web home and fic haven.  With this tale you get Starsky angst, Hutch h/c, a smidgen of Starsky h/c and some silliness too.  Enjoy!

 

 

After Midnight

By Kate (CMT)

 

Starsky paced restlessly just outside the emergency treatment room, his sneakers squeaking against worn squares of white industrial tile as he roamed up and down the narrow hallway.  He’d been shooed from the exam room just after a plump RN had given Hutch a shot for pain.  His partner had been only half coherent at the time, exhaustion and blood loss catching up with the fair-haired detective, exacting a punishing toll.  Any other time Hutch would have balked at the sight of a needle, but he’d been too far gone to realize what was happening.  Before he could even begin to formulate a protest, the tip slipped beneath his skin, and his fatigue-weighted lashes dipped lower still.  Within minutes he was dozing.  Shortly afterward, a doctor arrived to stitch his arm and Starsky was relegated to waiting in the hallway.

 

Agitated, he scrubbed a hand over his face. From the moment he’d hastily dialed Hutch’s apartment just over an hour ago only to have Diana Harmon answer with a hissed threat, he’d been operating on nerves and guilt.  Nerves, because he couldn’t disengage his reactionary instincts where his partner was concerned, guilt, because he couldn’t shake the feeling he was partially responsible for Hutch’s injury.  If he’d only paid more attention to his friend’s concern . . . recognized Diana’s behavior for the psychotic conduct it was, maybe Hutch wouldn’t be in the hospital with a four inch gash ripped through his arm. 

 

Mentally, Starsky kicked himself, something he’d taken grim pleasure in doing all night.  Diana had blindsided him, blindsided everyone.  What kind of man considered a petite 5’4” nurse, of all things, a homicidal threat?   First, she’d broken into Hutch’s apartment on the pretext of fixing him dinner, then thrown a tantrum in the squadroom, verbally lashing out at the blond detective in a fit of hysterics.  Finally, she’d vandalized his apartment, repeatedly slashing his bed with a butcher knife, overturning plants and furniture, smashing breakable items, even spitefully battering his beloved guitar until it was nothing more than a mass of splintered wood and frayed string. 

 

Even then Starsky had shrugged off Diana’s behavior, telling Hutch she’d likely taken out her aggression on his apartment.  He’d thought Hutch was overreacting, getting worked up about nothing.  If Diana had been a 200+ pound jealous boyfriend, Starsky might have thought differently - - but a tiny female nurse?  He’d never suspected the diminutive brunette capable of stalking Hutch, turning into an unbalanced vindictive killer.  Okay, so maybe his partner hadn’t made the smartest move in sleeping with her, but a one-night stand simply didn’t add up to attempted murder.  Unless you were dangerously possessive and mentally unstable to begin with.

 

You really can pick ‘em, Hutchinson, you know that buddy?

 

Starsky bit down on his lip, idly punching one hand into the other. The soles of his sneakers sucked against the tile, squealing more insistently as he paced.  He cast a frowning glance at his watch trying to gauge how much time had elapsed since they’d arrived by ambulance. One night had pretty much melded into the next between the attack on Linda and now Hutch’s own bizarre assault.  At some point after midnight time had simply stopped for him.

 

“Detective Starsky?” 

 

He turned to find the young doctor who’d ordered him from the exam room earlier now standing in the hallway.   With sand-colored hair, gray-green eyes and gold wire-rimmed glasses, he didn’t look much older than Hutch.  Starsky darted a glance at his nametag before making eye contact.

 

“Dr. Fennigal?”

 

The other man gave a brief nod and held out his hand.  “You can see your partner now, if you’d like.  He’s a bit groggy from the pain shot we gave him and will probably remain that way for most of the night.  I expect once you get him home he’ll sleep pretty soundly.”  Pulling a small white pad from the pocket of his lab coat, Fennigal hastily scribbled something across the top sheet.  “This is a prescription for pain medication.  The hospital pharmacy is closed right now but I’ll have a nurse bring you enough to get him through the night.  He may need it, despite the shot.  You can have the prescription filled tomorrow.”

 

“Sure . . . okay.”  Starsky accepted the slip of paper with a quick glance for the incomprehensible scrawl slanted over the surface.  “He’s gonna be okay, right?” His eyes flashed back to the doctor, hopeful and questioning.  “I mean it’s not like his arm is gonna be messed up for good or anything?”  Uncomfortable, he licked his lips, remembering how he’d found his friend in the hallway outside of his apartment, barely able to stand, Diana pounding him with her fists, wailing how she loved him . . . that everybody loved him and why couldn’t he love her back.  That it wasn’t the end . . .

 

Don’t think about that.  It’s over.  Over.

 

Starsky fidgeted, forcing the memories silent.  “He lost a lot of blood,” he observed miserably.

 

Fennigal nodded agreement.  “True, but your partner was smart enough to apply pressure to the wound.  That helped a good deal.  I won’t lie to you - - the cut is fairly deep, but nothing time won’t heal.  I left some hospital scrubs in the room for him, but he’s far too groggy to dress himself - -”

 

“I’ll take care of him,” Starsky said quickly.  He’d forgotten Hutch had been wearing only his robe with nothing underneath when he’d been transported to the hospital.  Some other time Starsky might have ribbed him about his lack of modesty or the peep show he’d surely given the nurses, but now he only nodded, anxious to be with his partner. “Thanks, Doc. If there’s nothing else - -?”

 

His eyebrows shot up questioningly, but Fennigal only shook his head and offered his hand one last time.  Seconds later, Starsky slipped into the exam room and got his first good look at his friend since they’d pulled him from the ambulance.

 

Hutch was lying on a gurney, the top section raised so his shoulders were slightly elevated.  The blood-soaked robe he’d been wearing when he’d arrived was nowhere in sight, like already bagged and removed as evidence.  A thin white sheet was drawn to his waist, the fabric a little too sheer, plainly revealing the fact he was naked beneath the meager covering. His upper left arm had been wrapped in a fresh bandage, secured with butterfly clamps.  A few droplets of blood lay splattered on the filmy sheet, vivid vermilion splotches on starched ivory.

 

Half asleep, Hutch cracked his eyes when he heard the door open.

 

“Hey, buddy.”  Starsky stepped closer to the bed, noting a pair of light blue scrubs folded neatly at the foot of the gurney.  Gingerly he slid a hand around Hutch’s forearm, squeezing lightly.  “How ya feelin’, pal?  You look kinda cozy lyin’ there, like maybe you wanna take a nap or something.” 

 

Hutch blinked slowly, attempting to focus.  “Starsk?” he asked hoarsely.

 

“Yeah, it’s me.”  Still off balance, operating on the lingering residue of spent adrenaline, Starsky fingered a strand of gold-tipped, platinum hair. Hutch had gotten it cut recently, a little shorter than usual. The texture was the same, ridiculously silken and fine, but the precisely trimmed length felt foreign.  Either way, the simple act of such familiar touching - - something Hutch would have permitted no other friend - - helped ground Starsky’s restless emotions.  He smiled slightly. “You awake enough to get dressed or you permanently parked in La-La Land?”

 

“I - - ”  Hutch licked his lips.  “ . . . feel . . . kinda floaty.”

 

Unconsciously, Starsky’s eyes flicked to the bandage on Hutch’s arm.  Wonder how much dope they shot ‘im up with.  “Floaty” and “kinda” just weren’t words that normally crossed Hutch’s lips.  “Floaty’s good, Hutch.  At least you don’t got pain, right?”

 

With an audible moan, Hutch turned his face away.  “They gave me something,” he complained petulantly.  “Didn’t want it.  Some . . . drug . . .”  The word stuck on his tongue, mired in the ilk of bitter distaste.  Grimacing, he sucked down a shuddering breath.  “Starsk - -”

 

“Ssh.  Don’t worry about it.”  Seeing the rise of revulsion in Hutch’s pale eyes, knowing instinctively where his drug-paranoid friend was heading, Starsky soothingly tracked his thumb over Hutch’s inner arm.  Apparently “floaty” wasn’t as muddled as he’d originally thought. Hutch was still coherent enough to get caught up in his same old drug-phobias, left over from his involuntary heroin addiction two years ago. 

 

Keeping up the steady caress, Starsky willed warmth and comfort into each attentive stroke. “It’s nothing to worry about, babe.  I promise it ain’t gonna hurt you . . . just help you manage the pain.”

 

Hutch’s breathing, on the verge of growing fluttery and unhinged, slowly calmed.  His gaze slid back, still slightly unfocused, the pupils fully dilated, obliterating all but the thinnest band of blue at the outer rim. It was an unsettling sight, his eyes jet-black as a result, a shocking contrast against the sun-whitened hue of his short hair.  “Did you see?” he asked clumsily.

 

With an understanding borne through years of devoted friendship, Starsky managed to follow the inane conversation. “No.”  Leaning closer, he brushed one hand down Hutch’s cheek.  The flesh beneath his fingertips felt cool, even a little cold.  “It happened too quick, buddy, but it’s just standard pain meds.  Nothing to get worked up about.”  He smiled softly, trying to ease the thin vein of trauma he saw lurking beneath the surface of Hutch’s eyes. “Think you can sit up, so I can help you get dressed?  You’re doing a pretty good flash show with just that sheet coverin’ you.  Maybe I should hang out in the hallway and charge admission to the nurses.”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, letting his head sag back into the pillow tucked behind him.  Tired, he waved his middle finger in the air, the hint of a grin curling his mouth. 

 

Starsky chuckled. “Great attitude, Blondie.  Now how ‘bout stowin’ it and sittin’ up so I can get you outta here and back to my place?”  

 

Abruptly suspicious, Hutch cracked an eyelid.  “Your place?  I wanna go home.”

 

“Your apartment’s a wreck, Hutch - - plants, furniture, stuff all over the floor.  About the only thing that’s decent are the lock and your mattress, and that’s only ‘cuz we replaced ‘em earlier today.”

 

“Exactly.”  Sounding more like himself, Hutch pressed his good arm against the makeshift bed and struggled to sit.  “Which is precisely why I want to go home.  I’m tired, Starsky - -”

 

“I know you are, babe.  We’ll talk about apartments later.”  Slipping an arm behind his friend’s back, Starsky eased him upright.  Despite his attentiveness, the movement jarred a pained moan from Hutch. Shaken by the unexpected spike, the blond detective swayed dangerously off balance. Starsky immediately shifted to absorb his sagging weight and guide Hutch’s knees over the side of the gurney. The sheet slid toward the floor, exposing one leanly muscled leg from foot to hip, a flash of bare buttock and a brazen eyeful of groin. 

 

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”  The door creaked open, admitting the plump RN who’d attended to him earlier.  Hesitating abruptly, she sponged up the sight of a half naked man held in the arms of another. “Excuse me . . . I didn’t mean . . that is, Dr. Fennigal ordered some pain medication for you.”  Her eyes dipped from his face, flecking lower before shying hastily aside.

 

“Uh . . .”  Self-conscious at being caught unclothed, huddled up against his friend, Hutch clutched the sheet, clumsily tugging it closer to cover himself. 

 

“I’ll take them,” Starsky said quickly, reaching for the small vial of pills, one arm still looped around his limp partner.  He caught a glimmer of the nurse’s smile and knew without looking that Hutch had flushed red. A second later the woman was gone, her smile curving higher as she whisked from the room.

 

“I think she’s in love,” Starsky murmured good-naturedly.

 

“How humiliating.”  Hutch dropped his forehead against Starsky’s chest.  “Please tell me I don’t have to walk out of here in a paper gown on top of being ogled.”

 

“Ease up, Blintz.”  Starsky chuckled fondly.  “She’s a nurse.  She wasn’t oglin’, she was just . . . doin’ a clinical study.  You know - - makin’ sure nuthin’ was missin.”

 

Hutch raised his head.  “Starsky, I just got stabbed by a nurse.  I’ve had my fill of ogling and clinical studies.  Come on, buddy, I wanna go home.  My home.  I don’t care how messed up it is, I just wanna sleep in my own bed.”

 

“Okay.”  Mention of Diana and her crazed attack sent Starsky’s mood nose-diving in a bleak spiral toward the floor. His face grew grave as renewed guilt crashed over him.  He was an idiot for trying to insert their usual bantering humor into a situation that might have proved deadly. Diana had gone on a maniacal rampage and tried to kill Hutch.  Freakin’ kill him!

 

Sobered by the ugly thought, Starsky swallowed hard.  Steadying his friend with one hand held to his shoulder, he reached for the scrubs at the foot of the gurney.  “Pants first.  Just sit there and I’ll get ‘em up to your knees before you stand, okay?”

 

“Bullshit.”  Irritated, Hutch flung the sheet aside.  “I’m not an invalid.  Give ‘em here.”  Stubborn, he reached for the scrubs, parting with a surprised yelp when the brisk movement sent him tottering heavily to the side. Starsky immediately steadied him, biting silent a retort as Hutch ground his teeth against another flare of pain.  Frustrated, the taller man blinked up at his dark-haired friend.  “Okay . . . so that shot has me messed up more than I thought. I guess I need some help after all,” he mumbled dispiritedly. 

 

“Smart choice.”  Starsky cuffed him lightly on the back of the head.  “But we do it my way, dummy.”

 

Chastised, Hutch parted with a repentant nod. Fifteen minutes later he was dressed and in the Torino, slumped against the passenger’s door, his lashes weighted with fatigue. 

 

Starsky shot him a concerned glance as he eased the vehicle from the hospital lot onto the grid of darkened city streets.  He knew Hutch wanted to go home to Venice Place, but the evidence of destruction still scattered throughout the apartment made Starsky’s gut tighten with dread.  At least Hutch had gotten the mattress to his bed replaced earlier that day, which would hopefully help him sleep a little more soundly.

 

He turned a corner, inadvertently bouncing the front tires over the jagged edge of a pothole.  Beside him, Hutch winced, parting with a soft moan.

 

Starsky cringed.  “Sorry.”  Immediately contrite, he reached across the seat, soothingly rubbing Hutch’s knee. “Just relax, pal.  I’ll have you home soon.” 

 

Hutch grunted a half-vocal reply and shifted, curling away from the door, leaning toward Starsky. In the eerie illumination cast by passing street lamps, his face was masked by equal parts shadow and light, his short hair a tangle of silver and gold.  Even as Starsky watched, Hutch slumped heavily to the side, his cheek sliding lower on the backrest.

 

“Maybe you oughta stretch out and lie down,” he coaxed with an affectionate grin.  Looping an arm around Hutch’s shoulders, Starsky used light pressure to guide him the remaining distance.

 

Hutch folded without resistance, tucking a cheek on Starsky’s thigh as he stretched over the front seat, curling his long legs against the door.  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Starsky let his other rest on the back of Hutch’s head, his fingertips buried in the short strands of familiar blond silk.  The hum of passing traffic, though sparse at the late hour, was unexpectedly calming, almost melodic. He cranked his window down, inhaling the nighttime scents of a city wrapped in the velvet of slumber.  As he drew closer to Venice Beach, he could smell the sharp salt-tang of the ocean, feel the tug of marine mist through the loose curls of his hair. 

 

Hutch murmured, half asleep, the pain medication kicking into high gear.  “Ssh,” Starsky whispered, caressing feather-soft strands of white-gold beneath his fingtertips.  For a moment, the very action itself gave him pause.  It was something he couldn’t see himself doing with any other man . . .  knew that society would judge such unusual intimacy a little “off.”  Regardless of that stigma, the exceptional closeness he shared with his friend felt right and rewarding in his heart.  He and Hutch shared a connection that defied convention . . . one even he couldn’t explain despite his occasional mental efforts to nail it down.  A fond glance at his groggy partner told him Hutch had pretty much slipped beneath the radar, barely conscious of his surroundings, if at all. 

 

“Finally,” Starsky muttered. Seconds later he was distracted by a strobing bounce of red in his rearview mirror.  He frowned when he heard the quick wail of a siren, choked short and immediately silenced.  “Now what?”

 

Roused by the noise, Hutch shifted restlessly, his eyes coming half open.  “Wha - -”

 

“It’s nothing,” Starsky soothed, tenderly rubbing his arm.  “Go back to sleep, babe.”

 

He pulled the car to the curb, scowling heavily as a night-duty patrol vehicle slid in behind him. He was out of his precinct, randomly guessing he’d collected an officer from the 16^th or the 21^st.  He hadn’t been speeding, and he hadn’t gone through a light or a stop sign, so that left a routine traffic check, an annoying nuisance that made him chafe.  He thought about pulling his badge, but it was buried in his back pocket and Hutch was nestled up against his thigh, making the retrieval impossible without disturbing his sleeping friend. 

 

Impatient, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, waiting as the uniformed officer stepped from his car. The man approached slowly, a standard-issue long-barrel flashlight held at shoulder height.  He swept the beam through the rear window of the Torino before approaching the side, allowing the light to angle directly into the front seat.  It swept over Hutch, pausing briefly, then skimmed across Starsky and dropped to the asphalt.

 

“Problem?”  Starsky asked a little too tightly, looking up at him.

 

A tall man with closely-cropped black hair and chiseled features, the officer looked somewhere in his early forties, his expression conveying a stern, no-nonsense attitude.  “You’ve got a taillight out.  I need your license and registration, Sir.”

 

“T’rrific,” Starsky grumbled.  Of all the yahoos on night-duty he had to pull a by the book diehard.  “Look - - my license is in my back pocket along with my badge.  I’m Detective David Starsky of Metropolitan Division.  I just left Memorial Hospital, and I’m tryin’ to get my partner home.  I’ll get the taillight fixed, you got my word on it.”

 

Scowling suspiciously, the officer craned his neck to look at Hutch.  “I’m thinking maybe you two girls had a little too much to drink.  He always cuddle up against you like that?”

 

Biting his tongue to keep from flying off the handle, Starsky tightened his hands on the steering wheel.  “He was just knifed.  He’s doped up on pain meds.”

 

“Or maybe just doped up.”  The officer took a step backward.  “Out of the vehicle, Sir.”

 

“What?” 

 

Starsky’s swift agitation alerted Hutch.  Stirring, he came awake with a low groan.  “Starsky?” he asked blearily.

 

“Easy, Hutch.”  Immediately forgetting the patrol officer standing just beyond the window, Starsky shifted his full attention to his dazed partner.  “Just go back to sleep, pal.  We got a little sidetracked here, but I’ll work it out.”

 

Hutch blinked through the window, noting the patrol officer with a muddled kind of distraction.  It took a second longer for the implication to register.  He gave a snort of amusement.  “What’d you do, dummy  - - run a stop sign?”

 

“Tailight’s out,” Starsky countered. 

 

“On your precious tomato?”  Sitting up, Hutch tilted his head back against the seat rest. He grinned tiredly.  “Give the guy your badge so we can get outta here.”

 

Unaccustomed to having his orders ignored, the officer drew his gun.  “Out of the car, both of you.”

 

“Look,” Starsky said growing exasperated.  “If you’d just step a little closer, you’d see I got a police-ban in here and this thing’s wired with a mars light.  I’m gonna get my badge now.”

 

“Don’t do it!”  The gun pivoted menacingly, lining up directly with Starsky’s face.  “For all I know you two lovebirds stole this flashy toy.  I’m not going to tell you again - - haul ass and get out of the car.  Both of you.”

 

Hutch sighed.  “What’d he call us?”

 

“Lovebirds,” Starsky clarified, tart humor in his voice.  “And he wants us to haul ass.  See what happens when you can’t stay on your side of the car? Just couldn’t keep your hands offa me, could you, Blondie?”

 

“Yeah, well  . . . you know how damned irresistible you are.”  With a groan of effort, Hutch reached for the door handle and reluctantly pulled himself from the vehicle.  It took another ten minutes of protests before the officer realized his blunder and contritely allowed the two detectives to continue on their way.  By that time Hutch had all but wilted into the leather upholstery of the Torino.  When they finally reached Venice Place, it was all Starsky could do to get his exhausted friend up the steps and into his bedroom.      

 

He helped Hutch shrug from the surgical tunic the hospital had given him, taking extra care with his wounded arm. When he was done, he turned down the blanket and sheets on the new mattress, guiding his bleary-eyed partner to the bed.  Hutch collapsed with an appreciative groan, folding back against the downy softness and plumpness of overstuffed pillows.  “Thanks, Starsk,” he murmured, shifting onto his side and dragging one leg forward, bent at the knee.  The light blue material of the linen pants pulled taut against his thigh but he seemed unmindful of the restriction, his eyes already closed, breath leveling into a steady, restful pattern within seconds.

 

Sighing, Starsky folded into a bedside chair.  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, trying to banish a stubborn crick then tilted his head to stare at the ceiling.  He was tired, mentally and physically, but the creeping exhaustion was nothing compared to the gaping hole in his heart.  I screwed up.  Fumbled the ball.   

 

That was the long and short of it.  No matter how much he wanted to deny it, Hutch had come to him for help after Diana had ransacked the blond detective’s apartment, and Starsky had fluffed off his concern.  I treated it like it was fuckin’ inconsequential.  His motives didn’t matter, statistics about psychotic stalkers and gender didn’t matter. Hutch had needed him and he’d let his friend down.  I almost got him killed. 

 

Guiltily, Starsky’s eyes slewed back to his partner.  Hutch appeared to be sleeping, his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm, his right hand tucked under the pillow.  As always when he slept he looked vulnerable, a little too innocent and lost like a small boy.  It’s just all that damn blond hair, Starsky thought with exasperated fondness, reaching out to gently sweep the bangs from Hutch’s forehead.  Face of an angel. It was no wonder Diana had grown obsessed with him. Take a woman who was mentally unhinged, put her with a guy who looked like Hutch, and it was a disaster waiting to happen. 

 

‘Cept I didn’t see it. 

 

Admittedly it was a little hard picturing 6’1” Ken Hutchinson, tough street cop and crack shot with a .357, rattled by a diminutive female.  But he’s got a vulnerable side too, and I’m the only one he trusts seein’ that.  Annoyed with himself, Starsky grimaced.  Looks like I fucked up big time, buddy.  I really let you down on this one.

 

Agitated, he pushed from the chair and restlessly prowled into the living room.  Wherever his eye touched, he saw evidence of his failure.  The proof was glaring, equally condemning - - shards of broken pottery on the floor by the piano, plant soil ground into the burnt-orange area rug, stuffing from a throw pillow strewn by the front door, busted dishes and cracked jars scattered like broken eggshells on the kitchen counter. 

 

And blood.

 

Starsky’s gut cramped in a merciless fist. 

 

He’d been too distracted while waiting for the ambulance, but now that he had time to soak in the surroundings, he noted gruesome evidence of the struggle which ensued only hours before. Bloody streaks were slanted across the wooden doorframe of the bathroom, as if Hutch had clutched it for support then stumbled past.  Nickel-sized splatters of crimson dotted the floorboards and carpet. Instinctively Starsky followed the trail into the bathroom where the shower curtain hung haphazardly, partially ripped from its hooks, a slashed and bloody mess. Angry stains marred the bottom of the tub, vivid red and rusty-brown against white porcelain. There were more on the floor, a series of ghastly fingerprints splayed over the light switch, door and towel rack.  Ohgod, Hutch, I’m so sorry!  I should have known better.  I should have been lookin’ out for you . . .

 

It came again  - - the realization that his partner had come to him for help, and Starsky had casually dismissed his concerns.  I didn’t take them seriously enough.  Didn’t take that bitch seriously enough.

 

The turmoil of the last two days, accumulating with Hutch’s near fatal brush with death, abruptly caught up with him.  He shuddered, guilt and remorse tangling with the heart-stopping fear he had yet to really acknowledge - - he’d almost lost his partner.  His best friend, the other half of his soul  . . . and all because he hadn’t taken Diana’s threats or vindictively hostile behavior seriously.  Hutch had dated possessive women before, even a few who threw temper tantrums and fits of histrionics when he’d broken off the relationship.  But eventually, no matter how much a jealous girlfriend shrieked and carried on, life eventually returned to normal.

 

‘Cept this time it almost didn’t.  ‘Cuz of me.

 

Bracing his hands on either side of the sink, rigidly locking his arms, Starsky hung his head.  His stomach flip-flopped, ballooning against his throat, brazenly proclaiming his failure.  He could almost smell the blood in the bathroom.  Hutch’s blood.  It was everywhere - - in the tub, on the floor, streaked across the wall.  Closing his eyes didn’t help.  It had been ingrained in his mind, the smell forever imprinted in his head.

 

With an audible groan, he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, desperately clutching the sides, his knuckles standing out like bleached white knobs.  His gut contracted painfully, the first of several spasms that left him sweaty and shaken, heaving into the ceramic bowl.  He couldn’t stop, sweat streaming from his face, his whole body quivering under the force of brutal convulsions. Ohgod, Hutch, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry!  The room spun, nerve-blasting dizziness crashing over him in a molasses-sticky wave that left him gasping for air.  Before he knew it, he was sobbing, tears streaming down his face, mingling with the sweat, leaving him light-headed and spent, as if he’d been pumped full of strength-draining narcotics. 

 

He hacked again, bile and saliva mingling with the corrosive grit of his stomach.  I almost killed you!  I almost fuckin’ killed you!  His esophagus felt raw, ravaged by acid.  The pain brought tears to his eyes.  Agonizing cramps ripped through his abdomen making him double over even as he clung to the toilet. Shaken, he bowed his head to his wrist and moaned pitifully.

 

“I’ve got you.”  Suddenly there was an arm around his waist, wrapping over his quivering middle.  He felt an infusion of warmth, the rock-steady presence of his friend behind him, gently engulfing him in a protective cloak of tenderness. “Ssh, buddy, I’m right here.  It’s okay, Starsky.  I’ve got you, babe.  You’re fine now.”

 

But he wasn’t fine.  And the tenderness and raw affection in Hutch’s voice only made his tears come harder.  Spent, emotionally drained, he slumped back against his partner, both of them crumpling into the side of the tub.  Before he could even draw a breath, Hutch locked him in an embrace, hugging him close.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, burying his face in Starsky’s hair.

 

The apology was the final blow, a forge-hot knife that ripped a cruel path through Starsky’s heart.  It sent anger streaking through him, made his tears turn to sobs of fury. “Hutchinson!” he spat.  “You’re - - what?”

 

Hutch clung to him, the pain medication turning his fragile mental state into a precarious muddle.  It took a minute for Starsky to realize his friend was shaking badly as if the last vestiges of life were draining out of him.  “Stupid ass,” Hutch mumbled into his hair, clinging tighter still.  “Think I don’t know what you’re doing?  It’s not your fault.  It’s mine.  I never should’ve gotten involved with her.”  He gave a dry bitter chuckle. “Thinking with my dick again.  I wanted to get laid.”  

 

The nausea retreated, allowing Starsky breathing room to catch his breath.  He swiped a hand across his face, wiping away tears and sticky perspiration.  He didn’t know if he wanted to throttle Hutch or hug him.  “It is not your fault,” he said hotly. “And I know you better than that.  Maybe you ended up in bed, but it wasn’t about lust - - at least it wouldna been if she hadn’t turned into a possessive harpie.  She was the one in lust - - not you.”

 

Hutch sighed, still leaning into him, unwilling to let go.  “Is that why you’re in here, heaving into my toilet?”

 

Starsky closed his eyes.  The guilt came back again, just as black, just as unforgiving.  Disentangling himself from Hutch, he clawed unsteadily to his feet, using the sink for support.  With a grimace for the mess in the toilet, he flipped the lid shut and flushed the bowl.  “Give me a minute and I’ll help you back into bed,” he muttered glumly.

 

Cranking the cold water faucet open, he cupped his hand beneath the stream, turning his face into the spray.  He took a few gulps to rinse out his mouth then groped blindly for a towel, steadily ignoring the bloody fingerprints splayed by the rack.  By the time he was done, Hutch had sagged between the toilet and tub, bonelessly propped against the wall.  Wearing only the cotton surgical pants from the hospital, his chest and feet bare, he shivered slightly, awakening pain drawing fine lines around his mouth.  His eyes were closed, his breath short and a little raspy.  Watching him, Starsky thought fleetingly of the pain pills the nurse had given him, mentally ticking off hours in his head.  Hutch still had another to go before he could swallow any.

 

Assumin’ I can even get him to agree to take the friggin’ things.

 

“Buddy.”  Starsky crouched beside him, tapping him lightly on the cheek when he didn’t respond.  “Come on, Hutch, wake up.  You can’t sleep here.”

 

Roused from a faint slumber, Hutch stirred, blinking up at his partner. He looked momentarily dazed as if he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into the bathroom or why.  The confusion vanished within seconds.  Abruptly possessive, he crimped his fingers into the cuff of Starsky’s sleeve.  “I  . . . should have let you take me to your place.  I-I forgot about the blood.”  His face contorted.  “It’s upsetting you.”

 

“Hell, Hutch.”  Starsky hung his head. Leave it to Hutch to be thinking about him when he was hurting himself. Upset didn’t begin to cover the rancid churning in the pit of Starsky’s stomach, but he didn’t want to worry his friend.  Yeah, the blood was a grim reminder Hutch had nearly lost his life, but all Starsky cared about was getting his injured partner back into bed.  He could clean up the blood later, wallow in a vat of well-deserved guilt when he had the luxury of solitude. “Let me get you back in bed, babe.  It was just a bad reaction to something I ate, that’s all.  Sorry I woke you up.”

 

“Starsky . . .”  Hutch’s fingers tightened on his sleeve.  “It’s just a cut.”

 

“She could have killed you,” Starsky snapped flatly and immediately cringed for giving voice to his fears. “We’re not gonna talk about it now.  Come on - -”  Determined, he stood and hooked a hand beneath Hutch’s good arm, tugging him to his feet.  His partner responded to the firm pull with an involuntary groan, but he rose dutifully, swaying slightly as he attempted to steady himself with a hand to Starsky’s chest. 

 

“You’re freezin’, Hutch,” the dark-haired cop admonished gruffly, feeling cold flesh beneath his fingertips.  Taking advantage of his partner’s momentary disorientation, Starsky steered him back into the bedroom. “Get under the covers.”  He held the bedspread aloft with one hand, guiding his friend with the other as Hutch obediently crawled under the blankets.

 

“How’s your arm?”  Starsky asked, carefully arranging the sheets and quilt over his friend’s chest. The action helped soothe him, easing the prickly flutter in the pit of his stomach. Sudden warmth engulfed him, giving rise to a surge of protective concern as he gazed down at his injured partner. “You can have a pain pill in another hour if you need it,” he said softly, lightly stroking one finger down Hutch’s cheek.

 

His friend shifted, curling onto his good side. “I’m fine.  Just tired.”  Hutch blinked at him sleepily.   “And I’m worried about you.”

 

Starsky snorted.  “You’re worried about me?”  He’d heard some absurd things in his life, but Hutch didn’t usually do stupid.  “Buddy, you got nothin’ to worry about.  I told you - - I just ate something that didn’t agree with me.”  He started to turn away, moving to switch off the bedside lamp but Hutch caught his wrist and hung on.

 

“I didn’t think she’d go that far either,” he said quietly.

 

Starsky froze in mid reach.  “What?”

 

“Diana,” Hutch clarified. “You were right to think that was the end of it when she trashed my place.”  He gave a gentle tug, forcing Starsky to a seat on the mattress beside him. Lack of rest over the last two nights, combined with a strong shot of pain medication was clearly demanding a toll.  Hutch’s eyes hung at half-mast, soft gold lashes dipping now and again to obscure an underlying glint of river blue. “I figured I’d seen the last of her,” he said drowsily.  “I just needed someone to vent to . . . that night I came to see you.”

 

“You needed more than that,” Starsky inserted bluntly, immediately regretting his harsh tone.

 

Hutch continued as if he hadn’t heard.  “It shook me up, you know?  I just needed . . .”  His voice grew thin, whisper soft, his lashes dipping lower still.  “ . . . I didn’t expect you to . . .”

 

Not bothering to finish the thought, Hutch shifted closer, settling his cheek against the side of Starsky’s leg, wrapping one hand around his knee.  “It’s no big deal, buddy,” he murmured.  “I’m just glad you brought the cavalry when you did.  It’s over.  That’s all I care about.”     

 

Starsky felt his throat tighten up.  Was it over?  Diana had shrieked it wasn’t - - that Hutch hadn’t seen the last of her.  Starsky didn’t understand how anyone could love someone so much - - so greedily and destructively, they longed to kill them.  What kind of hideous, sick attraction was that?  And how could anyone consciously choose to hurt Hutch - - a compassionate and tender man who only looked for good in others?

 

“I’m glad it’s over too,” Starsky whispered.  He stretched for the nightstand and switched off the light.  Rather than leave, he sat in the darkness listening to Hutch breathe. Pale pearls of moonlight streamed through the window, haloing the blond-haired man where he lay curled against Starsky. Trapped in the fawning celestial glow, he looked pale and fair, all white-gold glamour and ashen light.  Gazing down on him, Starsky heard the voice of the patrol officer swirling almost mockingly in his head:  “He always cuddle up against you like that?”

 

Yeah.  When he’s hurting, he does.  Tenderly, Starsky stroked his fingers through Hutch’s hair.  A sharp pang of affection stabbed his heart.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

His friend murmured, mostly asleep, and nestled closer.  Comforted by the contact, Starsky leaned back against the headboard, content to settle in for the night.  Cleaning up the blood in the bathroom could wait, as could the mess in the living room.  He’d get around to them eventually, but right now he was satisfied to have cleaned up the vast majority of his guilt. Hutch’s spirit was already on the mend and the wound would follow suit. Given time, Starsky would banish the last stubborn whispers of blame. The best medication for both of them was the same thing it had always been - - the extraordinary bond of their infinitely devoted friendship.

 

Starsky closed his eyes.

 

“You’re my pal, Hutch,” he whispered.

 

He didn’t have to hear a spoken answer to know Hutch felt the same.

 

+++++

 

- - End After Midnight - -

 

Next up:

Something for Theresa and all my other diehard Starsky friends:  A post Shootout story with the curly-haired guy getting center stage.  And for my Hutch friends - - well, you know how I feel about that sexy blond cop, so you can count on some type of side plot for him too! Now all I’ve got to do is dream up a story LOL!  Feedback, comments and S&H thoughts in general are welcomed in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net.  Hey I wrote a short story.  I had to be wordy with the comments! J