Temporary Setback

By Kate (CMT)

Thanks to Theresa K. for her usual invaluable feedback and critiquing. This story references the first season episode The Fix. Feedback welcomed at veniceplace12@verizon.net

Starsky bolted from the lab, his heart in his throat as he barreled down the hallway, weaving in and out of patients and technicians, his attention riveted on the disappearing mop of coin-bright hair at the opposite end of the passage. What the hell just happened?

“Hutch!” he yelled frantically.

The call went unheeded as his long legged partner sprinted down the narrow hall. Watching him run, Starsky suddenly felt like he was chasing a gazelle. Who knew someone could move so fast in a freaking 4’ x 36’ corridor anyway? “Hutch!” he yelled again, more panicked than angry. “Wait a minute, will ya?”

He zigged when he should have zagged, nearly knocking down an elderly man with a rubber-tipped cane who was exiting the men’s room at a snail’s pace. Backpedaling violently, Starsky tried to avoid the collision and sent a nurse with an armload of papers sprawling.

“Oh, hey—I’m sorry.” Paper fluttered everywhere. “I didn’t see you. I’m really sorry.” He bent, hastily helping the young woman to her feet, unmindful of the neatly typed reports he trampled beneath his dirty-soled sneakers. Starsky swept up a stack of printouts and dumped them in the woman’s arms. “Did I say I was sorry? See my partner took off and--” He was babbling but he didn’t care. If he was going to make a scene, who better to do it over than one exasperating flaxen-haired partner? Paper scrunched and crinkled under his feet, branded with the imprint of worn Adidas treads.

God, Hutch, I shoulda seen this coming! Chair. Needle. Rubber tube. I’d shoulda known how you’d react!

Sick to his stomach, Starsky left the stunned nurse and a hallway of people staring after him as he raced down the corridor, heart thumping in his chest. The morning had started easily enough, making his mind reel with the impossibility of how quickly it deteriorated. Both he and Hutch had stopped by the doctor’s office for their required annual departmental physical then proceeded to the lab for the necessary blood work. Simple, basic stuff. Mandatory obligations they fulfilled every year, normally with a certain degree of boasting and swaggering over who had the better report, who was in better shape.

Hutch had been in high spirits, joking, flirting with the nurses, always one step ahead of Starsky with his flawless smile and easy Midwestern charm. Everything had been fine until they’d put him in a chair to draw blood and tied a rubber tube around his arm. Hutch had taken one look at the needle, gone bone-white and bolted from the room.

Why didn’t I see that coming?

For Hutch, who’d been tied to a chair and forcefully pumped full of heroin just five months earlier, the simple innocuous act of drawing blood was a direct link to the memory of his brutalization. It was no wonder he’d bolted.

Starsky sprinted down the hall and banged open the door. Warm, sticky air hit him in the face as he jogged onto the sidewalk. It was only a little after 10:00 a.m. but he could already feel the trapped heat of the day radiating back from the concrete. It would likely hit ninety degrees before noon, making even his light windbreaker and cotton tee uncomfortable. He’d have to crank the air in the Torino to max, hunt down a good iced soda to slurp through the long, blistering afternoon hours. Hutch would want to stretch those giraffe-like legs of his, maybe have lunch by the ocean if they could afford the time, and catch the cooling spray from the salt breeze.

Of course before any of that happened, Starsky first had to find his missing partner.

Stepping to the edge of the sidewalk, he scanned left and right. The tail end of his car was still visible in the parking lot around the corner. Without wheels, Starsky knew his errant friend couldn’t have gone far. It took him five more minutes of searching before he finally located Hutch on a bench around the back of the building.

The bright blaze of his partner’s hair gleamed white-gold in the sun, brilliant against the stucco façade of the building. Elbows locked, Hutch sat griping the edge of the bench, legs tucked underneath and crossed at the ankles. He stared straight ahead, the frantic need for flight replaced by dejected acceptance.

Sensing his depression, Starsky approached cautiously.

“Hey,” he called softly.

Hutch raised his head and their eyes met. In that quicksilver moment of contact, Starsky’s mind spiraled back over time, returning him to the night when he and Hutch booked Ben Forrest for kidnapping and assault of a police officer.

+++++

Five Months Earlier:

Starsky tossed the finished report on Dobey’s desk and surrendered to the urge to yawn. “It’s all there,” he told his captain. “Well . . . minus any mention of the smack and those forty-eight hours over Huggy’s bar.” Exhausted, he rubbed grit from his eyes and fought back another, larger yawn. “No points off for sloppiness, huh? You get the abridged version.”

Dobey scowled at the papers in his hand while Starsky mentally ticked off the smudges, typos and eraser marks he’d left splayed through the official jargon that would go into Ben Forrest’s arrest record. Paperwork just wasn’t his thing. Hutch was better with the typewriter, better with words, but Hutch was a few steps away from comatose at the moment. Just thinking about his partner sitting alone in the sqaudroom, bruised and battered, made him shuffle impatiently from foot to foot.

Most everyone at the precinct knew Forrest had nabbed Hutch and had his goons work him over, but only the inner circle of Dobey, Huggy and Starsky knew the whole ugly truth of what had gone down. When repeated beatings hadn’t made Hutch spill his guts over the whereabouts of Forrest’s former girlfriend Jeannie, Forrest had ordered him pumped full of heroin. Tied and bound, Hutch had been unable to resist when they’d shot him up. Not once, but over and over again until his body begged for the drug and in desperation he’d told them what they wanted to know. Considered expendable afterwards, he’d somehow managed to escape enroute to the pier, where Monk, Forrest’s right hand man, and a pair of thugs had planned to murder him and dump his body.

Starsky had found him in an alley immediately afterwards, a pale shell of the man he’d known for the last five years. With Huggy’s help and Dobey’s knowledge, he’d locked them both away in a spare room above Huggy’s bar, forcefully putting Hutch through the grueling pain of withdrawal.

Unconsciously tensing, Starsky bit his bottom lip. The memory of those agonizing forty-eight hours would live with him forever. Seeing his fit and healthy partner reduced to a shivering, sweating mass who alternately railed against feeding his forced addiction and begging to do so was a horror Starsky would never forget. Forty-eight hours of convulsions, vomiting, diarrhea, incontinence, and the all too human mortification that went with it. Hutch had waffled between feeling too vile and degraded to be touched, to practically begging Starsky to cradle him. Seconds later he’d lash out in anger, heedless of anything or anyone who stood between him and his all-consuming need for a fix.

“Okay, Cap’n,” Starsky snapped, his voice harsher than he’d intended. The memories were too heinous, too painful. “If that’s all, I wanna get Hutch home.” The longer his partner sat alone in the squadroom the more chance there was of someone stopping by to ask how he was doing. The more chance of a weary and befuddled Hutch inadvertently saying something he shouldn’t. Something that would send IA sniffing over the whole arrest, with the end result being the price of Hutch’s badge.

Dobey either didn’t notice the sharp tone or chose to overlook it. “How’s he doing?”

“Existin’ on fumes, ready to keel over. Shoulda never come in here in the first place, but he wanted to see Forrest booked.”

“Yeah, I can understand that.”

The arrest record got shuffled aside, passing muster despite its inordinate sloppiness. Any other day Dobey would have given him a tongue lashing and sent him back to the typewriter with orders to turn in something legible or grow old trying. Apparently even their captain wanted Hutch out of the squadroom.

“Get out of here and take your partner home. I don’t want to see either of you again until you can both function without tripping over your feet. Got that, Starsky?”

“Got it, Cap’n.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Thanks.”

Dobey harrumphed and grumbled something Starsky didn’t catch. Feeling his smile grow a little loopy, he headed for the door. Dobey might growl and mutter under his breath but he had a perpetual soft spot for Hutch. For both of them. What other captain would keep the grim details of one of his men’s abduction from the official record at possible cost to his own career? Bosses just didn’t come better than that.

In the squadroom, Starsky’s smile faded completely.

Hutch sat at his desk, elbows planted on the edge, face slumped into his hands. His blond hair, normally so neatly combed was in messy disarray, poking out from either side of his head. One side of his shirt hung sloppily from his belt and the backs of his hands glistened with sweat. The rope burns on his wrists were plainly visible, the skin chafed and raw, near-black in a few areas where flesh had cracked open and bled.

Feeling abruptly sick, Starsky walked behind his friend’s chair and slid a hand onto his shoulder. “Hutch. Come on . . . I’ll take you home.”

Hutch jerked, flustered to be caught unaware, then blinked up at him bleary-eyed. “Forrest?”

“Everything’s done, buddy. All tied up with a bow. The report’s on Dobey’s desk.” His hand shifted, sliding beneath Hutch’s arm, tugging gently. He blinked back his own fatigue, exhausted. Over the last forty-eight hours he’d existed on a minimal amount of sleep, struggling to hold it together for both of them. Fighting yet another yawn, he fell back on humor. “On your feet, partner. You don’t wan’ me to toss you over my shoulder and carry you outta here like a conquest, do you?”

Hutch gave a soft snort of laughter and wearily shoved upright. “It’d keep the squadroom talking for awhile.”

“We do that anyway.” Starsky steered him toward the door, tightening his grip when Hutch swayed slightly.

In the hallway they bumped into Lowell Baker from Records who gave them a wide berth, then scuttled down the hall, tossing alarmed glances over his knobby shoulder. Starsky knew they both looked liked something dragged from a nighttime sewer, clothes and hair rumpled, eyes red-veined and glassy, nearly teetering as they walked toward the garage. He could almost feel Hutch’s strength giving out, the taller man leaning heavily against him, his head bobbing, eyelids drooping.

“Just a little further, babe,” Starsky whispered encouragingly, bowing his head close to his partner’s sweaty hair. Unconsciously he rubbed his hand up and down Hutch’s arm. Two uniformed cops passed them as they neared the entrance of the garage, both shooting stray glances in their direction.

Yeah, get an eyeful, Starsky thought sourly. Hell, they were already the favorite topic of water-cooler gossip in the precinct, what was a little more? If it wasn’t their unorthodox methods, strong-arm street tactics or choice of clothing and haircuts, then it was the unusual closeness of their relationship and the rampant speculations that went with it. It amazed Starsky most people found that unwavering devotion a little too uncomfortable for their black-and-white-built-on-logic worlds. Men were either gruff or gay. There was no such thing as an intimate relationship between heterosexual males. Just trying to put a label on the unique friendship he had with his partner gave him a splitting headache. All he knew was that he loved Ken Hutchinson, friend, partner and cop, and there was nothing remotely physical or sexual about it.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah, buddy?” Starsky gave a guilty start when he realized he’d been walking a little too quickly for Hutch’s bone-weary legs to compete. He slowed, tightening his grip on his friend as he felt the other start to sag.

“Forrest?” Hutch asked.

“All booked,” Starsky said softly. “I told you . . . remember?” Thankfully they’d reached the Torino and he popped the door on the passenger side. “Come on, Hutch—into the car.”

His friend mumbled something but it was too slurred by fatigue to understand. The blond detective folded into the seat, rolling onto his left shoulder. Starsky tucked his legs safely inside and shut the door. Digging in his pockets for his keys, he sprinted around the front of the car. He was almost to the driver’s side when an intense wave of dizziness hit him like a brick wall.

Swaying drunkenly, he struck out a hand and grappled for the windshield. The touch of cool chrome and glass against his sweaty palm sent pain spiking through his temples. For one unbalanced moment he thought he would pass out completely, the garage disappearing in ugly swells of black. Just as quickly the dizziness passed and he sucked down an unsteady breath to clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, realized suddenly that he’d been existing on coffee and nerves and the gut-twisting fear of losing his partner.

Shooting a hasty glance through the windshield, he saw that Hutch was still curled onto his side, eyes closed, completely unaware that Starsky had only marginally saved himself from a nosedive to the concrete. If he could just get Hutch safely settled in bed, he could curl up on the couch and forget about life for a few hours. That’s all he needed—just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep to be functioning in the realm of near-sanity again.

I can do this.

Opening the door, Starsky eased into the car, trying not to groan when his tired body gratefully folded against soft leather. Gripping the steering wheel, he dropped his forehead against the rim, letting his eyes drift shut. This darkness—pillowy soft and groggy--was acutely comforting and much too tempting. With effort he roused himself and turned over the ignition. The car rumbled to life with its characteristic deep-throated purr. Disturbed, Hutch shifted and muttered something in his sleep.

Using one hand to shift into reverse, Starsky reached over and patted his friend’s knee. He palmed the wheel, spinning it in his hand as he backed smoothly out of the garage. Once on the street he cranked down his window, dependent on the rush of air, no matter how hot and sticky to keep him awake. Continuing to rub Hutch’s knee, he breathed deeply, sucking in an urban tangle of exhaust fumes, sun-blistered asphalt, ocean salt and fried foods. The latter made his stomach rumble, but it was a sickly kind of hunger, his gut as unsettled as it was deprived.

The closer he drove to Hutch’s rented home on the canal the stronger the scent of saltwater and sea air became. A few gulls scavenged for food scraps in Hutch’s driveway, cackling their displeasure when the Torino’s arrival sent them winging to the air. In another few hours the sun would be setting, the tediously long day drawing to an end.

Looking forward to the prospect of sleep, even if it was on Hutch’s lumpy couch, Starsky forced himself from the car and around the side. His partner was still groggy, caught in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep. “Come on, buddy.” Starsky helped him from the vehicle.

Hutch’s skin was clammy, unkempt golden hair plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. He was shivering again, not as badly as he’d been in the room above Huggy’s bar when going through the worst of the withdrawal, but enough to make his teeth chatter. By contrast, Starsky was sweating, the hot Bay City air dampening his forehead and cheeks with a sticky sheen.

Hutch nodded, indication he realized he was home, grateful for his partner’s help in getting him there. Starsky walked him into the house and immediately steered him toward the bed. He started to pull Hutch’s shirt from his jeans when the blond detective pushed his hands away.

“I can do it.”

The usual protest was voiced without rancor, if a little husky. Starsky judged the odds of his partner tumbling headfirst into the dresser before successfully completing the task and figured they were in Hutch’s favor—marginally.

“Okay,” he conceded. “How ‘bout a glass of water?”

Hutch nodded, still shivering. “No ice.”

“What—now you want special requests on top of everthin’ else?” Grinning slightly, Starsky lifted a hand and gently touched one vivid red cut on Hutch’s cheek. He tried not to think about the rope burns on his friend’s wrists, the gruesome needle marks tattooed on his left arm. “You think I’m your valet or somethin’?”

“Not with that Brooklyn accent,” Hutch shot back. Unsteady on his feet, he headed in the direction of the bathroom.

“Where you goin’?”

“Where do you think? I gotta take a leak.”

“Oh.” Starsky hesitated, visions of his friend passing out and cracking his head on the sink, toilet or tub dancing through his mind. Take your pick. One’s just as lethal as the next. He swallowed hard, finding it difficult to let go after forty-eight straight hours of playing nursemaid, psychologist, confessor and friend. “Need some help?”

Hutch paused a foot from the door and looked over his shoulder. His expression was a strange mixture of buried gratitude and deeper self-loathing slivered with shame. “Thanks, but I think you’ve spent enough time cleaning up my bodily fluids.” The retort carried the biting sting of bitterness. “Believe it or not, I’m not gonna piss myself again or shit my pants.”

Inwardly Starsky groaned. “Hutch--”

His friend held up a hand, stalling the inevitable protest. “Don’t. Please, Starsky . . . just don’t.”

Deflating under the quietly spoken plea, Starsky felt his shoulders slump. His hands curled into fists as he watched Hutch disappear into the bathroom. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t right that Forrest and his goons had stripped Hutch of his sense of self worth. Unable to make him crack under the pressure of physical beatings they’d moved onto something far more sinister—forced drug addiction. But even then, Hutch had beaten it. If his partner would only stop concentrating on the shame of those forty-eight plus hours and realize what he’d overcome . . . without proper medical aid or any relief from the agony of vomiting, diarrhea and incontinence. Without anything to ease the torturous pain or lengthy bouts of sweating and chills, fierce cramps and racking convulsions. Even now Hutch should be in a hospital, comforted and monitored, not watched over by a hack partner whose only redeeming feature through the whole ugly scenario was his bulldog persistence that Hutch wasn’t going to turn into a hype.

Weary, Starsky rubbed his eyes and trudged to the kitchen. “I’m not gonna piss myself again or shit my pants.” Hutch’s bitter voice bounced around the inside of his head, turning his motions mechanical, performed listlessly without thought. He found a glass in the cupboard, filled it with water, then stood staring numbly out the window. Babe, don’t you realize there’s nothin’ you can do would make me love you any less? Think I feel differently after these last forty-eight hours? It makes me care about you that much more, dummy!

He heard the toilet flush and the bathroom door open. Still he didn’t move, giving Hutch an extra measure of privacy, something his friend obviously needed after having it so recently, cruelly stripped away. Bracing his arms on the sink, he leaned forward.

The headache was back, gnawing behind his eyes, streaking to the base of his neck. His shoulders felt cramped, corded with bunched fatigue, making him think longingly of his own bed. But there was no way in hell he was leaving his friend alone tonight. Next to a hospital—not an option if Hutch wanted to keep his police career--Starsky knew he was the only choice. By the time he returned to the bedroom, Hutch had stripped to his shorts and crawled under the blankets. He held them bunched up around his neck in an effort to combat the latest round of chills. Shivering, he looked utterly lost and miserable.

And vulnerable. Damn it.

Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and passed him the water. “No ice. You gonna tip me for that?”

Hutch snaked an arm from beneath the covers to take the glass. His hand trembled. “Tomatoes make lousy cars. How’s that?” The chaffed red ring encircling his wrist stood out in stark contrast to his sweat-slicked skin.

Unable to bear the sight, Starsky looked away. He felt his eyes burn.

“What’s the matter?” Hutch asked.

“Tired.”

“Yeah.” His partner’s voice was suddenly soft. “Go home and get some sleep, buddy.”

“Huh?” Starsky swiveled to face him. “Think I’m gonna drive that prized tomato all the way home when I can crash right here?” He snagged the glass from Hutch’s hand and set it on the nightstand. “I ever tell you what a love affair I got goin’ with your couch?”

“Sorry, pal. She’s off limits tonight. You’ve had less sleep than me.”

“All the more reason I shouldn’t be drivin’.” Starsky punctuated the remark with a huge yawn. If he closed his eyes, he could probably fall asleep sitting up. He knew Hutch kept extra blankets and pillows somewhere. If he just pulled himself together enough to forage in the closet, maybe they could both get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Starsky, I’ll be all right,” Hutch said evenly.

“Sure you will.” He forced himself to his feet. “And I’ll be right there on the couch, just in case you wanna cozy up durin’ the night.”

“Starsk.” Hutch snagged his wrist when he started to turn away. The grip was sweaty but surprisingly strong.

Instinctive fear knotted Starsky’s stomach. “Whatsa matter? You sick?”

“No.” Exhaling, Hutch sagged into the pillows. He released his grip, hugging the covers close to his neck again. His eyelids drooped, obviously heavy, but his pale blue gaze stayed riveted on Starsky. “I don’t wanna spend all night worrying about you. Bed’s big enough for two.” With a soft groan of effort, he scrunched closer to the wall, freeing one half of the double mattress. “If you’re staying, sleep here.”

Starsky grinned. “What—I’m supposed to crawl into bed with you, and ya ain’t even got the decency to buy me dinner first? Think I’m easy?’”

“I think you’re demented.”

“Ain’t much at flirtin’ are you?” Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and began to unlace his sneakers. There was something inherently comforting in their playful banter. After forty-eight hours of sheer hell, he hadn’t ever thought to hear levity in Hutch’s voice again. “I think you gotta brush up on that romantic stuff, Blondie. If this is how you treat your dates, it’s no wonder you’re spendin’ the night with me.”

Hutch chuckled, but the sound was soft, sleepy. Starsky stripped to his t-shirt and shorts then peeled back the blankets and crawled into bed. Hutch lay on his side facing him, his eyes already closed, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other clutching the covers close to his neck.

Starsky sighed with blissful contentment at the feel of the soft mattress supporting his abused body. Afternoon sunlight slanted across the foot of the bed, turning the cream-colored blankets dusky and gold. Through the window came the faint, screeching cries of gulls, the gentle ripple of water lapping against the wooden pilings of the canal. He rolled onto his side, dark, curly hair making a riotous fan on the white pillowcase.

“Hutch? You asleep yet?”

“Tryin,’” came the slurred reply.

Starsky licked his lips. “Hutch you know nuthin’s changed, right? I mean . . . between us . . . ‘cause of these last couple ‘a days.”

Hutch opened his eyes and for one heart-stopping moment Starsky caught his breath. Bloodshot, veined with fatigue yet strikingly blue, Hutch’s gaze was a little too dissecting for comfort. Starsky wanted to squirm, to shy away from the confused emotion he saw snared on the surface of his friend’s weary eyes. “I . . . I don’t wanna talk about this,” Hutch said after a moment.

The shivering started again, deep, punishing tremors this time, making Starsky feel like a heel for opening his mouth. “Okay, babe,” he said quickly. “We won’t talk about it.” Instinctively he moved a little closer, rubbing a hand up and down Hutch’s blanket-covered arm. “You cold? I can get a quilt from the closet.”

“No.” Hutch shook his head, teeth chattering.

Starsky had the sudden inclination that the acute bout of shivering had absolutely nothing to do with air temperature. Damn, why’d I open my mouth? Couldn’t leave things well enough alone, couldcha, Starsky?

“Just stay here.” He heard Hutch croak, his voice threatening to crack. “Just . . . stay . . .” With an audible groan, Hutch buried his face in both hands. “I fucking hate this, Starsk! I hate what Forrest did to me. I-I hate that I gave up Jeannie, that I begged for that stinking drug. B-But more than anything, I hate that you . . . that you . . . saw m-me like that . . . ”

“Don’t be stupid!” The words came hoarse, ripped past the lump in Starsky’s throat. Completely undone by his partner’s suffering, Starsky pulled him close, hugging him against his chest. “Ssh, ssh, it’s all right. Babe, ain’t nuthin’ gonna change between us. Ain’t nuthin’ has changed. How can I make you believe that?” His eyes burned with tears, the raw emotions of the last few days bubbling dangerously near the surface. He shouldn’t have just booked Forrest, he should have gutted the bastard, punched his balls up into his brain and dumped him off a short pier.

“Please Hutch . . .” He hugged his partner close, realized the horrible trembling had turned to convulsions, the shivers to sobs. Hutch’s pain was like a cold knife in his gut. He felt his chest tighten, his lungs burn. Without even realizing what he was doing, he started mumbling soothing nonsense, words upon words, upon words. The sobs came harder and he felt Hutch’s hands curl into his t-shirt. How much could a man really endure before he broke completely? Starsky knew his friend had finally reached that point. The pivotal moment when he didn’t have to battle his craving for the drug any longer, when he wasn’t worrying about Jeannie or hunting Forrest . . . the moment when stark reality came crashing down and he was left with the ugly memories of a victim.

“It’s okay,” Starsky whispered near his ear, his own voice watery with unshed tears. “It’s over now. You let it out, buddy. Ain’t nobody here but me and thee, and ya know I love you like sin.

Ain’t nuthin’ happened in that room above Huggy’s ever gonna change that.” His voice came rougher, harsher. “Ya hear me, Hutch?”

A weak nod against his chest.

Starsky bowed his head, pressed his cheek to sweaty flaxen hair. “Tell me.”

“I . . . hear you.” The voice was almost normal, free of wrenching sobs. With a loud sigh, Hutch pulled away and rolled onto his back. He lay staring at the ceiling, his face streaked with tears, rapid breathing gradually slowing to something near normal.

Starsky gave him the time he needed, waiting until the hitching sounds in Hutch’s breath faded completely. After a moment, Hutch rolled his head on the pillow, turning to look at him. “I’d . . . I’d do the same for you. Everything you did . . . anything! You know that, don’t you?”

A warm smile touched Starsky’s lips. “Course, dummy.” Reaching out a hand, he thumbed tears from Hutch’s cheek. “Why do you think I keep you around? Ain’t just any good-lookin’ blond worth all that gossip at the precinct water cooler.”

Hutch snorted, dragged a hand over his face. “God, Starsk. How’d I ever deserve you?”

“I ask myself that all the time. You gonna go to sleep now?”

“Yeah.” Crisis past, Hutch swiped his hands over his face, wiping away the last of his tears.

Starsky was pleased to note the shivering had stopped along with the sobs. Hopefully the memory of that gut-wrenching pain wouldn’t rear its ugly head in his dreams before the night was out. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically drained. They both were. Scrunching beneath the blankets, he propped his head on Hutch’s shoulder, needing the blissful assurance of physical contact. His eyes started to drift shut.

“Starsk?”

“Huh?”

“Try not to snore.”

Starsky punched him lightly in the side. “Only if you don’t. Now shut up and go to sleep. I need my beauty rest.”

Hutch chuckled. “No argument there.”

Still grinning, Starsky drifted to sleep.

+++++

Present day:

Starsky slid onto the bench, sitting close enough so that his knee bumped up against Hutch’s. Maybe his partner didn’t need that contact but he did. He felt unbalanced, edgy, his heart bumping into his throat. His eyes slid to the side as he tried to unobtrusively gauge his friend’s mood.

Hutch looked as unstable as he felt, his skin sallow, his blue eyes enormous pools in a drawn face. Starsky thought he looked shocky, ready to bolt if prodded in the wrong direction. Warily biding his time, he gave Hutch the opportunity to speak first. When nothing was forthcoming, the dark-haired detective took the initiative and gently waded into guarded territory. “What happened back there?”

As if released from stasis, Hutch exhaled in disgust. “What do you think happened? I freaked. She tied that tube on my arm, took out that needle and I was back in Forrest’s prison flying on smack.” Closing his eyes tightly, he gave a curt shake of his head. “I thought it went away, Starsk. I thought I’d put it behind me. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to drag that shit up again? To have my whole world crumble at the sight of some rubber tubing and a syringe?”

Starsky dropped a hand onto his knee and gave a slight squeeze. “You can’t expect something like that to just go away overnight, buddy. What Forrest did to you--”

“Did to me?” Hutch’s voice rose in volume, wobbling on a delicate balance between horror and rage. “He fucking degraded me, Starsk!” Unable to meet Starsky’s eyes, he looked away. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what I was like . . . how badly I wanted that stuff.” He grimaced. “How I begged for it.”

Starsky felt a hot flash of anger. “Don’t do this to yourself, babe. Not now. Not after all this time. Forrest’s in jail, Monk’s dead. No one can hurt you, except you.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Hutch turned to look at him, anger and desperation in his eyes. “How do I go back in there and face that friggin’ needle without feeling like I’m gonna piss myself? Don’t you get it, Starsky?” His voice cracked. “I can’t do it! I’m scared! I--”

“Hutch, don’t.” Frightened, Starsky gripped his arm. He felt sick, panicked that he hadn’t realized the terror had rooted so deeply. His stomach twisted. Unconsciously he smoothed his thumb over his friend’s sleeve, trying to ease the bunched muscles in Hutch’s forearm.

The blond detective was shaking, the onslaught of tremors so sudden and violent that at first Starsky thought he was having some kind of seizure. Hutch sucked down an uneven breath, dragged a trembling hand through his hair and tried to pull himself together. He stood, paced a short distance away, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. A salt-laced breeze feathered his bangs, scattering sun-white tresses on his brow. What little color remained had bled from his face, leaving a chalky blanched mask. By contrast, his eyes looked darker than usual, the cold blue of riverwater. “Did you hear what I said, Starsk?” he asked in a thin voice. “I’m scared.”

Starsky swallowed hard. “Yeah, babe, I heard ya.” How much had it cost Hutch to admit that very human emotion? To dig into the root cellar of heroin-induced depravity and realize something nasty still lurked in the darkness? “I’m no expert, but I’d lay money that’s a normal reaction. It doesn’t make you weak, pal, just human.

Hutch frowned. “Don’t do psychobabble on me, Starsky.”

“Why not? You could probably use a little psychobabble.” Standing, Starsky wandered to Hutch’s side. Leashed tension radiated from the taller man, anxiety carefully held in check, teetering precariously on edge. “You haven’t talked to anyone about what happened. Keepin’ everything clear of IA means you’ve had to deal with this whole sick mess on your own. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that ain’t healthy.”

Hutch raised a brow. “I wasn’t the only one involved,” he said softly.

Got me there.

Starsky looked at the ground and awkwardly shifted from foot to foot. For a moment he was back in that small room above Huggy’s bar, cradling his tortured friend as Hutch spit up bile, nothing of substance left in his painfully cramping stomach. Starsky could still smell the sickly stench of the room, a sour combination of stale sweat, vomit and urine. He’d seen Hutch at his absolute worse--one moment terrified and wholly dependent on Starsky for comfort, the next spitting mad and manipulative as he tried to scheme his way to a desperately needed fix. Nothing that came after would ever compare. If Hutch could survive those hellish forty-eight hours, he could overcome a temporary setback like it was a passing head cold.

“Starsky.” Hutch touched his arm, oddly tentative. His gaze was vulnerable, lacking the casual self-confidence Starsky had come to take for granted. “I know it’s just a needle. I do. But when I see it, I-I . . . think about how it felt. Most of the time it was just bad, but--” Hutch closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His skin looked waxen, his cheeks sunken and hollow. “There were times when it was good too, sick as that sounds. When I just wanted it to go on and on, and nothing—or no one—mattered to me. I gave them Jeannie. I told them what they wanted to know.” His voice faded to a thin whisper and his grip tightened convulsively. “I can’t make that go away, and I’m afraid . . . that maybe . . .someday . . .what if it’s you?”

“Bullshit!” Understanding at last, Starsky caught his shoulders and gave a firm shake. “You ain’t goin’ down that road, you hear? I know you, Hutchinson! You already beat this thing. You got it licked. You and me, we’re in it for the long haul. Whatever happens between us, I know where we stand.”

“And if some punk shoots me up in the future to get to you?”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“What if it does?”

“Hutch, don’t be a freakin’ idiot!” Starsky was growing exasperated. “What if I get abducted by aliens and they use a Vulcan mind meld or zap me with a Martian truth serum? The odds are about as good as the nonsense you’re kickin’ around!”

Irritated, Hutch pulled away. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“The hell I’m not.” Starsky caught his arm and roughly spun him around. He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck, realized Hutch was pushing buttons that hadn’t been pushed before. Why was his friend so insistent on punishing himself, putting them both through a never-gonna-happen-in-a million-years scenario? The more Starsky thought about it, the madder he got. “I’m takin’ very seriously the fact that you’re actin’ like a class-A asshole!”

“Then answer my question!” Hutch shouted.

“What question?” Starsky snapped.

“What if I give you up?”

Starsky clamped his mouth shut. He wanted to be angry. No that wasn’t right—he wanted to be pissed. Not just a little, but masterfully channeling a furious Mr. Hyde. But there was Hutch, looking at him with that painful mixture of self-loathing and vulnerability in his eyes, needing to know that if the worst happened and the bottom dropped out of his world, Starsky would still love him, still forgive him. It wasn’t fear of the needle Hutch was fighting, it was fear of what the needle made him.

“Listen . . .” Catching Hutch by the sleeve, Starsky steered him back toward the bench. A single push on the shoulder and Hutch obediently folded to a seat on the wooden slats without protest. His gaze stayed upturned, a heart-tugging mixture of dread and hope shading his face as he waited for Starsky’s answer.

“Here’s the way I see it.” Starsky sat beside him, angling to face him so their knees bumped together. “If anything ever happened—and it ain’t goin’ to--but just for the sake of argument . . . if during a blue moon, on the ninth Tuesday, of the fourteenth month of a leap year when pigeons turn into pumpkins before the stroke of midnight—then and only then--” He straightened, simultaneously grave and mischievous. “If some sleazebag pumped you full of smack and got you to give me up, I’d know it was the drug talkin’.” He waited while the truth sank in, carefully watching doubt bloom in Hutch’s blue eyes. Still ain’t buying it, huh, babe?

“The drug Hutch, you hear me? Not you. Know how I’d know that?”

Hutch wet his lips. Mutely, he shook his head.

Starsky leaned closer as if sharing a secret. He slid a hand behind Hutch’s neck and held tight. “Because I know you’d never consciously betray me. Just like I’d never consciously betray you.”

“I’m scared, Starsk. I’m scared it could happen . . . of what I might do.”

“So you’re human. Makes me proud to have you as a partner.” Starsky drew back slightly, a playful smile curling his lips. “We ain’t never gonna walk down the aisle, babe, but you’re still the love of my life.”

The solemnity shattered, Hutch chuckled. “You are such a flippant ass.”

“Be kind. I could still propose.”

“My family would disown me.”

“Mine would shoot me. You ain’t even Jewish.” Starsky’s smile grew loopy. “You done with this crisis now?”

Hutch sighed. He rubbed at his temples. “Starsk, I’m sorry--”

“For what? So you got a little freaky about havin’ blood drawn. I ain’t exactly in love with the idea myself. You hold my hand, I’ll hold yours.”

Hutch looked at him like he’d strayed off the deep end. “What?”

“You heard me.” Starsky grinned, the irrational bottle-rocket rage of earlier gone completely. Hutch could do that to him. With a single glance or a single word, his partner had the uncanny ability to spin Starsky’s emotions on a dime. No one in his life had ever affected him like that before, but then no one else had ever come close to matching what he had with Hutch. “Want me to go find you a lollipop? That always worked when I was a kid.”