I’ve been away from S&H fanfic for a short while but have never lost my love for it. When I finished Checkmate I was struck by an idea for an original novel and have spent the last ten months working on that. I’ve finally finished it, except for a final edit and draft, but have decided to turn it into a trilogy. I still want to contribute S&H fanfic from time to time, so you’re more likely to see short pieces like this one from me rather than the long, convoluted tales I usually spin. I’ve decided that by writing shorter stories, I can continue with my original work and still have fun with the guys! J

I’ve had Lunacy in the back of my mind for approximately two years. I never had the plot worked out, but I knew it was going to involve a murder at a nightclub, possibly several, possibly a serial killer. None of those threads actually made it into the story, but the core element - - Hutch keeping something from Starsky - - did.

Thanks as always to my exceptional beta reader, Theresa, and to Kass who provides a lovely home for my fanfic. As a special thanks, I’d like to dedicate this story to all of my S&H friends and readers who patiently wrote me through the last ten months asking for another story.

I hope you enjoy this one. It picks up just a few days after the end of the third season episode, Partners. I loved exploring the relationship between these two extraordinary guys all over again. Hopefully, I haven’t lost my touch.

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Lunacy

By Kate (CMT)

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Hutch winced at the bright glare of light knifing off the windshield of a black Chevy station wagon. Impatiently, he waved the vehicle through the intersection, keeping the congested stream of city traffic moving. The combined reek of exhaust fumes, sun-heated tires and street asphalt magnified the steady pounding in his head. For the second day in a row, he’d woken with a sharp pain lodged behind his ear - - a ferocious throbbing that splintered into his temple and wormed to the base of his skull. He’d been miserable enough the previous night to forgo dinner, closing the shutters over his windows and sprawling on the couch with a bottle of beer instead.

The alcohol hadn’t helped, channeling prickly pain into flirty nausea. Eventually, he’d meandered to the sink and dumped the Coors down the drain. A half-hour later, the contents of his stomach followed into the toilet.

This morning, the pain was stronger, stubbornly rooted behind his ear, reawakening the all-too- familiar queasiness in his gut. That Dobey had assigned him and Starsky to traffic duty for the last two days didn’t help his already sour disposition. He knew he had no one to blame but himself. After a high-speed chase in Starsky’s Torino and an accident that left both partners unconscious, Hutch had feigned amnesia in the hospital, hoping to teach Starsky a lesson. He’d had enough of his friend’s reckless driving and daredevil escapades behind the wheel - - especially when he was the one sitting in the passenger’s seat. In retrospect, he realized it had been a thoughtlessly cruel charade. Fortunately, Starsky had forgiven him. In the end, he’d actually joined in the deception, continuing to maintain the ruse of Hutch’s amnesia in front of Dobey even when he knew differently.

And that was what had earned them a week of traffic patrol.

Three more days of this shit, Hutch thought moodily as he waved a city bus past. A cloud of black exhaust hit him in the face, and he swallowed back bile. Hot sun and acrid fumes compounded his headache with deep-rooted irritability. He hadn’t eaten anything that morning, but he’d choked down two cups of black coffee. Maybe that was part of the problem.

Any other time he would have appreciated the bright sunlight and late spring temperatures. Just a little before noon, it was already pushing seventy-five degrees. Accustomed to wearing a jacket regardless of the temperature, Hutch should have found his navy blue patrol uniform cool in comparison. Instead, he could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck, seeping into his long hair. He supposed he should be thankful the uniform still fit. Despite the five pounds he’d gained since his days as a rookie officer, he’d had no problem getting into the snug-fitting garment. The hat was more of a challenge, his hair considerably longer than when he’d been a clean-cut rookie. Somehow he’d made it fit, looking ridiculous he was sure. He’d only lasted twenty minutes before needing to doff a pair of mirrored, aviator sunglasses to block the intensity of raw light. The glare knifed into his head, forcing him to squint behind the protective lenses.

Now, with ten minutes to go before he could break for lunch, he felt himself growing increasingly ill-tempered. His head throbbed and his stomach protested with sticky waves of unrest. Irritated, he decided the whole miserable situation was Starsky’s fault. If his idiot partner hadn’t been driving so recklessly to begin with, he never would have had to pull the convoluted charade in the first place, and Dobey never would have demoted them to traffic duty.

He was still kicking the thought around ten minutes later when a junior officer relieved him. Thankful for the break, he retreated to the shade of a picnic table in a neighboring park. The lunch he’d packed was anything but appetizing, and he shoved the brown paper bag aside, bowing his forehead to the table. Closing his eyes, he willed the pain in his temples still, convinced all he needed was five minutes of silence for the agony splintering into his neck to recede.

Just five minutes of quiet. Only five.

“Hey, Hutch!”

Grimacing, he flinched and raised his head. Starsky bounded across the grass, holding a greasy sack of something or other in one hand, a large paper cup with a plastic lid and a straw poking from the top in the other. He looked even more ridiculous than Hutch in his uniform, his thick curly hair scrunched beneath an ill-fitting patrol cap.

“Day’s half over,” Starsky greeted as if the sentiment should induce cartwheels. He plopped the white bag onto the table then slid into the bench from the opposite side, swinging his legs around as he took a greedy pull from the straw. “I got a leftover bacon cheeseburger from yesterday,” he offered, digging into the greasy-looking paper sack. “What d’you got?”

Hutch frowned irritably, his stomach sour. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t bother sharing.” Starsky shoved a handful of barbecue chips into his mouth, chewing contentedly. “It ain’t so bad.” He took a louder, longer slurp from the straw then waved the cup to encompass their surroundings. “We got a nice park for breaks and, once you get past the exhaust fumes, you can almost smell the ocean . . . sorta. You just gotta stop drinkin’ in city gases. Like that sewer over there - - ” Another broad wave of the cup to indicate a manhole cover half a block away. “Bet that’s why you got a headache.”

“I’ve got a headache from having cars crawl up my ass all morning while listening to irate motorists play Dueling Banjos with their horns. This sucks, Starsky.” He dropped his head back to the table with a soft thunk. “I can’t take much more.”

Starsky swallowed a mouthful of burger, considering. “You could always go grovel to Dobey, humiliate yourself with a long, whiny apology and try kissing up.”

“Screw that.”

“Then suck it up, Hutchinson. You’re the reason we’re here in the first place.”

Hutch lifted his head, his eyes narrow. “I get it - - time to dish out blame. You want to piss and moan about it?”

Starsky licked mayonnaise from his fingers. “I’m not the one pissing and moaning. But - - ” Another bite of burger, followed by a noisy slurp from the straw. “ - - if I decided to get deliberate about it, I’d probably point out dumpin’ that amnesia thing on Dobey wasn’t the brightest stunt you ever pulled. And some of those cracks you made about his weight . . .” Starsky let the sentence hang as he pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not smart, Blondie.”

“All right,” Hutch snapped. “Point made.” He pressed his fingertips to his temples, mentally agreeing he had no one to blame but himself. So what if he had a headache and his stomach threatened flip-flops? In another four hours he could kiss the whole miserable day goodbye and seal himself in the quiet solitude of his apartment, buses, screeching traffic, and chatty friends forgotten.

Starsky crumbled up the wrapper from his burger. “Hey, you wanna hit LunaSea tonight?”

“Lunacy?” Hutch’s brows drew together. Sometimes his partner didn’t make sense, talking in gibberish no sane person understood. Another time, Hutch might have tried to piece the logic together, but he lacked the ambition right now. “Is that some kind of mental ward?”

“No, dummy. Not ‘lunacy.’ LunaSea.” Starsky sighed out a breath as if the difference should be obvious. “Luna like the moon, and sea, S-E-A like the big blue thing fish hang out in.”

“Stellar clarification, Starsk. You should be on Nova.”

“It’s a nightclub,” Starsky continued, ignoring the other’s sarcasm. “That new one overlooking Riddler’s Cove. I hear they got tables extending out on the sand and people actually pull up in boats. Ricky Maine from R&I took his girl there the other night and said you gotta see it to believe it. Tonight’s full moon, so they pass out glo-sticks and have a few guys run around dressed up as werewolves.”

Hutch looked at him levelly. “And I’d want to see a werewolf at the beach. . . why?”

“They got a kick-ass band,” Starsky tried again.

“I’ve got a kick-ass headache.”

“And a pain-in-the-butt attitude.” Annoyed, Starsky gathered up his trash and soda cup. Swinging his legs off the side of the bench, he stood. “I’ve still got 15 minutes left on lunch and I ain’t gonna spend it listenin’ to you down everything that comes outta my mouth.” Wadding up his paper bag, he shot it into the nearest trashcan. He cocked his head, his mouth flattening into a belligerent line as he stared at his partner. “You know, Hutch, maybe it woulda been better if you’d really had amnesia. At least then you mighta lightened up and enjoyed life every once in a while.”

Enjoyed life?

Hutch watched his partner walk away. Exactly what the hell was that supposed to mean? Hadn’t he been the one talking about springtime and savoring the moment before Starsky got it in his head to play Speed Racer with a robbery suspect? If he was in a foul mood, it was because Starsky had put him there. For crying out loud, he was a homicide detective and he was flashing stop-and-go hand signals at frigging Greyhound buses!

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy life. It was just that his head was killing him and the demeaning job he’d been assigned had bruised his ego. So he grumbled and complained, more than a little but - -

But Starsky didn’t.

The truth of the matter was Starsky had every right to be just as pissed, if not more so over their predicament. He’d been ignorant of the whole amnesia scam until the very end. In truth, Hutch had put him through hell making him think their years as partners, even their friendship, had been forgotten, perhaps permanently. He could still recall how morose Starsky had been at the hospital when talking about Terri. Maybe he’d been trying to teach his friend a lesson, but it had been an abominably cruel game to play.

How bad could a few hours at a beach-bar be, even if he did have a colossal headache? Maybe a drink and a change of atmosphere would help him relax and unwind. It sure as hell couldn’t hurt helping him get through the week. Three more days of traffic control was liable to push him over the edge and have him drowning in lunacy for real.

“Starsky,” he called, watching his friend tromp away.

Irked, the dark-haired man wheeled around. “Now what?”

“About that LunaSea thing . . . what time do you want to meet?”

“Huh?” It took Starsky a moment to fully register the offer. In a flash, the anger melted from his face, and he did a quick two-step, offering a throaty sound of victory. “Don’t sweat it, Blondie. I’ll pick you up at 7:00.” He grinned wickedly. “We all know how much you love my driving.”

+++++

Hutch sat at a table close to the water, listening to the gentle lap of waves against the shore. A waist-high stone wall separated the main bar from a wider stretch of beach. Several pockets of tables had been grouped together, most on hard-packed sand, others on wide plank boards, all shaded by palm trees and large pots of tropical foliage. Woven bamboo and dried reeds created a patchwork ceiling, strung with tiny white lights. Flickering electrical torches lined the wall and stood sentry where the bar unfolded to a dock with multiple boat slips, painted ink-black with the velvety brushstrokes of night.

The whole area was open to the elements with rollaway clear plastic sheeting held in reserve, in the event of a storm. Somewhere near the rear of the bar, a local band belted out a fairly passable rendition of ABBA’s Dancing Queen to the delight of several dozen couples who discoed beneath the glowing replica of a full moon. As promised, the servers had passed out glo-sticks on black cords, the majority of customers having strung them around their necks. Hutch had his sitting beside his beer where he fingered it every now and again, more from distraction than any true interest.

Several of the servers were dressed as werewolves. Others wore black tee-shirts with iridescent silver lettering advertising LunaSea . . . Lunar Madness, 1977. To make it even more appealing - - and cleverly marketable - - adult-sized tee-shirts were on sale at the bar for $5.95 each. For those too lazy to make the trek, a waitress would fetch one upon request, cash-and-credit-cards-only-please. Hutch was sure before the evening was over Starsky would buy one, if not several. The perpetual kid in a candy store, Starsky was easily influenced by any new trinket or fad. Even now, he was off shaking his jean-clad derriere on the dance floor with the latest woman to catch his fancy.

By contrast, Hutch had opted to remain single for the night, choosing not to flirt though there were any number of attractive, eligible girls should the mood strike. Several had sent flagrantly bold signals his way and two had coyly approached him, but he wasn’t biting. The headache still bothered him, amplified now by the throbbing drum of steady disco. He’d had one beer and was nursing a second along with some sort of potato appetizer Starsky had insisted they try. He’d tasted cheddar cheese, sour cream, red pepper and bacon bits - - enough to make him realize his stomach protested the spicy combination. So instead, he sat watching the full moon dance on the water, wondering how much longer Starsky would want to stay.

I should have brought my own car.

It was stupid to rely on his friend, given the way he was feeling. Starsky had no inkling the headache was anything other than just that, but Hutch had begun to suspect it might be more. He’d taken a hard blow when they’d crashed in the Torino prior to his phony amnesia stint. If it weren’t for the fact he’d pulled that charade in the hospital, he might even consider visiting a doctor now.

But who would take him seriously? Not Starsky, not Dobey, probably not even a doctor - - at least not one who’d been involved with him before. Worse, a physician meant needles and pills, and he had a strong, fanatical aversion to both, thanks to Ben Forrest and a goon named Monk. His involuntary addiction to heroin, however brief, had scarred him in more ways than one - - permanently.

It had been hard enough swallowing two Tylenol when he’d crawled out of the shower earlier that evening. He’d hoped the water would refresh him, relax his muscles and ease the tension in his head and shoulders, but it had done none of those things. Still, he’d thrown on a pair of bleached-out jeans and an open-collar navy shirt, rummaging up a smile when Starsky pounded on his door.

“Wow! That Toni sure can dance!” Starsky interrupted his thoughts by plopping into the seat across from him. Reaching for the glass of water he’d left with his beer, he chugged it down in four quick gulps. In the half-glow of faux torches and white fairy lighting, his eyes glittered electric blue. Hutch could practically feel the energy and contagious enthusiasm rolling off him. His neck was ringed by three cords and dangling glo-sticks, each shedding a soft green luminescence over his red knit shirt. Perspiration glistened on his face and in the curling ringlets of his dark bangs. He was clearly enjoying himself, his skin flushed from dancing.

“Toni?” Hutch made an effort to focus. “Is she the school teacher?”

“No, that’s her friend, Darla. Toni’s the dietician. Remember . . . you were talking wheat germ and all that organic crap with her?”

“Oh, yeah.” He vaguely remembered discussing sea kelp and vitamin supplements between Fly Robin Fly and The Hustle. She’d wanted to dance, he’d wanted to curl up in a dark corner and forget the night existed. Eventually, she’d turned her Colgate smile on Starsky, deciding he wasn’t worth the time or effort. “Sorry I haven’t been up to partying tonight. If you and Toni want to take off somewhere - -” He frowned abruptly, looking from the surrounding tables to the dance floor. “Where is she anyway?”

“Bathroom.” Starsky downed a mouthful of the potato whatchamacallit, grown cold and gooey with congealed cheese the longer it sat. Neither seemed to bother him. “And, nah, we’re having too much fun here. I just wish you felt up to dancin’ though. Darla was really disappointed. How’s the head?”

“Fine,” Hutch lied. His stomach turned as he watched Starsky devour another clump of potato, bacon and cheese. The lead guitarist hit a high note, and he felt the chord bullet straight through his skull. Okay, even I’m not buying the ‘fine’ line any more. He swallowed hard, his gut doing somersaults.

“I’m going to hit the john.” He could feel perspiration at the back of his neck, a prickle of flash-fire heat erupting at his temples. He stood, alarmed when the sandy floor bobbed and folded in on itself in slowly rolling waves. Swallowing hard, he struck a hand against the table to keep from swaying. Fortunately, Starsky was looking over his shoulder, watching Toni thread her way through the crowd.

“Here comes my fox now. Ain’t she hot, Hutch?”

He mumbled something affirmative, quickly excusing himself as the redhead in the green dress slid in beside Starsky. She spared him barely a glance, writing him off as an unwanted third wheel. He hadn’t been interested in her friend or her, so he was clearly, annoyingly in the way, as in hit-the-road-Jack.

Wish I could, sweetheart. I’d be out of here in a flash.

He walked faster, threading his way toward the bathroom, praying it wouldn’t be crowded. With a little luck maybe he could push Starsky off on Toni, talk his friend into lending him the Torino for the night. That would be harder than usual as Starsky had just gotten the car back from Merle and was ecstatic to be driving his prized tomato again. Hutch didn’t care one way or the other. All he wanted to do was get home. He realized what a mistake he’d made in agreeing to visit the nightclub. If he got through the next few minutes without puking in public and disgracing himself, it would be miracle.

Better than puking in Starsky’s car. He’d banish me for life if I hurled in his striped tomato.

Shaky, clammy with sweat, Hutch burst into the bathroom, shoving his way past a werewolf-clad employee, into the nearest stall.

“Hey, man,” he heard the startled worker call behind him. “You all right?”

But he couldn’t think past the horrible retching that drove him to his knees.

+++++

Starsky drummed his fingertips on the table, bopping his head in time to the music. Ricky Maine had been right on the mark when he told him what a great place LunaSea was. Good food, good music and an open air setting to kick the pants off any other nightclub. Heck, maybe he could even talk Hutch into renting a boat just for the sheer fun of pulling into the dock to get served. Wouldn’t that be a blast? As much as he disliked the water, even he could appreciate the novelty of arriving at a bar by boat. Nothing else came close to what the management was doing at LunaSea.

And the whole Lunar Madness concept, complete with glo-sticks and werewolf-attired waiters? He felt like a kid at a theme park. Too bad Hutch wasn’t enjoying it more. Frowning, he looked around for his partner, aware he’d been in the bathroom far too long.

“ . . . dance again?”

He blinked, belatedly aware Toni was talking to him.

“Huh?” He tried not to look stupid but his mind was still on Hutch, and he knew he probably came across sounding like a dolt. She tossed back a sleek wave of cinnamon-colored hair, and he caught the enticing scent of mango and orange blossoms.

“I said are we going to dance again?” Her full lips worked into a pout that did strange things to his blood. She might have been a dietician, but she had sex kitten written all over her.

“Ah . . . sure. I was just wonderin’ about Hutch. He’s been gone kinda long.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s been gone all night. Your friend’s not into partying, but I am.” Leaning forward, she drew one long neon-pink fingernail down his collar and lowered her voice to a sultry purr. “Dancing makes me hot, David. I get turned on and sweaty and start thinking about doing other things that turn me on.” She snuggled closer, brushing his leg with her thigh.

Starsky swallowed hard, his IQ plummeting to the subterranean depths ruled by the region between his legs. His mind kicked into overdrive, fielding a dozen divergent thoughts, most involving things he could get arrested for. “Oh yeah?” His mouth went dry. “Like . . ?”

She bit her lip and smiled. “Like - -”

“Oh, hey. Sorry.” One of the werewolves bobbled into their table, carrying a toolbox. Behind the makeup and fake fur he looked frazzled, as if he’d been trying to juggle too many tasks at once. “Don’t mind me. The breaker just blew for the dock tikki torches, some guy puked in the bathroom, and a waitress dumped a full tray of drinks on a customer.” He gave a crazed smile, all the more macabre for the presence of protruding fangs. “How’s that for lunar madness? Get your tee-shirts while they’re hot. You ain’t gonna get that kind of action at any other club.”

Before Starsky could sputter a word, he was gone.

Toni giggled. “It’s crazy here! Don’t you just love it? Come on - -” She tugged on his hand, already sliding from her seat. “Let’s go dance.”

But Starsky was still tripping over the news that ‘some guy’ had ‘puked in the bathroom.’ An icy finger prodded his spine. Hutch? In a matter of seconds he went from sexual heat to being doused in a wave of cold worry.

“David!” Toni tugged harder, impatiently this time.

“Hey, Starsk.”

Hutch’s voice was light, not altogether steady, causing his head to whip around like it was caught on a chord. His friend offered him a shaky smile and in that moment Starsky had no doubt who the ‘guy’ in the bathroom had been. He felt a double gut-punch of anger and concern. Anger that his friend was sick and hadn’t said anything, concern that Hutch’s headache appeared to be morphing into something far worse.

“I thought you and Toni would be dancing.” Hutch slid into the seat across from him, intent on pretending nothing had happened. His face was drawn with the ashen pallor of sickness, a fine sheen of sweat glittering on his cheekbones. His eyes flicked to the clump of potatoes and cheese in the center of the table and he grimaced. With the back of his hand, he inched it further away.

“David!” Toni pouted.

“Go on without me,” he said sharply, giving her a dismissive wave. Just that quick, all of his energy refocused from potential girlfriend to vulnerable partner. He wasn’t sure if it was his tone or the gesture, but she’d clearly had all the insult she was going to take. Flinging back her hair, she stomped off with an air of spoiled elegance.

Hutch watched her go. “I think your date’s miffed.”

“She’s not my date. She’s just someone I met on the dance floor. My date on the other hand isn’t looking so hot.”

“Not your best opening, Starsk. If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s not working.”

“Screw you. What’d you do in the john?”

Hutch smiled faintly. “I would have taken pictures, but I think you’ve seen it all before.” Bowing his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, buddy - - I think I’m going to call a cab and head home. You and Toni have fun.”

“By now Toni’s having fun with someone else.” Starsky slid back, stood. “Come on, Hutchinson, I’ll take you home. Trust me, you ain’t gonna get a better offer. You look like shit.”

Hutch popped his middle finger in the air, but he grinned, his expression easier. “With compliments like that it’s no wonder your date dumped you.”

“She dumped me because I got sidetracked by a grouchy blond. Are you coming or not?” Starsky kept his voice even in the mien of their usual banter, but anger and concern crackled on the edges. He watched as Hutch pushed from the table, a quicksilver grimace of pain flickering over his friend’s face. In a heartbeat it was gone, the pale blue eyes controlled and quietly placid.

“I thought you’d buy a tee-shirt,” Hutch quipped as they threaded through the crowd. His step was heavier than usual, his movements stiff and clumsy.

“Some other time.” Starsky’s face tightened. His fingers itched to grip Hutch’s arm and hold him steady but he resisted the temptation, knowing he’d only be slapped away. It wasn’t until they were in the car, Hutch sprawled in the passenger’s seat, that he breathed easier. “That must be one mother of a headache you’ve got,” he commented, shooting a glance from the corner of his eye.

Hutch grunted something unintelligible. He sat with his head tipped back, his face upturned to the roof of the car, eyes closed. His long hair streamed to his shoulders, white-platinum and silver in the sporadic wink of passing streetlights.

“Did you take anything?” Starsky persisted.

Hutch swallowed audibly, found his tongue. “Two Tylenol.”

That spoke volumes. Starsky turned his attention back to the road, a feeling of uneasiness tightening his gut. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, gnawing on his bottom lip. Hutch hated pills, avoiding them at all cost. It normally took hours of nagging just to get him to swallow a single aspirin. That he’d taken a pain reliever voluntarily, without any arm-twisting, meant that he had to be in considerable pain. Unless . . .

“You, um . . .you ain’t messin’ with me again, are you?” Starsky shot him a wary glance. “Like in the hospital? You know . . . fakin’ ‘cuz you’re pissed at me or something.”

Hutch lifted his head. He blinked in Starsky’s direction, his eyes eerily vacant as if Starsky looked into something coolly opaque and not the familiar sky-colored irises of his friend.

“No,” Hutch relented after a long pause. “I’m not messing with you.” Falling silent, he turned his head and stared out the window.

They didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive to Venice Place.

+++++

Hutch wanted solitude, the sooner, the better. He wasn’t certain what hurt worse - - his head or the hole in his gut. You’re not messin’ with me again, are you? Starsky had asked. He knew he deserved his partner’s uncertainty, but it didn’t make the dark-haired man’s doubt any easier to swallow. It felt awkward and fragile, as if the foundation of their partnership, their friendship, was on abruptly unstable ground.

“We got an early day tomorrow,” Starsky reminded him, following on his heels as Hutch opened the door to his apartment.

“Yeah, I know.” Still distracted, he switched on a light and tossed his keys on the coffee table. The rattle pinged inside his head, spearing into his neck. He winced.

Starsky touched his sleeve. “You okay?”

“Just tired.” He shrugged off further questions. “Whose turn to drive?”

“Still mine. Pick you up at 7:00?”

“I’ll be ready.” Hutch wandered in the direction of the door, hoping Starsky would take the hint and leave. He knew his partner waffled between concern and skepticism about his health, his once unshakeable confidence shattered by Hutch’s stunt in the hospital. Prior to that disgraceful sham, there’d never been a morsel of doubt between them. The sickly realization made Hutch’s gut contract in a fist.

Starsky hedged, still uncertain. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, stubbornly rooted to the spot. The glo-sticks dangling around his neck had lost their luminous quality, now tinted the opaque white of wax-candy. He eyed Hutch openly. “How come you got sick . . . in the john?”

“Who says I did?”

“A little wolf told me.”

Hutch raised a brow. “You want to explain that?”

“It doesn’t matter. I know you were sick. I just wish you’d stop dancin’ around the issue and tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Patience expired, Hutch pulled open the door. Even the lamplight stung his eyes. “See you in the morning, buddy. I just want to hit the sack.”

“Okay.” Deciding he wasn’t going to get anywhere, Starsky strolled to the door, his pace measured and slow. Stopping on the threshold, he shot Hutch a sideways glance. “You might wanna take some more Tylenol, maybe eat something light if you think you can keep it down. It’s probably just all those exhaust fumes you’ve been inhalin’. You’re too delicate for traffic control.”

“You’re right. I’m better with decomposing bodies and the splattered blood we get in homicide.” He smiled faintly. “See you in the morning, Starsk.”

When his friend had left, Hutch breathed an exhausted sigh and crumpled against the wall. His head felt like it wanted to explode, throbbing in time to the erratic swell of his pulse.

It’s just because of LunaSea, he told himself. The music made it worse.

Too tired to do anything but yield to oblivion, he switched off the light and trudged into his bedroom. The darkness was comforting, almost blissful after the stinging glare of artificial light. With a yawn, he tugged off his shoes and sprawled face down on the bed, fully dressed. Belatedly, he thought of setting his alarm clock but shrugged it off as requiring too much energy. He was normally up before 6:00 a.m. anyway, earlier if he hoped to squeeze in a jog. Right now, all he wanted to do was sink into the mattress and block the depressing day from his memory. Within minutes he was asleep, exhausted from hours of low-level pain and creeping fatigue.

+++++

Somewhere during the night, the ache in Hutch’s head sharpened into glittering knife points. He moaned softly, balling onto his side, never fully awake, never truly comfortable. He fidgeted with restlessness, tossing and turning as hour crept into longer hour. By the time night thinned into the murky gray soup of predawn, he lay huddled and chilled on sheets grown damp with sweat.

The rain started a short time later, a soft patter against his bedroom windows. It watered the breaking light into a weak, cloud-filtered glow that oozed through the blinds. Curled on his side, he squirmed between sleep and agitation as the clock inched closer toward 7:00.

“Hutch.” Someone touched his shoulder lightly, then with more insistence. “Hutch, come on, buddy. Wake up.”

Fingertips filtered through his hair, brushing sweat-cold bangs from his forehead. He shivered, folding his arms closer for warmth, wishing he’d thought to drag the blanket from the foot of the bed. Blearily, he cracked an eyelid, rewarded by a streak of fire that ricocheted into his head. “Ughnn . . .” He caught a blur of movement, saw a glint of sable curls and worried blue eyes. “Starsk?” With effort, he swallowed the sticky cotton coating his mouth. “ . . . seven o’clock?”

“Thereabouts.” Starsky’s voice was soft, without edge. “Wanna sit up?”

“Maybe.” The jury was still out on that one, depending on how cooperative his head and stomach planned on being. He leveraged up on one elbow, testing the waters, realizing he was in shit deep. No passing this off as a simple headache and upset stomach. His teeth chattered. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. The question was, would Starsky believe him?

“Just rest for a minute.” Frowning, Starsky propped a pillow at his back.

Grateful and fatigued, Hutch folded against it. Gingerly, he closed his eyes, fingering his temple. The tentative touch ignited barbed needles of pain that immediately made him wince. “Shit.” He blanched.

“Hutch - -”

“You better go. Dobey isn’t going to buy me being sick again.”

“Think I care?” Starsky eased a hip onto the bed, facing him. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes at the intersection of Eighth and Poplar right now. Dobey’ll just have to give your shiny traffic whistle to someone who actually knows how to use it.” His scowl dug deeper. Thoughtful, he fingered the sleeve of Hutch’s navy shirt. Last night it had looked crisp and pristine against Hutch’s Clorox-bleached jeans, but now it was bed-rumpled and slept in. “I think you need to go back to the hospital.”

“No.” Alarmed, Hutch dropped his hand, his eyes widening in fierce opposition. “It’s just a frigging headache, Starsk. Besides, after that stunt I pulled, no one’s going to take me seriously. Not even - -” He bit the word off before it spilled from his tongue, grimacing with the realization he’d said too much. But the damage was done. He’d shared an innate connection with Starsky far too long for his friend not to know where his thoughts were headed.

“Not even me, huh?” Starsky ventured.

Hutch looked away, his gut twisting. “I didn’t say that.” Miserable, he pressed his fingers to his temple again. “I just need some sleep, maybe some aspirin. Just because I’m on Dobey’s shit list doesn’t mean you have to be too.”

“Think so?” Starsky reached for the phone on the nightstand, tugging it into his lap. “Partners . . . remember?” Deliberately, he punched out a series of numbers, holding the receiver to his ear.

Hutch watched with a confusing tangle of panic and dread. He didn’t want Starsky involved, yet he liked the idea their unique me-and-thee bond might be seesawing back the way it belonged. A feeling of warmth usurped the throbbing in his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling us off sick.”

“Starsky - -”

“Hi, Cap.” Tuning him out, Starsky spoke into the phone. “What?” His brows scrunched together as he paused to listen. “Oh. Well . . . have some for me then. I ain’t eaten yet.”

Hutch heard a tirade of grumbling blast through the receiver, delivered in their captain’s signature-gruff voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone more than conveyed Dobey’s irate mood.

Rolling his eyes, Starsky covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “I interrupted his breakfast,” he told Hutch. “I think he’s off to a rotten morning. He’s threatening to demote us from traffic patrol to something worse.”

Hutch couldn’t quell his curiosity. “What’s worse than traffic control?”

“Working under Bigelow in supply.”

“God, now I really am sick.”

Starsky grinned. Though the rapid-fire rant coming through the phone hadn’t stopped, he plowed ahead anyway. “I won’t keep you, Cap. Just wanted to let you know we’re not gonna make it in today. Hutch is feelin’ under the weather, and I think I might have to take him to see a doctor.”

“Starsky! Starsky!”

Even Hutch could hear Dobey bellow his partner’s name through the receiver.

“Don’t worry, Cap. I’ll check in later. Enjoy your breakfast.” Stretching forward, he returned the phone to the nightstand.

Hutch winced. “I think you just committed professional suicide.”

“Nah.” Starsky fluffed the notion aside. “He values us too much. We make him look good.” His eyes narrowed on Hutch. “Speaking of which - - I’ve seen road kill that looks better than you do.”

“You really know how to charm a guy, Gordo.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t gettin’ me anywhere. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Hutch felt his throat tighten up. When it came right down to it, he didn’t have the nerve. How could he possibly tell Starsky he feared he was having delayed complications from the accident? After everything he’d put his friend through in the hospital, he simply didn’t have the mettle.

Coward, he accused himself. What good would it do anyway? If something were really wrong, Starsky would just blame himself and Hutch was beyond that now. He wanted everything back the way it was before he’d pulled such a brainlessly stupid stunt.

Uncomfortable, he lowered his eyes.

He could always call his father. Pick up the phone, muddle through their awkward relationship and ask for medical advice. Grant was a brilliant physician and surgeon of considerable renown. Unfortunately, he was just as likely to point out Hutch wouldn’t be in the predicament he was in if not for his job.

I still don’t understand why you walked away from a promising career in medicine, Kenneth. This is what comes of the choice you made.

It was all too easy to play out the stinging reprimand in his head. Sadly, he wondered if there would ever come a time when he would see eye to eye with his father. When they would be able to hold a civil discussion that didn’t generate into a heated argument inside of ten minutes. Mutual respect is all Hutch had ever wanted - - that, along with the love and support of his father. But status-conscious Grant Hutchinson couldn’t be bothered by such trivial matters when it came to his only son - - especially when that same son had defied him by venturing into a career he found unacceptable.

Why the hell would he give me medical advice when I don’t even know if he loves me or cares beyond parental obligation?

“Hey.” Starsky touched his shoulder. “You’re zonin’ on me, buddy.”

Melancholy, Hutch flushed. “Sorry.” He hugged his arms tighter to his body for warmth, bleakly aware the light seeping through the blinds was diluted and dishwater-gray. The rain, while steady and melodic, heightened the edge of his depression. “Maybe if I take a hot shower.”

“Yeah. Down some aspirin too if your stomach can handle it. In the meantime, I’ll call that Doc Greene from the hospital, tell ‘im what you’re feelin’ - - headache, nausea, chills. See what he says.” Biting his lip, he fingered a strand of Hutch’s pale hair. “You took a harder hit in that wreck than I did, babe. You were pretty banged up.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hutch said quickly. A week ago he’d been ready to dump the responsibility for the whole incident in Starsky’s lap. Even yesterday, he’d been leaning that way, irked that he was stuck on traffic patrol and eager to channel that blame to his friend. But it was different now. He could read Starsky’s compassion and concern, see the worried tangle of emotion in his eyes. He remembered that look from the hospital and experienced a flicker of the same turmoil he’d felt when Starsky had reluctantly shared the story of Gillian’s death. Hutch had thought that wound healed, at the very least repressed, but the pain had roared back, eager and dragon-sharp. He’d felt the same rawness he’d experienced over a year ago when he’d broken down and sobbed in his friend’s arms. Starsky had been there for him, just as he was now, the light touch of his fingers against Hutch’s hair blissfully reassuring and familiar.

Relenting, he gave a slight nod. “Okay. Call Dr. Greene. I’m going to hit the shower.”

“You okay on your own?”

“I’ll be fine, Starsk.” Pivoting at the waist, he swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed - - and was immediately thankful he wasn’t facing Starsky. Hutch literally felt the blood drain from his face as if someone had pulled a plug. He gave a strangled gasp and bent double, panting heavily through his mouth.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice shot up an octave in alarm.

His friend was around the bed in an instant, bending close with a hand pressed to his back, but Hutch barely registered the contact. His head felt like it was splitting from the inside out, cleaved down the center by a razor-edged hatchet. The floor buckled, upending into a fireworks display of dancing black spots. He swayed off balance, his equilibrium shot, and folded against Starsky with a tremulous groan.

“It’s okay, buddy. I got you.”

But it wasn’t okay. Something was horribly wrong inside his head, something that made his stomach clench into a fist and his body convulse with shudders. He felt Starsky’s arm tighten around him, holding fast, and blindly burrowed into that rock-solid warmth. His tongue felt thick and cumbersome, coated with sawdust, incapable of forming words. Still he tried, managing to choke out a strangled gasp. His fingers formed a claw, knotting in the front of Starsky’s shirt, holding fast as he struggled to anchor himself. The cold returned, harsher now, seeping under his collar, punishing him until he shivered in its icy grasp. Worse still were the daggers plundering his skull, ripping and shredding, pushing him closer and closer to a level of pain he couldn’t control.

It crested in a rush, wrenching a cry from his throat even as the darkness sent him pitching forward. He felt Starsky grip his shoulders, heard the panic in his friend’s voice as Starsky shouted his name.

Then there was nothing but emptiness, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

+++++

Starsky sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees. The rain had stopped two hours ago, but the light streaming through the hospital window remained watery and gray. It matched his mood, complimenting his dreary temperament. He’d thought he was done with hospitals, but only a handful of days after being discharged, he was back on the same floor, at the same freaking end of the hall, sitting in a padded vinyl chair drawn close to Hutch’s bedside. He’d even encountered several of the same nurses, most chuckling to see him again until they got a good look at Hutch.

Nearly all the bruising his friend had sustained in the accident had faded, only a slight hint of discoloration visible beneath his hairline, a lighter smudge of shadow on his chin. But it was the lines of his face, drawn tight and gaunt over his cheeks that made his illness appear so prominent. By contrast, his hair gleamed pale gold, curling over his neck and ears in strands as whisper-soft as moonlight. With his eyes closed, he looked impossibly young, the idealistic side of his complex personality at the forefront.

Wish you were just restin’ peaceful, babe.

Starsky ducked his head, breathing through his mouth. It was time he owned up to his share of the responsibility. Yeah, they were partners, but he had been driving too fast. Hutch had been right - - it was just a damn 211, nothing worth getting killed over. Or even friggin’ messed up over. But he’d shoved the gas pedal to the floor, doggedly determined some slick hood in a souped-up Ford wasn’t going to get the best of him.

He could have backed off, could have hoped a patrol unit would snag their perps from the opposite end. But if he did one thing better than anyone else on the force it was drive, and he’d been out to prove it that day. So instead of landing a collar, he’d landed himself and his partner in the hospital. Yeah, Hutch had faked amnesia, but he’d been banged up pretty badly - - face, neck, shoulder and arm. It was a wonder he’d recovered as quickly as he had.

Until now.

Head trauma complicated by an aggressive viral infection, likely picked up while he was in the hospital. That had been Dr. Greene’s assessment. So gallingly simple, delivered in such a factual tone of voice, Starsky had wanted to curse a blue-streak. He was relieved to learn Hutch wasn’t seriously sick, but it annoyed him to have Greene address the whole matter as if were something commonplace. There was nothing remotely commonplace when it came to his partner’s well-being.

“Your friend has some mild swelling on the brain, not at all uncommon after a head injury,” the doctor had calmly explained to Starsky only hours before. “It’s what’s causing his headaches and sensitivity to light, even the nausea. The low-grade fever he’s running, compounded by chills, appears to be the result of a routine viral infection. My guess is he probably picked up something during his stay here. His body was already in shock from the accident, not in peak condition to fight off a bacterial germ, particularly an aggressive strain. He should be fine with a few days of bed rest. The swelling will eventually go down on its own, which in turn will alleviate the headaches.”

“What about until then?” Starsky prompted.

“We’ll keep him comfortable and see that he has the proper medication to help offset his discomfort. Antibiotics, fluid for the dehydration, narcotics when necessary.”

Drugs.

Alone now, Starsky bit his lip, his eyes tracking from a bag of clear fluid on an IV pole to the needle taped to the back of Hutch’s hand. He knew it was for dehydration, not pain, but Hutch wouldn’t see it that way, worried someone was pumping narcotics into him. He’d played it so cool when Starsky had told their nurse about his heroin addiction just a few short days ago. How much had that cost - - to feign amnesia, to pretend he didn’t care when the nightmare of Ben Forrest could still reduce him to a cold sweat? How had he been able to pretend disinterest while a complete stranger listened to the tale of how he’d once been victimized?

“Starsk?”

The softly spoken name had him looking to the bed in a heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat. “Right here, buddy.” He laid his palm over Hutch’s hand squeezing lightly. Nearly two years after the incident with Forrest, Starsky knew exactly when and how his friend would react.

Hutch blinked groggily, his eyes fever-bright beneath his lashes. He gave a soft moan and turned his head. Starsky recognized the precise instant when he spied the IV tubing . . . saw the way his face contorted and his eyes widened in panicked alarm.

“Take it easy.” He held Hutch’s hand down when he would have struggled to rip out the IV. “It’s just fluid, babe, I promise. You’re dehydrated. Accordin’ to Doc Greene, you musta been gettin’ sick a lot more than you were lettin’ on.” Frustrated, he pressed his lips into a stiff line. “Damn stupid, Hutchinson.”

“What else is new?” Hutch closed his eyes, visibly willing his body to relax. “I’m on a roll.” A flicker of pain crossed his face, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the mutant throbbing in his head. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted.

“You blacked out. And we ain’t gonna do this right now. You’re gonna rest.”

“No. Starsk . . .” Hutch focused on his friend, wet his lips. “Wh-what’s wrong with m-me?”

The stammer was slight, but it cut deeply. College educated and street-tough, Ken Hutchinson only stuttered when feeling vulnerable . . . when insecurity stripped away his carefully crafted exterior, exposing the gentle soul beneath. Grant Hutchinson was partially to blame for that, instilling in his son the misbegotten assumption he lacked worth.

Damn stuck-up doctor. He’s got no idea who his kid really is.

While Starsky’s heart went out to Hutch, he hated to see him so unsure. He was more accustomed to Hutch’s easy confidence and lightning-quick smile. The man had a killer grin when he chose to use it, as disarming as summer on a winter day.

“You’re gonna be fine, buddy. Nothing a little rest won’t cure,” Starsky assured. He could just imagine what was going through Hutch’s head - - worry over his health, his career, his future. A cop sidelined by debilitating headaches couldn’t stay a cop for long. “You got some swellin’ in your head - - kind of a delayed reaction from the accident. Doc says it’s nothing serious, but it’s what’s causin’ your pain and the nausea, even your sensitivity to light. On top of that, he says you picked up some germ the last time you were in Memorial. Nice partin’ gift, huh?” He forced a smile. “That’s how come you’ve got chills and a fever.”

“Nothing serious?” They were clearly the only two words Hutch had focused on. With a relieved sigh, he sank deeper into the mound of pillows at his back. “I feel pretty stupid,” he muttered. “ . . . faking amnesia then ending right back where I started, three days later.” Gingerly, he fingered his forehead, his eyes slanting sideways to Starsky.