Long Way Home

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Sometimes the best rescue is the small one.

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Oh, it’s cold and lonely here
Here in this telephone booth

“Starsk?”

Starsky’s eyes snapped open, and his grip on the phone changed from one of half-asleep annoyance to a concerned clutch. The voice on the other end of the phone sounded weird, not like it usually did at all, and he wasn’t sure whether the change was due to exhaustion, illness, an overindulgence of alcohol, or all three put together. The voice’s owner hadn’t been looking too perky over the last few days–not that that was surprising, given what he’d been going through–and it sounded like everything just might have caught up with him.

“You there, buddy?”

Starsky reached over and clicked on his bedside light. His eyes registered the fact that the clock read three a.m., but it didn’t matter. The voice needed him, and it didn’t matter what time it was, he was determined to be there.

“I’m here, pal. Where are you?”

There was a heavy sigh. Sadness and weariness emitted from the phone, so strong that the wires seemed to hum a haunting blues song. Starsky closed his eyes and massaged his chest; his heart hurt for the pain he knew the voice was feeling.

“Phone booth. Somewhere near Huggy’s.” The voice sighed again. “Not really sure where.”

It was silent for a long moment, and Starsky held the phone with both hands, trying to control the emotion tightening his own throat, wanting to be strong and steady. Finally, he was able to swallow the empathic lump, and say gently, “What happened?”

He could almost hear the blinks, see the Adam’s apple work and the jaw twitch as the voice fought back tears, then, almost inaudibly, it whispered into his ear. “She left, Starsk. She left me.”

There’s three sides to every story, babe…

There’s yours, and there’s mine, and the cold hard truth.

“What?” Deep inside, in some part of him that had slumbered for the other’s sake, Starsky had suspected that she was the reason for the call. He had, he realized, as he sat clinging to the phone as if sending his closeness down the line, been expecting this kind of news for weeks. But he had never thought it would go down like this.

“Said she didn’t want to be m…arried, anymore. To someone with no future. To me. Too big a disappointment.” The voice was so miserable now, Starsky felt his chest constrict. “I failed, Starsk. I failed.”

“Aw, man,” he murmured. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.” The word choked off at the end, and for a moment there was no sound at the other end of the line. As vividly as if he were standing outside, Starsky could see one hand over the drawn face, the other holding the earpiece tight while the mouthpiece twisted high, so soft weeping would not bleed through the telephone lines. There was a deep intake of breath as the voice struggled to pull itself together…and then a fresh outbreak of gulping sobs.

“S-sorry, Starsk,” emerged, like misty rain trailing through the fog of grief. “Don’t mean to bring you down too…maybe I’d better just get home.”

“No way,” Starsky said instantly. “Get your tail in a cab and get over here.”

“Can’t do that,” the voice breathed. “Not fit–not fit to be seen right now.”

“Too bad.” Starsky spoke firmly, hoping the by-the-book part of the voice would somehow automatically respond to the authoritative tone and do as it was told. “Get your tail in a cab.”

“Can’t,” the voice repeated, and now it faded a bit, as if its owner were beginning to feel woozy from whatever he had imbibed, or whatever bug had had the bad timing to fell him at the same time as one elegantly narcissistic brunette bitch. “Thanks, though. See you tomorrow.”

“Hey, no–wait–”

The voice didn’t respond; there was only the sound of plastic rattling on metal as the receiver was fumbled back into place. In the background, before the heartless click and dial tone, he heard a broken mutter:

“Shouldn’t have…shouldn’t have called…”

“Wait! Don’t you hang up on me, do you hear me?” Starsky hollered through the phone, rising to his knees as if his increasingly alert and commanding posture could be seen. “Hutch? HUTCH!”

I think there’s somethin’ missin’ round here
I don’t know where it’s gone
But it’s a long, long way back home

Hutch dragged himself out of the phone booth. He felt, not to put too fine a point on it, like shit. He and Vanessa had been fighting so much the last few weeks, he’d barely slept, and a tumble into the water during a dockside raid had invited some kind of virus into his already beleaguered system. He felt hot, then cold, then hot again, and his eyes itched. From his head to his toes, he ached, and he longed only to lie down somewhere–even on this mangy street–and sleep a Van Winkle sleep, until the memory of Vanessa’s goodbye faded far away.

“We’ve been living in this–abject poverty for years, Ken. Now you tell me they offered you a promotion and you turned it down?”

“Not a promotion, not per se, Van,” he explained tiredly, for what felt like the twentieth time. He was dead on his feet, and regretted ever mentioning the choice he had been offered, between moving into homicide or taking a higher-paying desk job. “Just something besides working the streets.”

“And you turned it down.” She moved closer to where he was sitting, in one of the two simple chairs that flanked the cottage’s large front window. He was slumped on his spine like a bored adolescent, but in truth he simply couldn’t hold himself upright. The cold, clear eyes, always like hard gems glittering in the purest white snow, pierced him through. Her voice was no warmer, and Hutch shivered, wrapping his arms around his middle, trying to keep himself from shaking to pieces. “More money, regular hours, a step up–and you turned it down?”

“Look, Van, could we please save this discussion for another time?” he pleaded, through teeth set against the cold and the pain. “It’s late, and I’ve got a stakeout first thing in the morning–“

“Oh, I am so sick of your precious job taking precedence over our marriage!” she snapped. He blinked blearily up at her from the depths of the chair, barely able to focus on her furious form. She was in full-tilt tirade mode now, perfect breasts heaving under her spotless cashmere turtleneck, elegant, long-fingered hands planted dramatically on her slender hips. Her hair, caught at the nape of her neck with a silver barrette, swept like silk across her shoulders as she shook her head at his thick-headedness. “Well, not this time, Ken. This time, we’re going to have this out–right here, right now.”

“Dammit, Van,” Hutch growled, feeling his patience sliding away as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m beat and I’m not in the mood for this. If we talk about this now, we’ll just both end up saying something we don’t mean. So c’mon, give it a rest, and let’s just go to bed.” He started toward the bed, but she stepped in front of him, chin lifted, lovely throat rising like a column of ivory above the sweater’s jewel-toned neck.

He was reminded, as he was so many times, of how truly beautiful she was.

“No.” The full lips set tightly. “We’re not ‘giving it a rest,’ and we’re not going to bed. Every time we have a fight, you avoid it by taking me to bed. Sex is the answer to everything for you.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Hutch told her, fight already gone as he sank to the edge of the bed and laboriously pulled off his left shoe. “Now, please, Van, I’m begging you. Just let me get some sleep, and we can talk this out when I get home from work tomorrow.”

She stood there, slender arms now crossed over her chest. The lips pursed, and she breathed a sigh.

It had a sound of determination and finality that sledged a hammer’s blow to Hutch’s heart. Midway through the insurmountable task of untying his right shoe, he looked up at her. She gazed at him implacably for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision, and spoke:

“I won’t be here tomorrow when you get home from work, Ken,” she announced. “This is it. I’m leaving.”

“What?” He was so tired, he could barely see straight, and the query seemed to drain the last of his energy. “What are you–what are you talking about?”

“I was planning on doing it anyway, sometime this week,” she told him evenly, moving fluidly to her side of the bed and pulling her suitcase from underneath. “But after what you just told me, I think tonight’s a good a time as any.” Rising gracefully as a dancer to her feet, she dropped the suitcase onto the bed, flipped the locks and raised the lid, then strode purposefully into the bathroom.

Stunned, Hutch realized the suitcase was full, that she’d been ready to pick up and leave him for–what? Days? Weeks? He’d been so preoccupied with work, so exhausted by their late-night arguments, that he had failed to notice the winnowing of clothes from her side of the closet.

Vanessa returned, a red silk toiletry bag swinging from two fingers. “I’ll check into a hotel until I can get a flight home,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if they were discussing repairs to the car. “I’ll probably need to leave some of my things here for a while, but I’ll pick up as much as I can later this week.” Tucking the bag into her suitcase, she closed the lid and snapped the locks shut, eyes never leaving her husband.

“Van–” Hutch stammered in disbelief. “You can’t do this–you can’t just walk out like this, with no warning, no chance for us to work things out–”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she threw at him, dragging the suitcase from the bed and setting it on the floor with a thump. “I have tried, Ken. I left my family when you decided to drop out of grad school and go to the Academy. I came to this horrible city, and I put up with this pathetic excuse for a house–” her hand indicated the cottage, for which Hutch had searched for weeks, and where he had been so proud and delighted to bring his bride. “This is not what I signed up for, Ken. Everything breaks down, there’s no closet space and no dishwasher, and I’m tired of entertaining guests in our bedroom.” She stalked to the closet and withdrew a Burberry raincoat, slinging it over her shoulders, then yanked her suitcase up from the floor and nailed Hutch with a final, chilling glare. “I married a man I thought had a future.” She spat the words out fiercely, and raised one delicately carved eyebrow. “Now I know I was wrong.”

Hutch clutched one hand to his stomach, which was raging and cramping as though her words had been physical blows. “Van–” he said weakly. “Van–”

But it was too late. She had spun about on her designer shoes, and swept out, slamming the door behind her.

Hutch barely made it to the bathroom before, it seemed, everything he had eaten in his life came up.

The heat don’t work, and the toaster don’t work
And the car don’t work
And I guess I know why

Somehow Hutch made it to his car, though it took him forever to insert key A into slot B, which seemed as small as a pinprick, and even longer to remember how his hand needed to wrap around the door handle. The door seemed unbearably heavy as he swung it open, its weight almost pulling him to his knees on the pavement. Slowly, carefully, he dragged one leg, then the other, under the steering wheel, then, with both hands, reached over to pull the door closed.

This time, the door’s bulk defeated him. His sweaty hands slipped from the tattered upholstery, and before he knew it, he was half in, half out of the car, chin bleeding and hands scraped from the abrupt trip to the ground. The pain twisted his already-tortured guts, and he heaved weakly, sending remnants of two beers and a half-dozen peanuts splashing onto the street. For a moment, he hung there, head throbbing, hands somehow clear of the gastric debris, then painfully he lifted himself back into the car, managing this time to bring the door with him.

He leaned his head back on the headrest, passing a filthy, raw hand over his damp face. The last vestiges of his strength seemed to have been drained, and he would have to simply sit before he could do anything so strenuous as inserting his key into the ignition. Letting his tired, heavy lids fall over his aching eyes, he murmured to himself reassuringly, “Jus’ sit here f’r a minute…rest up…then go home.”

This house don’t work and this dream don’t work no more

And lover neither do you and I

His heart constricted reflexively, but he was too distracted by nausea and dizziness to pay it any mind. He let his head drift to one side, and, with one childlike whimper, collapsed almost instantly into sleep.

* * *

Starsky cruised an ever-widening square around Huggy’s bar, his heart racing faster with each empty street or battered machine that turned out not to be Hutch’s. He’d jumped out of bed the minute Hutch had hung up, dressed faster than when he’d been half-naked with Cindy Lake and heard her parents’ car in the driveway, and plunged out of his house, car keys dangling from his mouth. He hadn’t even taken his customary moment to admire the shiny, candy-apple red Ford Torino that he’d bought just last month, or to run a worshipful hand along the custom white stripe. He simply leapt into the car, nudged the powerful engine to life, and took off with a shriek of tires.

And now here he was, winding up one street and down the other, torn between finding his partner himself and wondering if he should call for official assistance. But Hutch was probably not in the best shape, and he was still image-conscious, still worried about the impression he made on his fellow officers. It would only depress him further if anyone but Starsky saw him in the predicted condition.

Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky saw the small, ordinary glimmer of a phone booth light, and beside it, the dull glint of a large brown sedan. Heart pounding, he whipped the Torino across two lanes of traffic, ignoring the angry honks and shouts that followed his taillights. He pulled beside the car and saw his partner slumped against the window.

He looked like death warmed over, and Starsky felt a fear pierce him like a fiery lance.

The dark-haired man threw the car into park and slapped on the emergency flashers, not caring that he was blocking the road. Greeting the shouts and curses with nothing but a silencing hand, he tumbled out of the car and hurried around to the passenger side of the sedan. The door was locked, but he could see from this vantage point that the door on the driver’s side was not. Scrambling across the hood, disregarding the vomit that met his shoes as he edged between the two cars, he snatched open the door, and gently caught his partner as the tall, slender body threatened to spill out of the car and onto the street.

“Easy, pal, easy,” Starsky crooned, easing an arm under Hutch’s shoulders and hoisting the blond man to his feet.

“Starss?” came the barest whisper from somewhere in Hutch’s throat. Starsky’s throat pulsed in sympathy, knowing what illness, tears, and a few hours of puking could do to the sensitive tissues. “What’re you…”

“Shhh, Hutch, it’s gonna be okay,” Starsky soothed. “Gonna get you out of the car, Hutch, and over here into the Torino.”

“Aw, shit, Starsk,” he heard Hutch mumble thickly. “You didn’t bring that parade float out here, did you? Sick enough as it is…”

“Put a sock in it,” Starsky said, in a tone that caressed more than it scolded. “Here we go, here we go…just relax, there’s the seat.” He gentled his partner down, then carefully tucked the long legs inside and closed the door, patting it twice for luck, as he would the door of an ambulance carrying a treasured friend to comfort and safety.

He slung himself into the driver’s seat, started the engine as Hutch muttered in the seat beside him, and turned the Torino toward home, the big car a safe and formidable fortress around his emotionally battered friend.

* * *

Hutch awoke slowly, not opening his eyes, expecting to find himself stiff and cramped, hearing the sounds of B.C. nightlife filtering through the sedan’s dubious insulation. Instead, he sank blissfully into the something soft tucked beneath his aching neck and supporting his head. The scent of warm soap and a familiar aftershave wafted past his nostrils, as warm dampness sponged the dirt and blood from his hands and a soft voice kept up a quiet, encouraging patter above his head.

“Gonna be okay, Hutch, gonna be okay…” The dampness was replaced by the fluffy fragrance of a freshly laundered towel, and then something cool and wet pressed tenderly against his forehead, instantly chasing away the tension and fire that had gripped it for so long. “Looks like you cut yourself up pretty bad…I’ll get something for those.”

The mattress sprang up as a weight beside him disappeared, and he had the strangest sensation of floating and bouncing from pillowy white clouds that embraced and enveloped him and then passed him lovingly on. A moment later, the weight was back, bringing with it a warmth that Hutch could not remember experiencing before. He reached out with one hand, groping, and his fingers found the firm muscle and worn denim of Starsky’s thigh.

“Yeah, it’s me, pal.” A strong hand grasped his for a moment, firm enough to be comforting but gentle in consideration of his wounds. “Just try to relax, buddy…I’ve got you taken care of.”

He nodded infinitesimally, as if it all made perfect sense in this new world where he lived, just like the clouds, then sank back into sleep once more.

I fall asleep with colors flying
Over sand and foam

But it’s a long, long way back home

Starsky took the bruised and scraped hand into his own and smeared it liberally with the antiseptic cream. The street where he’d finally found Hutch had been filthy even before Hutch had lost his lunch on it, and he wanted to take no chances of infection. Hutch’s immune system had already surrendered to something nasty; he suspected it wasn’t really up to further invasions from foreign sources. He wound gauze over and around the injuries, ensuring that wounds on both palm and knuckles were safely covered, then securely taped the bandage down. After repeating the process with Hutch’s other hand, he cleaned and dressed the cut on his partner’s chin, taking special care not to wake the blond man.

Mission accomplished, he started to rise quietly from the bed…but as soon as his weight shifted, Hutch’s eyes slitted open, and one white-wrapped hand reached out. Starsky sank back down, leaned close to his partner’s tired face.

“Yeah, buddy?” he murmured. “What can I get you?”

“Don’t–go,” Hutch whispered. “Jus–stay here, a’right?”

Swallowing at the open need in Hutch’s words, Starsky rubbed the bare shoulder, one of the few places where Hutch didn’t seem to hurt. “You bet,” he said reassuringly. “All night.”

He pulled a chair close to the bed and sank into it, then caught the hand that was waving around once more. “Right here, buddy,” he said soothingly. “Right here.”

As Hutch’s grip tightened around his fingers, he suddenly registered the heat radiating from his partner’s skin. With the back of his free hand, he tested Hutch’s forehead, and whistled. “You’re burning up, pal…sit tight, okay?”

“–going?” Hutch murmured, eyes slitting open enough for Starsky to catch the fever gleam in their light blue depths.

“Gonna get you some aspirin and some nice cold juice,” Starsky told him, laying the bandaged hand back on the bed and giving it a gentle pat. “Be right back.”

Hutch let himself drift back into the other-world where there was no pain–no cutting, hurting words, empty closets or heart-piercing wisps of designer cologne. Did he love Van…did he hate her? Was he sorry she was gone…or relieved? He held the questions in his mind for a moment, then opened his mental hand and let them flicker away like lightning bugs in the steamy night of his fever, watching them wink away before the curtains of sleep fell once more.

He awoke briefly to the tart taste of orange juice moving past his lips as a steadying hand lifted him upright, then surrendered him back to the clouds. As he nestled into them, the cool, cool cloth came back to his head and his hand found the familiar denim again; the clouds cooed in happy approval, then enfolded him and embraced him away.

I know your heart is breaking
Maybe my heart’s
Breaking too

Starsky re-wet the washcloth a final time and draped it tenderly across his friend’s brow, watching with relief as the furrow of pain smoothed away. Hutch’s eyelids fluttered once, then lay still on the flushed cheeks. His chest rose and lowered with one deep sigh, one settled gradually into the regular rhythm of sleep.

Poor guy. Probably needs that more than anything.

He started to rise from the edge of the bed, only to find that Hutch’s hand had crept to him once more, and was curled contentedly around his right knee. Though he was reasonably certain he could have detached it and Hutch would not have stirred, somehow he didn’t want to do that. Instead, he tugged a throw pillow from the chair and tucked it behind his back as he scooted his entire self onto the mattress and leaned against the headboard.

The hand squeezed briefly, and the right side of Starsky’s mouth twitched upward. Once upon a time, he and the other Starsky males would never have permitted this display of affection. Oh, there had been butt and back-slapping a plenty, and beery bear hugs were de rigeur, but to touch every day, and for no real reason at all? The mocking and derision would’ve been ferocious, and roundly echoed by the street boys he had run with in B.C.

And yet, it had taken him so little time to realize what a warm difference those touches made in his life. Hutch was a compulsive toucher; brushed arms, brief squeezes of the nearest available limb, and his Let’s go, huh? stomach pat were signature Hutchinson moves, as natural to the blond man as breathing. When he first met Hutch’s parents, Starsky could not fathom how his partner and his sister–for she was as physically affectionate as he was–had developed the habit; he found it hard to believe that the elder Hutchinson’s had touched these children at all, much less with tenderness or love. Then he had met Hutch’s grandfather, and it all became clear.

Hutch moaned a little and shifted beside him, and his eyes went instantly to the flushed, tired face below him. He removed the damp washcloth and freshened it in the bowl of ice and water he had set on the bedside nightstand; as he replaced it on Hutch’s forehead, the quiet whimper subsided. Hutch lapsed back into sleep, and Starsky, back to his musings.

And Vanessa? When he’d first met her, back when he and Hutch had been classmates at the Academy, he had looked back and forth between the two of them, wondering what was so completely wrong about the pairing. With Hutch’s golden-tanned beauty, and her contrasting jet hair and alabaster complexion, they were the most striking couple he had ever seen–straight from the cover of a travel brochure–but still, there was something that told him they did not belong together.

And he’d been right. Vanessa had watched indulgently as they had sweated their way through the Academy, and had seemed to join the celebration when they had graduated at the top of their class. But by the time he and Hutch had been partnered again at Metro, he could read the story in the ever-tightening expression on Vanessa’s face, and the increasing downward droop of Hutch’s shoulders each time he had to call and tell her he’d be late. They’d been going at it royally for weeks now, according to Hutch, and Starsky had figured his turning down the cushy desk job would be the last straw.

“Never mind, Hutch,” he said quietly to the sleeping form beside him. Muscles twitched as the aspirin and the desperately-needed repose began their healing purge, but Hutch slept on. “I know you won’t believe me now, but you’re better off without her.”

And he knew Hutch wouldn’t, that it would be weeks before Hutch admitted that his life was simpler and breathing easier without her chilly disapproval shrouding everything he did. Hutch believed fiercely in the matrimonial institution, and he had done virtually everything to try to make his college sweetheart happy. And with each time she dismissed his efforts, he had grown more and more unhappy, more desperate, and more certain that her dissatisfaction was all his fault.

And Starsky guessed it was, from her point of view, for the one thing that would’ve made Vanessa happy was the one thing Hutch would never do: quit the force.

The hand around his knee tightened once more, and Starsky looked down at the restless blond. The corners of Hutch’s mouth were pinching now, and Starsky knew that look. Instantly, his feet were on the floor, his arm shoved under Hutch’s shoulders, and they were both hit the bathroom just as Hutch’s eyes and mouth flew open, almost simultaneously.

There was nothing to come up, but the dry heaves racked his partner’s body until Starsky’s ribs ached in concert. He simply pressed close and steady against the quivering back, and held the damp head with gentle hands. When the spasms stopped, he lifted them both to their feet and, without a word, handed Hutch his toothbrush, loaded with paste.

Hutch looked down at the brush, then back up at his partner. Starsky raised an eyebrow.

“Brush your teeth,” he ordered mildly. “I ain’t sleepin’ next to that breath all night long.”

Hutch gave a characteristic half-laugh, half-snort deep in his throat, then winced at the subsequent pain. “Sure,” he rasped. “But are you sure you want my cooties all over your toothbrush?”

Starsky opened the medicine cabinet to reveal three shiny new toothbrushes, still tucked safely in their cellophane wrappers. “Always got a spare,” he replied. “Never know when some lady friend might decide to spend the night.”

“Or some soon-to-be divorced partner,” Hutch said feebly. “Better be careful, Starsk…toothbrushes one day, underwear the next…this could be the start of something dangerous.”

“Shut up and brush your teeth, Blondie,” Starsky mock-scolded. “You got about sixty seconds before you haul your own carcass back to bed.”

The toothbrushing accomplished, Hutch sank gratefully back onto the bed with Starsky’s assistance, feeling like he had run a 5K in the middle of August. He shoved away the covers that Starsky tried to pull up to his chin, muttering, “Too hot. Leave ’em off.”

“Leave ’em on,” Starsky countered, pulling them back up. “Your fever’s startin’ to break.”

Hutch pushed them away again.

Setting his jaw, Starsky pulled them right back up.

“Bossy,” Hutch accused, his voice beginning to slur drowsily. “Bossy as hell.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Starsky informed him, tucking the blankets around the shivering form and climbing in after Hutch to prevent him from kicking them off again. “Now close your eyes and your mouth and go back to sleep.”

Too tired to argue further, Hutch complied…and was sound asleep before he knew it.

Keep ’em on, Hutch.

Too hot.

Too bad.

Can’t swallow, Starsss…hurts too bad.

Just a little more for me, buddy…come on, you can do it…that’s it…

What…where’s Van?

Tell you later, pal…right now, you just rest.

* * *

Starsky opened his eyes to find the first rays of dawn creeping tentatively through the window. In the slowly growing pale light, he could see the detritus of the long, dark night. Hutch’s clothes lay scattered across the floor where Starsky had dropped them, too focused on getting his partner cleaned up and in bed to worry about folding them or even dropping them in his own hamper. Hutch had finally succeeded in kicking the blanket half off, and it draped to the floor like a seductive maiden trailing an enticing scarf in her wake. Amid the torn first-aid wrappings were tossed the half-empty aspirin bottle, an empty juice glass, and Starsky’s own shoes.

He glanced over at the blond, still conked out beside him. The tanned skin was coated with a fine sheen of sweat, and as Starsky watched he turned fitfully and muttered something pleading in his sleep; Starsky couldn’t hear the words, but the tone tugged at him the way Hutch’s pain always did.

He hesitated, then placed a hand on the smooth chest, wanting so badly for his touch to somehow draw the hurt from his partner’s heart, to smooth the lines that were etched into his forehead and around his mouth, and to even and slow the ragged, distressed breaths.

The flat of his palm had barely reached the damp skin when Hutch’s eyes flew open, with a little gasp that caught half-in, half-out of his throat. For a moment, the blond man simply lay still, chest still rippling, eyes cloudy with fever trying to register where he was and what he was doing there.

Starsky left his hand where it was. Not waiting for the puzzled blue eyes to find him, he spoke gently:

“Easy, buddy…it’s okay.”

The pale eyebrows moved inward, then relaxed. “Jesus, Starsk,” Hutch said hoarsely, blowing his cheeks out in an exhausted breath. “Stupid time for me to fall asleep here–like things aren’t bad enough–and I just had the weirdest damn nightmare–”

He passed one hand across his soaked face, then halted abruptly. Eyebrows raced to meet each other once more as he examined the bandages, then he lifted his other hand to find that it was similarly swaddled.

And it’s a long…long
Way back home

The long fingers began to tremble. The upper lip followed suit, and Hutch pressed the heel of one hand to his forehead and closed his eyes tight, as if trying to squeeze away the returning memory. The breath he had just expelled seemed sucked back into him in one mighty intake, leaving room only for a strangled moan.

“Shit. Oh, shit.”

Starsky caught the shaking hand in his own and pulled it close, while the other began to draw soothing circles on Hutch’s chest. “Easy, pal, easy,” he crooned. “Try to breathe…come on, let it out, babe, you gotta give yourself some air…”

The tanned chest heaved mightily, and before Starsky knew it, the room was filled with hoarse, anguished sobs.

He didn’t hesitate; he simply released Hutch’s hand, reached down, and pulled the blond into a crushing embrace, wrapping his arms around the shuddering shoulders. Hutch’s hands danced on his back, then clutched desperately, heedless of the injuries, hanging on for dear life. Setting his lips, trying to swallow the unbearable ache that welled up in his throat, Starsky pressed close, until he could feel the racing beat of Hutch’s pulse against his chest.

My hand couldn’t take away the hurt, he thought desolately. Maybe my heart can.

He said nothing more, just let Hutch cry. He’d never seen such tears, never heard such wracking sobs that seemed to rise from deep inside, ripping his partner apart on the journey out. His hands repeated the soothing circles, this time on the bare back, and he rocked gently, letting Hutch know he could cry all he needed to, and Starsky would be there when he finished.

It seemed a lifetime, but finally Hutch’s tremors slowed. The space between hiccups widened like a popcorn denouement, and the deathgrip on Starsky’s back loosened. Shifting his hands to Starsky’s shoulders, Hutch pulled back, head drooping as if he no longer had the strength to hold it upright.

Tears slipped from his chin to splash on the sheets already drenched with sweat.

Tenderly, Starsky eased him gently back onto the pillows. “You stay right here,” he murmured. “I’m gonna go get you some more juice, and freshen up this washcloth.”

Hutch nodded, then his eyelids mercifully shaded his red and swollen eyes.

When Starsky returned, he coaxed two more aspirin down the blond man–he’d felt the continuing heat of Hutch’s fever in their embrace–and blotted the sweat and tears from Hutch’s face. By the time he rinsed the cloth in the fresh bowl of water and ice and wrung it damp, Hutch had dropped back to sleep.

Brushing back tendrils of hair, Starsky laid the cloth gently across his friend’s forehead, then eased himself back down beside him.

“That’s it, babe,” he whispered. “That’s the best thing for you.”

He pressed himself close, scarcely feeling the humid heat rising from his partner’s body, and kept vigil.

It’s a long way
Back home

* * *

The pink rays of the dawn had changed to the shadows of dusk by the time Hutch awoke. He blinked and smothered an enormous yawn, flinching as his jaw popped. His eyes were swollen, tender, and gritty from weeks without sleep, and he started to reach up to clear them, groaning as he moved for what felt like the first time in days. But when he tried to lift his arm, he found a heavy weight leaning against his shoulder.

Vanessa. ‘Bout to take my arm off, darlin’…better get up so I can–

He glanced down–to find the dark head nestled against his arm was covered in a profusion of curls, and the face beneath was distinctly masculine. For a moment, he was puzzled and lost, and then the memory hit him.

Oh. Right.

But the pang was not devastating, possibly because it was no longer accompanied by the gut-punching nausea and headache that had literally felt like it was splitting his head in half. He was caked with dried, stale perspiration, and every pore seemed to ache, but his thoughts were clearer, and his chest had been freed from the terrible tightness that had gripped it last night…and for so many weeks before.

He had a feeling he knew just who had set it free.

He gently nudged the head resting on his shoulder.

“Starsk?” he said quietly. “Gotta move, pal, before I wet your bed with something besides sweat.”

The eyelids didn’t budge, but the lips did.

“Do that and you’ll be swapping me mattresses, Hutchinson.”

Hutch laughed, the sound amazing him though it still twinged at a midsection sore from fever and vomiting. “Better shift it over, then.”

The dark head pulled away just enough, so he could untangle himself from the sheets and slowly, painfully hoist himself to his feet. “Ohhh,” he groaned as he stood upright. “They make those goddamned trucks bigger all the time.”

A few minutes later, bladder drained, muscles slowly re-acquainting themselves with the vertical position, he returned to the bedroom, to find his partner sprawled across the bed. Heedless of the sweat-soaked sheets and pillows that had to be lumpy and hot, Starsky slept the same way he did everything else–with utter abandon and total commitment.

Unable to restrain his chuckle, grateful that it rasped his throat considerably less than before, Hutch shrugged into a spare robe and tied the belt around his waist. Padding into the kitchen, he began to scrounge through the contents of Starsky’s refrigerator.

He started a fresh pot of coffee, then scrambled a half-dozen eggs with cheese as Starsky’s automatic coffeemaker–his partner was endlessly fascinated with the latest gadgets–did its job with quiet efficiency. Soon, the tiny kitchen was filled with enticing scents that chased away the gloom of the night before, and as Hutch plucked four pieces of toast from the toaster and turned to the table to butter them, he discovered his partner sitting at the wooden breakfast table, head barely propped up by one hand.

“Mornin’,” Hutch greeted his partner quietly, with a somewhat shy smile.

Starsky’s eyes flicked briefly toward the window, where darkness was gathering in the trees, but he apparently elected not to comment on the discrepancy.

Hutch finished buttering the toast, then poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of the dark-haired man, then turned away so he didn’t have to watch Starsky drag the sugar bowl across the table and heap spoonfuls of the stuff into his cup. Two plates of eggs followed, then he fetched his own coffee and settled himself into a chair with a grateful sigh.

Starsky stirred his coffee until Hutch thought the china must be about to crack–but that was probably necessary given all that sugar. He added a dollop of cream to his own cup and sipped it appreciatively, savoring the warmth as it slid down his ravaged throat. Suddenly, he was starving; setting down the coffee, he dug into his eggs.

Across the table, Starsky did the same.

For several minutes, neither man spoke. Then Starsky paused, in the process of heaping a forkful of eggs onto his toast, and eyed Hutch closely. Hutch raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Starsky shrugged, then stuffed the bite into his mouth. Around the mouthful, he began to speak, then swallowed and said only, “Good breakfast.”

Hutch shrugged in reply. “Glad you like it. Our arteries are hardening as we speak, but it’s all you had.”

Starsky’s eyes had never left him, but suddenly the worry in their dark blue depths disappeared, replaced by the warmth and sparkle that shot upward from his delighted grin. He shoved another bite into his mouth, then said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Hutch finished the last bite of his toast, and laid his fork down with a contented sigh.

Several more clock ticks went by, cricket sounds growing outside the window, then Hutch cleared his throat.

“Uh-Starsk?”

A speck of egg still spotting his cheek, Starsky looked up from his coffee cup. “Yeah?”

“You–uh, you–took good care of me last night.”

One shoulder shrugged as Starsky returned to his cup. “‘Course I did,” he said nonchalantly. “You’re my partner. What was I s’posed to do after you called at three in the morning, leave you on that street to get rolled? Though since you were in that pathetic excuse for a car, they might’ve decided you had enough troubles and left you alone.”

“Starsk–”

The dark blue eyes lifted from the cup again, to meet light blue ones that rested on his, a hundred unreadable, grateful emotions swimming inside them.

“Yeah, babe.”

“Thanks.”

It’s a long way
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Lyrics from “Long Way Home” by Don Henley and Danny Kortchmar