Well, it turns out I lied.  In my last author’s note I said I was going to write a post-Partners story or missing scenes story from Survival.  Both of those are still kicking around in my head, but in the meantime a few cyber friends threw ideas my way and I decided to combine all of them into a single story. 

 

Eli mentioned she’d like to see an angsty Starsky story related to Pariah.  Starsky’s Strut said she’d like to see me write a “how they met” story.  And finally, Trish picked up on something I barely addressed in Dance Celestial and suggested expanding that thread with a story of its own.  Since that idea became the foundation of Detour, I don’t want to say too much about it, other than it involves one partner being hurt and the other struggling with guilt.  So to Eli, Starsky’s Strut and especially Trish, thanks for the ideas.  I’m not sure I actually managed to use them in the manner you envisioned, but they were the plot threads I had in mind when I started Detour. 

 

Thanks as always to Theresa for beta work supreme and to Kass for such a comfy fic home.  And, yeah, I know it’s not the best place to do this, but thanks to the many readers who voted and made me a winner of the Paula Wilshe award for 2006.  WOW!  As a new writer, I obviously didn’t know Paula, but it’s an honor to be recognized in memory of someone who was so beloved in the fandom.  Congrats to my co-winner, CC as well!  Hopefully, I can keep all of you entertained for a long time to come! J

 

And finally (yeah, I’m almost done *grin*) for the purpose of this story, sections designated “Present” refer to the year 1975.  As always, I hope you all enjoy the tale . . .

 

Detour

By Kate (CMT)

 

Canyon Road:  Present

 

Starsky was wretched company and had been for some time.  The fact he was aware of his mood and even acknowledged some of his misery was being taken out on Hutch didn’t make his desolation any easier to shake.  He’d killed a sixteen-year-old kid, then stood by and let some lunatic with a personal vendetta take out two of his fellow officers while trying to get to him.  And what had he done when he’d finally had George Prudholm at his mercy, the barrel of his pistol just inches from the vindictive killer’s head?

 

I let him go.  I turned him over to Hutch.

 

Starsky knew his police career would have gone up in smoke had he pulled the trigger.  But more importantly, Hutch would have gone right along with it because his ever-faithful partner would have lied to cover the cold-blooded killing.  If Starsky had made that choice, deciding to be judge, jury and executioner, Ken Hutchinson would have swallowed his idealist convictions and done what was necessary to salvage Starsky’s career.  Even if Starsky had wanted it to end there, not caring what became of him or his future, Hutch would never have let him.  He would have lied, tampered with evidence, written a false report - - whatever was necessary to keep his friend above the law.

 

And so Starsky hadn’t pulled the trigger.

 

To this day he wasn’t sure if he’d made that decision because he believed it was the right thing to do or simply because he didn’t want Hutch going down with him.  In the midst of all the conflict with Lonnie Craig and Prudholm, he’d almost walked away from the Force.  In retrospect, he was beginning to think he should have followed through with that decision.  No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the gloom of Lonnie’s death, or the steadily creeping darkness that whispered innocent men had died because of him.

 

And so he’d been moody, withdrawn, frequently short with Hutch when his friend didn’t deserve the sharpness. Rather than snap back, his partner had been patient, ridiculously understanding and staunchly supportive. 

 

Which only made Starsky feel worse.  The perpetual ball of bleak despair and simmering hostility had been building for three weeks.  Coupled with the joyless mentality that came from six straight days of nightshift, he felt like he was sinking in a quagmire.  Even his tie to Hutch had been affected, their normally unshakable bond showing signs of strain. 

 

Hutch was tired.  He knew that.  Endlessly patient, the blond-haired man carried the weight of worry for both of them, attempting to make everything right again when Starsky wasn’t certain it could be.  Maybe it was just better to walk away from the mess Prudholm had made of his life . . . the ugly scar Lonnie Craig’s senseless death had carved into his soul.  

 

“Zebra 3 to Control,” he heard Hutch say into the mic.  “We are in pursuit of a black Nova, north on Canyon Road, just past city limits.  Plate number: nine-kilo-echo-seven-four-tango.  Be advised suspects have taken a female cashier as hostage. Notify county sheriff we have crossed city line.”

 

“Copy that, Zebra 3,” the nasally voice of the control officer responded.  “We are dispatching units to assist. Will advise County as directed.”

 

Starsky shook aside his thoughts and concentrated on the wail of the siren as it shrieked into the pre-dawn darkness, the garish red strobe of the mars light transforming clumps of shadow into splotches of blood.  At this hour, Canyon Road was mostly deserted.  He watched the dim-and-flash of the Nova’s taillights as the driver recklessly navigated his bulky vehicle through the hairpin turns, barely braking.  Starsky kept his foot on the gas, only easing as the Torino fishtailed through a wide curve.  The rear tires slid from the shoulder, smoking rubber as he braked hard into the bend.  He heard the leaf springs creak and gunned the accelerator, spewing up chunks of gravel as the car bulleted back onto the road.

 

“Starsky.” Hutch warned in a low voice, one hand planted firmly against the dash.

 

He knew his partner trusted his judgement when it came to driving.  Hutch was fair behind the wheel, but he didn’t come close to the high-speed control Starsky had.  He’d always been mechanically inclined.  He loved speed and he loved to drive.  When they’d put him in a patrol car at the Academy, he’d torn up the track, dusting every previous record for performance and time.  The one thing he still had confidence in as a cop was his uncanny and natural ability to drive.

 

“Relax, partner,” he said.  “We’re gonna get ‘em.”

 

Two more robbery suspects.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He and Hutch had pulled up to an all-night gas station just in time to witness two men in dark clothing dragging a struggling female cashier into their black Chevy Nova. One had dropped a sack with a handful of money on the macadam before hastily snatching it up and jumping into the passenger’s seat.  The driver struck the girl across the face with a pistol, then shoved her into the back.  Hutch was halfway to the car, gun drawn, ordering them to halt when the vehicle suddenly lurched to life, barreling straight for him. Starsky got off two shots before firing up the Torino.  By that time Hutch was diving into the car and the pursuit was on. 

 

God, don’t let ‘em be kids again, Starsky silently prayed.  Not this time.

 

They’d taken a hostage - - or at the very least a woman they’d intended to use, one way or another before disposing of her.  Part of him immediately condemned the two men in the car as sick replicas of Prudholm, unjustly preying on the helpless and the innocent.  Another part wondered if they were kids like Lonnie, who’d become trapped in the harsh cycle of predatory street life.  Either way, the girl was a victim.

 

He banked the car through another curve and heard Hutch grunt as he was thrown against the door. Up ahead the road narrowed, forking to the left at the same time.  The driver of the Nova took the bend without braking, relying on speed to get him through the tight “S.”  Almost immediately his tires hit loose gravel, sending his rear end fishtailing beneath the deadly combination of weight and speed.  The heavy vehicle twirled like a top, crossing lanes, sliding under massive acceleration back toward the red-and-white Ford.

 

“Starsky look out!”  Hutch yelled.

 

With only a split second to react, Starsky hit the brake and hastily spun the wheel.  For a minute all he saw was the blinding flash of headlights, a deadly hurtling mass of black metal and chrome.  The collision slammed him into the seat and sent the Torino spinning out of control. He heard the shriek of torn metal, felt the jarring shock of impact as the right side of the car bounced against a tree, then boomeranged free.  The acrid reek of burning brakes and hot rubber filled his head.  Somewhere in the confusion, he realized all motion had stopped . . . that the screech and hiss of grating sound had died, leaving a faint echo buzzing in his head.

 

It took him a minute to suck down a breath.  To realize, that yes, he was hunched over the steering wheel, his hands locked in a death grip on the hard molded plastic.  His head rang atrociously, and he realized his lip was bleeding - - that he’d bitten down so hard on his tongue, there was blood on the inside of his mouth.  His neck throbbed as if he’d wrenched it, sending prickly splinters of pain into his shoulders and back.  Through the windshield he could see the Nova lying belly up, fifty-odd feet away across the opposite lane, its lights shooting twin beams into the murky shadows.  There appeared to be no movement from inside the car, but it was dark enough that he couldn’t tell for sure.

 

“Gonna need help on this one, buddy,” Starsky muttered to Hutch as he prodded the inside of his mouth with his tongue, tasting blood.  “I’ll call for an ambulance.” He reached for the microphone and froze.  “Hutch?”   

 

Stupidly, it hadn’t dawned on him the accident might have been worse for his passenger, than for him.  He expected Hutch to be grumbling at him for his shoddy driving - - even though he knew the end result could have been much worse if he hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.

 

“Hutch?” Starsky’s heart double-timed into his throat, his breath growing fluttery and short.  His friend was crumpled against the passenger door, lifeless looking and still.  He sat with his face turned away, his body angled into the door so that Starsky couldn’t really see him. 

 

What he could see left him feeling helpless and alarmed. 

 

The door had accordioned inward, the metal frame warped and collapsed at the top.  Though the window had cracked and veined like the web of a mammoth spider, it remained miraculously intact. Leaning into the damaged door, Hutch rested with his brow pressed to the glass.

 

“Hutch?” Frightened, Starsky tentatively touched the back of his partner’s head, rewarded by a soft groan. “Buddy, can you hear me?”

 

Hutch stirred listlessly beneath his hand.  Blinking, he twisted his head to the side and tried to sit straighter.  “Starsky?”   

 

“Yeah, pal, I’m right here.”  He breathed a mental sigh of relief.  At least Hutch was conscious and talking.  In the back of his mind he thought of the Nova, the two perps and the girl.  Damn it, where’s my backup?  “I’m just gonna radio for help . . . get an ambulance here.”

 

Hutch gave a weak nod and closed his eyes, still huddled against the door.

 

Barely there, barely conscious, Starsky thought as he reached for the microphone.  His heart gave a small lurch when he realized the cord had been severed in the crash.  “Damn it!”  Okay, it didn’t matter.  They’d already phoned in their position, which meant help would be arriving shortly.  He’d just have one of the patrol units call for an ambulance the minute they hit the scene.

 

Starsky touched his friend’s shoulder. “Hutch, can you turn around and face me?  I wanna make sure you’re okay, buddy, before I go secure that Nova . . . check on the girl.”  The girl . . . ohgod, what if she’s hurt too?  “Hutch.  Hutch, come on, I need you to answer me.”  I can’t leave that girl with those two hoods.

 

First priority came down to civilians - - not his partner, no matter how attached they were.  And yet he hesitated.  He knew Hutch was coherent, and there didn’t appear to be any sign of blood.  That alone should be enough to propel him from the car, yet he didn’t like the way his friend sat hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his middle.  “Hutch, don’t do this to me.  You know I gotta go help the girl.”

 

“Okay,” Hutch said in a shaky voice. “Y-Y-You go.  I’m fine.”

 

The stammer told him Hutch was anything but fine.  “Just sit back for me,” Starsky pleaded.  He pulled on Hutch’s forearm, gently forcing it away from his middle.  That was when he saw the blood.  Even in the semi-dark it stood out as a repulsive black patch, glistening and oily, greedily spreading over Hutch’s stomach and arm, blotting the front of his cream-colored cords.

 

Starsky choked, blindsided by the alarming glut.  How could a man bleed like that and not tell him?  “Where are you hurt?” he snapped, fear making his voice unnaturally sharp.

 

“M-My side,” Hutch said.  “S-Something from th-the door, Starsk . . .”

 

Hutch tilted his head back and for the first time Starsky saw the strain on his face . . . realized that his friend was in agony.  His skin was unnaturally white and shocky-looking, a bleached mask against the deeper gold of his hair. 

 

“Okay  . . . okay, just take it easy,” Starsky said softly, hoping to calm not only Hutch but himself as well.  “I’m gonna get you outta this.  Help’s already on the way, so all you gotta do is hang on for a while, okay?  I want you to stay awake and keep your eyes open.” 

 

Gripping Hutch by the chin, Starsky forced his head around.  Already he could see the taxing burden of misery and fatigue pulling on Hutch’s lids, the allure of blissful unconsciousness weighing heavily on him. “Damn it, Hutch,” he snapped, panicked when his friend’s lashes dipped lower still.  “Stay awake, you hear me?”

 

The heated command brought the golden lashes up again, pain and desperation mingling on the surface of Hutch’s blue eyes.  It was torture to witness that conflict.  Starsky understood his friend was in agony . . . that Hutch longed to slide into oblivion and escape the misery if only temporarily. But the blond detective also desperately wanted to do what his friend asked . . . if only because Starsky was the one asking it.  And that meant remaining in a world of punishing pain, suffering what he could easily escape by surrendering to darkness.

 

“That’s better,” Starsky said, softly this time.  His fingers swept higher, stroking Hutch’s cheek in a fond caress, sharing what limited comfort he could.  Shit, buddy, I didn’t mean for this to happen.  “I’m just gonna look at your side . . .”  Even as he said it, he let his eyes drop toward the dark space between Hutch and the door.  He couldn’t really see in the half-gloom, but thought he detected an impaling shaft of metal twisted outward from the damaged door.  Gingerly, he reached across his friend, gently prodding Hutch’s ribs on the right side, steadily working lower.

 

Hutch hissed in a pained breath.

 

“Easy, easy,” Starsky crooned.  His hand touched jagged metal, felt blood and butchered flesh.  His heart spiked higher in alarm, beating fast enough to make him breathe hard.  In the closed confines of the car, the sound was harsh and ragged.  From what he could tell in the faulty light, the ragged piece of metal had ripped through Hutch’s side, impaling him at the moment of impact with the tree, wrenching free when the vehicle lurched to a stop.

 

Damn it, what the hell is taking back-up so friggin’ long?

 

Jerking from his jacket, Starsky pressed it over Hutch’s side.  “Hold that there, buddy, okay?”  He was distressed to realize he was shaking as he gripped Hutch’s hand and slid it over the light canvas material. “You gotta press hard, babe.”  Deliberately, he added the weight of his hand, mashing the jacket against the gushing wound.  Hutch grimaced and twisted his face away, the tendons in his neck popping beneath the grim strain.

 

He ain’t makin’ a sound. 

 

Starsky found his friend’s silence unnerving - - not a whimper or a moan, just the clack of his teeth as he bit down to keep from crying out.  It wasn’t like Hutch.  There’d never been a need to hide what they were feeling from each other, no compulsion to put on a front when they were hurting.  Worried, Starsky raised his free hand and kneaded his friend’s shoulder.  “I know it hurts, Hutch . . .”

 

Hutch shook his head, keeping his eyes averted, one hand clamped in a death-grip over the jacket. “I-I’m okay,” he said in that same shaky voice.  “Y-You don’t have t-to st-stay.”

 

The girl.  The perps.

 

Hutch’s stuttering bothered him.  In the gray effulgence of predawn, his friend’s face looked gaunt, sunken with shadow, his lips a pale bloodless line.  Starsky thought about trying the dome light, deciding he’d feel better if he could see Hutch properly.  “Hang on a minute, buddy,” he said, reaching for the switch.

 

A woman’s shrill scream abruptly knifed through the car like the resounding clap of thunder.  Starsky jerked, one hand still pressed to the jacket and Hutch’s wound.  Ohgod, the girl!  He knew he couldn’t delay any longer.  He’d made sure Hutch was out of immediate danger, had done everything he could for his injuries, yet the pull of leaving his wounded partner cut him to the bone.

 

Hutch shoved his hand away.  “Go!”

 

Starsky lurched from the vehicle, driven by the instinctive responsibility of his job.  There was no longer any choice.  He sent one quick, desperate glance over his shoulder then drew his gun and darted across the road.

 

The girl continued to scream.  Starsky guessed she’d probably been knocked unconscious by the initial collision and was now awakening to the nightmare of being kidnapped, trapped in a car that was belly-up in the middle of a deserted road.  As he neared, Starsky saw that she had kicked out the rear window and was in the process of shakily crawling from the vehicle. 

 

“Police,” he called, racing forward to help her.  Through the windshield, he could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the top of his head split open in a gory, bloody mass.  He didn’t have to investigate to know the man was dead.  Of the passenger there was no sign.  The door hung open, yawning drunkenly on its hinges.  A few handfuls of money lay strewn over the seat, fluttering in the sporadic currents of early morning air.

 

Starsky bent to help the girl, pulling her to her feet.  Trembling violently, she latched onto him in petrified desperation and burst out sobbing.  “Th-Th-th-they-they-they - - ”  Her voice lurched up in octave as she struggled to get the word out, her eyes darting wildly to his face.  “C-C-C-C-Came and . . .”

 

“Ssh,” Starsky tried to calm her.  “It’s okay, now.  It’s all over, you’re safe.”  Cupping her face, he tilted her head back trying to look into her eyes.  Odds were she flirted with shock, but he didn’t see any blood on her.  “Are you hurt?  Are you injured?”

 

“I-I don’t t-think s-so . . .”  she managed to eke out between chattering teeth.  It wasn’t that cold outside, but clearly the shock of what she’d been through was settling into her bones.  If Starsky hadn’t already parted with his jacket, he would have wrapped it around her for warmth. 

 

“What’s your name?” he asked.

 

“B-B-Betty.  Betty K-Klinger.”  Calming a bit, she forced the name with deliberate concentration.  She’d been banged up a bit, either in the collision or from being manhandled into the car, Starsky wasn’t sure. The shoulder of her blouse was torn and a large bruise darkened one cheek.  Young, somewhere in her early twenties, she had long blond hair, green eyes and a smattering of freckles bridged across a slim nose.  Her mascara had run, streaked down her cheeks, mingled liberally with tears.  Sniffling, she scrubbed a hand over her face.

 

“Are you really a cop?”

 

“Really,” Starsky returned, guiding her away from the car to the side of the road.  He glanced around anxiously, worried about the missing passenger.  There weren’t any homes in the immediate vicinity, but an armed suspect on the loose was a potential catastrophe waiting to explode.  Between the half-dark of ebbing night and a few random stands of timber lining either side of the road, it would be difficult to spy anyone who didn’t wish to be seen. “Betty, do you know what happened to the other guy?  The guy who was in the passenger’s seat?”

 

She was still shaking but didn’t look so wild-eyed now.  Confused, she stared up at him.  “I . . . I don’t know.  I just remember them robbing the st-station, for-forcing me into the car.  There was a wreck, and-and . . .”  Hysteria crept back into her voice and she clutched at his arm.  “I don’t remember anything.  I j-j-just woke up in the dark and s-s-started screaming.”

 

“Okay, just take it easy.”  Starsky steered her to a seat beneath a clump of trees. He cast a worried glance at the Torino, a good fifty feet away, and thought of Hutch huddled inside.  A sharp pang ripped through his stomach at the thought of his friend bleeding and alone.  God, buddy, I wanna be with you.  Just as soon as that damn patrol gets here, I promise.

 

As if on cue, he heard the wail of approaching sirens.  Relieved, Starsky bent over the girl speaking softly, assuring her everything was going to be all right . . . that she was safe and help was on the way.  He was starting to believe the litany of repeated words himself, when the harsh explosion of a gunshot abruptly shattered the predawn stillness.

 

+++++

 

Hutch kept his hand plastered against the jacket, doing what his partner had asked him to do, desperately trying to staunch the sticky flow of blood.  He was tired, exhausted from a steady influx of escalating pain.  It was something he had tried to hide from Starsky, worried how his friend would react.  Lately, Starsky’s emotions had been entirely too turbulent and fragile.  He’d never quite recovered from shooting Lonnie Craig.  Coupled with the death of two innocent patrolmen and the taunting hell George Prudholm had put him through, Starsky existed on a hair trigger.  He’d become reactionary, lashing out or crashing heavily, depending on the ups-and-downs of his volatile mood swings.  Anger, guilt, frustration, depression - - Hutch had been at the receiving end of all those emotions and more.  The last thing he wanted to do was add to his friend’s misery by admitting he was in agony.  In his present frame of mind, Starsky would blame himself for the accident, adding to his ever-growing bent for self-condemnation.

 

And so Hutch bit his lip and kept mute, crushing the jacket to his side, hoping it would stop his pain along with the blood.  He kept his head tilted back, resting against the seat, his eyes turned skyward.  He was afraid to look at his hands.  He could feel the heavy tackiness of blood eagerly seeping between his fingers, spreading across his stomach.  It left his shirt sodden, sticking wetly to his skin.  

 

In the close confines of the car he could smell heated rubber and hot metal, the sickly combination leaving him queasy and lightheaded.  He wanted fresh air, but the door was jammed, and he didn’t think he had the strength to force it open.  With Starsky gone, he shifted a little and moaned, no longer worried about putting on a false front. Pain erupted from the ragged tear below his ribs, ricocheting straight to his head. Panting, he twisted his face to the side.

 

“Starsk - -”  His friend’s name came automatically, a tortured groan of desperation and need in his moment of distress.  Want you here . . .

 

Just as quickly, he killed the instinctive yearning.

 

Can’t . . . his logical mind warned.  Don’t let him know how badly you’re hurt.  Yet the reactionary part - - the whole of him that had twined itself around Starsky - - was caught up in the very real need for his friend.  Starsky had been short with him lately, but Hutch knew that anger and frustration wasn’t really directed at him.  It was simply Starsky’s defense mechanism, pushing Hutch away because he wasn’t yet ready to concede his own vulnerability.  Ohgod, buddy, it hurts . . . I’m hurt . . .

 

Yet even as the thought demanded attention, another followed:   . . . can’t tell him . . . don’t let him know . . .

 

The pain came again, harder this time. Hutch clutched his side, breathing rapidly through his mouth. Raising his head, he blinked and tried to make sense of the upturned Nova in the distance.  It was growing harder to think, his mind alarmingly sluggish, fogged by a prickling haze of misery.  How long since Starsky had left . . . since they’d called for backup?   What had become of the two suspects they were chasing . . . what of the girl? 

 

Caught up in a befuddling muddle of random thoughts, Hutch was unprepared when someone abruptly yanked open the passenger door. The mangled metal screeched in protest, grating shrilly against the damaged frame.  He half turned, jarred to a halt by the presence of a .38 caliber pistol just inches from his face.  Rapidly, he looked from the weapon to the man who held it.

 

In the half-light he had a brief impression of an angular face, red-veined eyes and mud brown hair.  A startling flicker of recognition streaked through him, gone as quickly as it came.  In the background, a siren wailed to life, howling its imminent approach. 

 

Shock washed over the gunman’s face. “I know you,” he said, snapping the pistol backward.

 

Just as quickly, he pulled the trigger.

 

+++++    

 

Starsky recoiled as the resounding crack of a gunshot echoed on the still morning air - - once, then again.  Horrified, he realized that dangerously lethal sound had come from the direction of the Torino.  It pumped dread into his veins, made his heart quake with fear.  In his present condition, there was no way Hutch could have drawn his gun.  And the higher pitched echo didn’t have the Magnum’s telltale boom.  Starsky had heard that sound enough times to know it anywhere.  Whatever weapon had fired, it didn’t belong to Hutch.

 

“Stay here!” he ordered the girl, bolting for the damaged car. 

 

Listing to the right side, it sat heavily slanted onto the shoulder of the road.  As Starsky approached, he saw the passenger’s door hung open, the cracked glass of the window still miraculously in one piece. Hutch had been sitting up when he’d left, but now he couldn’t see his friend through the windshield.  The car looked abandoned - - a broken shell on a deserted stretch of road.  If there had been someone nearby . . . someone with a gun . . . that person was gone now, sent running by the loud wail of multiple sirens.

 

“Hutch!”  Pistol drawn, Starsky recklessly vaulted across the hood of the car, sliding on his rear to land on the passenger’s side.  A double jolt of relief and alarm boomeranged through him when he spied Hutch sprawled across the front seat. “Hey . . .”  His voice came out a strangled squawk. He’d been a cop long enough to know when something was dreadfully wrong.  He was distantly aware of the shriek of approaching sirens, a faint scuff of cool air across his face.  It carried the scent of dew-damp earth, blistered asphalt and blood.  His friend wasn’t moving.

 

Swearing under his breath, Starsky jammed the Beretta into his waistband.  He ducked into the car, bracing one knee against the seat as he leaned over Hutch.  “Buddy?”  The extreme stillness of his partner made him speak softly.  There was something unnatural in the way Hutch was lying, left shoulder tucked under his body, his face turned into the seat.  His right arm dangled limply over the edge, the wrist folded backward against the floorboard.

 

Gingerly, Starsky touched the back of his head.  When there was no response, he lightly skimmed his hand down Hutch’s neck and over his back.  With the door hanging open, the dome light had engaged, splattering the inside of the car in a cone of yellow illumination.  It drew his attention to a growing splotch of blood on Hutch’s lower back.

 

“Oh, shit.”  Starsky inched nearer, drawn by the grisly discoloration.  The jacket he’d left as a makeshift compress was crumpled, half wedged beneath the blond detective’s stomach.  Starsky knew the wet splotch on Hutch’s back had nothing to do with the wound he’d sustained in the accident.  This was different . . . newer . . . an exit wound from a pistol, if he had his guess.  A growing deluge of blood soaked Hutch’s pants, splaying further over his hip and outer thigh.

 

Someone shot ‘im.  The cowardly bastard shot ‘im!

 

Roused to half-consciousness, Hutch stirred, feebly attempting to draw his right leg forward.  The lethargic effort at movement made him hiss in a shocked breath.  He groaned against the pain, pulling his arm onto the seat, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.  “Starsk . . .” 

 

Though he moaned the name aloud, Starsky had the distinct impression Hutch didn’t even know he was there.  Disoriented and dazed by pain, he called for his friend from sheer reflex.

 

And Starsky responded in kind, an emotionally thick lump wedged in his throat.  “I’m right here, babe.”  He slid a little nearer, his knee bumping higher between Hutch’s thighs.  Fumbling for the jacket, he tried to reposition it to sop up the fresher blood but couldn’t be sure where the bullet had entered.  At least it went clean through. Biting his lip, he pressed the stained fabric over the exit wound on Hutch’s back.  Another, grimmer thought immediately surfaced:  I did this to him.  I’m responsible.  I shouldn’t have left him.  He was damn defenseless, and I waltzed away to help the girl.

 

A heated surge of guilt knifed through him, plundering his fragile composure.  What a fuck up! Lately he couldn’t do anything right - - shooting a kid, getting two fellow officers killed - -and now for the ultimate betrayal, he’d left his injured partner alone and defenseless in a situation he’d known was potentially dangerous.  It’s like I painted a friggin’ target on his chest.  He’s damn lucky I didn’t get him killed too.

 

Ashamed, Starsky hung his head. He choked out a breath, a tremor of recrimination racing through his arms.  He kept his elbows locked, his hands pressed tightly against the jacket.  Earlier Hutch had suffered in silence, but pain was clearly taking its toll now, heightened by the blunt trauma of the gunshot wound.  Or had there been two?  Starsky had heard dual shots in rapid succession, but there was far too much blood to tell how badly Hutch was injured.

 

His friend parted with a pathetic whine, trying to scrunch onto his left side.  He blinked groggily, never fully cognizant of his surroundings.  Fumbling for the steering wheel, he locked his hand over the rim in an ineffectual bid to leverage himself upright.

 

“No, Hutch.”  Starsky pulled his hand free with minimal effort.  “Stay there.  Help’s comin’, I promise.”  Outside, the din of multiple sirens droned to an abrupt stop as a trio of patrol cars arrived on the scene. Starsky twisted his head, looking through the rear windshield.  Behind him, the strobing flash of emergency lights turned the terrain into a surreal blend of crimson-stained macadam and jet shadows.  He saw two officers race for the Nova, another sprint to Betty Klinger’s side where she sat huddled beneath a sheltering copse of trees.

 

“Over here!” he yelled.  Within seconds, a junior patrolman jogged toward the disabled Torino.  “Get an ambulance,” Starsky ordered, shooting a hasty glance at the fresh-faced rookie officer who appeared by the passenger’s door.  “My partner’s been shot.  There’s one dead in the Nova, another armed, on the loose.  You got that?”

 

“Yeah,” came the quick reply. 

 

Starsky didn’t wait to see him sprint away.  His attention immediately shifted back to Hutch.  He was beginning to feel a crimp of pain in his neck from the jar he’d gotten when the car lurched to a halt. He wanted to ease onto the seat, bend his arms a little to relax the pressure, but none of that was an option with Hutch bleeding the way he was.  His friend stirred again, parting with a muffled moan.  Starsky felt something cold and accusatory worm into his gut.  I did this to him.

 

“Ssh,” he crooned.  “You’re gonna be okay, Hutch.”

 

This time something resembling awareness flickered through Hutch’s eyes.  He moved restlessly, his face turned in profile against the seat.  The chalky white of his skin gleamed like alabaster, dew-damp with a light sheen of cold sweat. “Starsky?”  It wasn’t simply a plea this time, but a relieved query of awareness.  

 

“Yeah, it’s me, babe - - I’m here.”  Starsky raised one hand, scuffing his knuckles across Hutch’s cheek. “Ambulance is on the way.  I’m gonna get you outta this - - you know that, right?”

 

His friend gave a tired nod, turning his face back into the crook of his elbow.  Starsky heard him groan, the anguished sound muffled by the intervening bulk of Hutch’s jacket.  The faint cry was strangely ephemeral, almost like an after-thought.  Like he didn’t mean for it to happen. 

 

Once again Hutch tried to drag his right leg forward.  He tensed involuntarily, his breath catching on a wheezed hiss of air.  Shuddering, he buried his face against the seat and moaned.

 

Starsky blanched.

 

“Ssh, ssh, it’s okay,” he said hurriedly, his voice quavering at the thought of his friend suffering.  It should be me.  If anyone deserved to writhe in pain, it was him for all the senseless torment and death he’d caused others recently  - - Lonnie Craig, the two innocent patrol officers, their families and loved ones - - all had suffered and died because of one David Michael Starsky.   And now he was responsible for deserting his partner and soulmate . . . leaving him to the mercy of a psychotic gunman.  Between the girl and Hutch, his friend was the one who’d been more grievously injured.  The girl had been shaken up, nothing more.  She would have survived, crawled out of the car without his intervention.  Hutch was the one who’d been hurt, who’d needed protection, yet he was the one who’d suffered traumatic injury.

 

In the line of duty.

 

Starsky ground his teeth together.

 

Fuck the line of duty.

 

Being a cop hadn’t prepared him for abandoning his partner.  Yeah, he’d sworn an oath, pledged his life, but at the time he’d never taken into account his fierce attachment to one platinum-haired Midwesterner.  He’d long ago come to terms with sacrificing himself, but he’d never considered the possibility he might have to sacrifice Hutch too.  That simply wasn’t an option . . . had never been from nearly the moment they’d met at the Academy.

 

Starsky had done what was expected of him, what he’d been sworn to do - - he’d saved the girl and in the process had nearly sacrificed his partner. Shaken, he swallowed hard.

 

He’d seen enough bullet wounds to know the perp had likely used a .38 caliber, but what if he’d used a .44 or a shotgun instead?  What if the cowardly scum had used a knife, slitting Hutch’s throat ear to ear?  There’d be no need for an ambulance then.  Abruptly cold, Starsky touched his friend’s cheek.

 

Hutch breathed heavily, his eyes closed.

 

“It’s gonna be okay, buddy,” Starsky whispered, his voice barely audible.  In the distance he heard the shrill pitch of an approaching siren and guessed an ambulance was only seconds away.  He no longer felt the soiled taint of blood on his fingers, the gore-soaked jacket wadded beneath his hands. There was only the beat of his heart, pulsing in time to Hutch’s painfully labored breath. 

 

Stretching forward, Starsky dipped his lips close to his friend’s ear.  He felt the satiny brush of white-gold hair against his cheek, the familiar sensation inducing a string of reactionary goosebumps on his arms. Beneath the stench of blood and clammy perspiration, he could smell Hutch.

 

Literally.

 

He sometimes thought it strange how he’d come to recognize the characteristic scent of his partner, a combination of fresh soap, wind-laced skies, and aquatic-based aftershave.  That odor clung to Hutch’s clothing, permeated his apartment and car.  It was an essential part of who he was, as effortlessly natural as the sun-streaked highlights in his fair hair.  Greedily latching onto the comforting scent, Starsky used it to displace the harsher reek of butchered flesh and clotted blood. 

 

“Stay with me, partner,” he pleaded.  Crouched over his friend, he bowed his head. “I ain’t gonna leave you again, buddy.”  The vow died on his lips, as impassioned and shaky as the first feeble rays of dawn.  When the ambulance finally arrived, the attendant had to pry him free. 

 

Starsky lingered anxiously in the background as two EMTs worked over Hutch. He’d been short with his friend lately, not the most companionable of partners.  But now every protective instinct he possessed was in overdrive.  He fidgeted and hovered close, hyperactive to the nth degree, all the while fighting down the compelling urge to touch, comfort and soothe.  It often amazed him they had grown so inseparably dependant on each other . . . that shared touch and physical contact had become critical to their wellbeing.  Ironically, there had been a time when he’d existed comfortably without Hutch.  When he’d waltzed through life, perfectly capable and wholly satisfied with his own devices.  He hadn’t needed anyone and hadn’t felt the overwhelming compulsion to be needed in turn. 

 

But that was before Kenneth Richard Hutchinson.  Before he’d formed an unexpected and extraordinary friendship with a man who was the antithesis of every fair-weather friend he’d ever made. 

 

As Starsky watched Hutch being loaded into the ambulance, he thought back to the first time he’d seen his partner hurt.

 

+++++

 

Bay City Police Academy:  The Past

 

“Jackass,” Starsky muttered. 

 

Beside him, John Colby snickered.  Starsky wasn’t sure if his new friend’s laughter was a result of his off-the-cuff comment or the humiliating dressing down their instructor had just given the perpetual golden boy of the Police Academy.  One thing was certain - - Sergeant Ozkeller didn’t like the tall blond recruit with the pretty boy looks.  Then again, Oz didn’t really like anyone, Hutching-something-or-other included.  The unlucky jerk just had the terrible misfortunate of becoming Oz’s dog for the day.

 

Starsky couldn’t remember the guy’s name - - Hutchinger . . . Hutchington . . . something WASPy and stuck-up sounding, he was sure.  Mentally, he’d just taken to calling the lean cadet “Hutch,”or more often than not, something snide and unflattering related to his looks. Starsky knew the type - - overachiever, always played by the rules, a born leader who’d probably shit himself if he so much as cracked a smile or consented to mingle with the other lowly recruits.  

 

Okay, so maybe that was too harsh.  Blond Boy seemed easygoing enough with several cadets, but he was annoyingly flawless in Starsky’s book . . . icy and superior.  It wasn’t really anything he’d said or done, so much as the way he looked and acted. He had an almost fanatical bent to excel at everything he did.  Precisely the reason Oz liked to rattle his cage.

 

The smug bastard’s got you pegged, pretty boy. Me too.

 

The rumor mill said Hutch came from a wealthy family . . . that his father was a renowned surgeon, and he had more money than he knew what to do with. Being a cop seemed an odd career choice for a man like that, but it was entirely possible Mr. All American had something to prove . . . something related to his masculinity.  Maybe under those movie-star looks, he lacked in other fundamental ways. Certainly, he wouldn’t be the first man to take on a macho job just to prove he was virile.  Then again, Starsky had heard Hutch’s wife was a knockout. A woman like that wouldn’t stay with a man who couldn’t keep her satisfied.

 

He frowned, realizing he was being too judgmental, and that wasn’t like him.  There was just something about Hutch that grated on his nerves, rubbed him the wrong way.  He knew Colby had talked to the guy a few times, even sort of liked him.  But, Starsky was beginning to realize, John Colby went whichever way the wind blew best.

 

“And that, ladies, is an example of what you don’t do when confronted by an armed felon.” Oz made a point of jabbing his nightstick into Hutch’s midsection before letting him up.  Even from a distance, Starsky could see the red flush of embarrassment seep over the tall Midwesterner’s pale cheeks. 

 

Oz was a jackass, selecting Hutch for the training exercise because he knew the blond-haired man was still recovering from a particularly aggressive strain of stomach flu.  “Crime don’t give a shit if you gotta hurl,” the balding sergeant had said with a scornful leer as he flagged Hutch to participate in a drill simulating the arrest of violent offenders. He’d gotten in a cheap shot at the very start, then taken Hutch down with a jabbing blow to his midsection courtesy of the nightstick he’d confiscated from the ill recruit.  A scathing commentary on everything Hutch had done wrong immediately followed.

 

From what Starsky could tell, the only thing Hutch had done wrong was to become a personal target for Oz. He frowned, watching as the fair-haired cadet climbed unsteadily to his feet.  It was plain from a single glance, Hutch was still suffering the aftereffects of the flu - - weak, light-headed, probably even nauseous.  His skin looked strained and chalky. Perspiration soaked his plain white tee-shirt at the neck, under the arms, and left a thin vee streaked down the middle of his back.  His bangs were tipped with sweat, as was the neatly trimmed hair resting against the back of his neck.  In short, he looked like he was ready to puke.  The idiot shouldn’t have even been at training, but that would have been admitting weakness, and such common fragility didn’t fit with his regimentally driven character.

 

Maybe the jerk deserves everything he gets, Starsky thought sourly.  No one’s forcin’ him to be here.

 

No one except Hutch, diehard overachiever and perfectionist. Even Starsky had to admit a grudging admiration for that kind of bullheaded determination. Hutch had scored high in physical combat and tactical, surprising most of his instructors, especially Oz.  In fact, he’d scored high in damn near every training session the Academy had, which was probably why Oz decided to make an example of him. 

 

“It’s too early for this shit,” Starsky muttered aside to Colby.  He shifted impatiently, fighting back a yawn.  The Academy gym smelled of sweat and new vinyl, the latter all but oozing from the massive blue contact mat they used to toss each other around in combat drills - - or more correctly, get tossed around by Oz.  The stench was starting to give him a headache, much like fresh paint did after a few initial whiffs.  The other recruits all seemed attentive despite the early morning hour, hanging on Oz’s every word.  A few smiled slyly, enjoying the fact the class’s ace student had screwed up royally.  Oz let them snicker as Hutch painfully pulled himself to his feet. 

 

Starsky thought the whole thing sucked.  He wanted to be a cop, but he had little patience for puffed up A-holes like Oz who harbored superiority complexes.  His instinctive irreverence in the face of authority hadn’t gone over well with his instructors.  If they viewed Hutch as a pampered pretty boy, they viewed him as a wisecracking troublemaker.  Between the two of them, Starsky wasn’t sure which Oz disliked more.  If the jerk wasn’t ragging on Hutch, he was snarling at Starsky, doing his best foam-at-the-mouth impersonation.

 

Man’s just got a piss-poor attitude. 

 

Then again, at least he wasn’t as bad as Pike who taught law and was boring as hell.  The thin-faced man had an uncanny gift for turning penal code and federal laws into a monumental snooze-fest.  One hundred and five hours of search and seizure, laws of arrest and evidence handling - - just to name a few riveting highlights - - wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to wade through.  Put in Pike’s tedious hands, the curriculum was almost intolerable.  Starsky was barely treading water in his class, something he knew he’d need to change if he wanted to make it through the Academy. At least recruits pulled down a salary while enduring training.

 

They’d already been told they’d be working in pairs soon, operating the same way real police partners did on the street.  Starsky had already decided to team with Colby.  John was edgy, a bit of a bad ass, and Starsky liked that.  He’d never been much for straight-laced friends.  Most of the other recruits were too hung up on rules and following procedure.  Starsky preferred to exist on the fringe, pushing the envelope as far as he could, always testing the line.  There were a few loose cannons in the group, like MacEvoy and Reddox, who did the same thing, but both had overly inflated opinions of themselves.  MacEvoy was King of the Mat in hands-on-combat, a cocky goon with a 6’4” frame, all of it toned muscle.  Even Oz avoided tangling with him if he could. By contrast, Reddox was lean and agile with a sharp tongue and a condescending attitude.  He was damn good with a pistol too, scoring high points for marksmanship right behind Starsky and Mister Over-achiever himself, Hutch.

 

Starsky puffed out his cheeks, exhaling noisily.  Impatient, he toed the edge of the vinyl mat, annoyed that Oz hadn’t finished gloating yet.  In the center of the gym, Hutch turned away, ready to resume his place in the line of waiting recruits.

 

“Not so fast, Hutchinson.” Oz stopped him with a pointed glance. “Get your ass back here.  We’re not done yet.”

 

Starsky scowled.  Maybe Hutch had Viking blood in his veins with all that blond hair and pale Nordic features, but at the moment he didn’t look remotely like a conqueror.  He looked ready to keel over, a little green like he was going to get sick - - all over the mat.

 

Oz would love that.  Toss Pretty Boy around enough until he puked in front of everyone.  That would be the ultimate humiliation, the supreme stroke of dictatorial one upmanship.  Problem was Oz held all the power and there wasn’t a damn thing Hutch could do about it.  Starsky watched him suck down an unsteady breath, squaring his shoulders before he turned to confront Oz.  The mule-headed determination was back on his face, a frost of ice in his chilly blue eyes. 

 

Screwed and he knows it. 

 

Pissed with the power play Oz initiated, Starsky cleared his throat - - loudly.  “So I think we all get how not to do things when you’re sick.  How ‘bout lettin’ someone who’s healthy take a whack at it?  I ain’t gonna learn anything watchin’ you bounce a sick guy all over the mat.” Stickin’ my neck out for you, Mister-High-Society-Pretty-Boy and I ain’t really sure why.

 

“Starsky.” Oz spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.  Enraged at first, he soon relaxed, his lips splitting with a predatory grin. “You think you can do better, get your New York ass over here and show me what you got, punk.”

 

Starsky shrugged.  Insolent as always, he sauntered to the center of the mat.  He felt Hutch’s coolly appraising gaze on him, silently measuring his worth.  I just saved your pasty butt, Blondie. The least you could do is stop lookin’ so damn arrogant.

 

On second glance he realized there was curiosity in Hutch’s gaze, even a flicker of gratitude.  Up close he saw the fair-haired man was sicker than he’d originally thought, his skin waxen and streaked with sweat. Stepping to his side, Starsky turned to face Oz, one hip dipping low in a perfected street stance.  He knew his posture reeked attitude but didn’t give a shit.  Only a few weeks into training and he was already tired of the head games and power trips.  How the hell was he ever going to last eight months? 

 

Bottom line - - he just wanted to make it through the Academy and get on with his career. He wanted to be on the street, putting a stop to the kind of crime that had taken his father’s life.  His dad had been a good cop - - a career cop.  He would have wiped the floor with a slug like Oz.  Given the chance, it was exactly what Starsky wanted to do.

 

“So . . .”  Oz stepped forward, bluntly crowding his space. With a thin sneer, he tapped the nightstick he’d wrestled from Hutch against his open palm.  “You wanna take Hutchinson’s place, is that it?”

 

Hutchinson.  Knew it was some stuck-up, ritzy name.

 

“Just wanna get on with what I’m supposed to be learnin’,” he said smoothly.  Mentally, he grinned.  See that, Hutchinson - - I can do that cool, aloof stuff too.  He felt the man beside him shift uncomfortably.  He obviously needed to go crash somewhere, probably spew his churning guts into a toilet.  Sure hope whatever you got ain’t contagious.  Less of course, you gave it to Oz.

 

Starsky had no doubt of his ability to take down the drill sergeant - - he’d watched him long enough in training exercises to know his weaknesses.  His own stint in the Army and subsequently Vietnam had given him an edge in hand-to-hand combat.  Between his street knowledge and the time he’d spent in the jungle, he’d dealt with far worse than Oz.  He was a survivor and the drill sergeant knew it.  As he saw it, Oz had a dilemma on his hands. If he took Starsky’s challenge and lost, he’d lose face in front of the recruits, something he couldn’t afford.  If he took the challenge and won, he didn’t really gain anything.  He was already considered a tyrannical bad ass. His position as instructor meant he had the authority to hide behind whatever role suited him best.

 

Oz grinned toothily.  “Tell you what, Starsky.  Since you’re so anxious to learn, we’ll just let you pair up with your partner and the two of you can get to work.  From here out, you’re teamed up for the duration - - combat, driving, firing range, classroom study, the whole ball of wax. You got that, smart ass?”

 

“Yeah?” Caught off guard, Starsky couldn’t help but fumble over the unexpected twist.  “Okay.”  Not so bad after all.  He’d thought he was going to have to prove himself with Oz, but the hardhead was letting him off the hook easier than expected.  Maybe the guy wasn’t such a dickwad after all. He looked over his shoulder to where John stood on the edge of the mat.  “I’m pairin’ with Colby.”

 

“Think so?”  Ozkeller left the mat long enough to walk to a folding table pushed against the far wall.  Taking his time, he retrieved a clipboard and a ballpoint pen, tossing the nightstick among a stack of papers. “Let’s see here,” he mused aloud, using the pen to trace down a list attached to the plastic backing.  “I got a rude awakening for you, Starsky.  In the real world, you don’t get to pick and choose who you’re gonna work with.”  Striding back to the two men standing in the center of the mat, he pursed his lips theatrically, making a show of scanning his list.  “Says here, we got you paired up with Matthews, Todd.” 

 

Okay, so that wasn’t the end of civilization as Starsky knew it.  Matthews wouldn’t have been his first choice, but he seemed like a fairly decent guy. 

 

“You probably would have worked well together,” Oz commented.  “Same temperament, similar backgrounds.  That’s too bad.”

 

“What’s too bad?”

 

“Your reassignment.”  Deliberately, Oz scratched a line through the name on his paper.  The lightness left his voice and his eyes grew hard.  “As of now, you’re partnered with Hutchinson, Ken.  You wanna open your mouth and be a smart-ass, deal with the fallout.  You got it, Starsky?”

 

What the fuck? 

 

He clamped down on his tongue before he snapped a heated reply.  It wasn’t supposed to go this way.  He had it all planned.  He and John had already figured their strengths and weaknesses to compliment one another.  Between the two of them, they’d make it through the Academy no problem . . . even have some laughs along the way.  Pairing him with an arrogant, stick-up-his-ass ice king would shoot everything all to hell.  Seething, he bit down on his bottom lip.  Oz hated his guts - - had from practically the moment he’d walked through the door.  He hated Hutch too, that much was obvious. Putting them together was Ozkeller’s way of ensuring they’d both fail.

 

“Got it, Sir,” he said tightly.

 

“Good.”  Another grin, this one savoring and snide.  Turning away, Oz waved the clipboard in the air.  “All right, the rest of you ladies - - I’m gonna post these assignments.  You got ten minutes to shit, piss, check your status or do whatever the hell you want.  I expect you paired up and back on the mat at 9:20.  Break!”

 

“That’s just damn t’rrfic,” Starsky muttered as his fellow recruits broke formation and hustled across the gym to study Ozkeller’s list. Beside him, Hutch clutched his stomach, parting with a soft moan.  A second later he gasped and sprinted for the exit.  Headed for the john, Starsky thought with a scowl.  Shooting Colby a disgusted wave, he waited a minute before slowly following in his new partner’s wake.

 

Hutch was in the first stall of the john, still spewing his guts when Starsky sauntered into the bathroom.  Frowning, he propped his shoulder against the stall door, gazing down on a neatly trimmed crown of white-gold hair and a sweat-stained tee-shirt.  Disgusted with the unexpected turn of events, he folded his arms across his chest. “Sure hope pukin’ ain’t all you know how to do, Hutchinson, Ken.”

 

“Screw you,” came the snarled reply.

 

Starsky laughed, surprised by the violent retort.  He would have pegged Hutch as entirely too proper to swear.  Then again, the guy was plainly miserable, coming down from a marathon puke.  He didn’t need a cocky New York street punk humiliating him any further.

 

“Talk trash if you wanna, Blondie, but you and I are stuck with each other.  Get used to it.  I ain’t exactly jumpin’ through hoops myself, you know, but I figure it could be worse.  The bastard coulda stuck me with MacEvoy.  At least you don’t talk Cro-magnum.”

 

Still hunched over the toilet, Hutch turned his head. 

 

Starsky felt that pale blue gaze rake over him, divining and cool, quietly assessing.  A second later Hutch flushed the toilet and pushed from the stall.  “Why’d you stick up for me?”  At the sink he turned, glancing over his shoulder.  “ - - Starsky, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, it’s Starsky.  And I wasn’t exactly stickin’ up for you, so much as I was sick of watchin’ Oz gloat.”  He frowned, realizing that wasn’t entirely true.  He had stuck up for Hutch - - a man he didn’t even know . . . who he’d already formed a less than favorable opinion about.  Oz had already stomped on a few of the other recruits, and Starsky hadn’t bothered to interfere.  So why had he suddenly gotten a streak of conscience about a pretty rich guy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth?  ‘Cuz I didn’t wanna see him hurl.  I didn’t wanna see him humiliated like that, attitude or no attitude. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly.  “Oz knew exactly what he was doin’.  Maybe I just didn’t wanna see him get away with it.”

 

Hutch bent over the sink, cupping his hand to catch a spray of cold water.  He stayed hunched, splattering the chill liquid against his face.  After a few seconds, he cranked off the faucet and reached for a handful of paper towels. “So now we’re stuck with each other, hero,” he commented, his voice muffled by a wad of c-folds. “You’re not exactly my first choice of partner either.” Straightening, he shot the sodden mass into the nearest trashcan.  His skin still looked chalky but the greenish cast had faded.

 

Arrogant as shit.

 

Starsky fought back a rise of hostility.  If they were going to work together they needed to get past reactionary antagonism and pre-conceived ideas about what the other was like.  Knowing he was screwed either way, Starsky made an effort and went for broke. 

 

“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.”  He was surprised when that line actually earned him a grin in return.  “Yeah - - like that.” 

 

It was amazing really. Hutchinson’s face changed when he grinned, morphing from that coolly impassive mask into something approachable, even friendly.  Maybe the whole thing wasn’t a lost cause after all.  The guy had backbone, no question about that, and from his reaction just a minute ago, he wasn’t as prim and proper as Starsky originally thought. 

 

Extending his hand, he offered his own lopsided grin.  “What d’ya say, Hutch?  You wanna give it a shot?”

 

“Hutch?” A single eyebrow arched into a fringe of pale hair.

 

Starsky shrugged.  “Hutchinson’s too much of a mouthful, and it don’t exactly roll off my tongue.”

 

“Okay, I can live with that.” Hutch hesitated only a moment before clasping his hand in a firm shake.  “I’ve been called worse.”  Tilting his head to the side, he eyed Starsky suspiciously. “Should I be worried about what does roll off your tongue?”

 

“Nah.”  Starsky relaxed, strangely at ease with his new partner. “If I decide to mouth off at Oz or one of the other jerks, I’ll make sure I don’t include you.  The way I see it, you only got one thing to worry about and that’s me tossin’ you around on that combat mat.”

 

Groaning at the thought, Hutch slumped against the sink.  Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he puffed out his cheeks as if swallowing back bile. “I’m not really up for this, you know?”

His pale blue eyes slid sideways, settling on Starsky.

 

“Figured that.  Also figure you for an idiot who doesn’t know when to back off.”  Hooking the taller man by the tee-shirt, Starsky yanked him toward the door.  “Don’t worry . . . I’ll go easy on you.  I ain’t especially fond of getting’ puked on.  And just so you know - - if I get the stomach flu, I’m gonna camp out in your bathroom.”

 

Surprisingly, Hutch allowed himself to be steered along in Starsky’s controlling grip.  “I don’t think my wife would appreciate that very much.”

 

“Then you better do your damnedest to keep your germs to yourself.”  He paused, struck by another thought as they neared the entrance to the gym.  ‘Hey, you know John Colby?  Wanna grab a beer with us later tonight?”

 

Hutch looked at him like he’d lost all touch with reality.  “Starsky, get real.  I just got done puking in the john.  Alcohol isn’t exactly at the top of my things-I-gotta-have list.”

 

“It’s early yet,” Starsky decided. “You’ll feel different by the time five o’clock rolls around.”  Like I’m already starting to.  Weird, but he felt strangely at ease with Hutch. They’d only just met, yet they talked as easily as if they’d known one another for years.  He was comfortable with Colby, but this was . . . different.  He couldn’t describe it, wasn’t even sure he wanted to try. 

 

Better let it go.  For all I know, Hutchinson could turn into a colossal ass.

 

Halting outside the door, Hutch drew a breath and scraped a hand through his hair. He looked better than he had earlier, but a dewy sheen of perspiration had returned to haunt his cheeks. “Think Oz’ll ignore us?”

 

Starsky snorted.  “What do you think?”

 

Hutch shot him a sharp glance.  “I think the bastard lives to make my life miserable.”

 

“Then I guess we got something in common after all.” Starsky said, and gave him a shove in the middle of the back, propelling him into the gym.

 

+++++

 

Memorial Hospital:  Present

 

Starsky rolled his hand into a fist and bounced it against his knee.  Somewhere along the line, he’d lost track of time - - couldn’t remember if it was morning or night.  He’d been boxed in by the nondescript walls of the OR waiting room longer than he cared to contemplate.  He’d watched a number of patients come and go, including a man who’d inadvertently inhaled carbon monoxide and a drunken teenager who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up spilling his motorcycle headfirst into the bay. 

 

Starsky observed it all with a distracted kind of awareness, his thoughts never far from Hutch.  He’d ridden with his friend in the ambulance, then been banished to pacing the hallways once the vehicle arrived at Memorial Hospital.  By that time, Hutch had been mostly incoherent.  He’d grown shocky, his vitals increasingly erratic, dipping toward danger levels.  Starsky had overheard the paramedics talking and knew his condition was grave.  In addition to the impaling laceration to his side, he’d been struck by two bullets - - one which was lodged in his right hip, the other exiting through his lower back.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know he’d lost entirely too much blood. 

 

Starsky could still see the gory red excess smeared over the front seat of the Torino, splattered in ruby-bright droplets on the floor and the butchered metal of the door. The memory sickened him, made his stomach tighten in a cramping knot.   

 

My fault.  I shouldn’t have left him.

 

Sucking down a shaky breath, he bowed his head, hands clasped between his knees.  He’d chosen the chair closest to the door so he could keep an eye on the hallway, hoping for some glimmer of news, however minute. The color of a cooked turnip, the chair was a hard plastic thing with chrome legs and a stiff, armless back. Six or seven replicas hugged the bordering wall, banked by several magazine racks and a rectangular coffee table littered with an assortment of health related pamphlets.  Starsky spared them a half-hearted glance, noting everything from a brochure on nutritious eating and vitamin supplements to one detailing the benefits of a regular fitness routine.

 

Hutch’d have a field day, he thought with a pained grimace.

 

Irritable, he scuffed a hand through his hair, slumping dejectedly in the chair.  It had been close to three hours since he’d arrived - - or at least he thought it was.  The clock on the wall wasn’t helping, existing in a frustratingly slow dimension where time inched past at a discouraging pace.  

 

Somewhere during that snail-like interval, he’d called Dobey. Shortly thereafter, the captain had shown up, looking tired and disheveled as though he’d been roused from bed.  He’d stayed to listen to Starsky’s abridged tale of everything that had gone wrong, then vanished in search of coffee.  Alone, with only the slowly ticking clock and a stack of healthy-living pamphlets for company, Starsky stood and paced into the hallway. 

 

Is this how Lonnie Craig’s mother would have felt had her son survived the shooting, he wondered?  Would she have waited, tense and nervous while her boy underwent emergency surgery for a bullet wound?  Was this  - - in some warped way - - Starsky’s punishment for taking the life of a troubled teen?

 

‘Cept it’s Hutch who’s sufferin’.

 

“Starsky.”

 

Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder.  He knew Dobey’s voice . . . knew it wasn’t a doctor with news of Hutch who interrupted his brooding.  The truth was, if he couldn’t be with Hutch he wanted to be alone.  He wanted to mope and suffer in private.  More than anything, he just wanted to hear his friend’s voice - - to see the familiar flash of Hutch’s bright, sky-colored eyes.  He was beginning to regret calling Dobey, even though he knew informing his captain was part of his duty as a police officer.

 

Duty.

 

He gave a contemptuous mental snort.  That was another thing he’d begun to regret.

 

“Here - -”  Drawing closer, Dobey passed him a cup of coffee.  “It’ll help pass the time.”

 

Starsky scowled into the cup, noting it had far too much cream.  He took a sip anyway, grimacing at the appalling lack of sweetener. Realistically, Dobey couldn’t be expected to know how he drank his coffee. Hutch would have gotten it right - - mixing it perfectly, down to the last sugary granule. 

 

Gripin’ and complainin’ and tellin’ me how I’m poisonin’ my body, but he woulda gotten it right.

 

Starsky managed a weary smile.  “Thanks, Cap.”  He felt like shit, decided the coffee tasted like it too.

 

Dobey motioned toward the waiting room.  “How about sitting down?”

 

“Don’t wanna sit down.”  He sounded churlish, even childish, but didn’t care. “I’ve been sittin’ on my butt for the last three hours.  How long does it take to cut out a friggin’ bullet anyway?”  His heart bumped unexpectedly into his throat, propelled by a surge of wretchedly forbidding thoughts.  “Maybe something went wrong?”  The frightening notion made his voice jump higher. “Cap, you didn’t see him . . . all that blood.  That bastard pumped two shots into him at close range.”

 

Starsky glanced at his hands.  He’d scrubbed them clean but hadn’t been able to do anything about the jagged stains on his shirtsleeves and cuffs.  He shot Dobey a piercing glare. “Someone better pick that scum off the street before I do.  If I find him, it ain’t gonna be pleasant.”

 

“We don’t have anything yet,” Dobey countered, keeping his voice level.  He gripped Starsky by the shoulder and steered him back into the waiting room.  “We’ve got patrol units sweeping the area.  County’s looking too.  In the meantime, the best thing you can do is hang tight.  I know you’re worried . . . I know you’re agitated, but - -”

 

“Agitated?”  Starsky interrupted, blowing out a disgusted puff of air.  “Agitated don’t even come close.  I probably just screwed up Hutch’s life for the next six months.  He’s got a bullet in the hip, Cap’n.  You got any idea how long it’s gonna take for him to be fully mobile again?  And that’s assumin’ he ever recovers from all the blood he’s lost.  I overheard one of the paramedics say they were gonna have to give him a transfusion.”

 

“They know what they’re doing, Starsky.”

 

“Sure they do.” Irritated, he collapsed into the nearest chair, shoving his coffee aside on the end table.  Even the smell was making him sick, brewing acid in his gut.  An expanding bubble of guilt mushroomed into his throat, bloated by despair.  “It’s all fucked,” he muttered bitterly.  “Me - - Hutch - - we’re all fucked.”

 

Dobey hovered just off his shoulder, glowering from under heavy brows. “What the hell does that mean?” he snapped.

 

“Ain’t it obvious?”  Starsky raised his head.  “I’m the reason he got shot - - just like I’m the reason Lonnie Craig got shot and those two officers got killed.  I screwed up, Cap’n.  I left him.  He was hurt . . . bleedin’ . . . a damn hole ripped through his side, and I left him to go check on the guys we were chasin’.  They nabbed that girl and I thought - -”

 

“You did the right thing,” Dobey cut him off before he could finish.  “You did what you had to do . . . what you were expected to do.  You’re a cop, Starsky - -”

 

“Don’t talk to me about being a cop.”  Abruptly hostile, he surged to his feet.  Guilt-wrapped blackness swarmed nearer, engulfing and fanged. Something inside cracked, leaving an excruciating emptiness in its place.  “Right now, I don’t give a rat’s ass about police work.  I’m tired of the shit that goes with the badge.  Of all the Lonnies and Prudholms and the fuckin’ psychopaths, like the sick bastard who shot Hutch.  All I care about is makin’ sure my partner pulls through.  He didn’t deserve what he got, Cap’n.”

 

Dobey held his ground, undeterred by the explosive tirade.  “It goes with the territory, Starsky.  It goes with the badge.”

 

“Screw the badge!”  He didn’t know where the venom came from, just knew he was crashing abominably hard and there was no one to stop his fall. No Hutch to talk him out of self-destructing. God, buddy, I need you . . .want you here so badly, it’s rippin’ me up inside!  How could he ever explain that to Dobey?  That no one, no thing - - job and badge included - - would ever mean more than his partner and friend?  When it came right down to it, there was the world and everyone else - -

 

  - - and then there was Hutch.

 

Frustrated, Starsky scuffed a hand over the back of his neck and turned away.  He could feel Dobey’s eyes on him.  The fact his captain hadn’t immediately snapped back made him nervous.  It also made him less volatile, which was likely what Dobey had been driving for all along.  “You think I’m overreactin’, don’tcha?” he asked without turning.

 

Dobey’s sighed.  The sound was weary, painstakingly patient.  “I know what it’s like to have a partner you care about, Starsky.  But sometimes . . .”  He let the sentence hang.

 

“What?”  Annoyed by the lapse and where it was headed, Starsky turned sharply.  “Don’t tell me you’re gonna jump on the bandwagon too?” he challenged.  “You think I ain’t heard all the gossip around Metro about me and Hutch bein’ too close?  Think it bothers me, Cap?  Think it changes how I feel?”

 

“Don’t be an ass, Starsky.”  Dobey stuffed his hands in his pockets.  “All I’m sayin’ is it’s hard to think rationally when you’re that attached.  You’re not operating on logic right now.   Everything is emotion and instinct.  Later, when you’ve had a chance to calm down, you’ll think differently - -”

 

Starsky opened his mouth to protest.

 

“  - - about the job,” Dobey clarified.

 

“Gentlemen?”  The slightly inquiring voice behind them immediately ended the disagreement. Starsky’s eyes darted to the doorway where a tall thin man in surgical scrubs watched them expectantly.  “Are you with Detective Hutchinson?”

 

“Yeah!  Yes - -”  Starsky couldn’t speak quickly enough in his haste to answer.  Darting forward, he surged past Dobey.  “I’m his partner . . . came in with ‘im.”  His heart was back in his throat, thumping wildly like a trapped beast.  Anxiously, he wet his lips, his attention riveted on the man in green scrubs. “How is he, Doc?  Can I see him?”

 

“He’s in recovery right now.  I’m Dr. Joiner, one of the surgeons who worked on Mr. Hutchinson.”

 

Starsky shook his hand as an afterthought, vaguely aware Dobey did the same.  “One of?” He didn’t like the sound of that, found that his heart had ratcheted toward light-speed, its high velocity flutter sending shock waves into his throat.  Something sickly and worrisome bloomed in the pit of his stomach.  “How come it took more than one of you?”

 

Joiner waved his fear aside.  “Nothing overtly serious, so much as delicate.  Detective

Hutchinson sustained three wounds, all to relatively the same area. As a result, there were some

complications due to blood loss and tissue damage.  I’m sure you’re aware two of his wounds were caused by bullets.  One exited on a trajectory through his lower back, resulting in some tendon and muscle damage, but nothing excessive. Thankfully, no organs were involved. The other bullet was lodged in a manner and position as to require assistance in removal.” Joiner cleared his throat, pausing to study each man in turn.  “I won’t lie to you, gentlemen - - his lower right side is a mess.  Between the bullet wounds and the deep tissue laceration he sustained in the vehicle accident, he’s going to have a good deal of pain when he wakes up.  Fortunately, we can control that with morphine.” 

 

Starsky blanched.  “Morphine?”  He cast a sideways glance at Dobey.  Maybe if the nursing staff

kept Hutch doped up enough, he’d never even realize he was being pumped full of an opium derivative.  His friend was going to be in enough pain without giving rein to his obsessive and deeply rooted fear about addiction.  Ben Forest had forever changed Hutch in that respect, instilling a traumatic phobia where one had not previously existed.  “But . . . but he’s gonna be okay, right?” Starsky asked hopefully, needing the assurance of a concrete answer.

 

“Eventually.”  Joiner nodded, then hesitated.  “Perhaps I should clarify that:  Individually, Detective Hutchinson’s wounds are not that problematic, but taken together . . .”  He motioned expansively, letting the sentence hang.  “Given the extent of his injuries, complete recovery is going to take time.  His body has suffered major trauma. In addition to that, he’s lost a good deal of blood.  We were able to counter that and prevent prolonged shock with a transfusion.  On the positive side, he’s young and appears otherwise healthy, which will certainly factor in his favor.  The best thing for him now is rest.”

 

“We appreciate your candidness, Doctor,” Dobey said genially. “Do you have any idea how soon

he’ll be moved to a room?”

 

Joiner glanced at his watch.  “Likely another hour, perhaps two.  I can have a nurse notify you when he’s settled.”

 

“Please do.”  Dobey extended his hand. 

 

Starsky watched numbly as Joiner shook it.  He responded automatically, going through the same mechanical motion when the doctor turned to him.  His mind settled into a state of information overload, everything Joiner had said swirling past in straggling bits and pieces.  Among the jumbled fragments, one comment stood out above the others:  Detective Hutchinson’s wounds are not that problematic, but taken together . . .

 

He’d hoped for better.  He’d wanted complete assurance Hutch was going to be fine, not a vaguely ominous reference that left him feeling uneasy.  He knew he should be focusing on the positive - - Hutch had come through surgery without complication.  He was in recovery and would soon be moved to a regular room.  Given time, he would heal.

 

Dobey clapped him on the shoulder.  “See that, Starsky?  It’s all going to work out.”

 

“Yeah.”  He managed a weak nod, latching onto the words, desperately wanting to believe them.  Dobey was right - - it was all going to work out.  He needed to set aside his doom-and-gloom mentality, tamp down his reactionary guilt and concentrate on Hutch’s recovery.

 

Sighing, he dropped into the nearest chair and bowed his face into his hands.

 

God, buddy, I need to see you . . .

 

+++++

 

His wish was finally granted two-and-a-half hours later when Hutch was moved to the window bed of a fifth floor room. Starsky was thankful there was no other patient, the door bed empty and neatly made, only the occasional hustle-bustle of activity in the hallway to intrude on his privacy. He sat close to Hutch’s bed in a vinyl-padded chair, his eyes riveted on his friend’s face.

 

In his opinion, Hutch was entirely too pale, his normally fair skin almost papery in appearance.  Even after the transfusion, his flesh looked anemic and white.  A hint of shadow lingered beneath his eyes, bluish against the downward sweep of his blond lashes.  Heavily sedated, he breathed easily, his face turned slightly in profile.  The tight packing of surgical bandages on his right side created a small bump under the hospital’s bland, biscuit-colored blankets.  Situated near the bed, an IV pole held a rectangular bag of fluid suspended from a thick hook.  Starsky looked from the clear pouch with its controlled drip of morphine to the intravenous port in the back of Hutch’s hand. Thick white tape and a patch of gauze kept a small needle in place. Awake, Starsky knew his friend would react badly, likely insisting the narcotic be removed.  At least asleep, it was helping to control his pain.

 

“You just need to rest, buddy,” Starsky whispered.  He played his hand down the inside of Hutch’s arm, curling his fingers around his friend’s limp wrist. His eyes tracked aside, skirting the eggshell neutral wall, darting out the window.  Below in the parking lot, sunlight turned cars into dazzling bursts of metal and chrome.  Somewhat distractedly, he realized it was almost noon - - time for the city to erupt with lunch hour traffic and a flurry of pedestrian activity.  On a normal day, he and Hutch would have just come off night shift, probably stopping somewhere to grab a meal and unwind from the long hours of constant dark.

 

Working nights had a way of creeping beneath the skin.  Starsky minded it, but knew Hutch minded it more.  His partner might never admit it, but he just wasn't suited to shift after shift of graveyard hours.  Hutch needed sunlight and blue skies, the touch of warmth on his face.  Like one of his beloved plants, he didn’t thrive well in darkness. 

 

And I went and made all that worse - - snappin’ at ya and bein’ disagreeable as hell these last couple a days.

 

Starsky winced, rubbing his thumb across the inside of Hutch’s wrist.  He knew he’d been miserable lately.  What’s more, he hadn’t made an effort to change.  He’d been content to snap and gripe, perfectly aware he was taking his piss-poor attitude out on his partner.  Shoulda just told me to stuff it.  Don’t know why you didn’t.

 

That wasn’t entirely true.  Any other time Hutch would have done just that, but Starsky’s sour disposition came on the heels of his trouble with Prudholm and all its connecting tragedy.  So Hutch had bit his lip, held his temper and let Starsky unload on him.

 

With both barrels.

 

“Damn it.”  Feeling reprehensible for the way he’d behaved lately, Starsky bowed his head.  Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Hutch’s wrist.  His friend’s skin felt warm, something that continued to bother him.  The duty nurse had assured him there was nothing to worry about - - that it wasn’t unusual for a patient to run a low-grade fever after surgery.  Even so, it still made him uneasy. Coupled with the faint sheen of perspiration on Hutch’s gaunt cheeks, it left him fidgeting about infection or worse. 

 

Trying to distract himself, he turned his mind elsewhere, his thumb maintaining a steady massage against the narrow bones of Hutch’s wrist.  Briefly, he thought about his Torino, likely on Merle’s lot by now, in need of extensive bodywork on the right side. 

 

Right side.

 

He grimaced.  Just like Hutch.

 

That thought led to another as he recalled the gruesome sight of his friend’s blood smeared across the front seat.  The amount had terrified him . . . made him feel like the earth gaped open beneath him, gluttonous and savage.  And Hutch had sat there - - hurting and silent, trying to hold in all the mess and the pain, unwilling to make a sound. The car needed more than bodywork.  It needed someone to remove the taint of traumatic injury and the nightmarish horror that went with it. 

 

Irritated, he sucked down a frazzled breath. 

 

As if sensing his agitation, Hutch stirred, rolling his head against the pillow.  He moaned faintly, flexing his fingers, moving his left leg beneath the blankets. 

 

“Hey, pal . . .”  Starsky’s mouth went dry.  Anxiously, he leaned closer, twining his hand with Hutch’s.  “Buddy, can you hear me?”  His friend’s eyes were cracked, the barest glimmer of pale blue visible beneath a sheltering veil of lowered lashes.  Clearly groggy, the blond-haired man didn’t seem fully aware of his surroundings.  Starsky wondered how much he would even remember.  He’d been awake and mostly coherent when the ambulance crew had arrived on the scene, but he’d gone downhill quickly after, filtering in and out of consciousness.  To awake disoriented in a hospital, an IV tube sticking out of his arm, his right side all but immobile was likely to leave him frightened and confused. 

 

Hoping to ease that anxiety, Starsky squeezed his hand. “You’re gonna be okay, Hutch.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”  He wanted to believe that, fervently prayed it was true.  Forcing a smile, he layered conviction in his voice.  “The doctors got you all patched up - - did a good job too.  You’re gonna be up on your feet in no time, Blondie.”  His smile faltered, grew strained when he realized Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, fighting a crest of pain.  It was like getting punched in the gut. 

 

“Babe?” he asked weakly.

 

+++++

 

Hutch heard the echo in his head, but the familiar endearment sounded distant and foggy.  Still, he clung to it, confused by the shotgun blasts of demon-fire laddered across his side and lower back. He knew something was horribly wrong but couldn’t quite dredge himself up from a muddied haze of disorientation and pain to sort it out.  “Babe” signaled tenderness and concern on Starsky’s part.  It wasn’t a name his friend used just randomly, but rather to note the soul-binding affection between them.  It meant Starsky’s emotions teetered on edge, his concern waffling close to danger zones.  Hutch heard rampant devotion and love in the fondly spoken name.

 

Groggy, he twisted his head to the side, trying to focus on his partner. He flexed his fingers, thankful when Starsky’s hand tightened around his.  The pressure was comforting, warmly assuring. That cherished compassion held him for a time until the wretched pain spiked higher, making him whimper in confusion.

 

“Ssh, ssh,” he heard his friend admonish softly.  “I know it hurts, Hutch.”  There was a strange catch in Starsky’s voice.  “But it’ll get better.” 

 

A warm palm cupped his cheek.  Instinctively, he turned his face toward it.  “Starsk?”  His voice came out a pained croak.  “ . . . don’t feel so good.”  The freaking understatement of the year.

 

“I know, babe.”  The palm lingered, caressing briefly before dropping to settle on his shoulder.  “You got banged up pretty bad, Hutch.  You got a deep laceration and two bullet wounds, all on your right side.  They had to give you a blood transfusion before surgery.  Remember?”

 

He didn’t remember anything.  No - - that wasn’t entirely true.  Images popped in his brain like exploding flashbulbs:  A black Nova, Canyon Road, the banshee-like screech of tires, the sickly stench of burning rubber.  He remembered pain, blood, the deadly crack of a .38, not once, but twice.  More blood.   Always blood.

 

Flustered, he groaned.

 

“It’s okay.”  Starsky rubbed his shoulder, speaking softly - - Starsky, who had been snapping at him, anti-social as hell the last few days . . . who’d been driving when the Torino spun out of control, bouncing him against a tree.

 

He tried to turn toward his partner but found himself unable to move.  Pain splintered through his right side with a ruthless vehemence that made him gasp in agony. Terrified by the blinding assault, he struggled to leverage himself upright.  Something snagged on his right hand, pulling abruptly taut with a prickle of pain.  His eyes fell to the tape on his hand, the tall metal pole beside his bed. The sight of the IV triggered reactionary fear, instinctive horror.  Someone pumped drugs into him, poisoning him with addictive narcotics  - - like Monk had done.  Like Forest had done.

 

The hideous memory of withdrawal pushed him over the edge.  “No!”  Clumsily, he groped for the needle. He heard Starsky swear, felt his friend’s hands on him, struggling to hold him down.  He knew Starsky was talking rapidly, clearly concerned, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.  Somehow he got the needle free, saw a bright splash of blood on the back of his hand.  Fire seared his hip, snatching his breath away.  Tormented by pain, he writhed on the bed, breaking out in a drenching sweat.

 

He knew he had to escape.  Dazed, there was only crippling pain and the loathsome IV.  Once again, he tried to leverage himself upright and again Starsky held him down.  He kicked out with his left leg, panicked when the weakened action got him nowhere. Alarm built inside his chest, propelling him to react on instinct alone.  Frantic, he kicked with his right leg, sending the IV pole crashing to the floor.  Pain ripped through his hip and back, wrenching a strangled scream from his lips.  Something tore in his side, white-hot and demon-agonizing.

 

He moaned, the fight draining out of him.

 

Suddenly there were other people gathered around the bed, all talking at once  - - nurses, medics - - multiple hands trying to hold him down, Starsky pleading for him to be still. He felt something tacky and wet against his skin . . . saw a blossom of scarlet steadily seeping into the blanket.  Someone grabbed his arm and pinned it to the bed. 

 

“Hutch,” Starsky’s voice came from a great distance.  “It’s just gonna make you relax, Hutch.  Don’t fight it.”

 

He saw the needle before he had time to react. 

 

Noooo!  The sound built in his throat, but never made it past his lips. Something pointed and cold pierced his skin, a brutally stark sensation that sent him into a tailspin of horror.  He didn’t know which was worse - - the pain slowly eating him alive or the punishing terror of reliving his worst nightmare.  Time floated away from him, carrying awareness with it.  He felt himself sinking into a pillowy void of barely-there consciousness. 

 

Restraining hands released him, content now to let him drift. His eyelids grew heavy, dipping lower against his will. The terror faded, lurching back a notch, taking most of his residual pain with it. He felt a blessedly familiar touch against his cheek - - the gentle stroke of warm fingertips. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he heard Starsky choke.  “You know I’d never let anyone hurt you, Hutch.”

 

He wanted to tell his friend it was all right, that he’d survived the needle and the strangling fear it kindled, but there was only darkness now - - sucking him into a realm where memories mingled with dreams and reawakened the past.

 

+++++

 

Ruby’s Place:  The Past

 

It was busy in the bar, typical for a Friday night, end of the workday. Gaudy, with a high-voltage mix of glaring colors and tinny jukebox music, Ruby’s Place was located a few blocks from the Academy, equally close to the southside docks.  As a result, it was packed any day of the week, but was sheer chaos on Fridays.     

 

Hutch still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up sitting at a corner table with Starsky and John Colby, but somehow his new partner had talked him into abandoning Vanessa for a few hours.  He knew his wife wasn’t particularly happy about that decision - - she’d been chill and short with him when he’d phoned her.  Then again, his wife wasn’t really happy about most of his decisions lately, including his stubborn resolve to change careers from medicine to law enforcement.

 

“A cop?”  She’d shrieked when he’d told her. “Are you out of your mind, Ken?”

 

Hardly.  For the first time in his life, he knew exactly where he was headed, following through on something he believed in, instead of trying to appease others.  All of that considered, Vanessa had nothing on his father.  Grant Hutchinson had all but disowned him when he’d dropped out of medical school.  Even now, with his entrance to the Academy behind him, he and Grant were barely speaking.       

 

“Hey, how ‘bout another?”  Starsky nudged his elbow, motioning to the empty glass in his hand. 

His stomach hadn’t entirely made peace with the world yet, so he’d forsaken beer in favor of ginger ale.

 

“No, I’m good.”  Hutch rolled the glass in his hand, listening to the ice clink against the sides.    Colby had abandoned them a short while ago, honing in on a shapely redhead perched at the bar. From the looks of things, he wasn’t doing too badly, turning on his practically effortless charm. 

 

Hutch didn’t mind the absence.  He liked John, but his sole purpose behind accepting Starsky’s invitation for a drink had been to learn more about the displaced New Yorker.  Ozkeller had made sure they were stuck with each other, certain their personalities would clash, leaving them ripe for failure.  Of the twenty-three cadets going through Academy training, Oz had singled them out as the two he liked least.  Ironic, given they were so different in temperament and background. Even in the few short hours he’d spent with Starsky, Hutch had come to realize they were polar opposites.  

 

“Look at that - - food!”  Starsky beamed just as their waitress arrived with a Mexican chilidog and fries for the dark-haired man, along with another beer.  Colby had passed on food completely, intent on prowling, while Hutch had opted for a small bowl of vegetable soup with crackers.  Deciding he could use a second ginger ale after all, he ordered another before the waitress left.

 

Starsky gave a mild snort.  “Soup and ginger ale.  You sure live an exciting life, Blondie.”

 

Blondie.  Nicknames seemed to roll off his new friend’s tongue with uncanny ease.  Oddly, Hutch wasn’t offended.  Normally when people called him “Blondie” it was in a condescending manner, but coming from Starsky it sounded almost . . . affectionate.

 

“I’m not 100% yet, Starsk, okay?”  Starsk.  Hell, now he has me doing it.  Unnerved by how quickly he fell into companionable familiarity, he shot a worried glance at the other man.  If Starsky was bothered by the liberty taken with his name, it didn’t show.  He happily worked on devouring the chilidog, gobs of liquid cheese, hamburger and beans plopping onto his plate.  Tilting his head, he sucked a dripping mouthful of sauce and onion from the bottom of the roll, then set the soggy bun aside.

 

“So if I drag you out again next weekend, you’ll have a beer with me?” He licked his fingers and reached for the ketchup bottle, upending a mound onto his fries.

 

Amused that someone could turn a meal into an event, Hutch watched the whole messy procedure. “Yeah, clown - - I really do drink beer.”   Clown.  He was pushing it now, testing how comfortable they were with one another. 

 

Starsky kicked him under the table.  Not hard, but just enough that the badgering contact felt natural.  “Saved your butt today, didn’t I?”

 

“Score one for the city boy.” Hutch crumbled crackers into his bowl.  In truth, Starsky had done more than just save his butt.  After they’d gone back to the gym, he’d done his best to take it easy on Hutch while still making it look like they engaged in the full-contact drills Oz threw their way.  After that, they’d spent the rest of the day partnered up even when they could have gone to a few academic classes singularly.  Strange, Hutch thought.  As sick as he’d been, he’d actually enjoyed himself.  He was at the Academy because he wanted to learn, but the addition of Starsky had made that same learning refreshing and fun.

 

Definitely not how he would have envisioned any partnering with David Starsky working out.  He’d been peripherally aware of the cocky New Yorker from his first day at orientation.  It was hard missing someone who sauntered rather than walked, whose very posture screamed insolence.  To Hutch, he’d seemed more street punk than candidate for law enforcement officer.  Writing him off as a total screw-up, Hutch had expected him to bottom out the first week of classes.

 

But Starsky had surprised him - - taking top honors so far in marksmanship, besting Hutch by a slim margin.  No one came close to touching him on the driving course.  He struggled in some of the more tedious academic classes, but excelled in others like preliminary investigative techniques.  Even before Oz had thrown them together, Hutch had found himself fine tuning his opinion of the dark-haired man.  When it came right down to it, Starsky was a constant lesson in surprises.

 

Now if he just had better taste in food.

 

The spicy smell of his chilidog wasn’t settling overly well with Hutch’s sensitive stomach.  He knew if he didn’t get something bland and nourishing into it soon, the faint queasiness would blossom into something worse.  “You always eat stuff like that?” he asked.

 

In the middle of mounding ketchup onto his fries, Starsky looked up.  “Like what?”

 

“You know . . .”  Hutch motioned to the greasy hotdog with his spoon.  “Like that.  You got any idea how bad that thing is for you?”

 

Starsky rolled his eyes.  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those preachy health food freaks?”

 

Hutch grinned.  “Okay I won’t tell you.”  Yet another tally for their diametrically opposite scorecard. It was funny, really.  He wondered what his father - - the stiff and oh-so-formal Grant Hutchinson  - - would think of his new friend. 

 

Was it even possible to be friends with someone in as little as a day, he wondered?  It certainly felt that way with Starsky.  He got along with Colby - - liked him certainly - - but there was some kind of intrinsic, crackling connection with Starsky that he’d never felt before.  In the long run, Oz had done them a favor, forcing them to interact when Hutch wouldn’t have bothered under other circumstances.

 

And that would have been my loss.

 

Grabbing the mustard from the table, he squirted a small glob onto the edge of Starsky’s plate.

 

“Hey - -”  Starsky watched, looking equally amused and irritated.  “Exactly what d’ya think you’re doin’?”

 

“We’re partners, right?”  Hutch picked up a fry, careful to choose one that hadn’t been drenched in ketchup. The semi-greasy potatoes actually looked good . . . better than his vegetable broth with its pale, floating chunks of celery, carrots and corn.  “Partners share.”  Dragging the fry through the mustard, he popped it in his mouth. Not bad.

 

Starsky looked appalled.  “Mustard?  On French fries?  That’s like sacrilege, Hutch!”  To counter the desecration, he downed a handful amply saturated in ketchup.  “Is that like some weird Michigan thing?”

 

“Minnesota,” Hutch corrected. 

 

“Oh, yeah - - Vikings and all that Nordic stuff.  Like the football team.”  He reclaimed the chilidog.  “Hey you wanna hear something wild?  What if Oz and Pike had been partners in their Academy days?  Could you imagine that?  One arrogant as shit, the other boring as hell.”

 

Hutch blinked.  He’d already learned Starsky’s overactive mind could change directions at the drop of a pin.  All day he’d been scrambling to keep up, most of the time tripping clumsily in his friend’s dust. The ability to shift direction so quickly was yet another facet of Starsky’s complex personality.  Hutch had already learned that behind the cocky street punk existed someone who was highly energetic and curious in nature. 

 

Playing along, he shrugged.  “Pairing the two of them would probably be no worse than you and me.  I mean, face it, Starsk - - we’re not exactly cut from the same cloth.”

 

“That’s okay.  I won’t hold it against you.”  Starsky devoured the last of his chilidog and grinned. “So, I gotta know . . .”  He dragged a napkin over his mouth then wadded it in a ball, tossing it on the table.  “You know how rumors fly.  The word on you, Blondie, is that your dad’s some kind of pricey surgeon and you bottomed out of medical school.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “I quit medical school.  There’s a difference.”

 

“Yeah, I figured you’d be too driven to flunk.”  Leaning back in his chair, Starsky took a sip of his beer.  The waitress arrived with Hutch’s ginger ale, collecting his empty glass as she left.  Starsky watched her go, clearly enjoying the sultry sway of her hips.  “Thing is,” he said, never taking his eyes off her short skirt and tanned legs.  “I’m kind of driven myself.  Underneath all those differences we got, you and I are really kind of alike.”

 

“I’ll buy that,” Hutch agreed.  He reached for another fry, shoving the soup away completely.  The queasiness had left his stomach.  In fact, he was hungry - - and thirsty for something other than ginger ale.  “I think I need a beer, Starsky,” he said.  “I’m buying.  You want another?”

 

His friend grinned.  “What do you think, Hutchinson?  You can’t toast a partnership with ginger ale.”

 

+++++

 

Memorial Hospital:  Present

 

Starsky paced to the end of the bed and back again.  He was jittery, his nerves balled into a coarse knot.  Almost two hours had passed since Hutch had been sedated, but Starsky still couldn’t get the memory out of his head.  If he’d only had a few seconds more, he would have been able to calm his friend.  He knew Hutch hadn’t been thinking clearly, dazed by pain and more than a little confused when he’d glimpsed the IV.  He’d reacted on pure impulse, trying to escape, ripping the needle from his hand, knocking over the intravenous pole.

 

The crash had brought two nurses and a orderly, all trying to physically restrain him.  In the end, a hypo had taken care of that, but not before he’d inflicted more damage to his side.  He’d ripped open the incision on his hip necessitating a call to his doctor.  The wound had eventually been re-stitched, but fearing a similar reaction the next time he woke, Joiner ordered wrist and leg restraints added to the bed.  Starsky had initially balked at the idea until Joiner pointed out the irreversible damage Hutch would do to his hip, if he reacted violently a second time.  Faced with that very real possibility, all Starsky could do was nod mutely and watch as his friend was securely bound to the bed.   

 

The sight of the hideous black straps kept him worriedly on edge.  He didn’t know which was worse - - Hutch waking in confusion or Hutch waking to find himself physically restrained.  If the IV had resurrected nightmarish memories of Forest, what was the binding likely to do? 

 

Before he could ponder the wretched situation in guilt-inflated detail, an unexpected groan broke his reverie.  Instantly alert, he rushed to the bed.  The bars had been raised on either side, a barrier that felt like an insurmountable wall of separation.  Frustrated, Starsky lowered the railing on the left, eagerly leaning forward to touch his friend’s cheek.

 

“Hutch?”

 

His partner’s skin was too hot, the stubborn flush of fever higher than before.  Anxious, Starsky studied his face, inhaling sharply when Hutch opened his eyes.  For a blissful quicksilver moment, Starsky saw clarity reflected on jet pupils and river-blue irises.  Just as swiftly, a crippling wave of pain claimed the light in Hutch’s gaze.

 

Moaning, the injured man gasped aloud, his wrists snapping taut against the restraints.  “Starsky?”  Confusion and fear peaked in his voice.

 

“Right, here, babe.”  Starsky leaned over the bed, willing Hutch’s eyes to find his.  Smiling gently, he feathered his fingers through a scattered fringe of moon-pale bangs.  Hutch’s hair had grown damp and sticky with perspiration, sending Starsky’s anxiety up another notch.  Fever’s too high.  I don’t give a damn what that idiot nurse says.  “Everything’s okay.  Just relax.”

 

Hutch breathed faster, clearly shaken by the restraints.  Panicked, he tugged harder, grunting against the pain his movement caused. Beneath the high flush of fever, his skin grew chalky and white, drained of pigment.

 

“Don’t.”  Starsky clasped his arm.  “It’s just a temporary restraint, Hutch.  You gotta calm down, okay?”

 

“Get them off!”

 

More than panic now - - outright fear.  He’s rememberin’ being tied up, helpless to resist when they pumped him full of that shit.  The realization tore Starsky’s heart, made a lump rise to his throat, swelling into something ghastly and sour.  “Hutch - -”

 

“Please, Starsky - - ”  He was beginning to hyperventilate now, wild desperation making his gaze burn electric blue. “I won’t . . . I won’t rip it out again . . . the needle.  Please . . . get them off.”  

 

The fact he understood - - that he knew about the IV and why he’d been restrained - - brought a giddy flutter of relief.  Despite pain and disorientation, Hutch was thinking rationally. That knowledge made his plea slice through Starsky like a knife, the naked supplication in his voice impossible to bear.  Shaken by his friend’s vulnerability, Starsky fumbled with the nearest restraint.  “Okay . . . okay.  I’m gonna take care of you buddy.”  His fingers felt stiff and awkward, not able to move fast enough.  Hutch was still breathing too rapidly, his chest rising and falling with alarming force.  Freeing the strap across Hutch’s legs, Starsky flung it aside and groped for the closest wrist cuff.  I never shoulda let ‘em do this . . .  shoulda fought Joiner when he said it was the only way to keep him from hurtin’ himself. 

 

“Almost there, buddy,” he said aloud.

 

Hutch groaned, turning his face into the pillow.  He’d begun to shiver - - not gently, but uncontrollably, his whole body punished by fierce tremors.  “S-Starsky,” he moaned. 

 

“Right here.”  The wrist cuff came free.  Worried, he pressed the call button for the nurse before stretching across Hutch to work on the opposite cuff. 

 

His friend moved lethargically, trying to raise his right knee.  A hiss of pain escaped him. Starsky paused long enough to smooth a hand over his thigh.  “Lay still, buddy.  Your right side’s a mess, remember?”  He went back to the cuff, irritated when he had to force the strap tighter to free Hutch’s hand.  Disgusted, he flung the vile thing off the bed.  “How’ that?  Better?” 

 

“Cold . . .” Hutch managed.  Freed, he clutched the blankets and dragged them higher on his chest.  The IV tubing connected to his hand caught on the bar, restricting his movement.  Barely aware, he twisted his head on the pillow, his breath growing choppy and short.

 

Worried, Starsky reached across him to free the tubing.  Where’s the damn nurse?  Something was wrong.  He didn’t need a degree in medicine to know Hutch’s fever was spiking, raging out of control.  “We’ll get you warm,” he promised, tucking the blankets closer.  Tendrils of damp hair clung to the side of Hutch’s face, his skin nearly translucent with the dewy sheen of perspiration. Punished by a residual barrage of surgery pain and the wracking nip of fever and chills, he breathed through his mouth, each inhalation harsher than the last. 

 

It was hard seeing him so sickly, the intelligent spark gone from his eyes, replaced by a grievous cloud of suffering. His fingers had crimped into the blankets, clutching them at chest-level, his face twisted to the side, contorted and hollowed by pain.  Filled with an unbalancing sense of rage that his friend should be subjected to such torment, Starsky stalked to the opposite bed and violently ripped the blanket free.  My fault.  The whole damn mess is my fault.

 

To Hutch he spoke calmly, softening his voice.  “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.  I promise.”  Lowering the bar nearest him, he fanned the additional blanket over Hutch, tucking it close for warmth.  His hands shook, primed by the turbulent emotion he diligently kept from his voice. “Ssh . . . ssh,” he crooned when Hutch moved sluggishly and groaned, his eyes at half mast. 

 

“I’m gonna take care of you, babe.”  Starsky’s voice caught, threatened to crack.  “ . . . make sure everything works out.”  Gently, he scuffed his knuckles across Hutch’s cheek.  The physical contact made his heart pound . . . made him realize how important that touch and connection really was.  It was one matter to sit at Hutch’s side, another to feel life-affirming flesh beneath his fingertips.   He couldn’t just walk away . . . couldn’t just sit and make small talk, offering canned platitudes about a speedy recovery.  The fiercely devoted bonds of their friendship insisted he do something more.  Silly, really, but he needed to touch . . . needed to feel Hutch respond to that contact and know his friend craved it with the same fervent intensity he did. 

 

Biting his lip, he threaded his fingers into Hutch’s hair.  Uncommonly fine, it carried the empyreal touch of damp silk and starlight.  Damn poetic of me, Blondie, don’t’cha think?  

 

Hutch whimpered.

 

“Aw, don’t do that.”  Shaken by the morose sound, Starsky let his fingers sink deeper into fever-mussed strands of sun-touched ivory and white-gold.  An impassioned surge of protectiveness washed over him. There was something ridiculously vulnerable about Hutch when he was hurt.  Even sleeping he’d always looked oddly defenseless, but factor in illness or injury and the seasoned edges of the street cop fell away, exposing innocence and uncertainty beneath.

 

Starsky racked that vulnerability up to his partner’s overly fair appearance.  He’d stopped thinking of Hutch as a “pretty boy” shortly after their first encounter in the Academy gym, but he was realistic enough to acknowledge his friend’s classical looks.  Hutch wasn’t simply handsome.  He had an idealized flawlessness of feature that made him teeter on the ancient Grecian concept of physical beauty.  When his friend was being himself, that trait wasn’t so obvious.  It was hard equating a man who had the innate ability to cuss a blue streak with angelic perfection.  Healthy, Hutch was distinctly corporeal, but take away the edge until only naked vulnerability remained, and his refined features made him seem ethereal. 

 

And right now that pain-filled dependency was doing its unmitigated damnedest to rip out Starsky’s heart. “Stay with me, babe,” he coaxed, stroking Hutch’s hair, letting his fingers sweep lower to contour the familiar curve of a sweat-chilled cheek, the precisely shaped line of Hutch’s jaw.

 

Shivering, Hutch parted with a plaintive moan and tried to burrow closer to him.  He was on the wrong side of the bed now, standing near Hutch’s damaged hip and butchered side. Trying to move in that direction made the blond-haired man hiss in an agonized breath. 

 

“Easy, easy . . .”  Starsky cursed himself for being such a colossal idiot. Experience had taught him when Hutch was this badly hurt, he craved physical contact and comfort, if only from Starsky.  He should have known how his friend would respond, trying to inch nearer.  And the restraints surely hadn’t helped, making Hutch as anxious as he was traumatized by pain.  “It’s okay.  I’m right here . . .”  He gripped Hutch’s arm with his free hand, careful to avoid the IV tube.  His fingers tightened then splayed outward in a reassuring caress.  The physical connection crackled again, shooting sparks between them.

 

Quieting a little, Hutch turned his head on the pillow.  “Starsk?”

 

The sound of his voice, shorn as it was, made Starsky swallow hard.  “Yeah, buddy?”

 

Hutch blinked.  Shuddering, he dragged the blankets closer to his chin.  “Can’t get warm,” he whispered. “My side . . . my side f-feels  . . . like fire.”

 

Cold and hot.  “Okay.”  It wasn’t okay.  It wasn’t damn anywhere near okay.  “We’re gonna get it fixed - - all of it.  Make you feel better again.”  His fingers kept up a feather-light caress against Hutch’s scalp.  Irritated, he released his friend’s arm long enough to depress the nurse call button again, holding it down as if it would make a difference.  Maybe it won’t, but at least it feels like I’m ventin’!  To Hutch he smiled gently, releasing the button to once again softly stroke the inside of his arm. “You’ve got pain from the surgery.  You know that don’t you, buddy?”

 

Hutch closed his eyes and nodded.  “Mmphf . . .” His brows drew together in a concentrated frown.  “ . . . accident.”  Clearly miserable, he squirmed and bit back a groan of pain.  “Can’t remember . . .”

 

“Don’t worry about it.  Not now.  I just want you to get better, Hutch.”  Wasn’t that obvious?  Why’d he have to say it, spelling it out as though it needed clarification.  Because I want you to hear it.  It’s important to me that you know how much I care.  Had to go and worm your way under my skin, and now my soul’s all sucked up with yours.  It was ironic when he thought about it.  He knew his friendship with Hutch crossed several pre-conceived lines, but he’d never really stopped to examine them before. 

 

A normal friend was someone like Huggy or Colby.  Someone you could kick back with, have a few laughs, trade a few stories.  Someone who would lend an ear when you were troubled then part with an ounce or two of sage advice.  But Hutch - - well, his relationship with the idealistic Midwesterner defied convention.  From almost the very start there’d been that remarkable intrinsic link between them.  Extraordinary, yes - - and also great fodder for the rumor-mill.

 

His expression hardened.

 

Screw the gossips.  He really didn’t give a shit one way or another about the inane chatter circulating Metro  - - and certainly not now.  So why am I even thinkin’ about it?

 

Because it was important to him Hutch knew how deeply he cared.  How many times had his partner been there for him . . . gotten him through emotional and physical hurdles?  Starsky sometimes chafed at Hutch’s instinctive need to hover when he was hurt, but he readily acknowledged Hutch’s extreme aptitude for compassion and attentiveness. Hutch was excessively gentle, soft of voice, endlessly patient and vigilant.   And I wanna be all those things for you.

 

Starsky swallowed hard, finding that desire polluted by guilt.  “Buddy?” he whispered.

 

Hutch groped for his hand.  The fever kept him unsettled, his head lolling restlessly on the pillow, grown damp with his sweat.  A steady flush of pain turned his eyes the translucent blue of crystalline glass.  “How much . . . morphine?” he whispered.

 

Starsky ground his teeth together.  Uh-huh.  Ain’t goin’ there.  Ain’t doin’ that one.  “Barely a drop,” he lied.  His thumb slipped from Hutch’s bangs, dipping lower to tenderly trace a single eyebrow.  “It’s not important.”    

 

Tensing, Hutch closed his eyes against a spike of pain.  “Starsk - -” he pleaded.

 

“Ssh,” Starsky soothed.  “I know it hurts.  Just relax.  Let me worry about the morphine.”  Immediately, he cringed, realizing he’d just admitted to Hutch what he was being fed through the IV. “Everything’s gonna be all right,” he said, hoping to cover the blunder.  He found it amazing he could sound so calm when his gut churned with bitter acid.  Maintaining his soothing caress, he feathered his thumb across the fringe of Hutch’s lowered lashes, dipping further to skim his cheek.  “You don’t gotta worry about it, babe.  I’ll make sure you don’t get too much.  Right now you need it - - okay?”

 

Hutch’s only answer was an anguished groan.

 

“What seems to be the problem in here?” 

 

Caught off guard, Starsky turned sharply, glancing over his shoulder in time to see a middle-aged, willowy nurse striding to the bed.  An excess of golden hair was caught up in a bun at the back of her neck, her face a little too narrow but not unattractive.  She had kind doe-like eyes, the color of coffee, and a gentle smile more Florence Nightingale than Hotlips Houlihan. Starsky searched his mind to come up with her name:  Edie.  She’d been in earlier, checking Hutch’s vitals, assuring him the slight fever was normal. 

 

Only it wasn’t slight any longer.

 

“His fever’s out of control,” he blurted automatically, fear turning his voice strident. About damn time someone shows up. “He’s shiverin’ and - -”

 

“What happened to his restraints?” she cut him off abruptly.  Alarmed, she stepped closer.

 

Starsky felt a bristling surge of anger.  “He don’t need the damn restraints.  I never shoulda let Joiner talk me into ‘em in the first place.  You wanna do something, do something about his fever.  I’m tellin’ you it ain’t normal.”

 

“Let me see.”  She was at the bedside before he could say anything more, physically crowding him out of the way.  He chafed to be separated from his partner, but held his tongue while she checked Hutch’s vitals, slipping a glass thermometer into his mouth.  The fair-haired man tensed at being touched by someone other than Starsky, moaning disagreeably at the intrusive contact.  Raging fever turned even the slightest graze against his skin into pure misery.

 

“There, there, Mr. Hutchinson,” the nurse said soothingly, pulling the thermometer free.  “I’m almost done.”  Studying the readout, she frowned openly, the gleam of something unsettling flitting through her eyes.

 

Instantly, Starsky was at the bedside.  “What is it?”

 

Edie patted Hutch’s hand, tucking the blankets higher.  “I’ll put a call in to Dr. Joiner,” she said, directing the sentence to Starsky.  “Your friend’s fever is unnaturally high - - 104.2.  Coupled with the chills he’s experiencing, he could be having a delayed reaction to the transfusion he received.”

 

“What?” The word came out harsher than Starsky intended.  The transfusion had been done at the hospital, medically supervised.  Surely there was no reason for trouble.  “How can that be?  I mean, you matched his blood, right - - B negative?”

 

Busily efficient, Edie snagged a clipboard from the foot of Hutch’s bed and scribbled a few notes across the top sheet.  “Emergency situations sometimes dictate we give blood without cross-matching.  Given the extent of your friend’s injuries, he was likely given type O blood upon arrival  - - what we call the universal donor - - rather than waiting for an accurate cross-match. It isn’t unusual, Sergeant.”  Replacing the chart, she moved to Hutch’s side, crisply checking his IV as she spoke.  “The vast majority of patients seldom experience an adverse reaction to type O but on rare occasion, the body reacts unfavorably to white cells in the donated blood.”

 

Starsky shook his head.  “Just slow down a minute,” he demanded, the edge in his voice growing ever sharper with his rising anxiety.  “Exactly what the hell does all that mean?”  Worried, he shot a concerned glance at Hutch, his hand instinctively locking over his friend’s wrist.

 

The nurse smiled reassuringly.  “Nothing we can’t take care of,” she said encouragingly.  “A simple acetaminophen like Tylenol should help.  Just to be certain, I’ll contact Dr. Joiner.  He may want a double dose initially, given how high Detective Hutchinson’s fever has climbed.”  Pausing, she adjusted the blankets a second time, lingering to gaze down on Hutch.  Her face softened as she studied his closed eyes and sweat-dampened features. “I simply can’t imagine the kind of hatred or desperation that would drive someone to shoot another human being in cold blood.  Don’t worry, Sergeant,” her eyes flashed back to Starsky, earnest and direct.  “We’ll make sure he’s cared for properly.”

 

Shoulda done that the first time, Starsky thought, but kept the snapped reaction to himself.  The minute Edie left the room, he was back at Hutch’s side, moving around the foot of the bed to crowd closer on the left.  Hutch was still shivering. He’d grown mostly incoherent, muttering as he squirmed in a futile effort to get comfortable.

 

“Hutch?”  Starsky touched his cheek, leaning nearer in an effort to be heard.  He’d lost track of time again, couldn’t begin to make sense of the day, let alone the hour. His existence came down to one reality and one reality only:  Hutch. “The nurse is gonna get something to make you feel better, buddy . . . help you to rest,” he said soothingly.  He fingered the edge of the blanket then attentively traced the shoulder seam in his friend’s hospital gown.  Heat radiated through the thin material, blistering his fingertip.  In direct counterpoint to that scalding warmth, Hutch shivered with chills.     

 

“ . . . head . . . hurts . . .” he moaned.

 

Had Edie said anything about headaches?  “Ssh.” Starsky dropped his voice to a sedating whisper. Folding his knuckles, he massaged Hutch’s temple with the flat part of his fingers.  “Just take it easy.”  You’re a mess right now - - shot up, hurtin’, sick.  Shaken, he drew an uneven breath.  I’m a mess too.  Gotta get through this one.  Both of us.

 

He wasn’t exactly sure how that was possible, given he was partially responsible for Hutch’s injuries.  Need drove him to slide a hip onto the edge of the bed near the pillow and half ease onto the mattress, one leg planted firmly on the floor.  Immediately, Hutch inched nearer, turning his face against Starsky’s chest with an appreciative moan. He slung his arm across Starsky’s waist, unconcerned when the IV tubing pulled tight, drawing taut over his middle. 

 

Raising his right arm, Starsky looped it around Hutch’s shoulders, permitting the snug press of his friend’s body against his own.  It felt natural offering that extra measure of comfort to his injured partner.  It wasn’t the first time he’d used physical contact to help Hutch cope with traumatic pain.  ‘Cept this time, I’m just as guilty as the guy who pulled the trigger.  I left him there.

 

Abandoned him. 

 

He bit down instinctively, muffling a reactionary groan.  A tremor raced through his body. 

 

Sensing that distress, Hutch burrowed nearer.  “Starsk?  The guy who shot me . . .”

 

Something pinged in Starsky’s heart.  “Not now.”  He didn’t want to think about it or consider the whole ugly situation and how miserably he’d failed.  “The girl’s okay and we got an all-points out on the guy. Dobey said she came through with a good physical description.  They’re gonna have a police sketch artist get with her later.  County’s even lookin’ for the scum.  It ain’t your concern, Hutch.  All you gotta do is get well.”  Please, babe.  Let’s not talk about this.

 

Hutch stirred lethargically. Shifting, he eased onto his left side so he could rest more comfortably against Starsky.  His face contorted as the sluggish movement sent a fiery spike of pain ricocheting through his damaged right hip.  Starsky could feel chill-induced tremors riddling his body, each wracking shudder underscored by a sweaty pocket of heat. In just a few seconds of Hutch resting against him, his side grew damp with perspiration from the unnatural clamminess of Hutch’s fever-stoked skin.

 

Cold and hot at the same time.  It was mind boggling and damn distressing. Starsky sent an irritated glance toward the door, wondering where Edie had gotten to with the promised medication.     

 

“Familiar,” Hutch whispered.

 

“Huh?”  Starsky wasn’t sure he understood.

 

With a sigh, Hutch leaned into him.  “  . . . guy who shot me . . . familiar . . .”

 

Puzzled, Starsky found himself continuing the questioning, even though he knew he should let it drop.  Now wasn’t the time.  “You mean you know who it was?”  His heart bumped faster.  With a name and an ID, they’d be able to track the cowardly scum down a lot quicker. 

 

“Hutch?”  Worried, when his friend didn’t respond, Starsky leaned forward, gently cupping his cheek. “Babe, you still with me?”  Slipping his thumb beneath Hutch’s jaw, he tilted his face toward the light.  The radiant haze of mid afternoon spilled through the window, brightening the room, crowning Hutch’s sun-touched hair in a drenching halo of gold. “Hutch, do you know who it was?” he repeated again.

 

Hutch grunted and shook his head.  “Just . . . familiar,” he whispered, his voice fading with the need to rest. 

 

“Okay.”  Starsky hugged him closer, unwilling to push it further.  Shivering, Hutch curled against him, crimping his fingers into the front of Starsky’s shirt.

 

Five minutes later when Edie breezed back into the room with a dose of medication, Hutch had fallen into a fitful doze. 

 

+++++

 

Miserable, Hutch stirred and forced himself awake.  It was dark in the room, a dense web of licorice shadows layered against the walls and floor.  For one baffling second, he wasn’t certain where he was.  Then the familiar medicinal tang of a hospital room filled his head and he groaned softly.  Reality returned and he lay still for a moment, mentally taking stock of the deep-rooted pain in his side and hip.  Shivering, he pulled the blankets closer, listening to the harsh rasp of his own breath.

 

He remembered little of the day . . . waking off and on, doctors and nurses fussing over him, forcing pills on him, taking his blood pressure, checking the needle secured to the back of his hand and regulating the flow of the IV.  He didn’t want to think about the drug, even though he knew the morphine was helping to control his pain.  Without it, he’d be in agony.  Starsky had been with him and Dobey had come and gone, both offering words of encouragement during the brief periods when he’d been semi-coherent.  Starsky had even sat on the edge of the bed with him, allowing him to curl up against his friend’s side. The close physical contact had helped make his pain tolerable and kept him warm when he was shivering. 

 

“Damn icebox in here,” he muttered, chilled through the linen sheets.  He glanced to the right and became aware of someone in the opposite bed.  Fully dressed, they lay stretched across the top of the mattress, curled on their left side.  Something about the way the person was lying, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, right leg bent at the knee and pulled slightly forward was achingly familiar.

 

“Starsky?”  Hutch breathed.  The sound was reactionary, barely vocal.  He hadn’t meant to disturb his friend, yet the moment the name left his mouth the man on the bed stirred. 

 

“Hutch!”  Coming awake with a grunt, Starsky pushed from the bed and quickly closed the distance between them.  “How’s it goin’, buddy?”  Eagerly solicitous, he touched Hutch’s face, the gentle stroke of his hand like the fawning caress of sunlight. 

 

Undone by the contact, Hutch shivered. 

 

“Still cold?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch nodded, trying to remember if there’d ever been a time that he hadn’t felt chilled.  Ever since his assailant had pulled the trigger, pumping two shots into him at close range, he hadn’t been able to stay warm.  It was as if something crypt-cold had rooted in his veins, spreading liquid ice through the rest of his body.    

 

“I think there’s some more blankets in the closet,” Starsky said.  Before Hutch could stop him, he had moved away and was rummaging on the top shelf of a narrow locker built into the opposite wall.

 

Hutch shifted a little, trying to ease to the right.  Low-level pain that had lain mostly dormant turned abruptly ghastly, wrenching an agonized cry from his lips.  Starsky was back in a heartbeat, blankets forgotten, worriedly bending over the bed. 

 

“Hutch?”

 

Dazed by the savagery of the pain, Hutch tried to catch his breath.  “I’m . . . okay,” he gasped.  Shaken, he sucked down a lungful of air, attempting to focus on Starsky’s face.  “What . . . what are you s-still doing here?”

 

Starsky exhaled a pent-up sigh of relief.  “Campin’ out . . . minus all the mutant insects, attack grizzlies and killer foxes.”  His mouth curled in a crooked grin.  “I just thought I’d hang by your side and play watchdog tonight.”

 

Warmed by his friend’s protectiveness, Hutch smiled faintly.  “Killer foxes?”  It gave him something to think about other than pain.

 

“Sure,” Starsky said smoothly.  He returned to the closet, talking over his shoulder as he rummaged in the dark for a blanket. “I saw it on Creepfest Theater last week - - a whole den of red fox got blasted by meteor dust and started takin’ out backpackers.  You shoulda seen what they did to this slimy salesman who was on a weekend campin’ trip with his wife and two kids.”  Snagging a blanket, Starsky returned to the bed, fanning it open across Hutch.  “ ‘Course he was plottin’ to kill her and run off with his mistress anyway, so he kinda had it comin’.  Personally, I was rootin’ for the foxes.”  Bending over the bed, he tucked the blanket securely on Hutch’s left side, then hesitated doing the same on the right.  Appearing abruptly self-conscious, he straightened, his eyes skittering aside to Hutch.  “I think the Tylenol’s almost got your fever under control, but it’s gonna be awhile until you don’t have any pain in your back or hip.”

 

His back.  Hutch had studiously been trying to ignore the fiery knot in the small of his back.  He knew one of the bullets had exited there . . . could still feel the traumatic shock of having an inanimate object enter his body then brutally blunder free.  He wet his lips, his mouth abysmally dry. “Some water?” he asked, needing to change the subject.  He could manage the pain in his side so long as he didn’t move around a lot.  It was uncomfortable but not unbearable, thanks to the steady drip of morphine.  That perhaps frightened him more than anything else.  Was he already dependent on it, unable to control his pain without the drug?

 

“Just a few sips,” Starsky instructed, returning with a glass of water.  Slipping a hand under Hutch’s head, he raised him up off the pillow enough to manage a few swallows.   

 

It was sheer heaven to Hutch, the water refreshingly wet against his parched tongue. He swallowed greedily until Starsky pulled the cup away. 

 

“Not too much,” his friend warned.  “Let your stomach get used to it first, okay, buddy?” 

 

Hutch felt a feather light touch sweep through his bangs.  He closed his eyes, finding the stroke of Starsky’s fingers as restoratively quenching as the water. “You should go home,” he whispered.  Yet even as he said it, his hand found Starsky’s arm and his fingers clamped around his friend’s wrist.  He swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours. “I . . . I feel light-headed . . . strange . . .” he whispered.

 

Starsky’s fingers curled over his, reassuring and warm.  “You had a bad reaction to a blood transfusion.  Fever, chills, headache . . .”  His brows crept toward his bangs, coal black in the darkness.  “Remember, babe?”

 

“Maybe.”  Hutch wasn’t sure. Had a bad reaction to the morphine too.  Inwardly, he grimaced, remembering the straps that had kept him bound to the bed like a prisoner.  He turned his head marginally, looking out the window.  A haze of city lights rose on the horizon, creating a faintly glowing rim against a deeper edge of black sky.  “I remember you being here,” he whispered.  “I remember you taking care of me.” I needed you, babe, and you were here.

 

Starsky tensed.  “Dobey was here too.”

 

Hutch frowned, uncertain why his friend would make such an observation.  “Yeah,” he agreed, remembering the captain’s bolstering presence.  But that’s not what he had been referring to and Starsky knew it, so why the comment?  Too tired to sort it through, Hutch let his eyes drift shut.  The additional blanket made him deliciously warm and drowsy.  He wished his friend were sitting nearby so he could curl against him, but just having Starsky in the same room went a long way to helping him combat the constant pain. 

 

You should go, he thought again, but his fingers only tightened over Starsky’s wrist.  Caught up in a drugged haze, he thought back to the first time he’d had to stand up for his friend.

+++++

 

Post Academy Graduation:  The Past

 

Hutch felt a little giddy in the dress blue uniform, his new diploma under his arm.  He’d taken his hat off, tucking it on top of the diploma as he circulated among the post-graduation crowd gathered outside the Academy auditorium.  After commencement, several speeches, and the awarding of diplomas, the newly appointed officers and their guests retired to a small reception area that had been quickly converted to accommodate a few hors d’oeuvre stations, along with standing glasses of red or white wine.  Nothing elaborate by any means - - a collection of finger sandwiches, fresh cut vegetables with dip and a fruit and cheese platter.  The wine choices were basic:  Chardonnay or Merlot.  His father would find the whole thing pitifully trite, but Hutch didn’t care.  The mere fact his parents - - most especially his father - - had actually attended left him reeling on cloud nine.

 

He still hadn’t adjusted to the fact he was now officially Officer Hutchinson, job well done.  He’d graduated number one in his class, second only in marksmanship and driving skills - - and that had been to Starsky.  The perfectionist in him had needed to excel.  When it came to academics and winning, he’d been taught to be the best, to never settle for second place.  A part of him resented that unforgiving drive to succeed, but he’d lived by it too long to change now.  If he had to come in second to anyone, he was delighted to relinquish the well-deserved honor to Starsky.   

 

Briefly, he wondered what his father had felt when he’d heard Hutch’s name announced as the top cadet of the class.  Had it made a difference, he wondered?  Would he perhaps now be forgiven for leaving medical school, spoiling his father’s long-standing plans to have a physician son as his heir?

 

Worriedly, he gnawed on his bottom lip and scanned the crowd. Grant had been cool toward him ever since he’d dropped out and enrolled in the Academy.  The only reason he’d come tonight was because Hutch’s mother had insisted. But he’s here and that’s what counts.  Hutch didn’t know why it mattered so much, but it did.  All his life he’d had an innate need to please his father, the one person who never seemed to be satisfied with him no matter what he did or how hard he worked to accomplish something. I just want him to be proud of me.  On a deeper level, it went even further, and he found himself acknowledging the singular truth he rarely admitted:  I need to know he’s proud of me.  I need to hear him say it.

 

And then there was Vanessa, who tried to act supportive even as disdain flickered through her blue-violet eyes.  She had wanted to be the wife of a doctor, attend society galas and hobnob at resort country clubs.  He’d known she’d had superficial tendencies when he’d married her, but was just beginning to realize how very ingrained that bias was.  She loved him, but she loved the idea of wealth and fame even more.  Being the wife of an everyday cop didn’t gel with the picture-perfect life she’d painted for herself.  For them.

 

“Top honors?”  A silkily cool voice inquired at his elbow.  “I suppose you think you’re special now?”

 

He turned, breaking into a breezy smile.  He couldn’t really help himself.  Van might not be the warmest person in the world, but she was incredibly gorgeous.  He knew it, she knew it, everyone around them knew it. With her luminous raven hair, flawless porcelain skin and slender build, she had the beauty of a mythological goddess, the sensuality of a sex kitten.  She was a woman accustomed to commanding attention wherever she went.  If she weren’t his wife, every other man in the room would have been tripping over themselves just to get to her side. He knew she loved that attention and even now didn’t mind the lingering glances she drew.

 

“I wondered where you got to.” Grinning, Hutch looped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.  She’s mine guys.  Back off.   He felt the envious glances of several cadets who stood nearby conversing with family members.  There was no question Vanessa was stunning, or that she knew how to play a room to her advantage.  Dressed in a simple black skirt and heels with a silk blouse the color of ripe cranberries, she looked elegant and chic, movie star perfect. 

 

Beaming, Hutch dipped his head to lightly capture her lips with his.  “You’re beautiful, you know that?”  Of course you do, but I love to tell you and you love to hear me say it.

 

Appreciating the comment, she smiled up at him.  “You don’t look so bad yourself.” Lowering her lashes, she toyed with one of the gold buttons on his jacket.  “Mmmm . . .”  She purred, raking him with a sensually appraising glance that had absolutely nothing to do with graduation ceremonies or stuffy receptions. “I definitely think I could get used to you in a dress uniform. There should be a law against putting a sinfully attractive man in dress blues, unless he intends to make passionate love to his wife.”

 

Hutch felt his mouth go dry.  She was still toying with a single button, the barely-there graze of her fingernails going through him like the shock of an electrical current.  From the very start, she’d had the uncanny ability to turn him on with a few choice words, a sultry glance or the lightly teasing touch of her fingertips. Their marriage had cracks to be sure, but those problems disappeared in the bedroom.  Only last weekend after a horrible fight, they’d spent half the day in bed pleasing each other until they were both weak and drained from leisurely hours of lovemaking.

 

Even now Hutch could feel himself responding to her sensually explicit suggestion.  Tightening his arm around her, he kissed her temple.  “Tonight,” he promised.  Attempting to refocus, he scanned the crowd.  “Have you seen Starsky?”

 

If he’d wanted to cool the sexual heat between them, that definitely did the trick.  Vanessa stiffened, her expression turning abruptly cold. “No, I haven’t.  But given there’s no beer or tacos here, maybe he skipped out and headed over to Ruby’s Place.”

 

Hutch frowned, the simmering arousal he’d felt just seconds ago effectively squashed by the frost in her voice.  “What does that mean?”

 

“Nothing, Ken.”  Vanessa pressed her lips together.  “I think I see your mother talking to one of the instructors.”  Pulling away slightly, she dislodged the arm he kept around her shoulders.  “I think I’ll go rescue her with a glass of Chardonnay.”

 

Hutch let her go, far too annoyed by her underlying hostility.  It wasn’t enough that she detested what he’d chosen to do with his life, but she’d developed an immediate and intense dislike for Starsky.  He could fluff off her comments about his profession, but not about his friend.  Over the last eight months, Hutch had grown incredibly close to the displaced New Yorker.  It was a little frightening in some respects.  He’d never had a friendship like the one he had with Starsky.  In the past, he’d always been able to set boundaries, keeping part of himself private and distant from even his closest friends.  It was his security measure - - the ability to erect walls, constructing a haven he could safely retreat behind when someone grew too close.

 

But Starsky kept getting around his barriers or battering straight through and Hutch continued to let him.  In the beginning it had made him nervous - - he’d always been reserved, noticeably aloof with most people.  It was hard surrendering so much of himself to someone else, but Starsky had proven he could be trusted with Hutch’s most personal feelings and thoughts. That level of trust was still a new and unbalancing experience. He’d never let anyone get that close to him before, and while it was a little unnerving, requiring a degree of mental adjustment, it was also immeasurably pleasing.  He knew he had something uniquely special with Starsky.  Sooner or later, Vanessa would have to see that too.

 

“Hey, Officer Hutchinson.”  The familiar voice with its slight New York drawl made him break into an animated grin.  He turned to find Starsky standing behind him, looking unquestionably snazzy in his dress blues.  He’d abandoned his diploma and hat somewhere, deciding a half empty glass of Merlot and a finger sandwich had better appeal.  “You’d think they coulda at least sprung for some fries or meatballs, you know?” he complained, quaffing the petite sandwich down in one bite.  Licking his thumb clean, he pointed across the room.  “I met this really nice black-haired lady over there who says she’s your mom.  Calls herself Adele Hutchinson.  I didn’t believe her at first, given all that blond hair of yours, but she seemed too nice to make up stories.  Not like her foul-mouthed, over-achieving kid at all.”  He flashed a goofy grin.

 

Hutch blinked, his euphoria dimming.  “You met my mother?”

 

“Sure did.”  Starsky took a gulp of wine.  “Don’t look so worried, Blondie.  We had a nice chat.  She told me what a brilliant kid you are and I agreed. What d’ya think I was gonna do - - spill veggie dip on her dress or something?”

 

Hutch flushed. “That’s not what I meant.” 

 

“Then what did you mean?”  Starsky took another sip of wine, eyeing him over the glass as only a close friend with an exasperatingly reckless personality can do.   

 

“Did . . . did you meet my father?” Hutch ventured, uncertain he really wanted an answer. 

 

“You mean the ever-exalted Dr. Grant?  No - - I ain’t had the pleasure yet.”

 

Hutch cringed.  Starsky understood a little of how he felt about his father, but it was the one subject he’d remained evasive about.  Yes, his friend knew Grant had wanted him to stay in medical school and hadn’t been exactly supportive of his decision to enter the Academy.  But Hutch had never really told him how unsettled his father made him feel, how Grant always succeeded in pushing his buttons, turning him immediately defensive.  How could he possibly explain such a wretchedly complex and fouled-up relationship when he’d never understood it himself?  Nothing he did ever satisfied Grant, and yet Hutch continued to jump through hoops, hoping something he did would make his father proud.  

 

“Starsk . . . about my dad - -”  he attempted, then immediately stopped.  Starsky grinned, nodding to someone who approached at Hutch’s back.

 

“You must be Hutch’s dad, right?  The black hair threw me, but you got those same pale blue eyes.  I’d know them anywhere.  Hi, I’m Dave Starsky.”

 

Hutch felt every muscle in his body go ramrod taut as Starsky reached past him, extending his hand.  He half turned, catching his father’s flat expression from the corner of his eye.  Always immaculately attired, Grant looked absurdly wealthy in his custom-tailored charcoal suit with Wedgwood blue shirt and silk tie.  At a towering 6’3” he had a commanding presence, trim like his son, but huskier through the chest.  With short black hair just beginning to show a distinguishing touch of gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache, he looked every inch a successful and prominent physician.

 

Renowned physician, Hutch corrected himself.

 

“I’m whose father?”  Grant reached smoothly past Hutch to shake Starsky’s hand, one brow creeping into his hair much the way his son’s did.

 

“Hutch,” Starsky said again, then grinned.  “Oh, I get it - - Ken.  Or do you call him Kenneth or something?  Maybe even Kenneth Richard when you’re really pissed at him.”  He gave a short enthusiastic laugh. “Given what I know of him, that’s probably most of the time, huh?”

 

Grant cleared his throat disdainfully but managed to convey mild interest.  “I’m sorry - - how do you know my son?”

 

Hutch felt a fierce surge of irritation.  He was used to his father’s often superior attitude, but didn’t like to see others subjected to that same arrogance.  For that matter, Starsky probably didn’t even realize Grant was being condescending.  After all, they’d only just met.  Starsky was too good-hearted to see smugness in someone right off the bat, especially the father of a friend.  Naturally easygoing, he was his usual cavalier self - - joking with a man who’d lost his sense of humor decades ago.

 

“Dad,” Hutch said tightly. “Starsky’s my best friend.”  He shot Grant a pointed glance, warning him to back off. It often amazed him that he could be so openly defiant with a man who basically left him off kilter every time they spoke. ‘Afraid’ wasn’t quite the right word.  That may have been the case when he was younger, but now he was just wretchedly uncomfortable - - a horrible reaction for a son to feel toward his father.  It’s his fault, he thought sulkily.  He made me this way.  To Grant he spoke directly, his voice undeniably firm:  “Starsky and I went through the Academy together. I told you about him on the phone.”

 

“Oh, yes - - ”  Grant parted with an offhand wave.  “New Jersey or something.”  He sounded like it was beneath him.

 

Hutch ground his teeth together. “New York,” he snapped.

 

“Hey!”  Starsky looked at him a little funny.  “If we’re gonna get technical about it, it’s Brooklyn, but what’s the big deal?”  His gaze narrowed as if taking stock of Hutch’s unnatural tenseness for the first time.  “Maybe your dad just never heard anyone call you Hutch before.”

 

“Certainly not.” Grant looked away, scanning the room as if bored.  “Then again, now that Kenneth has elected to end his medical career, I suppose the name fits a common street cop.”

 

Hutch paled.  His fingers tightened over the diploma still tucked beneath his arm.  Graduating first in his class hadn’t mattered.  Nothing short of becoming the doctor son Grant had always wanted, would ever matter.  A lump of bitterness welled in his throat.

 

For the first time, Starsky’s natural enthusiasm dimmed.  “Common?” he echoed.  “Your kid took first in class.  Don’t that mean anything to you?”

 

“Starsky  - -”  Hutch attempted, growing more miserable by the second.

 

But Starsky had zeroed in on Grant and wasn’t backing down.  “I’ll tell you something else, Dr. Hutchinson,” he said with enough heat to make the older man look at him, mildly surprised.  “My dad was a cop.  A damn good one.  He lost his life protectin’ others, doin’ what he loved to do.  Ain’t no one - - stuffy, overbearing surgeon included - - ever gonna tell me my dad was common.” 

 

Hutch felt like he wanted to sink through the floor.  His life wasn’t exactly perfect at the moment.  Among other things, his marriage was on shaky ground, he’d taken a tremendous risk switching careers, and his relationship with his father was mostly non-existent.  In the past eight months, the single bright spot in all of that confusion had been Starsky, and now Grant had insulted him.  He wasn’t about to let his father ruin such an extraordinary friendship.

 

“Starsk.” Softening his voice, Hutch laid a hand on his friend’s arm. Touching was something new between them.  He’d been shy about it at first, not always sure when to offer that extra measure of contact, even more uncertain how to respond when Starsky touched him.  Now it felt natural, physical touch further cementing their bond of friendship.  “H-He didn’t mean it that way.  He j-just wanted to insult me.”  Mentally, he cringed at the stutter, something he’d never displayed in front of Starsky before.  Emotional stress had a way of triggering the stammer he’d battled since childhood, and his father had always been extremely adept at hurting him.  In his mind, the only way to counter that ache and hide the damage was to grow belligerent. 

 

“I think I can speak for myself, Ken,” Grant said, annoyed.

 

Hutch’s temper snapped. “Obviously you can’t, or I wouldn’t be apologizing for you.”  He gave Starsky’s arm a squeeze before letting his hand fall away.  “Give me a minute, huh, Starsk?  I need to talk to my dad.”  No stammer now.  Anger had a way of crushing it, along with the hurt.

 

“Well . . .”  Starsky looked uncertain, shooting a wary glance between father and son. Clearly, he didn’t like the idea of leaving the two of them alone together “Okay,” he consented, reluctantly.  Ignoring Grant completely, he spoke directly to Hutch.  “A bunch of the guys are hittin’ Ruby’s Place for a beer - - kinda a real celebration after all this stuffiness.  I know your folks are here and Vanessa - -”

 

“I’ve got time for a drink with my friends,” Hutch countered quickly.  From somewhere he scrounged up a grin.  “I’ll catch you in about five, okay?”

 

“Sure.” Starsky sent a scowling glance at Grant, gave Hutch a final nod, then sauntered away into the crowd.  

 

Grant snorted derisively.  “That man is reprehensible.  I certainly hope you find a better caliber of people to associate with, now that you’ve finished with this childish Academy.”

 

Hutch rounded on him, speaking swiftly and low.  “That man is my friend.  My best friend.  You can insult me all you want, but leave Starsky out of it.  If you think I’ve failed you, that’s between you and me.”  His stomach tightened even as he said it.  Why can’t you be proud of me?  Why can’t you acknowledge what I’ve accomplished?  “If you didn’t want to be here, Dad, you shouldn’t have come.”

 

“Your mother insisted.”

 

“I see.”  Hutch stiffened.  “So when it comes right down to it, you’d rather be home in Minnesota?  You don’t really give a shit how hard I’ve worked or how much this means to me.”

 

Grant heaved an annoyed sigh.  “Ken, it is extremely unbecoming when you make a scene.”  Hissing the words between clenched teeth, he caught Hutch by the arm and firmly steered him to a private corner, away from the milling crowd. 

 

The part of Hutch that instinctively did whatever his father ordered, allowed himself to be tugged along.  It had been ingrained in his upbringing to obey without question.  He doesn’t want to be here.  His whole presence is a sham, a mockery.  Hurt built inside of him, displacing the anger, summoning the lump back to his throat.  Agitated, he held his ground when Grant shoved him up against a wall and glowered down on him.  His father had only ever struck him once in his life  - - during a fiercely heated argument that had ensued when an ex-girlfriend falsely accused Hutch of getting her pregnant.  Yet even without the threat of violence, Grant had always managed to intimidate him. Even now, Hutch felt abruptly foolish in his dress uniform, diploma and hat tucked under his arm, as if none of it - - including all his hard work and accomplishments - - really mattered. 

 

“Y-You just can’t do it, can you?  All these cadets and your son graduated with t-t-top honors.  You just c-can’t be p-proud of me, can you?”

 

Grant looked at him hard.  “Stop stuttering.  That’s not what this is about.”

 

“It is!”  Hutch exploded.  “It’s what it’s always been about, you’re just too fucking blind to see it.  Did I say that clearly enough without a fucking damn stutter?”

 

“Kenneth, I will not have you talk to me in such a disrespectful manner.” 

 

“Then maybe you should leave so you don’t have to listen to it.  You don’t want to be here anyway.  I think you’ve made that clear, Dad.”

 

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose.  “You don’t understand.  You’ve made a radical career change, selfishly dragging Vanessa and your family along with you.  You’re too intelligent for this, Ken.  It’s simply difficult for me to stand idly by and see you throw away your future.  You have entirely too much potential to waste on something as mundane as the life of a police officer.  I saw you surpassing me one day as a surgeon, and now you tell me you want to hand out speeding tickets. How do you think that’s supposed to make me feel?”

 

A hot flush of red colored Hutch’s cheeks, prompted by his father’s derisive tone.  “Speeding tickets?”  His free hand balled into a fist.  “Is that what you think I gave up medical school to do?” His father had physically backed him into the corner, but Hutch stepped forward now, pressing his space. “You think I’d willingly put my marriage in jeopardy and all but destroy my relationship with you just to pass out speeding tickets?”  Pressing his lips together, he held up his hand.  “Wait a minute.  My mistake - - I don’t have a relationship with you.  Never did, so it doesn’t fucking matter anyway.  And if you don’t like my language, Dad, there’s a simple fix for that - - stay the hell away from me!”

 

Furious, Hutch shoved past, roughly bumping Grant’s shoulder aside as he went.  Rage, humiliation and regret coursed through him, making him physically shake with reaction.  He’d had disagreements with his father before, even shouting matches, but he couldn’t remember ever being so bluntly disrespectful.  Too wound up to face his fellow cadets, he sprinted down the hall and out the front door, rounding the side of the building where he paced off a small circle in frantic steps.

 

You really did it this time, Hutchinson. The old man likely hates your guts for real now.   Ashamed by his outburst, frustrated that he hadn’t been able to control his emotions, he closed his eyes and let the finality of that ugly truth crash over him.  He never loved me anyway, he thought bitterly.  Why should it matter?  Why should I care?

 

But he did.  He always had and knew he always would.  Because even if he’s ashamed of me . . . even when he talks down to me, I still love him. Groaning aloud, he stopped his mad pacing, tilting his head back to stare skyward.  How can I love someone so fiercely when they feel nothing but contempt in return?

 

“Hutch?”  A hand slid onto his shoulder.  “Buddy, what’s wrong?  You took off like you weren’t comin’ back.  Hey - -” A worried inflection of surprise in a familiar New York-laced drawl.  “You’re shakin’ like a leaf!”

 

Embarrassed to be caught emotionally vulnerable, Hutch flushed and ducked his head. He turned, finding Starsky at his side.  His abrupt movement dislodged his friend’s hand, something that left him alternately grateful and feeling deprived.  As much as he wanted that support and contact, he didn’t want his friend knowing how impossibly screwed up his relationship with his father was.  He’s gonna think I’m an asshole, getting this worked up over the old man’s opinion.

 

Clearing his throat, he smiled weakly.  “Sorry, Starsk.  Just a disagreement with my dad.  I thought it best if I cleared my head for awhile.”

 

“Out here?”  Starsky looked from a nearby parking lot with its gleaming rows of cars, to several empty stone benches strategically placed along the connecting sidewalks.  He seemed to realize Hutch’s need to keep the matter to himself - - at least temporarily.  Now wasn’t the time to talk about it, nor the place.  “You know . . . if you’re gonna clear your head, grabbin’ a beer with me at Ruby’s would be a heck of a better way to do it.  Fun too.  Besides - - I’m starved.  Who the hell can exist on finger sandwiches and fruit wedges?”  He gave a theatrical shudder.  “How ‘bout grabbin’ a burger with me?  I’ll even let you slop mustard on the fries.”

 

Hutch grinned.  God, how had he ever found such a cherished friend as Starsky?  One who knew exactly what to say and when to say it - - when to press the issue and when to back off.  He nodded, eternally grateful when Starsky squeezed his shoulder.  He needed that touch.  Vanessa might be annoyed with him and his father ashamed of him, but Starsky was 100% supportive.  Would it always be that way, he wondered?

 

For a split second, fear gripped his heart.  Starsky had opened an astonishing new world of friendship - - had taught him relationships didn’t have to be about walls and barriers.  He’d willing exposed his private vulnerabilities to Starsky, trusting his friend to keep them safe.  But what if all this newness didn’t have the same extraordinary meaning for Starsky? What if he was this attentive, this giving and vigilantly concerned with everyone?  Then there was really nothing special or unique between them, and Hutch had bared his soul to someone who considered it as disposable as the next guy’s.

 

“Hey, you okay?”  Starsky touched his cheek, looking at him earnestly.

 

Hutch almost flinched.  He’d grown used to Starsky touching his sleeve or his shoulder, giving him a pat on the back, but this contact was new - - reeking of concern and loyalty, surprisingly intimate.  Another line he’d let Starsky cross, another barrier stripped away.  The touch burned through him, inducing a reactionary shiver.  Uncertain how to respond, he dipped his eyes shyly. 

 

“Yeah.”  Of course, Starsky wasn’t like this with others.  Of course, he’d always be supportive.  Just because Hutch had grown up with mostly fair-weather friends didn’t mean Starsky had the same self-serving philosophies.  Hadn’t he already noticed a difference in the way Starsky interacted with John Colby?  He breathed a sigh, inwardly disappointed when Starsky’s hand dropped to his shoulder.  For a man who’d grown up with mostly reserved displays of affection, Hutch found himself becoming more and more responsive to Starsky’s physical notion of friendship.  “A burger sounds good.  Let me go tell Vanessa.”

Starsky hedged.  “How do you think that’s gonna go over?”

 

“How everything goes over between us,” Hutch admitted truthfully.  “ - - badly.  It doesn’t matter though.”  He’d had enough of the evening, enough of fighting and depression.  Slinging his arm over Starsky’s shoulder, he started back toward the building.  At least one person believed in him.  “Let’s get out of here, buddy.”

 

+++++ 

 

Memorial Hospital:  Present

 

Starsky sat quietly in the pre-dawn darkness, his hand resting lightly on Hutch’s arm.  His friend had fallen asleep a good hour ago, but he felt reluctant to crawl back into bed.  The nursing staff had been generously accommodating, letting him stay without argument when he’d made it clear he intended to pass the night.  With no other patient scheduled for the room, Starsky had been able to stretch out on the vacant bed, catching a few fitful hours of sleep while remaining alert to his partner’s needs. 

 

Hutch stirred restlessly from time to time, parting with an involuntary moan whenever pain dragged him close to awareness.  During those moments, Starsky went to his side, whispering soothingly and gently stroking his friend’s arm until Hutch eventually quieted. Even now the dark-haired detective found himself unconsciously tracing his fingertips over the bones in Hutch’s wrist. Hunched in a chair drawn close to the bedside, he could feel an ache spreading outward from the small of his back. His left foot was tucked onto the seat, wedged under his right leg.  While that position had been comfortable at first, he was beginning to feel the tingle of pins and needles from lack of circulation.

 

Shifting, he let his foot drop to the floor, grimacing as blood rushed to his toes.  For a fleeting second, he stopped his leisurely caress, his hand wrapping around Hutch’s forearm, effectively sealing them flesh to flesh.  Even in the dark, with dawn a distant phantom below the rim of the earth, that connection was wonderfully uplifting. Hutch’s skin was dry, no longer clammy, the torrid heat of fever all but abated. 

 

Improvement.

 

Starsky latched onto the word much like his fingers latched onto Hutch’s arm - - holding tight, unwilling to let go.  He knew his friend still had a long recovery ahead, but at least the side effects from the transfusion were receding.  It was more than he’d dared hope for.  He’d done the unthinkable, deserting Hutch when he’d been so grievously wounded, unable to defend himself.  Another minute or two and the other officers would have been on the scene.  Betty Klinger would have been fine, and Hutch  - -

 

He swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.  With an anguished groan, he folded from the waist forward, his brow coming to rest against the mattress.  “Aw, pal, I’m sorry . . . I’m so freakin’ sorry.”  He mumbled the words into the blankets, the cottony material warmed by Hutch’s body heat.  The sensation was sheer bliss - - a luxury he didn’t deserve but craved nonetheless.  He found it amazing he could have been so surly with Hutch just a short while ago, torn up over the situation with Lonnie Craig and George Prudholm.  Now all he wanted to do was apologize and beg forgiveness.  He’d screwed up, sentencing Hutch to pay the price for his failure.  It simply wasn’t fair - - not for one inordinately sensitive Midwesterner who’d long ago shaken up Starsky’s idea of friendship.

 

He’d thought he’d had it down . . . had life coolly figured out.  All he’d ever wanted to do was to be a cop, follow in his father’s footsteps.  Then he’d met Hutch and suddenly his priorities became jumbled.

 

He still wanted the badge, the career, but somewhere along the line his ambition had taken a backseat to friendship.  He hadn’t even been aware of the transition at first.  Ozkeller had shoved Hutch onto him fully certain they were as compatible as oil and water.  Surprisingly, their glaringly off balance relationship - - begun with simmering resentment - - had quickly morphed into something unique and extraordinary.  Something entirely too precious to lose.

 

Bogged down by guilt, too tormented to ponder the present, Starsky let his mind slip into a more agreeable past.

 

+++++

 

Ruby’s Place:  The Past

 

As usual, the small tavern near the Academy was jammed with a capacity crowd.  Starsky and Hutch weren’t the only cadets who opted for a spontaneous post-graduation ceremony.  Even Colby, who’d left the Academy three months earlier, turned up for a beer.  Shouldering his way to the bar, Starsky caught a glimpse of several tailored blue uniforms scattered among the throng. 

 

“Here,” Starsky announced, catching Hutch by the elbow and steering him toward a rear corner of the U-shaped bar.  Finding a booth or table was out of the question, all of them packed and brimming over with a casual Friday crowd.  A jumbled din of voices mingled with the clack of dishes and the reverberating beat of the jukebox.  Starsky felt the bass rather than heard the actual music, the constant chatter and laughter of the crowd creating a festive music of its own.

 

“Beers?” Colby asked, elbowing in beside them.  Though no longer an Academy recruit, he had stayed in touch with both partners, maintaining their three-way friendship.

 

Starsky nodded then turned his attention back to Hutch as John signaled for the bartender.  A haze of blue cigarette smoke hung in the air, heavier at the opposite end of the room where it hovered in a thick serpentine cloud.  As Starsky watched, two more cadets entered through the front door, sending a tremor of displaced air into the lazily floating smoke.

 

“Must be gettin’ pretty dull over in the auditorium,” he commented to his fair-haired friend.  “Looks like two more of the city’s-soon-to-be-finest just bailed - - MacEvoy and Reddox.  Can you believe those guys made it as partners?  That’s like puttin’ King Kong with a cross between Olive Oyl and the Riddler.” Plopping onto a barstool, he shook his head and parted with a tsking sound.  “I heard talk MacEvoy’s gettin’ sent to the 118th with some fossil named Patterson.”  He nudged Hutch with his elbow.  “How ‘bout you, Blondie?  First in class - - I bet they gave you a plum assignment, right?”

 

Looking preoccupied, Hutch shrugged.  “Ozkeller said I was being assigned to some veteran named Impala.”  Shaking away his distraction, he focused on Starsky.  “I don’t know . . . he snickered when he said it.  I didn’t get a good feeling about it.”

 

“Aw, he’s just blowin’ hot air.”  Starsky waved the observation aside. “He’s pissed ‘cuz you outdid every academic record at the Academy.  Face it, Hutch - - the man ain’t liked you from the moment he set eyes on you.”

 

“Sort of like the rest of us, huh?”  John Colby leaned forward on the bar, grinning in their direction.

 

Starsky chuckled, appreciating John’s ever-present levity.  Before he could add a flippant remark of his own, the bartender arrived with their beers. “Three drafts as usual,” the brown-haired man announced, plunking the glasses in front of them. 

 

They’d been regulars at the tavern most weekends, visiting frequently enough to become familiar faces to the majority of Ruby’s staff. Starsky wasn’t 100% certain of this particular bartender’s name - - Mike?  Mark?  - - but had talked to the man often enough to know he always kept their tab flowing.  A little on the young side, he nevertheless knew how to ensure a sizable tip.  They rarely had to ask for refills when he was on duty.

 

“Guess all you blue uniforms are gonna disappear now that you’ve come out the other side of the Academy,” Mike/Mark said. 

 

Colby swallowed the head off his draft.  “I wouldn’t know since I bailed awhile back, but I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. There’ll be another group to follow and keep you in tips.  When you think about it, we got the shit end of the deal.  We gotta find another hangout.”

 

“Someone told me about a joint called Huggy’s Place,” Starsky inserted.  Beside him, Hutch had decided to lean into the wall, making the most of the secluded corner.  Starsky frowned, realizing something other than a common father/son disagreement had taken place in the auditorium.

 

Mark  - - it was definitely Mark, Starsky decided - - gave a dismissive snort.  “Huggy’s Place?  Man, you’re talking about a hole in the wall, a regular dive.  And the owner’s a little on the shady side if you ask me, but what the hell do I know?”

 

“You know how to pour a cold beer,” Colby pointed out.  Tilting his glass, he cocked it in an offhand salute.  “Now if you can just go rummage up a basket of pretzels or something, I might think you’re a rocket scientist.”

 

“Everyone’s a comedian,” Mark grumbled, but he moved away to look for the requested item.  Grinning ear-to-ear, Colby shot the other two men a glance.  “I think I’m gonna go rattle MacEvoy and Reddox . . . see if I can stir up a hornet’s nest for fun.  I heard Reddox’s kid brother flunked out last class and now he’s got a chip on his shoulder about cops.  Probably a touchy subject, huh?”  The grin stretched, growing wolfish.  “Wanna come along and watch?”

 

“No, you go.”  Even if Hutch hadn’t been in such a downer mood, Starsky would have passed on the baiting.  He wasn’t overly fond of Reddox or MacEvoy, but all of that aside, just didn’t get Colby’s darker sense of humor.  It sometimes amazed him what the other man considered fun. If he hadn’t dropped out of the Academy, he probably would have been kicked out eventually.

 

“Sometimes I think he ain’t playin’ with a full deck,” Starsky said to Hutch, watching Colby slip into the crowd.  It was just as well.  He wanted to talk to Hutch alone. The whole incident at the auditorium had left him feeling unbalanced.  He knew Hutch had some issues with his father, but he was just beginning to realize how deeply rooted those problems were.  “So . . .”  Turning his back to the room, he swiveled on the barstool to face his friend.  “I hope you realize I could be on the prowl right now . . . find me some other gorgeous blond, instead of one who’s only marginally pretty with a sorry-assed depressed attitude.”

 

Hutch shot him a warning glare.  “Starsky.”

 

“Yeah? - - I’ve been called worse.”  He grinned slightly, holding it for effect until Hutch relented with a faint smile and a shake of his head.  Having broken the ice, Starsky lowered his voice,  leaning forward as if to share a confidence. “So you wanna tell me what happened with you and the old man?  I mean, I get he wanted you to be a doctor and all that, but - - ”

 

“Starsky, I don’t want to talk about it,” Hutch said flatly.  He returned to staring at his beer as if it contained the mysteries of life - - all of them convoluted and painful. “We just don’t get along,” he muttered.  “Let’s leave it at that.”

 

Never one to back off, Starsky plowed ahead without hesitation.  “So maybe he just needs some time to adjust.  You know - - get used to the idea of his kid as a cop.”               

 

Hutch shook his head, clearly miserable.  “You don’t get it.  He and I, we just - -”  Unable to finish the thought, he tilted the glass to stare inside.  Grimacing, he shook his head.  “It’s complicated between us.  It always has been.  Nothing I do is ever good enough, you know?”  Inhaling deeply, he turned to look at Starsky.  Something pained and troubled flitted through his eyes. “I really don’t want to talk about this, buddy.  I appreciate your concern, but my relationship with my father is a touchy subject.”

 

“Sure . . . okay.”  Starsky hedged.  Hutch’s reluctance to discuss Grant made him want to keep digging, but he’d known his friend long enough now to recognize when he was erecting walls.  Usually with enough persistence, Starsky was able to get through even Hutch’s most stringent defenses, but there was just something about his surgeon father that turned the blond-haired man obsessively edgy and insecure.

 

From the corner of his eye, Starsky saw the front door open again, admitting someone who might have been Brad Reddox’s twin.  A few years younger, the man had the same gaunt features, lanky build and pin-straight brown hair.  Flushed and unsteady on his feet, he’d clearly already overindulged in alcohol.  Pausing to take a drag on a cigarette, he scanned the crowd, his lips curling distastefully with each dress blue uniform he encountered.  Spying Reddox and MacEvoy toward the back, he stubbed his cigarette out and headed in their direction.

 

“Look there - -”  Starsky nudged Hutch in the ribs.  “I’ve got a ten spot, says the skinny drunk with the loopy sneer is Reddox’s kid brother.”

 

Raising an eyebrow, Hutch followed his glance.  “You mean the one who doesn’t like cops?”

 

Starsky nodded. “Only because he couldn’t cut it himself.  Right now I’d say he’s probably PO’d big brother showed him up, don’tcha think?  Might even be spoilin’ for a fight with all these dress blues in here.”

“And John right in the middle of it.”  Dispensing with a weary-sounding sigh, Hutch pushed from his barstool.  “We better bail him out before it gets ugly.” 

 

Before Starsky could so much as sputter a comment, Hutch wended his way into the crowd, the coin-bright glimmer of his hair visible even through the wreathing cloud of cigarette smoke.  Starsky followed, not entirely sure Colby would want to be bailed out.  There was no question the other man enjoyed the occasional spat of explosive chaos, all the more so if he contributed to it. When it came right down to it, John Colby was a skilled instigator - - a gleefully sly imp who lived to wreak mayhem, then savor the fallout.

 

Starsky could hear his mercurial friend laughing even as he approached Reddox’s and MacEvoy’s table.  The other two men looked annoyed, far from sociable.  Undeterred, Colby had pulled back a chair, planting one foot on the seat as he leaned forward to grin cockily, beer glass dangling in his hand.  “Best thing I ever did was quit,” Colby was saying as Starsky approached with Hutch.  “Pike was about as exciting as watching paint dry, and if I had to listen to Oz call us ‘ladies’ one more time, I swear I was gonna puke.  Then again - -” He grinned at Reddox, his gaze openly knavish.  “I guess he’s had his share of ‘ladies’ and washouts.  You know - - like your kid brother.”  

 

“John.”  Shocked, Hutch reached forward to cut him off. 

 

Starsky was just as baffled.  Colby liked to bait, but the slur was malicious and unfounded.   It surprised him, coming out of the blue. Their brown-haired friend had never been particularly fond of Reddox, signaling him out as someone who was cunning and unpredictable.  Maybe a little too much like John, and that’s the problem, Starsky thought.  He knew there was a darker side to his friend but had chosen to pretend it didn’t exist.  “Hey, back off,” he protested, shooting Colby a puzzled glance.  Just as quickly his eyes swiveled to Hutch. 

 

Without uttering a word, the taller man met his gaze.  Starsky blinked, shocked by a staggering jolt of mental awareness.  He felt something crackle between them - - an effortless intuition that told him exactly what Hutch was thinking - - not so much in words but in silently relayed emotional feedback:  He’s spoiling for a fight.  It’s going to get ugly.

 

Starsky gave a slight nod, silently agreeing.  The mental telepathy left him off balance, giddy at the same time.  He’d never felt that startling crackle with another person.  It wasn’t really telepathy, he corrected himself, so much as Hutch’s ability to express himself without words.  Someone else might not see the slight changes in his features - - a marginal tightening of his mouth, the warning glint in his pale blue eyes.  Starsky not only saw, but interpreted.  Hutch’s gaze held his, silently communicating.  He felt that exhilarating crackle a second time and realized something extraordinary had happened.  I think Colby had a little too much wine at the reception.

 

The corner of Hutch’s mouth rose in faint grin.

 

Starsky bit down on his lip, shaken by how much they could say without speaking.  It was a little unnerving to connect that strongly with someone in so short a period of time.  Eight months and suddenly he could look at Hutch and read the thoughts in his eyes:  Kid brother at three o’clock.

 

Starsky cleared his throat just as Reddox’s younger sibling reached the table.  The brown-haired man had been momentarily waylaid by the capacity crowd, the flush of alcohol on his cheeks heightened to ruddy brilliance.  Starsky seemed to remember Reddox referring to him as ‘Damon’ in a discussion once.  Not that he’d had that many discussions with the Academy’s underhandedly shrewd genius.

 

Baited by Colby’s snide remark, Reddox half rose from his seat. “Take a hike, asshole,” he snapped.

 

“Now Bradley,” Colby chastised with an indulgently slow grin.  “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?  Here I was being sociable . . .”

 

“John, come on - - let’s go,” Starsky caught his arm, attempting to physically manhandle him away from the table.  The haze of too much wine glazed the surface of Colby’s eyes, making Starsky wonder why he hadn’t noticed it before.  Because I was too preoccupied worryin’ about Hutch and his old man.  His friend had obviously overindulged at the reception, showing up to watch his friends graduate, loudly toasting their success more than once.

 

Colby batted his hand aside.  “Just hang on, Starsky.  It’s getting good here.  Reddox’s kid brother just showed up.”  He flashed a toothy grin at the new arrival.  “So what’s a washed up cadet do for a living these days?”

 

Gripping the back of the nearest chair, Damon Reddox leaned forward with a malignant leer.  “Beat the shit out of arrogant bastards.  They kicked me out ‘cause of too much fighting.  How ‘bout you and I go a few rounds, dickhead?  I heard you quit with three months to go.”

 

“Just back off - -”  Stepping into the fray, Hutch physically came between the younger Reddox and Colby.  “Nobody’s doing any fighting.”

 

“Says who, Blondie?”  Reddox leaned forward, breathing directly into Hutch’s face. Even from where he stood, Starsky caught the sour reek of alcohol on the man’s breath.  He saw Hutch grimace in distaste and guessed the reason was two-fold - - that offensive odor and the ever-popular slur about his Nordic coloring.  It amazed Starsky how someone could take a name he called his friend in affection and turn it into an insult.  He shot Hutch an arch glance:  What the hell does he know?  He’s got hair the color of mud and he’s butt-ugly.

 

“Hey, MacEvoy,” Starsky said, speaking to the behemoth of a man who’d been partnered with Brad Reddox for the last eight months. With a walrus-like face and the body of a linebacker, his very presence was intimidating.  Which was probably why he hadn’t uttered a word during the exchange thus far.  Just sittin’ there like a lump.  “How about reinin’ in your partner and his carbon-copy replica?”

 

“How about gettin’ your asshole friend outta here?”  MacEvoy shot back with a warning growl.

 

“Done.”  Hutch said.  He sent Starsky an easily readable glance: Time to bail, buddy.  Grabbing Colby by the arm, he left no room for resistance as he forcibly steered him back toward the bar. 

 

Starsky waited a moment then followed, deciding that John had more than a few loose canon tendencies that might easily develop into problems the longer they remained friends.  He’d always known the other man was a bad ass but hadn’t realized how much of a goading agitator until tonight. He was still a short distance from the bar when he saw Colby say something to Hutch then lurch away in the direction of the john.

 

“What was that all about?”  Starsky asked, joining his friend.  It felt almost strange to be talking out loud after the nonverbal communication they’d shared so effortlessly just moments before. That astonishing connection still had Starsky feeling off-kilter.  He’d never experienced anything remotely similar with anyone else.  It was extraordinary . . . exciting, a little terrifying and unusually intimate. 

 

Hutch shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and thumb.  “I don’t know.” Straightening, he backhanded the air with a dismissive wave.  “John’s in his cups, talking nonsense.  Says dropping out of the Academy was the best thing he ever did.  He’s thinking of joining the service.”

 

“What?” 

 

“He’s drunk, Starsky.”  Hutch sighed, plainly out of sorts.  His frustration told Starsky exactly what he thought of the whole ridiculous notion.  “I think I’ve had enough.  I’m gonna knock off early and go home to Vanessa.”

 

You mean go home to get laid.

 

Hutch raised a single brow, his glance unmistakably pointed. Clearly, Starsky’s nonverbal skills were better than he thought.  The whole experience might be new and a little giddy, but he was beginning to realize he could be careless too. Someone else would be clueless as to his casual thoughts, but Hutch knew him entirely too well - - right down to the most infinitesimal change in his expressions. In only eight months they’d bonded on a deeper level than most friends ever achieved. 

 

“Sorry.”  Starsky managed to look marginally contrite.  A second later, he flashed a goofy grin.  “Get outta here, Officer Hutchinson.  Go home to your lovely wife.  You ain’t the only blond on my dance card, you know.”

 

Hutch gave a soft snort of amusement.  They’d always talked easily, but lately the element of playful banter had crept into their conversations. In the beginning, Starsky hadn’t been sure how Hutch would respond to the teasing.  He hadn’t forgotten the coolly aloof Midwesterner of his first few weeks at the Academy - - a Hutch many people still saw. 

 

Surprisingly, Hutch had been receptive from the beginning - - a little bashful about Starsky’s boldness, but secure enough to let his friend get away with it.  After a time, he’d even felt at ease enough to join in. 

 

Grinning smoothly, Hutch patted his shoulder.  “Better have a back-up plan, pal.  Blonds don’t settle for leftovers.”

 

Shaking his head, Starsky watched him leave.  If nothing else, he’d at least managed to get Hutch’s mind off his troubling encounter with Grant Hutchinson.  Reddox had been good for something after all. 

 

And that mental telepathy thing - - that had been a staggering eye-opener.  He’d definitely have to be careful how and when he used that connection in the future, cherishing it for the gift it was.

Maybe, with that astonishingly intrinsic bond between them, Hutch would relax enough to talk about his awkward relationship with his father.

 

Starsky had a feeling it went a lot deeper than med school vs. the Academy.

 

+++++

    

Starsky’s Apartment: Present

 

Starsky stepped from the shower, letting the steam trapped in the bathroom clear his head.  It helped dissipate the mental fog that had plagued him for the last three days.  He’d lived at the hospital, practically glued to Hutch’s side until Dobey had arrived that morning and sternly ordered him home.  He’d been reluctant at first but Hutch had been sleeping peacefully, and he knew he needed the rest.  He needed food too - - something other than coffee, sugary candy bars purchased from hospital vending machines, and the occasional sandwich or cup of lukewarm soup bought from the cafeteria.

 

So he’d taken his captain’s advice, called Huggy to pick him up, then had a hot breakfast with his friend before crashing for a few hours of sleep.  The shower helped him feel refreshed and alert, even if his mind continued to wallow in all the things he’d done wrong lately.

 

After three days, there was talk at the hospital about getting Hutch into a physical therapy program.  Starsky knew the sooner his friend was mobile again the better, but he also knew Hutch was still in a considerable amount of pain.

 

And I’m the one who put him there.

 

Disgusted by the thought, he shook it away, snatching a plush terry towel from the rack.  Steam had fogged the mirror despite the constant hum of the exhaust fan.  Starsky took his time drying off, enjoying the pliable elasticity in muscles that had previously been stiff and cramped.  By the time he was done, the mirror had cleared enough to reveal most of his reflection.  In the overhead light, his skin appeared deeply bronzed as if touched by the honeyed heat of the sun.  Frowning, he ran a hand over his bare right hip.

 

Hutch was lying in a hospital bed, a hole blown through his side.

 

Two holes, Starsky corrected, irked that he was fine when Hutch suffered from infirmity.  It didn’t seem right that he could touch his side without pain, when he was the reason Hutch was so disabled. He’d become a cop to help people, yet lately all he did was cause suffering - - first Lonnie Craig, then two officers who shouldn’t have died, and finally his own partner.  Was it really worth it?  More and more, his badge was beginning to feel like a liability.  He’d been miserable for over a week, yet rather than do the sensible thing - - leave the Force - - he’d grown snappy and churlish, turning that resentful anger on Hutch.

 

Because he’s the reason I stayed.

 

It was true.  Lonnie Craig . . . the senseless death of two fellow officers . . . George Prudholm - - the combined anguish of that brutal and complex web had been enough to push him over the edge. He knew if it hadn’t been for Hutch, he would have hung up his badge and walked.  Yet the thought of deserting his closest friend had kept him chained to the job. He didn’t want to abandon Hutch, forcing him to work with another partner.  As close as they were, his resignation probably would have been enough to make Hutch end his career too. Determined that wouldn’t happen, Starsky had lived with the conflict, inwardly nursing his own discontent and anger.  

 

He knew he’d been unfairly short with Hutch, sometimes deliberately, just to see if he could provoke a reaction.  Part of him had wanted Hutch to blow up, light into him and tell him what a colossal ass he was being. Putting Hutch on the defensive would make him feel better about his own selfish aggression.  But his friend had bit his tongue time and again, patiently taking Starsky’s shortness in stride.  And that had irritated him all the more.

 

Maybe I left him on purpose.  Maybe I secretly wanted him to get hurt, so I’d have an excuse for us both to quit the Force.

 

Shaken by the ugly thought, Starsky wilted against the bathroom vanity.  He wouldn’t do that . . .  couldn’t do that!  God, did I?  The porcelain top felt cold against his bare hip and thigh. Could he really have done something so unforgivably heinous?  Unconsciously of course, but what if buried feelings of resentment and anger had driven him to abandon Hutch without even realizing it? 

 

The idea was too repulsive to contemplate.  Starsky dressed quickly, rummaging a pair of worn jeans and a rum-colored tee shirt from the bedroom.  He added a black overshirt, letting the tails hang loose below his belt, then hunted up his sneakers.  A few minutes later, his hair still damp from his shower, he sprinted down the steps and hurried to Hutch’s car. 

 

He’d had Huggy drop him at the precinct after breakfast where he’d been able to get a quick update on the status of the missing shooter and retrieve Hutch’s LTD from the lot.  Earlier, he’d checked with Merle on the status of the Torino and was told it would be out of commission for at least a week, possibly longer.

 

Starsky missed the car but was thankful to be driving Hutch’s much-abused Ford.  Any other time he would have cringed at the prospect of riding around town in something so derelict, but now it made him feel closer to his partner. Even the backseat, with its collection of empty Styrofoam cups and assorted junk, kindled a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach.  After all their years together, he still couldn’t understand how a man who was so immaculate with his personal appearance could be so negligent about his property. You’re just a study in contrasts, Blintz, ya know that?

 

The clean scent of Hutch’s aftershave clung to the driver’s seat.  Starsky swore he could even smell it on the steering wheel - - a subtle hint of citrus mixed with something aquatic and beachy.  It stayed with him all the way to Hutch’s cottage where the familiar scent grew even stronger.  Starsky checked his friend’s mail, gathered up three days worth of newspapers, and adjusted the blinds for light.  He spent a good ten minutes watering Hutch’s numerous plants, even pausing to pull a few dead leaves from the fig by the bed and rotate the baby fern on the kitchen windowsill. Afterward, he gathered a duffel bag of simple toiletries - - toothpaste, shampoo, electric razor  - - anything he thought his friend might need while at the hospital.  In the dresser, he found a pair of navy pajamas that looked liked they’d rarely been worn.  He added them to the bag, along with Hutch’s sage green robe and a pair of black sweats he could use for therapy.  Halfway to the door, his eye caught a well-thumbed paperback on the nightstand:  Joseph Wambaugh’s The New Centurions.  Starsky gave it a passing glance and tossed it in the bag.  Cop story.  He was sick of cops . . . even cops who wrote stories about fictional cops and made a sizeable fortune doing it.  Hutch appeared to be halfway through the book.

 

Maybe that’s what I oughta do - - quit the Force and write books for a livin’.  

 

Exhaling in disgust, he gathered the bag, locked up, and headed for the hospital.  He found the door-side bed still empty, Hutch’s room bathed in a brassy haze of late afternoon light.  The blond-haired man was sleeping, his face turned toward the window as if to catch the warming rays of the sun.  Seated in a chair near the foot of the bed, Captain Dobey quietly leafed through a magazine.  An enormous leafy green plant had been added to the windowsill, a fat yellow bow tied around its ceramic base.  Nearby, a brightly colored card crammed with several dozen signatures, proclaimed get well wishes. Starsky guessed the crew at Metro had sent both plant and card.

 

“Hey, Cap,” he greeted, depositing the duffel bag on the empty bed.  “Still here?”  He flashed a faint smile, then quickly focused on Hutch.  Striding to the bedside, he peered down on his friend, distressed to see lines of pain etched around his mouth.  “How’d he do today?”

 

“Not good.”  Dobey cleared his throat and stood, setting the magazine aside. “He’s starting to get edgy . . . moving around a lot more and that’s adding up to more pain.  He was really fidgety earlier . . . just couldn’t get comfortable and nothing I did helped.  They finally upped his pain meds, though not without a great deal of aggravation.” Dobey shook his head.  “The man’s just got an extreme phobia to narcotics.”

 

“Can you blame him?”  Starsky asked.  Even after they’d weaned Hutch from the morphine, he’d remained obsessively anxious about taking oral drugs.  “I shoulda been here. He woulda rested better for me.  And if I couldn’t get him comfortable, I woulda been able to talk him around the drugs.”  Worried, he brushed the bangs from his friend’s forehead, savoring the contact.  He’d been gone too long.  A few hours, yet it felt like days.  I’m here, buddy.  Left you again, didn’t I?  A plump parasite of guilt wormed into his stomach, prepared to feast.  “I checked at the station earlier - - still no word on that damn shooter.  It just ain’t fair, Cap’n, Hutch hurt like this, and that cowardly scum roamin’ free.”

 

“Be thankful your partner’s alive,” Dobey said bluntly.  “At that range, any one of those shots could have been lethal.  The guy could’ve aimed for Hutch’s head or heart - -”

 

“Don’t!” Starsky protested, closing his eyes at the ghastly images.  It wasn’t anything he hadn’t thought about before.  That close, the shooter could have easily chosen to kill Hutch.  Why he’d only injured him remained a mystery.  Or maybe he just thought those two shots would do it.  Refocusing, Starsky blew out a breath and changed tactics.  “Did Hutch say anything about callin’ his folks?”

 

Dobey shook his head.  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as if massaging away a crick.  “Never came up.”

 

“He should let them know what happened.  I know he doesn’t wanna worry ‘em, but he’s gonna be laid up for awhile.  I got an update at the nurses’ station and heard they wanna start him on simple therapy tomorrow.  Edie said he’s been out of bed a few times today.”

 

“Just to the bathroom and back.”  Dobey glanced to the door, no more than several feet away.  “He needs help getting in there and getting out.”  He motioned to a wheelchair turned sideways beneath a wall-mounted TV.  “All he’s done so far is go from the bed to the chair, then into the bathroom with the help of a nurse or a medic - -”

 

“I can help him,” Starsky interrupted quickly.  He supposed it was a good sign Hutch was moving around if only marginally, but guessed the increased activity was the reason behind his elevated pain.

 

A few minutes later, Dobey left and Starsky busied himself unpacking the duffel bag.   When he was through, he pulled a chair to the right side of Hutch’s bed and settled down to watch over his friend. Within a few minutes, the injured man stirred, shifting restlessly, opening his eyes a crack.

 

“Hey,” Starsky called softly.

 

Hutch turned his head on the pillow, a faint smile ghosting over his lips as their eyes met.  “I thought you left.”

 

Starsky cupped his hand over Hutch’s forearm.  “Didn’t think I’d stay away, didja?  I kicked Dobey out - - kinda like a changin’ of the guard thing.”  Grinning, he raised his free hand and fingered a strand of white-gold hair.  “Nothing but royal treatment for you, pal.”

 

“Yeah?”  Hutch’s voice was soft and slurred.  Still groggy from the pain medication, he was obviously more than a little muddled.  “So you mean . . . I gotta get shot for you to fuss over me like this?”

 

Starsky paled.  Abruptly sober, he tried not to let his hurt show.  Of course Hutch hadn’t meant his easy repartee as torment, but Starsky immediately set it loose on his slumbering guilt.  “Um . . .” he stumbled verbally but Hutch didn’t seem to notice, shifting in an effort to get comfortable.  “Here, let me help - -”  Starsky adjusted the pillows at his back, plumping them so his friend could sit up straighter.  “I heard you were outta bed today . . . got a change of scenery with the bathroom.”

 

“It sucks,” Hutch muttered, closing his eyes, sinking into the soft brace of pillows behind his shoulders.  “Do . . . do you have any idea how humiliating it is let a nurse know when you’re done pissing, just so she can help you back into a wheelchair?”  Awake now, he frowned at Starsky.  “I can’t walk more than two steps, Starsk, without everything turning to fire - - my side, my hip, even my back.  They damn well better nail the bastard who shot me.”

 

Retreating, Starsky rubbed his hands over his knees.  I shouldn’t be touchin’ you.  Not after bein’ careless enough to get you shot.  “You uh . . . you said he looked familiar,” Starsky reminded him, making an attempt to shove his voracious guilt aside.  With every minor thing Hutch did or said, Starsky felt his sense of blame grow. 

 

Hutch looked puzzled for a moment.  He rolled his head on the pillow to stare at his friend.  “Yeah . . . he said he knew me.”

 

“He said what?”  The shocking revelation momentarily displaced Starsky’s guilt. Hutch had said the man looked familiar, but this startling bit of news made the shooting personal.  His mind in overdrive, Starsky began running down several key possibilities:  someone they’d busted, a snitch who played both sides, the relative of someone they’d put away . . .  there were too many faces in the mix.  “Who was he?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Hutch wet his lips. “Right before he pulled the trigger, he looked at me and said:  ‘I know you.’  I think he wanted the car, Starsk.  I don’t think he knew I was inside . . . not at first.”  Frowning, he skimmed a hand over his bandaged hip as if trying to remember what had caused the injury.  His brows drew together in a frown of concentration. “I think the sirens scared him.  He would’ve killed me, but he jerked when he heard the noise.  It made him stumble backward when he pulled the trigger, and it threw his aim off.  After that, he bolted.  I think he was afraid if he stayed to finish me off or take the car, he’d be caught.”

 

Starsky scowled.  “You remember all that, but you don’t remember who he is?

 

“I told you - - I don’t know.”  Grimacing, Hutch tried to ease onto his side.  Hissing in a pained breath, he turned his face into the pillow.  The fingers of his left hand knotted in the blankets, clamping down in a white-knuckled fist while his right pressed the pillow against his face.   He moaned into the downy material, the sound cutting through Starsky like a knife.

 

“Easy, buddy.”  Touch restrictions instantly forgotten, Starsky cupped his hand around Hutch’s neck, letting his thumb prong upward to rest against his friend’s cheek.  “Slow breaths, babe,” he coaxed as Hutch panted into the pillow.  Using his fingertips, he caressed and kneaded the pain-tensed skin beneath his hand.  Gradually, he felt his friend relax, Hutch’s labored breath thinning into something rhythmic and calm. 

 

Starsky raised his hand, brushing it through Hutch’s hair.  “Okay?” he asked softly.

 

Hutch’s lashes dipped, a delicate fringe of spun gold.  He gave a marginal nod, prompting Starsky to rub his shoulder soothingly. 

 

“You wanna talk about this guy some more?” he prodded. “Like where you might know him from?”

 

Hutch sighed.  His gaze flashed to Starsky, shockingly blue and frustrated.  “I told you, Starsk - - I don’t know.  He was just some guy - -”

 

“ - - maybe someone we busted?”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”

 

“Well, what about a description?”

 

“Average,” Hutch said, sounding tired.  “There’s was nothing special about him.  5’10” or 5’11” . . . brown hair, thin.  I couldn’t tell you about his eyes other than he looked drugged up.  I got the feeling that . . .”

 

“What?” Starsky prompted when he let the sentence hang.

 

Hutch sighed.  “Like maybe I knew him from the Academy.”

 

Starsky blinked.  “You mean like another cadet?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Something forlorn came through in his voice - - frustration that he couldn’t remember, aggravation that Starsky kept pressing him.  “I wasn’t exactly alert at the time.”

 

“No, I guess not,” Starsky’s voice dropped, subdued by an upsurge of guilt.  Hutch had been injured in the car wreck, bleeding profusely.  I couldn’t keep the damn thing on the road, then I up and left you.  “Maybe I should bring in some mug books for you to look through, just to be sure.”

 

“Whatever you want,” Hutch agreed tiredly.

 

What I want is to bail.  To vanish for awhile and get my head on straight.  The thought washed over him with a sudden intensity that left him confused.  He wanted to be with Hutch, yet his present frame of mind wasn’t conducive to his friend’s recovery.  Glum, depressed, he could only bring Hutch down further.  And was it really fair to pretend nothing had changed when he was seriously considering resigning from the Force?  Hutch was going to need strength and support through the therapy portion of his recuperation, not someone who was perpetually sullen and irritable. He needed his family with him, not a temperamentally moody friend.

 

“Um, look, Hutch . . .”  Uncomfortable, Starsky fidgeted with the blankets, making sure they were tucked around his friend’s legs for warmth.  “I ain’t been all that friendly lately.  I know I’ve been short with you - -”

 

“Forget about it,” Hutch said before he could finish. “Between Lonnie Craig and George Prudholm, you’ve had a rough time.”

 

“That’s no excuse,” Starsky countered, irked by the truth.  “I shouldna taken that out on you.”  And I shouldna have left you when you were hurt.  “Sometimes this job ain’t worth it, you know?  I mean look at you - - some guy knocks off a gas station and suddenly you’re facin’ weeks of therapy.  You coulda been killed.  Instead you’re lyin’ here, doped up on pain meds.  And you’re freaky about that ‘cuza some other bastard who gave you a ride with a needle and almost killed you that time too.”

 

Hutch winced, turning his face toward the wall. “Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what?”  Starsky’s voice rose in volume, carrying the heat of his frustration.  “How many times you wanna keep doin’ this, buddy?  I shoot and kill some sixteen-year-old kid over a few measly dollars in a robbery, then some lowlife hood pumps two shots into you.  Where the hell does it end?”

 

“Starsky . . .”  Hutch drew an uneven breath. 

 

The color had left his face but Starsky wasn’t sure if it was from pain or aggravation.  I’m not helpin’ him, he realized.  I’m just makin’ it worse, dumpin’ on him again, like I did before he got shot.  The longer I stay, the more I’m gonna hurt him.  “Look . . .”  Standing, he dragged a hand over his face and paced a few steps from the bed.  Turning, he looked back on his friend, hating the sight of Hutch so incapacitated and vulnerable. “Maybe I just need to think things through for awhile.”

 

“What things?”  Alarmed, Hutch sat up, cupping his left arm over his right side.  The lines of pain around his mouth were more prominent now.  A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his cheeks and his breath came a little too quickly.  “There’s nothing to think through.  I got shot - - I’m gonna recover.  It’s not the end of the world, buddy.”

 

Damn close. 

 

“Okay . . . you’re right.”  Worried by his partner’s obvious distress, Starsky gave a small smile and returned to the side of the bed.  Before he could even reach for Hutch, the blond-haired man clutched his wrist in a desperate grip.  “Hey . . .”  Starsky slid his hand over Hutch’s where it rested on his arm.  “Take it easy . . . you’re tremblin’.”

 

Exhausted, Hutch crumpled back against the pillows.  “For a minute there I thought . . .”

 

“What?”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter.”  He craned his neck to look for the call button.  “I think I need the nurse.  I gotta take a leak.”

 

“Figures,” Starsky said affectionately.  Thankful another near-argument had been avoided, he scuffed his fingers over Hutch’s cheek.  “Dobey sits here and gets to read a magazine.  I show up and you gotta piss.  Forget the nurse, I’ll get your chariot.”

 

“Huh?”  Hutch raised an eyebrow as Starsky retrieved the wheelchair, pushing it to the side of the bed. 

 

“I brought you some pajamas too.  You wanna get rid of that gown while you’re up?”

 

“Yeah . . . okay.”  Hutch nodded, but looked uncertain how far his stamina would go.  Starsky helped him from the bed into the wheelchair then got him into the bathroom and on his feet.  He hadn’t realized just how weak Hutch really was until his friend moaned softly and swayed against him.

 

“Take it easy.”  Starsky supported him by his arm, afraid of putting strain on his damaged right side. After the incident with Ben Forest and Hutch’s grueling withdrawal, there really wasn’t any physical privacy left between them.  Hutch had been at his most vulnerable then, relying on Starsky to help him with every basic and essential need.  Even so, that surrender hadn’t come without cost, chiefly Hutch’s pride.  “Buddy, maybe you should sit down for this,” Starsky suggested softly.

 

Hutch swore, the oath as despondent as it was angry.  “I am not sitting down to take a frigging leak,” he snapped.  “Just give me a minute.”

 

Starsky let him go, but hovered within hand’s reach.  Nothing like havin’ your best bud makin’ sure you piss into the toilet instead of onto the floor.  He waited discreetly, half-fearful Hutch would tumble head first into the bowl before he could finish the job. When he was through, Starsky quickly flushed, then had him step back into the wheelchair. With Hutch seated, he pushed it close to the sink so his friend could wash his hands.  Beneath the harsh florescent light, Hutch’s skin looked doughy and white, his sky-colored eyes darker blue by contrast. Exhausted, he dropped his brow to the sink, breathing through his mouth.

 

“I’m tired of being tired.”

 

“I know you are.”  Starsky slid a hand onto his neck, kneading gently.  He felt the brush of sweat-dampened hair against his knuckles, a tremor of fatigue racing through Hutch’s overly taxed muscles.  “Come on, babe.  I’ll help you back to bed.  Maybe we’ll leave the pajamas till tomorrow.”

 

“No.” The refusal was temperamental and defiant.  Starsky had heard that tone before and knew it came down to Hutch being stubborn - - unbelievably, written-in-stone obstinate. He wouldn’t forgo the pajamas any more than he would sit to take a leak.  Stupid, but both issues had become sticking points.

 

“Okay . . . we’ll get you comfortable.”  It wasn’t an easy task, but fifteen minutes later, Starsky had Hutch dressed in the navy blue pajamas and back in bed, a mound of pillows supporting his back.  Wearied from the short but punishing activity, Hutch fell asleep almost immediately.  During the next hour he woke off and on, shifting restlessly and muttering in pain.  Right before dinner, a nurse arrived with a strong oral narcotic and the blond-haired man roused enough to swallow the offered pills.  Too disoriented to realize what he was doing, Hutch immediately fell back into an unsettled sleep.

 

A half-hour later, Starsky woke him for a few bites of dinner.  At seven o’clock, Dobey returned with Huggy and both men stayed until nine. Starsky hung mostly in the background, letting the other men visit, feeling himself grow more and more withdrawn.  Witnessing Hutch suffer through something as simple as changing clothes or getting to the bathroom had only reinforced his sense of guilt. 

 

He’d been miserable ever since he’d pulled the trigger on Lonnie Craig.  His heart just wasn’t in the job anymore.  It was time he faced up to that . . . what it meant for him and his compassionate partner.   He’d take a few days, sort things through, go away somewhere free of distractions. He’d put everything on the line, place it in perspective and see where it fell.

 

He owed it to Hutch and to himself.   The last thing I wanna do is leave you when you’re hurt buddy, but I don’t know how else to get through this.

 

Knowing what he had to do, Starsky waited until visiting hours were over.  He talked to Dobey in the hallway, kept his reasoning short, but got the leave he wanted.  At home, he dug out his address book and quickly flipped through the pages, scanning for a phone number he’d never actually called. 

 

After three rings, a man answered.

 

“Hello?”  Starsky took a deep breath.  “Dr. Hutchinson, this is David Starsky . . . Ken’s partner.”

 

++++

 

Hutch shoved his breakfast tray away and shifted a little to the left, trying to get comfortable.  Sometimes the pain in his right side was bearable, other times it left him weak and nauseated like now.  He’d managed to swallow a piece of toast and a few forkfuls of scrambled eggs before the queasiness kicked into high gear, making him question his decision about eating.

 

Edie had left him a basin and water, and he’d managed to work through a halfway decent sponge bath before breakfast arrived.  Now all he wanted to do was fall back asleep, curl into a ball and forget about the sickly acid tearing up his stomach.  Starsky would be walking through the door in less than half an hour, helping him to start his day.

 

Part of Hutch knew his friend should be elsewhere - - working through their caseload at Metro or at the very least, taking care of himself.  The other part selfishly wanted Starsky at his side. Somehow his partner’s presence made his pain more bearable, the confines of the hospital room semi-tolerable.  Hutch knew he would be starting therapy in a few hours - - Edie had already informed him of the twice-a-day schedule.  He fully expected the physical activity to be grueling and painful, but welcomed the opportunity to speed his healing along.  He wanted out of the hospital even if it meant lolling around his cottage until he was capable of returning to work. 

 

Turning his attention out the window, Hutch frowned at the overcast sky.  It brooded gargoyle-gray and silent, laden with billowing storm clouds. He’d been trapped inside so long - - what was it now . . . four days?  five? - - that even the oppressive atmosphere was a welcome change of pace.  He thought about turning on the TV but settled for flipping through Wambaugh’s novel instead.  Five minutes into the next chapter he groaned and shoved the book onto the rollaway table, his stomach churning with sticky misery. When the phone rang, he snatched it up, eager for the distraction.  “Hello?”

 

“Hey, buddy.”  Starsky’s voice came through the receiver, laced with fond affection.  “How you feelin’ this mornin’?”

 

Hutch grinned despite his nausea.  As always, Starsky made him feel less vulnerable, more like himself.  “How do you think?  Sick of being stuck in this damn room . . . bored out of my head . . . tired of being woken up at 3:00 a.m for a temperature check by a nurse named Bertha.”

 

“I hope she ain’t stickin’ that thing up your ass.”

 

Hutch snorted.  “Not in this lifetime, pal.  I might be incapacitated, but I’ve still got standards.  Speaking of which . . . when are you gonna drag your sorry butt in here to brighten my day?”

 

“Uh . . .”  Something unsettling crept into Starsky’s voice.  “Well, that’s sort of why I called.”

 

Hutch felt a flicker of apprehension.  It wasn’t so much what Starsky said as the way he said it.  The forbidding brace of clouds outside his window suddenly took on a darkly ominous tone.  “What do you mean?”

 

Starsky cleared his throat.  “I’m gonna go away for a while, Hutch . . . take a few days and get my head on straight. I got some things to think through.”

 

“Like what?”  Hutch spoke without thinking, his heart racing in alarm. Something was wrong - - horribly wrong.  He could feel it, sense it in Starsky’s hesitation and carefully chosen words.  The impossibility of what his friend purposed drove home with an ugly vengeance.  “What do you mean you’re going away?”  I need you here . . . need you with me.

 

“It’s just for awhile,” Starsky assured, but his voice was strained.  “I’m not sure about things anymore . . . the Force, my job.  I need to sort it out, Hutch.  Make sure I’m not doing something I’ll regret later.  I don’t wanna stay because I feel obligated.”

 

Hutch’s chest was so tight he thought it would explode.  His fingers crimped around the phone cord, applying pressure until his knuckles turned white.  Don’t do this to me.  God, Starsky, please don’t do this to me. “Y-You m-mean because of me?”

 

“No!”  That at least carried conviction.  “Buddy, you know I’d be there with you if I could, but it isn’t gonna do any good if I bring you down.  You’re gonna get through this without me.”

 

I don’t want to get through it without you.  Hutch was silent, letting the painful hurt of abandonment seep through him.  He selfishly wanted Starsky at the hospital but was reluctant to admit that yearning. If his friend needed to pack up and vanish for a few days, he wasn’t going to stand in the way of that decision, however idiotic it might be.  “How long are you going to be gone?” he asked stiffly.

 

“I dunno.  Coupla days . . . maybe a week.”

 

“Where?”  The word stuck on his tongue.

 

“Dunno that either.  Thought I’d rent a car and head north.  The Torino’s still at Merle’s.”  Starsky paused.  “I called your folks last night.”

 

Hutch tensed, certain he’d heard wrong.  “You did what?”

 

“I talked to your dad,” Starsky clarified.  “ . . . told him what happened.  He and your mom are catchin’ an early flight and should be here before the day’s out.”

 

“Starsky . . .”  Abrupt anger tangled with confusion and hurt.  “I-I don’t want them here.  My father - -” He swallowed hard.  Ohgod, I don’t want him here.   “How could you do something so stupid?  You know he and I don’t get along.”  He shifted irritably, biting down on a groan when sudden pain lanced outward from his hip in a prickly explosion.

 

Starsky sighed into the phone.  “Hutch, this is different.  Maybe he was miffed about you becomin’ a cop, but you’re his kid and you’re hurt.  What do you think he’s gonna do - - push you around in your wheelchair and read you the riot act?”

 

Growing angry, Hutch ground his teeth together.  “I get it - - you decide what’s best for me like calling my parents, while you pack up and skip town.  Ease your conscience, is that it Starsky?”  He hadn’t meant the question to sound so spiteful, but it tumbled out on brazen currents of anger.  The thought of his father finding him in the hospital, barely able to walk because of an injury he’d sustained on the job terrified and infuriated him.  “You had no right,” he seethed. “All you had to do was tell me you were tired of dragging yourself in here day after day - -”

 

“ - - it’s not that at all,” Starsky protested hotly.  “You don’t get it.”

 

“I get it fine.”  Bitterness crept into Hutch’s voice. “I get the fact you couldn’t even come in here and face me.  You call me on the phone to tell me you’re skipping town and my parents are flying in.  What do you want me to do, Starsk - - tell you it’s okay?”

 

“Hutch . . .”  Starsky’s voice wavered between desperation and annoyance.  “Look . . . I gotta do this.  I mean, hell - - I’m the reason you’re sittin’ in that damn bed with two holes in your side.  You can’t just expect me to - -”

 

“Starsky, what the hell are you talking about?” Irked, Hutch pressed a hand to his temple, trying to make sense of the mind-boggling discussion.  Had his friend really just implied he was responsible for his injuries?  “You don’t seriously think - -”

 

“I left you!” Starsky exploded.  “You were hurt . . . fuckin’ bleedin’ all over the place, barely able to sit up, and I waltzed away to check on the girl.”

 

“You had to,” Hutch protested. “It goes with the badge.”

 

“Don’t talk to me about the damn badge,” Starsky snarled.  “I’m sick of it!  It got Lonnie Craig killed, two cops I barely knew blown away, and it almost cost you your life.  Maybe it ain’t worth it anymore, Hutch.”

 

“Starsky . . .” The tortured bitterness in his friend’s voice made Hutch’s anger fade.  He hadn’t realized how tormented Starsky was about the whole thing. His partner had been temperamental lately but he hadn’t seemed depressed so much as irritable.  Hutch had figured with a week or so of breathing room, Starsky would get over the whole Lonnie Craig/George Prudholm debacle. What he hadn’t counted on was compounding Starsky’s already fragile emotional state with his own injuries.  “Listen to me,” he attempted to reason.  “Things are screwed up right now.  Give it some time before you - -”

 

“Already did that,” Starsky interrupted flatly.  “What - -you think I just woke up this mornin’ and decided to dump all this shit on you?  Time don’t change nothing, Hutch.  I’m tired of making the wrong decisions for the right reasons.  Maybe I’m just tired of being a cop.”

 

At a loss for words, Hutch barely breathed.   It wasn’t so much he’d run out of protests, as he knew anything he said would be bitterly rebuked.  The grim finality in Starsky’s voice told him any argument he made would be fruitless - - at least for the moment. Frazzled, he fisted the phone cord in his hand. How could Starsky even consider quitting the Force?  Shaken, angry, more than a little terrified by the prospect, he tried to think rationally.  Was his friend really so messed up that he intended to toss their partnership aside too?  Agitated, he shifted restlessly.  A scalding knot of fire bloomed in his side, sending a gummy wave of heat and pain crashing over him.  Biting his lip to stifle a cry, he balled the phone cord into a tighter wad. “S-Sounds like you’ve made up your mind . . . about leaving, I mean.” 

 

“I have.” Starsky’s tone was quick and unflinching, sending a bolt of childish anger streaking through Hutch. 

 

“Fine!” he snarled.  “Do whatever the hell you want - -”

 

“Hutch - -”

 

“ - - forget it, Starsky.  I’m not going to talk you out of it if you want to bail.  If you’re sick of being a cop, that’s your prerogative.  Just remember our partnership goes with it. See you whenever.”  Infuriated, he slammed the phone down.  The pain spiked higher, making him groan aloud.  Breathing heavily, he slumped against the pillows, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

 

Five seconds later, the phone rang.  Incensed, he shoved it onto the table and tuned out its shrill ringing. If Starsky wanted to slink away and lick his wounds, Hutch wasn’t going to argue with him about it.  He knew he was being stubborn, even immature, but didn’t care.  He’d expected better of his friend.  Not only was Starsky leaving, but he’d committed the ultimate sin in contacting Hutch’s parents. 

 

“Go on . . .”  Hutch muttered to the ringing phone.  “Leave and see if I care.”

 

But he did.  When it came right down to it, he cared a lot.  He always had and he always would.  Not even anger or childish torment was going to change that.

 

Hurt, he turned his face toward the window and closed his eyes.

 

+++++

   

 Hutch’s day went from bad to worse.  He half-expected Starsky to call again to apologize for leaving, or at the very least, to try to soften their earlier argument.  Part of him was hurt and bitter - - he’d been patient and understanding while Starsky had snipped and snarled at him over the last week and now his friend was abandoning him when he was injured.  The other part thought only of the mental anguish his partner must surely be suffering and longed to help him through it.  He even had silly expectations of Starsky materializing in the doorway, telling him the whole thing was a stupid misunderstanding and he wasn’t going anywhere.  He almost convinced himself each time he heard footsteps in the hallway it was Starsky about to enter his room.  And each time the footsteps passed by, he felt a sense of deeper and deeper depression.

 

Once or twice, he even thought about picking up the phone and dialing his friend’s apartment, but each time stubborn pride stayed his hand. Starsky had been the one to leave.  Starsky could be the one to call him.

 

To make it worse, his therapy sessions left him fatigued and nauseated, limp with pain.  Without Starsky around, he grew edgy about taking the oral narcotics and didn’t ask for them as frequently as he should have.  By the time his afternoon therapy session was over, he was in misery, his body stiff and abused, his right side bathed in prickling white fire.  He managed to doze for a few hours then woke to an unappetizing dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn.  It had grown cold sitting by his bedside, congealing into a lumpy yellow-brown mass that turned his stomach with a single glance.  He pushed the tray away without eating and buzzed the nurse to request nausea medication.  As much as he hated taking pills, the thought of throwing up and aggravating his enflamed side was far worse.

 

Dobey stopped by shortly thereafter, adding another plant and a get-well card to the windowsill, this one from the group at R&I.  Over the last few days, several others had shown up, including a squat flowering cactus from Huggy and a thick-leafed rubber plant from Vinnie at the gym. The collection was beginning to look like a small greenhouse, one or two of the smaller plants even spilling over onto the bedside stand.  Dobey had barely set the new one down before Hutch started in about Starsky.

 

“He told me he was going to take a few days off and head north,” he told his captain, unable to keep a hint of anxiety from his voice.  “That was this morning.  Did he say anything to you?”

 

“Not much.”  Dobey shrugged.  “Basically the same thing he told you - - that he needed a few days to get his head together.  He called before he left and asked me to look out for you.”

 

Hutch nodded, hoping his disappointment didn’t show.  It was silly when he thought about it - - he was a grown man, fully capable of functioning on his own.  So what if his friend - - granted, his best friend - - wanted to disappear for a few days?  It wasn’t the end of the world, civilization wasn’t going to go belly up or come to a screeching halt.  Hell, other people survived just fine without having a friend there to get them through life’s hurdles. 

 

Except he’s more than a friend and I need him for this one.  And he might not know it, but he needs me for what he’s facing too.

 

When it came right down to it, the whole situation sucked. Between his attitude and discomfort, Hutch knew he was rotten company.  After an hour, Dobey packed it in and left, leaving Hutch alone in the silent room with a blank TV screen and a small garden of plants on the windowsill. He couldn’t blame his captain for deserting him so early.  I’d probably desert me too.  Something bitter and ugly slithered into his stomach.  Starsky did.

 

 Disgusted, he tried to read but gave up inside half an hour.  The pain in his hip was growing stronger, spreading fiery tentacles over his groin and thigh every time he so much as flinched.  It left him sweaty and nauseous, one hand fisting spasmodically in the blankets.  He shoved the book aside, sucking down shuddery breaths, whimpering involuntarily when the pain clipped higher.  Starsk . . .

 

He couldn’t stop the instinctive mental plea . . . hated himself for the weakness.   Buddy, it hurts. Moaning, he turned his face into the pillow, his breath quivering and fast.  Scrunching his eyes closed, he clung to the darkness, trying to separate himself from the ratcheting pain.  After a while, it became almost tolerable.  The routine sounds of the hospital  - - a page over the loudspeaker, a jumble of passing voices in the hallway, the floating laughter of someone’s TV playing Gene Rayburn’s Match Game - - grew muddy and distant.  He felt himself drifting, and willingly disassociated himself from reality.  Time became snared in a surreal spectrum with no foothold in conscience.

 

The next thing he knew, someone was stroking his cheek and speaking softly.  “Ssh . . . everything’s going to be fine now,” the sweetly gentle voice said.

 

Hutch realized he was moaning. He tried to open his eyes but they felt gummed shut. “S-Starsk?”

 

“He’s not here, darling.”  The hand was still on his cheek, warm and gentle.  “You’re going to be just fine, Ken.  Your father’s already asked for an increase of your pain medication.”

 

The fog fell away and he placed the voice.  “Mom?”  Just as quickly, her comment about the drug dosage registered.  Panicked, he forced his eyes open.  “No!”

 

“Ken?”  Adele Hutchinson stared at him, bewildered.

 

He had no idea how long she’d been there, sitting attentively at his side, her black hair spilled about her shoulders in soft waves. She’d always been a picture - - beautiful, graceful and slender - - for the most part soft-spoken but with a fiery side to her personality that could easily flare in a heartbeat.  Hutch knew his temperament came mostly from her - - cool and composed the majority of the time, dangerously hot-tempered when he cracked.  By contrast, his stubbornness and perfectionist-driven qualities came from his overly correct father. 

 

Unnerved, he glanced around and found Grant standing stiffly by the foot of the bed.  “I-I . . .”  He cringed, hating his inability to make his sleep-dazed mind function.  “W-When did you . . .?”

 

“Just rest, sweetheart.”  Leaning forward, Adele kissed his cheek.  She hovered over him, attentively stroking his hair until he sank back into the pillows. “We got here about twenty minutes ago,” she told him with a tender smile. “Your father saw Dr. Joiner just as he was doing rounds.”

 

Worried, Hutch glanced to his raven-haired father.  Would Joiner, like so many others in his field, know the renowned Dr. Grant Hutchinson - - brilliant surgeon, lecturer, author of numerous medical journals and articles?  And would he - - like most - - let the dominating, coolly professional physician walk all over him? 

 

Like I do.

 

He swallowed hard, looking at his father.  “I . . . I don’t need any more medication.  I-I’m fine.”

 

Grant gave a derisive snort and turned away, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course you are.  That’s why you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes moaning in your sleep.”

 

Hutch bit his lip.  He could still feel a forge-hot knot of pain in his side, flaring to lava proportions every time he moved.  He knew he was probably pale and trembling, could even feel the heavy weight of sweat clinging to the tips of his bangs. Self-consciously, he looked away, seeking out his mother.

 

She smiled gently, her youthful beauty made all the more serene by the purity of love in her eyes.  Like his father, she didn’t look anywhere near her age, both of them just past the fifty mark.  They were what society would term “beautiful people” - - poised and exceptionally attractive with next-to-perfect features.  Kelly used to tease that he got his classical looks from their parents while a Faerie Queen had blessed her with enchanted beauty of her own. She’d liked that game - - Mirror, Mirror, on the wall - - having been abominably shallow as a child.  It was something she’d thankfully outgrown with age.  In truth, they were all ridiculously photogenic - - perfect on the outside, fumbling and uncommunicative underneath.  At the very least, he and his father were horribly flawed.  Even now, Hutch found it hard to speak to him. 

 

“You didn’t have to come,” he announced to the air. 

 

Adele squeezed his hand.  “Why didn’t you tell us?  If David hadn’t called - -”

 

“He shouldn’t have,” Hutch interrupted quickly.  “I’ll be out of here in a few days and - -”

 

“ - - with two bullet holes and a gash in your side?” Grant challenged, wheeling to face the bed.  His expression was calm, but annoyance burned in his pale eyes.  “I’ve reviewed your case with Dr. Joiner in detail - -”

 

“ - - you didn’t need to do that.”

 

“You’re my son,” Grant retorted with an exasperated scowl. “What did you think I was going to do?”

 

Refraining from comment, Hutch wet his lips.  Turning his head on the pillow, he looked away, shifting marginally in a bid to get comfortable.  The movement tore an involuntary groan from his lips.

 

Adele immediately paled, but she touched his forehead, smoothing damp bangs from his brow and speaking soothingly.  “It’s all right, Kenny. A nurse will be here soon with some new medication.  Ssh, ssh,” she quickly added, when her mention of drugs only made him grow increasingly restless, a half-vocal grunt tumbling from his lips.  “Try to rest, darling.  I know you’re in pain, I know it hurts, but it will be better if you can rest.”  She shot a frowning glance at her husband.  “Grant, that nurse is taking too long.  Can’t you do something?”

 

“No,” Hutch tried to protest.

 

His mother only shushed him and his father made some grumbling noise about the inadequacy of medical help.  Dazed by pain, he was vaguely aware of Grant leaving the room . . . of his mother’s continual touch and softly soothing words.  A short time later, his father returned with Edie. The nurse - - looking more harried than usual and a little miffed at being escorted to the room - - thrust a paper dosage cup at him. 

 

“Here, Sergeant Hutchinson . . . take these.”  The tension lines around her mouth immediately softened when she saw how much pain he was suffering.  “It’s worse today because of your therapy. This will help you sleep.”  She poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and waited for him to swallow the offered tablets.

 

Hutch was reluctant, but the thought of sleep was appealing - - an escape not only from the pain, but also the awkwardness of having his father nearby.  After a brief hesitation, he swallowed the pills, sinking into the pillows with a fatigued sigh.

 

Edie flashed Grant a scathing look.  “Satisfied, Doctor?” she asked.

 

From the corner of his eye, Hutch saw his father nod.  He knew from experience that Grant could be wretchedly demanding and harsh.  More than likely, the old man had ridden roughshod over Edie, throwing his professional weight around. 

 

Worn out from stress and pain, Hutch was barely aware when the nurse left the room.  He heard his mother and father talking softly, conversing across him, but his eyes drifted shut, and the voices became a muddled drone.  For a brief second he thought he felt his father’s hand settle on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, but the contact was gone before he could really register it.

 

Exhausted, he slipped beneath the radar of sleep.

 

+++++ 

 

Hutch’s second day of therapy passed without a phone call from Starsky.   The lack of communication from his partner made the pain of therapy and the strain of having his father constantly monitoring his progress all the harder to bear.  He passed a few hours in the morning with his mother, catching up on news from Minnesota until an orderly arrived to take him for a round of diagnostic tests.  After that came therapy, then lunch. 

 

Dobey showed up about the same time his father wandered in from his hotel.  The two men spoke while Hutch fidgeted, anxious for news of his partner.  Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer.  “Have you heard from Starsky?” he asked his captain.

 

When Dobey shook his head, Hutch immediately returned to his restless squirming. With both of his parents and Dobey in the room, it was starting to feel crowded and small.  He was thankful the bed by the door was still empty, though he found it strange it had stayed that way for so long.  Having graduated to a single crutch earlier that day, he asked his mother to walk with him to the solarium at the end of the hall and back - - anything to get out of the room and keep his mind occupied.

 

He’d been angry when he’d hung up on Starsky the other day, but his anger was beginning to turn to worry and regret.  Starsky simply wouldn’t leave him when he was hurt, unless his friend felt the problem he faced was insurmountable.  He hasn’t gone away to get his head together, he’s gone away to plan his future . . . because he’s going to hang up his badge.  He’s going to come back and tell me he’s resigning.  He just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet. 

 

And it’s my fault.  Because I let that damn bastard get the drop on me.

 

The thoughts nearly drove him insane.  When his afternoon therapy session rolled around, he pushed himself past his limits, overdoing everything out of sheer frustration.  By the time he crawled back into bed, he was weak and panting with pain.  Thankfully, his parents had left to grab dinner and wouldn’t be returning until after six o’clock.  He’d even asked his mother to stop by his cottage, collect his mail, and water his plants.

 

Anxious, he called Huggy and asked his friend if he knew where Starsky was staying, but like Dobey, the skinny bartender hadn’t heard anything.  He lost track of time after that, alternating between worry, a steady barrage of pain and a niggling whisper of nausea.  He was too irritable to take his medication and childishly decided to blame his misery on Starsky.  See that, pal - - you’re just making me hurt worse.  In the next instance, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and bowed his face into his hand, mentally chastising himself for his immaturity.  Queasy, his stomach growing more and more unsettled, he reached for his crutch, deciding to hobble to the bathroom.  He still wasn’t very good at managing the padded support, tending to sway off balance or topple to the side. Plus he’d aggravated his hip during therapy, making the addition of weight all but intolerable.  He knew he should probably call for the nurse but was sick of relying on other people.

 

Using the bed for support, he leveraged himself to his feet, shoving the wooden crutch beneath his left arm.  The moment he put weight on his right foot, he realized he’d made a mistake.  Hot pain rocketed down his leg, sending a wave of sweaty heat crashing over him.  He blanched, bowing his head and sucking down a shocky breath.

 

“What are you trying to do?” an annoyed voice intruded on his misery. 

 

Swift footsteps clacked across the floor, and he raised his head in time to see his father striding toward him.  Grant look incensed, his blue eyes dark with anger. Uncertain what he’d done to deserve the rage, Hutch ground his teeth together.  Was it so very much to ask for his father to speak to him in a reasonable tone of voice - - one that wasn’t accusatory or condescending?  “I’m not doing anything,” he spat.  “I just need the fucking bathroom, all right?” 

 

The vehemence of his anger startled him.  Half was pain, half was mounting frustration and hurt directed at his missing friend.  His father was just a convenient target, one who routinely made him defensive anyway.  Stubbornly, Hutch took another step, leaning heavily into the crutch, wobbling precariously.  He could feel himself trembling, his hip and side shrilly protesting the strain. Weak with fatigue, he tightened his grip on the crutch, longing to sit down.  That’s just great, Hutchinson.  Three lousy steps and you’re a fucking invalid! 

 

“You don’t have to be so bull-headed about it,” Grant chastised, moving to his side.  “Let me help you.” 

 

Before Hutch could protest, he felt his father’s hand slide under his arm, steadying and strong.

 

Grant adjusted his hold, taking most of his weight.  “Here . . . lean against me if you have to.” 

 

Hutch swallowed hard, unprepared for the support.  His father sounded concerned, even a little solicitous.  Of course it was just Grant being in control, parading his dominance, he told himself.  Any second now he’s going to tell me I wouldn’t be going through this shit if I were a doctor instead of a cop.  Biting his lip, he shuffled mutely in his father’s grip, letting Grant guide him toward the bathroom.  He knew that he was pale and sweaty and hated the fact he displayed those weaknesses to his father.  He could feel himself trembling, knew that he grew weaker and more fatigued with each step.  “Where’s mom?” he asked for lack of anything else to say.

 

“Shopping,” Grant supplied.  “She wanted to pick you up some more pajamas . . . sweat pants, socks . . . things like that.  She’ll be here soon.”

 

Hutch sighed.  It wasn’t like his father to come alone.  “You were looking for Joiner, weren’t you?” he asked with a suspicious sideways glance.  They had reached the bathroom now, but he hesitated, fighting to silence his queasy stomach.

 

Grant opened the door.  “Just use the bathroom, Ken.  I’ll help you back to bed when you’re done.”

 

Hutch pressed his lips together.  “I am capable of managing on my own,” he said bluntly, then immediately cringed.  Why did he always have to be so damn defensive with his father?  Because he makes me feel like I can’t do anything right . . . like I’m a failure. 

 

Grant scowled.  “This isn’t a power play, Kenneth.  Either use the bathroom or let me help you back to bed.  I can feel you shaking.  If you stay on your feet much longer, you’re going to pass out.”

 

That did the trick.  The last thing he wanted to do was make a fool of himself in front of his father.  Grant was right - - it was only stubborn pride that kept him on his feet now.  With a curt nod, he pulled free of his father’s grip, limped into the bathroom and shut the door.  Exhausted, he gripped the sink with both hands, letting the crutch butt up against his chest.  Breathing heavily through his mouth, he hung his head.

 

I can’t keep doing this, Starsk, night after night . . . fighting this damn pain, worrying about you.  Why the hell won’t you pick up the phone and call me?

 

Cranking open the faucet, he ran the cold water full blast, bending as far as he could to drench his face in handfuls of the icy spray.  It helped clear his head, shriveling the wormy edge of nausea in his stomach, forcing it silent.

 

He stayed until he was sure he wasn’t going to embarrass himself by vomiting, then took a moment to relieve his bladder and wash up.  When he was done, he opened the door to find his father waiting on the other side. Wordlessly, Grant helped him back to bed.

 

Too tired to protest, Hutch allowed the assistance.  Grateful, he sank against the pillows, pulling the blankets close to his chest.  The clock on the wall read 6:34 PM, but it felt closer to midnight.  “What did Joiner say?” he asked, knowing his father had surely tracked down the doctor for an update the moment he’d arrived.

 

Grant shrugged, deciding not to deny the obvious. “I couldn’t find him.  He’s tied up in surgery.”  Walking to the side of bed, he grabbed the privacy curtain and guided it around the metal track, extending it in a semi-arc to maximum width.

 

Watching him, Hutch felt a flicker of alarm.  “What are you doing?”

 

“I want to examine your side, Ken . . . and your hip. I’m sure you’re being well cared for, but - -”

 

Hutch blanched.  “ - - Dad, I don’t need - -”

 

“ - - I think I should be the judge of what you need,” Grant interrupted flatly.  “I am the doctor here.  The last time I checked, being a cop didn’t qualify you to make medical judgements.”  Moving to the right side of the bed, he flipped the blankets back, exposing Hutch’s right hip and leg.

 

Hutch frowned.  “Wait just a damn minute.”  Irked, he shoved his father’s hand aside.  “Was that a dig . . . about being a cop?” 

 

Grant sighed - - a little too patiently, all too dramatically.  “No, Kenneth, it was not a ‘dig’ as you so pointedly call it.  And I’d really rather not get into an argument if it’s all the same to you.  Shocking as it may seem, my only ulterior motive is a concern for your health.  You chose this profession  - - now you have two bullet holes in your side.  The least you can do is let me exercise my profession and see if I can help.  It’s not every father who has to fear for his son’s life each time he goes to work.”

 

Hutch clamped his mouth shut, uncertain if the lecture amounted to a reprimand or something surprisingly less severe.  Is he actually concerned about me?  Confused, he lay mutely while his father carefully edged down his pajama bottoms enough to expose the curve of his hip.  Grant peeled back his bandages, prodding the area gently, carefully examining Joiner’s handiwork.  White-faced with pain, Hutch parted with an involuntary moan.

 

“Sorry,” the older man said with a contrite glance.  He paled slightly, noticing his son’s distress.  “Can you move your leg, Ken?  Just a little to the right?”

 

Panting with effort, Hutch did as requested.  He felt the light trace of his father’s fingertips contouring his hip.  “He did a clean job.  This is going to heal nicely.”

 

Hutch couldn’t stop himself:  “It hurts like hell, Dad.”

 

“I’m sure it does.”  Grant eased the bandages back into place, then carefully repositioned Hutch’s waistband across his stomach.  His hand lingered a moment before withdrawing to rearrange the blankets.  “Are you eating?” he asked neutrally.

 

Rigidly noncommittal, Hutch shrugged.

 

Grant frowned.  “If you’re having problems with nausea, I can have Joiner increase your medication.”

 

Hutch glanced at his hands.  “I don’t like taking pills, Dad.”

 

“So I’ve heard.”  Grant raised an eyebrow.  “I understand there were some problems with the morphine.”  He paused, studying his son openly.  “I don’t ever remember you having such a strong aversion to medication before.”

 

Hutch fell back on being ambiguous, parting with another shrug.  “People change.”

 

Rather than reply, Grant pulled the curtain back around, pushing it between the two beds.  With the room exposed, Hutch once again noticed his lack of a roommate.  “I can’t believe that other bed’s still empty,” he commented mildly.  Pick a safe subject.  Get him away from drugs and talk about professions.

 

Grant sat down in the bedside chair.  “I asked them not to put anyone in with you,” he supplied evenly.

 

Hutch blinked. “You did what?” For a minute he thought he’d heard wrong, but quickly realized how foolish that assumption was.  It didn’t really surprise him - - pulling strings was something Grant Hutchinson excelled at, something he’d done as a matter of routine all of his life. Stupidly, Hutch had thought he’d outgrown his father’s meddling and interference.  He was thirty-years-old, a fully trained and highly competent Detective Sergeant on a high profile police force.  He didn’t need someone else making decisions for him.  He was fully capable of handling personal matters himself. “Dad . . .”  Gritting his teeth, he tried to leash an instinctively belligerent reaction.  “Why would you do something like that?”

 

“Why not?”  Grant was unfazed. “When I initially called for a report on your condition, I was told the other bed in your room was empty.  I thought you’d appreciate the privacy given your condition, so I contacted the hospital administrator and - -”

 

“ - - pulled strings,” Hutch snapped hotly.  “Damn it, why can’t you just leave things alone?  I’m not fucking royalty.  I don’t need a private room - -”

 

“ - - but you could use a lesson in gratitude,” Grant countered darkly.  “Not to mention one in cleaning up your language.”  Growing angry, he shook his head.  “I don’t understand you, Kenneth.  If you’re not arguing with me about your career, it’s something else.  It’s almost like you look for openings to turn defensive.”

 

“That’s not true!”  Hutch protested, but even then some hidden voice whispered it wasn’t entirely a lie.  He’d lost the ability to communicate with his father years ago, though it was questionable that trait had ever existed.  As a child, he’d been afraid of his father.  Grant had never physically lifted a hand against him, but his displeasure had always been enough to make Hutch feel like a complete failure.  As an adult, fear had given way to defensiveness and aggression.  All he wanted - - all he’d ever wanted - - was some token of recognition . . . a morsel of affection from Grant to prove he really did care.  Instead, the gulf between them had splintered and widened.  Now it seemed there wasn’t a bridge large enough to span their glaring differences. 

 

Grant looked at him patiently, cool composure to his rising irritation.  “Maybe I just have a different way of showing my concern,” he challenged.

 

“Concern?”  Hutch echoed bitterly.  His hands fisted into the blankets to stop their sudden trembling.  It wasn’t fair of his father to calmly sit and play sadistic head games with him.  Grant didn’t care - - he’d never cared.  Or at the very least, he’d never shown it.  Don’t do this to me.  Not now.  Don’t pretend it can be different after all these years.  “I thought you’d be gloating I got shot,” he retorted, acid heavy in his voice.  His expression hardened as hurt and confusion crashed over him.  “ - - stupid mistake, dangerous job . . . all the usual shit.  Aren’t you going to tell me how different it could have been if I stayed in medical school?  Isn’t that why you’re here, Dad - -  to point out my mistakes?”

 

Grant’s mouth thinned in a hard line.  “Why bother repeating what you already know?” he shot back.  Something in his tone told Hutch it wasn’t the case at all, that maybe he’d misjudged his father, too accustomed to becoming hostile when he should have been listening with an open mind.  Grant certainly wasn’t the most communicative person in the world, therefore any gesture he made wasn’t going to be on a grand scale. 

 

Before Hutch could contemplate his blunder, Grant stood and muttered something about needing fresh air.  He didn’t return to the room until a half an hour later when Hutch’s mother arrived with a breezy smile and two shopping bags.  She’d spent a productive few hours, rounding up several pairs of socks, three pairs of sweat pants and two new sets of pajamas  - - one in hunter green, the other a dark chocolate brown with beige piping.   

 

He supposed no matter how old he got, his mother would insist on buying “necessary” clothing for him, especially when he was incapacitated. Thankfully, she’d skipped picking up any new boxers or briefs. 

 

After a short while, father and son shelved their earlier contention and let Adele referee between them. Her jaunty chatter and harmless observations about the state of shopping malls and cab fares in Bay City dominated the conversation.  Hutch pretended interest, but his mind kept wandering back to his father.  If Grant had been attempting to extend an olive branch, he’d effectively slapped it away, slamming the door between them yet again.  No matter what he did, he always seemed to screw up.

 

Maybe it was just as well, he thought remorsefully as he listened to his mother prattle on about a particularly helpful sales clerk in the local Sears and Roebuck.  It was probably too late to start over with his father anyway. They’d been at odds for too long to try to repair their awkward and strained relationship now.

 

From the corner of his eye, he became aware of Grant watching him.  He wished he could read his father’s mind like he could Starsky’s, so he’d know what the man was thinking.  Never one to display emotion, Grant had always been remote, sparse with praise, miserly with affection.

 

He’s never once told me he loves me, Hutch realized dispiritedly. It was what hurt the most.

 

When it came right down to it, he simply didn’t know if his father cared.

 

+++++

 

By the third day of his trip, Starsky was feeling restless and increasingly remorseful for leaving his friend.  He’d spent the time in a small hotel, tucked in the northern foothills of California.  For three days he’d examined the mess he’d made of his life starting with pulling the trigger on Lonnie Craig, letting George Prudholm manipulate him, and finally abandoning Hutch in the Torino when he was bleeding and hurt. 

 

Rather than resolve matters, the time away left him feeling miserable.  He realized squabbling with Hutch about his future wasn’t the answer, anymore than walking away from his badge would heal his conscience.  He’d made decisions he needed to live with, however hard they might be to face. He couldn’t save the Lonnie Craigs of the world anymore than he could change the George Prudholms, but he could help others from making the same dreadful mistakes and getting caught up in the same vicious cycles of violence.  There were plenty of would-be Lonnies who deserved the chance to grow up unpolluted by the creeping taint of crime.

 

As for Hutch, Starsky needed to find a balance between friendship and professional responsibility. There was no question his fair-haired friend would always come first, but he needed to find a way to function on the job without his extreme devotion to his partner getting in the way.   Maybe it was just the shock of having been forced to make such a difficult decision . . . of knowing that he’d almost lost someone he’d come to love more than his own brother. How do I put that in perspective?  He’s a grown man.  He takes the same risks I do.  In the past, we’ve always taken ‘em together.

 

Aggravated by the thought, he sighed.  The first thing he needed to do was pick up the phone and call Hutch, but he was feeling cowardly.  His friend had been royally pissed . . . had hung up on him and refused to answer when Starsky phoned back a short time later.  I tried him four times that night and he wouldn’t answer the damn phone.

 

Realistically, Hutch had every right to be angry.  Starsky had left while he was still in the hospital.  Worse, he’d called Grant and Adele.  Looking back on the decision, it might not have been the smartest thing to do.  He’d thought he was looking out for his friend, making sure Hutch had someone nearby while he was gone, but his partner had panicked at the thought of his surgeon father showing up.

 

Idiot blond, he thought with gruff affection.  He needs to straighten out his problems with the old man . . . stop being so damn defensive around him.

 

It was easier said than done, especially with someone as appallingly remote as Grant Hutchinson. It still surprised Starsky that Hutch could be so openly compassionate when his father was the exact opposite. Having been raised by a strict disciplinarian parent, it was astounding Hutch had the capacity for devotion at all.  Then again, he hadn’t always been so candid.  It had taken him a short while to loosen up and respond to Starsky’s casual attitude with spontaneity of his own.  After that, their friendship had evolved into one that included physical touching, something Starsky had been sure his perfectly poised partner would be shy about.

 

It was strange when he thought about it.  He’d never felt the need for a physical bond with a friend before.  Oh, there might have been a few slaps on the back with a buddy in Vietnam, but that was the extent of any touching - - good-natured and gruff, unmistakable “guy stuff.” Somehow with Hutch he found himself touching in an entirely different manner, needing, even craving that physical connection. He was well aware most people thought that intimacy extreme. Strangely, Hutch being Hutch, simply invited it by the very nature of his personality - - a complex tangle of steel composure and underlying vulnerability.  It just felt right to offer that extra measure of affection and to need it in return.  So what if it wasn’t “normal?”  So what if most people thought it bordered on sexual?  He knew the truth behind it, just as Hutch did.  There was nothing remotely sexual involved.  It was a melding of souls, surpassing all definitions of friendship.  Even now, the need to touch made his fingers itch.  He found himself regretting yet again that he’d left his friend alone when he was hurting.

 

Standing, Starsky paced the confines of the second floor room he’d secured three days ago, pausing to look out on a treed hillside.  It was still early in the morning, just a few hours after dawn.  The day had a feeling of glittery newness to it, washed in a bright veil of lemon light.  Briefly, he wondered what Hutch would be doing - - having breakfast?  Starting therapy?

 

Irked with himself, he raked a hand through his hair and plopped onto the edge of the bed, dragging the phone into his lap.  He hadn’t bothered tidying the room or even dressing.  The bedsheets were rumpled in a ball at the foot of the mattress, testament to a restless night plagued by vivid dreams.  He’d pulled on an overshirt, but left it hanging open, the sleeves pushed back accordion-style on his forearms.  Clad only in a pair of brick-colored briefs, he leaned against the headboard, trying to get comfortable as he punched out a number on the phone.  Three rings later, Dobey answered.

 

“Hiya, Cap,” Starsky drawled into the receiver.  There followed a brief pause during which he could almost picture the black man looking up from his desk, his expression a thunderous tangle of rage and relief.

 

“Starsky!” Dobey barked, his voice loud enough to carry into the adjoining squadroom. “Where the hell are you?”

 

“Uh . . . north,” he said simply.  “I’m on leave, remember?”

 

Dobey snorted what he thought of the notion. “Leave of sanity,” he snapped. “Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”

 

“Three days.”  Long ones.  Biting his lip, he changed the subject, going immediately to the heart of his phone call.  “How’s Hutch?”

 

Silence.  

 

He hadn’t expected that.  It made his stomach curdle as all manner of ghastly possibilities raced through his head.  Was his friend worse?  Had something horrible happened?  The dead air felt bloated with resentment.  “Cap?” he prodded, his voice lurching up in alarm.

 

“You could pick up the phone and ask him,” Dobey pointed out.

 

Starsky breathed a sigh of relief.  ‘Cept I’m a coward.  What if he don’t want to talk to me?  It was his turn to stay silent.

 

Grudgingly, Dobey cleared his throat.  “His therapy’s progressing, but he’s still got a lot of pain. And I don’t think he likes having his parents - - or at the very least his father - - around.  Would it kill you to call him, Starsky?  I can’t walk into his room without him asking about you. Every single day it’s the same thing - - have I heard from Starsky?”

 

“Really?”  Starsky felt a flood of warmth followed immediately by a sharp pang of regret.  I don’t know why he cares.  “Okay,” he said quietly.  “I’ll call him.  Um . . . how about the gunman?” he asked, changing tactics.  “Any new leads on the shooter?”

 

“Nothing,” Dobey said.  “Hutch told me he thought he looked familiar but couldn’t place him.  I’m gonna take some mug books down for him today to look through.”

 

“Good idea,” Starsky said, remembering he had wanted to do the same thing.  Getting caught up in his own misery had made him lose focus of everything else.  He could rectify the rest of the world, but not Hutch.  Hutch was too important, the finite center of his life.  He’d done what was necessary, as painful as it was, distancing himself from his friend until he could think rationally again. 

 

The intense need for touch streaked through him a second time.

 

Restless, he finished his conversation with Dobey and hung up the phone.  Hutch wanted to hear from him.  Did that mean he’d forgiven him for leaving . . . for calling his parents, and most importantly for abandoning him in the Torino to the mercy of a ruthless gunman?

 

Part of Starsky itched to be at his friend’s side . . . to comfort and console.  The other part feared he’d damaged their relationship and forfeited the right.   Exhaling loudly, he slumped back against the headboard, recalling the first time he’d helped his friend through a rough spot.

 

+++++

 

Cottage on the Canal:  The Past

 

Starsky stood in the doorway, looking at his friend who was curled up on the living room sofa. He didn’t quite understand how a 6’1” man could scrunch himself into such a tiny ball, but Hutch had pulled his long legs practically up to his chest.  Fully dressed but shoeless, he’d tucked a throw pillow under his head and sacked out with little or no preamble.  Judging by the half-full glass of water and the plastic pill bottle on the coffee table, he’d taken the pain medication the ER doctor had supplied.

 

Starsky was thankful for that.  His friend had been grumpy about the whole affair, insisting he didn’t need a hospital . . . it was just a little tumble down the steps and a small cut to his arm.  But Starsky had seen how shocky-looking and pale he’d gotten when he’d tried to stand.  Gripping his friend’s arm to keep him from swaying off balance, he’d encountered the tacky wetness of blood on Hutch’s sleeve.  It was then he realized the “small cut” his partner had tried to fluff off, was actually a deep gash.  The handcuffed robbery suspect they’d been chasing had snickered gleefully until Starsky threatened him with bodily harm  - - in vivid detail.  Eventually, the muttering perp had been led away by another officer and Starsky had convinced his reluctant friend a trip to the ER wasn’t such a bad idea.

 

They’d ended up spending a few hours, Hutch’s arm requiring four stitches.  In addition to the cut, he’d been banged up in the fall - - nothing serious, but the doctor had warned he’d be sore for a few days.  Starsky had deposited him at home with the pill bottle, then left to pick up some deli sandwiches for their dinner.  By the time he returned, Hutch was balled up on the sofa, clearly feeling the numbing effects of the prescribed narcotics.

 

With a fond glance for his sleeping friend, Starsky carried his bag of sandwiches to the table, butting aside a messy array of magazines to make room.  Only a week had passed since Hutch’s divorce, but already the cottage was starting to show signs of neglect.  As immaculate as he was with his personal appearance, Hutch had never been overly attentive to his property.  Vanessa never would have allowed the pile of dirty clothes collecting on the floor at the foot of the bed, or the cluttered stack of newspapers, magazines and mail on the table. There were dishes in the drain board and a box of open crackers on the kitchen counter.  The neat freak in Starsky rebelled at the sight, while the sympathetic part of him recalled that his friend was still recovering from a messy divorce.  The last thing on his mind was tidying up and dusting. 

 

Busying himself, Starsky crossed to the bedroom alcove and collected Hutch’s dirty clothes, depositing them in a nearby hamper.  Next he straightened up the kitchen, and tidied the table.  The sandwiches got moved to the refrigerator for later when he and Hutch could enjoy them together, along with a few cold root beers.  He was halfway to the bathroom, thinking his friend probably needed fresh towels, when he heard Hutch moan.

 

The sound stopped him dead in his tracks and he detoured immediately for the sofa.  “Hey, buddy . . .”  Starsky braced a hand against the backrest, bending over his friend.  “You okay?”

 

Hutch blinked groggily.  “Starsk?”  The pillow muffled his voice, making it sound weaker than it actually was.  Turning his head, he rolled halfway onto his back, groaning when his battered muscles protested the slight movement.  Grimacing, he dragged a hand over his face.  “What time is it?”

“About 7:00,” Starsky supplied.  “I guess those pain pills did a number on you, huh?  You wanna sit up, pal?”

 

“Yeah . . .”  Hutch looked dazed, but he nodded.  “Okay.”  With effort, he dropped his legs to the floor, forcing his bruised body to respond.  

 

Starsky caught him under the biceps and guided him upright, keeping a hand in position to steady him.  His skin was still waxen, too white in appearance.  Without even thinking about it, Starsky reached forward and gently swept the bangs from his forehead.  He’d never been quite so bold before, his touch lingering a moment before dropping away.  Immediately, he felt Hutch tense.  Abruptly rigid, his partner shot him a wary glance.

 

Starsky frowned, surprised by his reaction.  “What’s the matter?”

 

“N-Nothing.”

 

“Then sit back.  You look like you’re uncomfortable.”  Easing onto the seat beside him, Starsky nudged him back against the couch, grateful when Hutch folded into the cushions.  He could tell his friend was stiff and hurting. Instinctively, he wanted to help.  In the short time they’d been partners, their friendship had matured on multiple levels. 

 

Only two months ago, he’d been sick with the flu and Hutch had turned doting and compassionate, surprising him by - - well . . . physically comforting him.  The fair-haired man had actually sat with Starsky in bed, creating a soothing presence to help him fall asleep.  It had been strange, really.  At first he hadn’t even been sure how to respond, the physical closeness transcending anything either of them had permitted thus far.