Fusion: A Story in Three Acts

223

Post SR, Hutch is trying his best to keep his and Starsky’s spirits up. Starsky isn’t happy and is keeping a secret from Hutch. Dobey has to be the one to mediate.

---

Act 1: Entropy

Hutch lay awake, listening to Starsky’s breathing deep and even in the bed they shared. ‘Glad someone can sleep,’ he thought. His mind started racing with the things he needed to accomplish before work, during work, after work. Breakfast, help Starsky get dressed and to therapy, meetings with Dobey and an interview with a possible witness to a crime that had taken place over 20 years ago, pick Starsky up at lunch, take him home, go back to work to get done whatever he hadn’t been able to get done for weeks it seemed, and then home to make supper, make sure Starsky was cared for, plan the grocery shopping for the next day, fall into bed and try to sleep so he could do it all again every day for the foreseeable future.

Not that he minded, of course, because the other reality—the one in which he didn’t have Starsky with him, the one where Starsky didn’t survive was too bleak to think about. But damn, he was tired. If only he could sleep.  Oh, and he couldn’t forget to stop by the pharmacy to pick up Starsky’s new prescription. Hutch rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept the night through and realized he couldn’t.

God, he was tired. That bone-aching, mind-numbing tired that seeped into every minute of every day. He was sure he was single-handedly supporting the entire Colombian coffee industry. He sighed and turned onto his side, his back to Starsky.
He looked at the clock. One twenty-seven. If he fell asleep in three minutes, that meant he could sleep four uninterrupted hours.

Starsky groaned, and Hutch was instantly alert, back from the cusp of sleep. “Starsk?” he whispered as he placed a hand on Starsky’s shoulder.

“Gotta piss,” Starsky said. “Sorry.”

“Okay. It’s okay.”

Hutch got out of bed, walked to the other side, and helped his partner stand. He held on tight as Starsky clung to him, waited until Starsky got his legs under control. Starsky put his hands on the walker and Hutch stepped aside. “I can do it,” Starsky said, almost a snarl.

‘He’s hurting,’ Hutch told himself. ‘Nearly everything’s been taken from him. It doesn’t mean anything.’ He blinked his eyes against the pain he felt deep in his soul, against his own hurt.

He stood still, impotent in the face of all of Starsky’s need. He watched the clock tick away the minutes, listened for the flush of the toilet, the sound of running water as Starsky washed his hands.

“I need a pill,” Starsky said when he came back and was lying down. “Can’t…”

Hutch nodded and went to the kitchen to retrieve a pain pill and a glass of water. Why couldn’t he have said something when he first got up? It wasn’t as if he didn’t know then. Hutch hated himself for feeling angry and impatient. He squared his shoulders, pasted on what he thought of as his cheerful, helping Hutch face, and took the pill and water into Starsky.

Pill taken, Starsky settled after Hutch readjusted pillows and blankets and got back in bed himself.

Two. He could still get three and a half hours sleep. But the headache was keeping him awake, and it was too late to take a pill that would make him groggy for the day ahead.

He drifted, aware of Starsky’s every breath, the outside traffic, the bell ringing…shit shit shit.

Hutch reached out, slapped a hand on the alarm and realized he’d overslept by a half hour.  He could handle it. He’d just have to hustle a bit more, make sure everything was done with perfect timing.

He pulled on his robe, envious of Starsky, who was still sound asleep—his pill had evidently done its work.

He pulled onions, red and green peppers, a block of what he thought was Swiss cheese, and the leftover sausage from earlier in the week out of the refrigerator and placed them on the table. Then he pulled out the egg carton. Eight eggs, just enough for a frittata with some leftover for the next morning’s breakfast or lunch. Skillet heating on the stove with butter and the already chopped onions, he pulled down the cutting board and chopped the sausage before adding it to the pan. Hutch glanced at the clock on the stove as he chopped the red pepper and looked down to see his finger bleeding. Damn.

He held it under running water, wrapped a bit of paper towel around it and went back to prepping the peppers. Those added, he searched for a bowl and cracked the eggs into it. He only had to fish out a bit of shell.  He added the eggs, turned the stove lower, and went to the bedroom to retrieve his clothes before taking a shower.

“Hutch.” Starsky was trying to sit up.

“Hang on, hang on.” Hutch dropped his own clothes onto the floor.

“I think I need a soak to get moving today.”

“Let me get the tub started,” Hutch said. He’d just have to shower down at the station.

He ran into the bathroom, started the tub, and sniffed. No. No. Please don’t let the eggs be burning. He went to the kitchen, relieved to see the frittata was coming along nicely—well, except for it not cooking in the middle.

“Hutch! I gotta piss or I’m gonna do it right here.”

“I’m coming!” Hutch yelled back and adjusted the skillet, brushing the heel of his hand against the burner.

“Hutch!”

He ran to the bedroom, his heart pounding as he watched Starsky lean forward to grab his walker.

“I said I was coming,” Hutch told him as he held on to the walker when Starsky levered himself out of bed.

“You think I like this?” Starsky snapped back.

“I didn’t…” Hutch let Starsky take the lead. “Never mind. We only have about an hour’ til we gotta get going.”

“Sorry the cripple’s taking up too much of your precious time.” Starsky went into the bathroom.

Hutch shut up. It was no point trying to talk with Starsky when he got like this. Not his fault, not his fault. Doesn’t mean it. Hutch used the words as a litany as Starsky held onto him as he lowered himself into the tub.

“What’s for breakfast?” Starsky asked when Hutch turned to go.

“Frittata,” Hutch said over his shoulder.

“What the hell is a frittata?” Starsky’s voice was sharp, biting.

“Just another word for a sort of omelet.” Hutch closed the door partway and left before Starsky said another word.

He made it back into the kitchen. The damn center still wasn’t done, and Hutch grabbed a plate to slide the eggs onto them. It was too late to heat the oven, but maybe he could flip it over and finish it that way. He glanced over at the table as he slid the frittata onto the plate and realized he’d forgotten to grate the cheese.

That moment’s inattention had the eggs sliding halfway onto the plate and half breaking onto the still hot burner. Juggling both skillet and plate, Hutch placed the plate onto one of the back burners and the skillet onto the counter.

He grabbed a towel, pushed the falling eggs into his hand, and then realized hot eggs weren’t the best idea in a bare hand. He dropped them right onto his bare foot and hopped back, catching his hand on the handle of the skillet. The skillet clanged to the floor, bits of egg, sausage, onion, and pepper scattering.

Hutch sighed, grabbed the paper towels and got down on hands and knees to clean up the mess.
Maybe he should start the whole thing over. Except—he needed to buy more eggs. They’d just have to make do with the scrambled mess.

Floor cleaned, Hutch rinsed the skillet and added back the now ruined frittata. He pulled off the burner, pleased he’d remembered to use pot holders, and threw it into the sink along with the drip pan.

He took a knife and cut off a few thin pieces of cheese and put them onto the eggs before searching for a lid to cover it and placing it on the back burner on low.

And he’d have just enough time to get dressed, help Starsky out of the tub, and eat breakfast before heading out to face the rest of the day.

He dressed quickly—shaving would wait until he got to the station, too. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Starsky, we’ve got to get going.” Hutch opened the door only to see Starsky scowling at him.

“About time. The damn water’s getting cold.” Starsky shivered as Hutch pulled the plug.

“Sorry. Breakfast and…never mind, just sorry.” Hutch handed Starsky a towel and braced his legs as Starsky used him as support to stand and dry himself off.

“Hang on,” Hutch said and gave Starsky the walker. “It’ll be better to dress in here. It’s warmer.”

He resisted the overwhelming urge to help Starsky dress. He’d gotten more than one talking to by Starsky’s therapists for not letting Starsky do things for himself. But damn, it took so long sometimes.

“I’m good,” Starsky said, batting Hutch’s hands away when he went to pull down the back of Starsky’s shirt. “Stop treating me like a child.”

Hutch raised his hands in surrender and went back to the kitchen. The cheese had melted nicely and Hutch divided the frittata into three servings, putting one on a plate and sliding it in the fridge.

He set the table, poured them each orange juice, arranged Starsky’s pills and waited.

Starsky finally emerged. Hutch glanced at the clock. “If I’m too much trouble, why don’t you just leave?” Starsky muttered.

“I didn’t say anything,” Hutch said. “C’mon. Eat.”

Starsky looked at the scrambled frittata and frowned. “I don’t want this. It looks like someone threw up. And I don’t like peppers in my eggs. Why didn’t you just make regular eggs?”

Hutch resisted the powerful urge to take the plate and dump it over Starsky’s head. “I wanted to use up some leftovers.” Hutch took a bite from his own plate.

“I wanted pancakes.” Starsky pushed the plate away. “Or plain eggs.”

“I don’t have time to make pancakes. And I couldn’t if I wanted to because we don’t have any eggs. I used the last of them.” Hutch pointed with his fork. “Take your pills.”

“Why didn’t you ask me what I wanted?” Starsky took his pills one by one.

“You were still asleep.” Hutch pushed his own plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. “I said I was sorry.”

“You think this is easy?” Starsky glared at him. “You think I like this? Maybe you’d have been happier if I’d…”

“Don’t you goddamn say that! Don’t you ever say that.” Hutch got up, scraped their plates in the trash, his hands shaking. “I have never once said that. Hell, I’ve never once thought it. So don’t you goddamn say that ever again.”

Starsky wouldn’t look at him, just got to his feet and made his way to the door.

Hutch did his normal last minute check of the house before heading out behind Starsky. He swallowed down bile and ignored his still shaking hands. They didn’t talk. They didn’t even look at one another.

“I love you,” Hutch said as he helped Starsky out of the car at the hospital, walked him to the door.

Starsky didn’t answer, and Hutch drove to the precinct, wondering where he’d gone wrong.

 

Act 2: Catalyst

Harold Dobey hadn’t been on the streets for years. Some days he missed it, but even though spent most of his time behind a desk—he was still a detective.

And for the past couple of months, his detecting skills were being put to use every day. When Hutch came back to work after the few weeks he’d taken off when Starsky first got out of the hospital, he thought everything was fine. He was wrong. He watched over the next weeks as Hutch’s skin became paler, as Hutch lost first the weight he’d gained over the past year, but then kept losing until he was the thinnest Dobey’d ever seen him. Hutch looked tired even though he was practically living on caffeine. He kept track of the times Hutch pinched his nose, rubbed his eyes, and looked ready to drop.

He asked repeatedly how things were going and always got a smile and a nod and a “great, captain. Starsky’s making progress.” What he didn’t get was any information about how Hutch himself was doing. Still, he didn’t have any reason to quibble with Hutch’s performance on the job. Hutch worked as hard as he’d ever seen him. When the higher ups talked about opening cold cases, Dobey recommended Hutch. It kept him safe and off the streets, and Hutch was good at putting together the puzzle pieces of old forgotten cases. He attacked each with a single-minded stubbornness and dedication, and three cases were now closed.

As Hutch came into his office after speaking to a possible witness to a twenty-year-old murder, Dobey inspected the man. He hadn’t thought it possible, but Hutch looked even more worn and thin than just a week ago. His hair was long past regulation length, nearly enough to pull back in one of those ponytails Dobey sometimes saw younger men wear.
“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Hutch asked. He looked as if he was afraid to lean back against the chair, perched as he was on the edge of the seat.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other week?” Dobey asked. “And relax. This isn’t the principal’s office.”

Hutch gave what could only be described as an attempt at a laugh. “I didn’t get sent to the principal’s office. I’m Hutch, not Starsky, remember?” But there was a bitterness to the words that Dobey couldn’t deny.

Dobey forced his own smile. “I’m asking again. Have you thought about what we discussed?” He interlaced his fingers, leaned forward.

Hutch was silent a long time, looking everywhere but at Dobey. But finally he shuddered and looked up, his gaze clear, direct, and if Dobey was honest, miserable. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

Dobey waited, gave Hutch the time and space he needed.

“I…I…I can’t decide. I’m not ready to make a decision like that. Not without Stars…Starsky.”

Dobey recognized the little stutter for what it was—he heard it only rarely. When Hutch was under a great deal of stress or strain like when he’d been badgered on the stand with the whole Rigger debacle or when he’d been so worn down by Starsky’s shooting.

“Ken.” Well, that got his detective’s attention. “You realize Starsky may not be able to be the cop he once was.”

He hadn’t thought it possible for Hutch’s face to grow paler, for the pinched look to become even more pinched.

“You don’t know that. He’s making progress. He’s working so damn hard. And.” Hutch stopped, brought a fist to his mouth.

Every line of his body radiated weariness, defeat. He finally slumped back in the chair. When Hutch spoke again, Dobey barely heard him. “I don’t want to take his dream away from him.”

Dobey opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he closed it again before Hutch noticed. What could he say? Don’t pin your hopes and future on Starsky’s being able to come back? Don’t let your partner’s career path affect your own? How could he say that to Hutch when he knew what it was like to lose a partner? At least Starsky survived against all odds. How could he destroy either man’s dream?

Dobey wondered if there were a few more miracles in store for his two detectives. He noticed Hutch get up to leave.

“Did I dismiss you, Hutchinson?” he barked.

Hutch looked at him in surprise but said nothing—just sat back down in the chair. That was something else new with his detective. Hutch was far too agreeable. It was as if all the fire and fight had gone out of him.

“I have some files for you,” Dobey said and got up to rummage in one of his filing cabinets. He kept one eye on Hutch as he did so, taking his time as he looked for something he didn’t need. He congratulated himself on still having the touch as Hutch’s head dipped to his chest and he slipped into sleep.

Dobey left his office, pulling the door shut behind him. “Simmons. Babcock. No one is to go in my office until I get back. Hutch is in there and he is not to be disturbed. Understood?”

Babcock, all concern, nodded. “You got it, Cap.”

“We’ll make sure he’s okay,” Simmons added. “If he asks where you’ve gone?”

“I’m going to pick up Starsky and take him home.” Dobey told them. “Tell Hutch everything is taken care of.”

“Yes, sir,” Simmons said. “And, Captain?”

Dobey turned to look at him.

“Good luck.”

Dobey was sure he was going to need all the luck in the world as Starsky got into his car at the hospital. Unlike the last time he’d seen him, Starsky was now using a cane.

“Where’s Hutch?” Starsky asked. Unlike his partner’s defeated aura, Starsky radiated pent up anger. “He was supposed to pick me up and take me home.”

“I don’t remember you being in charge of detectives, Starsky,” Dobey said as he drove. Oh, that got a reaction all right. He watched Starsky out of the corner of his eye, saw the jaw clench, the fist on his thigh tighten. “Hutch is doing something for me.” That it was getting some well-deserved rest wasn’t Starsky’s business for now as far as Dobey was concerned.

“Why are you going this way? This isn’t the way home,” Starsky started in as Dobey headed towards The Pits.

“We’re going out for lunch,” Dobey told him. “You don’t have any restrictions on what you eat any more, do you?”

“No. But…” Starsky mumbled something Dobey couldn’t hear.

“What?”

“No beer.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting you drunk,” Dobey said. “And I still have work to go back to.”

He got out and waited for Starsky to climb from the car.

“You able to make it down the steps?” he asked.

Starsky gave a curt nod. “I was gonna show Hutch. Just got it today, but I’ve been practicing for a while.”

Dobey hid a smile—so the prickles weren’t so prickly after all. It wasn’t hard to miss the way Starsky sounded like a little kid bringing home an A on a report card. Still, he kept a close eye on him as he made his way down the steps into Huggy’s. He kept wanting to reach out and steady the man. He thought of Hutch doing it day in, day out.

“Starsky!” Huggy came out from behind the bar, a huge smile on his face. “So you’ve finally graced my humble establishment with your presence once again.”

Dobey exchanged a glance with Huggy as Starsky gave more of a grimace than a grin.

“Guess it’s your lucky day,” Starsky said as he made his way towards a booth in the back.

“Where’s Blondie?” Huggy asked as he brought two glasses of water to the table.

“Doing a special assignment for me,” Dobey said before Starsky could make a disparaging remark.

“Two Huggy specials?” Huggy asked. “You ready for one of those, my man?”

Starsky shook his head. “Better not. Just a plain burger. No jalapenos or chili.”

“Turkey sandwich,” Dobey said. “And a Coke for me.”

“Me too,” Starsky echoed.

Huggy nodded, but not without a concerned glance at Dobey. Dobey barely nodded, but the intent was understood.

“How has your therapy been going?” Dobey asked after Huggy dropped off their drinks. He watched Starsky carefully for any signs he was lying.

“It’s going,” Starsky said, the words clipped.

“Good you’re using the cane now.” Dobey tested the waters.

“Guess so.” Starsky looked away. “What’s taking so long?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Dobey said. He used what he considered his calm dad voice—the one Edith reminded him he needed to use more often with Cal and Rosey.

Starsky turned his attention to the salt shaker and the silverware, rearranging them, pushing the salt shaker back and forth on the table.

“Starsky. Stop.”

Starsky looked up and for a moment, his eyes showed despair. If Dobey hadn’t known the man so well, he wouldn’t have noticed. But just like Hutch, Starsky was hurting, too.

Huggy dropped off their food without a word and retreated, but Dobey noticed even from his position behind the bar, he kept an eye on Starsky.

Dobey took a healthy bite of his turkey sandwich and noticed Starsky picking apart his burger, pulling it into little pieces. Cal used to do the same when he wanted to hide the vegetables he refused to eat as a much younger child.

“What’s going on between you and Hutch?” Dobey didn’t like beating around the bush. Better to just confront the problem head on.

“What d’ya mean?” Starsky still refused to meet his gaze—one of the sure signs he was lying.

“Dave.” That got his attention. Dobey continued, “Don’t insult my intelligence. I know you. I know Hutch. Something’s going on.”

Starsky pushed his plate to the side, drank the rest of his Coke in one long swallow. “We…I mean I…I’m too much trouble.”

“Hutch said that to you?” Dobey didn’t believe it for a second.

Starsky shook his head. “Of course not. He wouldn’t ever say anything like that. But…”

“You’re telling me he thinks it?” Dobey leaned forward. “You know what he does every day when he gets to work? He tells everyone how good you’re doing. How much progress you’re making.”

Starsky looked at him, finally, a bleak expression on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Of course.” He wrestled with his conscience for a moment before he continued. “I’ve talked to him about taking the exam for lieutenant.”

Starsky’s hands tightened on the edge of the table, but he nodded as if in total agreement. There was a slight catch in his voice when he spoke. “He should take it. Move on.”

“He doesn’t want to. You know what he told me today? That he won’t move up without you.”

Starsky’s breath became strained and Dobey reached out a hand in alarm.

“I gotta get out of here,” he said. “Please.”

It didn’t surprise Dobey in the least when Huggy came to their booth. Between the two of them, they got Starsky out of The Pits and into Dobey’s car.

“Cap’n?” Starsky finally said when Dobey turned the key in the ignition. “Can we, can you just drive?”

“I can do that. Where do you want to go?” Dobey pulled out into traffic, realizing Starsky seemed very close to breaking.

“Somewhere along the ocean. I can think better there.”

Starsky said nothing more as Dobey drove. He sat staring out the window and Dobey wondered what he actually saw. There was only the sound of an occasional intake of a harsher breath.

“Here,” Starsky’s voice broke the silence.

Dobey took the turnoff and followed the one lane road to a small deserted parking lot. He had no sooner pulled into a spot when Starsky flung open the door, grabbed the cane, and started making his way towards the ocean.

Dobey grabbed his keys and took off after him, suddenly afraid of Starsky’s state of mind. Surely he wouldn’t try to go into the ocean, hurt himself? He always prided himself on knowing his men, but this Starsky, this hurting, bitter, despairing man was so unlike the Starsky of before that he wasn’t sure of what would happen.

He breathed easier when he saw Starsky stop and stand by a bench right at the edge of the beach.. He came up beside him, slightly out of breath, and looked at Starsky. There were tears glistening in his eyes, and Dobey’s fear came rushing back. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen Starsky cry.

Starsky blinked and blinked again, and a few tears spilled down his face. He did not try to wipe them away.

“Dave.” Dobey put his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to do or say in the face of Starsky’s pain. His voice was hoarse when he tried again. “Son.” He might have only been ten years older than Starsky, but his men were family.

“I can’t,” Starsky said. The words were strangled, caught in the tightened cords of his throat.

“Can’t what?” Dobey asked, helpless in the grief that surrounded them both.

“They told me a few weeks back. The nerve damage, the…” Starsky stopped, used his free hand to wave in the air.

Dobey felt as if someone had punched him in the gut as the realization of what Starsky was saying, was trying to say hit him. “Dave, did the doctors tell you you’re not able to be a cop?”

“Who am I, Cap’n?” Starsky turned to face him. “Who am I if I’m not a detective? Not a cop?”

The slow flow of tears turned into a flood, and all the anguish came out in harsh, ugly sobs. The cane fell from a suddenly nerveless hand, and Dobey caught Starsky and guided him to the bench. He lowered him as gently as he could and sat down beside him, silent, aware that he wasn’t the one Starsky needed most. But he knew Starsky also wasn’t willing to let Hutch see, to let Hutch know.

The storm lasted for a far shorter time than Dobey expected. Starsky looked away, wiping his face with both hands and ducking his head.

“Here.” Dobey pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it to him.

Starsky took it without a word and cleaned up while he stared out at the waves.

“You know you need to tell Hutch about this,” Dobey finally said.

“I know.” Starsky sounded exhausted. “I know I do.” He turned finally to Dobey, eyes reddened. “What do I tell him? How do I…?”

“You tell him the truth. That’s what’s makes your partnership work. You are honest with each other. No matter the cost.”

Starsky took a shuddering breath. “I tried pushing him away.”

Dobey couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You can’t tell me you thought that would work? With Hutchinson?”

Starsky shrugged, and there was the faintest trace of a smile. “I didn’t want it to. I just wanted to give him an out.”

“Come on, Dave.” Dobey got to his feet and then helped Starsky up, kept a grip on him until he gained his balance. “I’ll take you home.”

The ride back to the apartment was quiet, but this time there was a different quality to it. A sense of calm, of resolve, seemed to have come over Starsky.

Dobey left him with a lighter heart than earlier and drove back to the station.

“Hey, Cap.” Babcock met him at the door to the squad room. “Hutch left your office about twenty minutes after you did. Went down to R and I to pull some files and then took off to do some interviews.”

“Alone?” Dobey still didn’t like Hutch going out into the streets alone, even if the cases he was investigating were cold ones.

“Nah, Simmons went with him.” Babcock followed Dobey into his office. “Is Starsky okay?”

“He’s okay,” Dobey said and then frowned. “Just because your partner isn’t here doesn’t mean you don’t have work to do, Babcock.”

Babcock nodded and left.

Dobey sat down at his desk. He pulled out a pad of paper and started making a list. He was damned if Bay City PD was going to lose two of the best men the force ever had. If Starsky and Hutch still wanted to serve the city, he would make sure they could.

 

Act 3: Unity

Starsky sat on the sofa, listened to Dobey’s car pull away. He still felt shaky. He made his way to the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. The dishes from breakfast and the evening before were in the sink—something Hutch had been taking care of ever since Starsky came home. Starsky felt a pang when he realized he had never once said thanks for that. He stood staring at them, remembering his own bitter words and the way Hutch’s voice shook when Starsky mentioned he should have died.

It had been a low blow—possibly the lowest blow Starsky could ever say to Hutch. Hutch, who remembered the bullets hitting Starsky, Hutch who had seen the aftermath and the blood, Hutch who sat with him as he recovered, held his hands against the pain, told him things would be okay.

He squirted dish soap in the sink, filled it with hot water, and stood, washing the dishes with his legs braced against the chair. He hung the towel over the back of the chair and went back to the sofa to call Huggy.

“Starsky?” Huggy asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you’d be able to pick up some groceries for me.” He hated not being able to drive, even though the therapists said it would be soon. Not that he had a car to drive. Not anymore.

Huggy didn’t hesitate. “Tell me what you need.”

Starsky gave him the order. He looked at the clock when he hung up. Hutch wouldn’t be home for at least four more hours, which would give him enough time to make a nice meal. He grabbed the battered cookbook Hutch used sometimes and flipped through it hunting for the handwritten recipes strewn throughout.

He smiled as he saw Hutch’s scrawled version of his mom’s pot roast carefully labeled Paul Muni Special. There was even a brief note that he knew his mom had said. “Davey will tell you he doesn’t like the vegetables. He’s lying.” There was a grease spattered recipe written in Italian with Hutch’s notations in English for stuffed veal. Another for Bear and Acorn stew, also known as Hutch’s beef stew. Finally, Starsky found it. Grandmother Olsen’s Roast Chicken and Dumplings. He was used to Hutch raving about the recipe, but Hutch had never made it for him—or for anyone else.

He read over it carefully and then again for good measure. The recipe was faded and worn and not in Hutch’s handwriting. Starsky ran a finger along the bottom edge of the paper where Hutch’s grandma had written the words For Kenny and Vanessa—may you always make this with love.

Starsky swallowed hard as he read that. He wasn’t Vanessa, but he certainly could put plenty of love into the dish.

He stretched out carefully on the sofa, suddenly tired, and closed his eyes. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he woke up with his heart pounding in rhythm with the knocking on the door.

“I’m coming,” he called.

“Got your delivery,” Huggy called back.

Starsky got to his feet and to the door without falling flat on his face. He counted it a victory.

Huggy came in with the bags, all smiles and helpfulness. “You doing okay, Starsky?” Huggy asked as Starsky handed him the supplies to go into the fridge.

“Yeah.” Starsky took a deep breath and realized it was true. He’d lanced the wound, drained the infection, and was ready to heal.

Huggy stared at him a long while, taking stock. He said nothing but gave a nod, as if Starsky met with his approval. They finished the job in silence.

“You need help?” Huggy pointed to the recipe Starsky put on the kitchen counter.

“No. This is something I gotta do. Just me,” Starsky said. “But thanks.” Then he continued. “For everything. You know.”

“I know,” Huggy said, and after a jaunty wave, he left Starsky standing alone.

He read the recipe through a couple of times—and took a deep breath. He could do this. And maybe the attempt would start repairing what had become broken between him and Hutch.

He followed the recipe carefully, although he’d forgotten to tell Huggy to buy saffron. Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter too much in the end.

Puttering around the kitchen relaxed the tension he’d been carrying since the morning, although his stomach still tightened when he thought of talking to Hutch later on. He didn’t think Dobey would tell Hutch what Starsky had known for two weeks. A part of him wished he would—it would take the pressure off. How had he survived four bullets but was afraid to talk to Hutch—his best friend, his lover, his partner?

He lowered the burner to simmer, set the table, complete with candlesticks and candles. Flowers would have been nice too, but he didn’t think Hutch would appreciate one of his own plants just plopped in the middle of the table.

Starsky sat down, his legs aching, muscles twinging. He turned on the TV to some soap opera, but his eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep to the sound of one of the doctors telling a crying woman her husband had amnesia.

“Starsk?”

Starsky woke with a start and a snort. He looked up and saw Hutch looking down at him.

“Your eyes are squinchy,” Starsky said.

“Squinchy.” Hutch repeated.

“You know.” Starsky scrunched up his face. “Squinchy.”

“Oh that squinchy,” Hutch said. He looked around. “Where’s your walker? Did you fall?” The words were staccato, sharp, quick.

“No walker,” Starsky said as he grabbed his cane and got to his feet. “I graduated.”

“That’s great!” Hutch smiled, but Starsky noticed it wasn’t Hutch’s usual smile—not the one that lit up his entire face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that smile. It seemed like years.

“Hutch, I…” Starsky began as Hutch said, “Starsky, we…”

Starsky laughed half-heartedly. “We gotta talk.”

“Yeah.”

Starsky thought Hutch looked like he was going to throw up any minute. Then he looked again, really looked, and saw what he’d been too wrapped up in his own misery to notice—the pale cast to Hutch’s skin, the dark circles under his eyes that only happened when Hutch was exhausted. He noticed the way the shirt Hutch wore hung on him. The line of the cords that used to hug Hutch’s legs now were loose.

“Sit down, babe,” Starsky told him. “Before you fall over.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that? You just got rid of the walker today. And I need to make supper. You gotta eat before you take your pills.”

Starsky shook his head and sat down on the sofa, patted the cushion beside him. “I cooked. Can’t you smell it?”

Hutch sank down onto the couch cushion. There would have been a time his head would have rested right on Starsky’s shoulder, but Hutch held himself rigid, as if he couldn’t allow himself to relax. “You order take out?”

“I’ll have you know Huggy brought me the groceries, and I made something special just for you.” Starsky watched as Hutch rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“You don’t think I can cook?” Starsky nudged him with his elbow and realized he shouldn’t have been able to feel ribs quite that easily.

“I know you can cook. I just worry about what you can cook.” Hutch’s voice sounded weary, despite the teasing tone.

“I want to talk,” Starsky said. He rubbed his hands on his jeans.

Hutch caught his breath, and Starsky took his hand.

“You act like I’m dy…” Okay, that wasn’t the best choice of words. “Like I’m gonna leave you or something.” Considering what he was about to say, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words either.

Hutch closed his eyes, pulled his shoulders up as if he could hide from a blow. Starsky wondered if it was leftover protection from when he was a child and words were thrown at him like punches.

“Babe, look at me. I got something to tell ya, and it’s gonna be okay.” Starsky tugged on Hutch’s hand and took a deep breath.

Hutch looked at him. He was terrified. Starsky could see it in the shadows of his eyes. He wondered briefly if this was the look Hutch had worn in the awful hours after the shooting, if Hutch’s eyes were as bleak as they were now.

“I had an exam with Doctor Gregory two weeks ago. Remember me telling you about it?”

Hutch nodded and licked his lips. Starsky could see the pulse beating in the strong column of Hutch’s throat.

“I’m out. There’s nerve damage. I’m never gonna be able to get back to what I was, who I was before. There’s still gonna be improvement, and I’ll eventually be able to ditch the cane, but I’m off the streets for good.”

He sat back, waiting, unsure of what Hutch’s reaction would be.

“Two weeks ago.” When Hutch spoke, it was a whisper.

Starsky nodded, watching, searching Hutch’s face for a clue to his thoughts.

Hutch’s hands curled into fists. He stood, paced back and forth. He stopped and raised his finger—the finger of doom, Starsky liked to tease, but now…now Starsky kept his mouth shut. The finger came back down, and Hutch resumed his pacing.

Finally, to Starsky’s relief, he stopped, but he didn’t sit. He stood, his breath coming faster.

“Two fucking weeks?” Hutch didn’t yell, but it was a tone Starsky recognized very well—that low, quiet, intense tone that meant business.

“You’ve known for two fucking weeks and you never once thought that me, your partner, your best friend, your goddamn lover would want to know?”

“I didn’t know how,” Starsky said softly. He held out his hand, which was ignored. “It… Hutch, I don’t know who I am if I’m not a cop. I don’t know what I am.”

Hutch ran his hand through his hair, shook his head, and let out an explosive breath. “Were you even listening to me, Starsk? You’re my partner.”

“I was your partner,” Starsky said, the bitterness he’d felt for the past two weeks building.

“You’re my partner,” Hutch insisted. “You knew. That’s why you were… I thought it was me.”

“No. Babe, no. Not you,” Starsky reached out again, caught Hutch’s hand and held tight. “Never you. I felt like I let you down somehow. All the work you’ve been doing and you wanting…”

Hutch sat down on the floor so abruptly that Starsky thought he’d fallen.

“Hutch?”

An awful sound came from Hutch, and Starsky grew very worried. “Babe? Talk to me?”

Hutch shook his head, but he moved closer, leaned his head on Starsky’s knee.

“You’re scaring me, darlin’. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I’m okay with it. I really am.”

Hutch mumbled something Starsky couldn’t make out, but he didn’t ask Hutch to repeat it. He just sat, quiet, rested his hand on Hutch’s broad back, and waited. And Starsky came to realize Hutch wasn’t crying like he originally thought—he was laughing. Laughing so hard, his body was shaking with it. “What the hell? You think it’s funny?” He felt suddenly angry.
Hutch dug his fingers into Starsky’s thigh and under Starsky’s hand, the shuddering came to a halt. Hutch took a deep breath and looked up at Starsky.

His face was more red than pink and his eyes were bright with that watery look they had when Hutch laughed and cried at the same time.

“Not funny,” Hutch said with a gasping breath. He shook his head. “Don’t you see?”

Starsky frowned. “Blintz, sometimes you worry me.”

Hutch kept his hold on Starsky’s thigh, although he released his tight grip a fraction. “I kept telling Dobey I was waiting for you. He’s been after me to take the lieutenant’s exam.” He hiccupped before he continued. “I don’t want back on the streets. I don’t want to pull my gun again. Starsk, I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

Starsky rested his hand on Hutch’s cheek—so dear, so precious. He wanted those lines to disappear. He wanted the smile like sunshine after rain to grace Hutch’s face again. “If you take the exam…”

Hutch shook his head. “You really think I’m gonna be happy telling other people what to do?”

Starsky snorted. “You’ve done fine bossing me around all these years.”

Hutch made a noise halfway between a laugh and a hiccup. “You’re different.”

“So, what do you want to do?” Starsky asked.

Hutch shrugged. “I feel like I’m making a difference with the cold cases. But I’d be better if you were by my side.”

“You think they’re gonna want a crippled cop on the force?” Starsky patted the sofa cushion. “Get up here before you can’t move.”

Hutch levered himself onto the couch with a groan. “You’re not crippled. You…you’re a miracle.”

“Don’t feel like it most days,” Starsky said. But he knew Hutch was right. He had survived against all odds—and the reason he’d made it as far as he had was sitting right beside him. Hutch had held the faith when Starsky hadn’t been able to. When he’d wanted to give up, Hutch kept him going. And not for his own selfish reasons, but because he knew it was what Starsky wanted.

“We could make a difference,” Hutch continued.

Starsky felt a flutter of hope. “Seems to me you’re doing a pretty good job of it alone.”

Hutch shook his head. “Lucked out on two of them, really. Overlooked documents in both cases. But there’s a lot of ’em, Starsk. They all deserve justice.” Hutch ran a hand through his already disheveled hair.

For the first time in a long time, Hutch sounded passionate about what they did. “You think the brass’ll go for it?”

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so. Dobey’d be on our side. It’s a pilot program—we could be the ones who make it into something meaningful. Something that matters.”

Starsky took a deep breath. “And what if they don’t let me back?”

Hutch gazed at him, his eyes sparking blue. “Then I’m out.”

“Damn it, Hutch. You’re a great cop.”

“I’m a great cop when I’m your partner. Without you there, I’m off kilter. Unbalanced.”

“What about those victims?” Starsky pushed. “Don’t they still deserve justice?”

Hutch let out an explosive sigh. “They do. I just can’t be the one to give it to them. Not alone, and not if it’s not on my, our terms.”

Starsky nodded. “You wanna talk to Dobey about it?”

Hutch nodded. “We can call him tomorrow. But first… what smells so good? And what have you done with the other Starsky?”

Starsky grinned and stood up, grabbing his cane and reaching out for Hutch’s hand. “He went away, realized he was an asshole to the person he loves best. As for what you’re smelling. I cooked.”

Hutch followed him to the table, smiled at the candles and the table settings. He let out a whistle. “If I wasn’t already an attached man, I’d think you’re seducing me, David Michael.”

“Who says I’m not?” Starsky waggled his eyebrows at Hutch and laughed when Hutch did. “Dinner’s a surprise. Sit down.”

He hadn’t thought of how he was going to get the food to the table, but he went back for Hutch’s plate and filled it before carefully setting it down before him. By the time he came back with his own plate, Hutch was sitting with his head bowed down, staring at the plate.

“Hutch?” Starsky didn’t know what to make of Hutch’s reaction.

“Grandmother’s Chicken and Dumplings.” Hutch looked up and smiled. “I haven’t had it for years. This is…you’re amazing, Starsk.”

Starsky sat down. “I forgot the saffron. And I don’t know if I did everything…”

“Starsky?”

“Hmm?” Starsky paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Shut up and eat.” Hutch took a bite, looking directly at him.

Starsky watched as Hutch closed his eyes and chewed. His own forkful forgotten, Starsky waited for the verdict.

“I feel like I’m back on the farm.” Hutch went in for another bite. He smiled—the smile that made Starsky’s insides go all aflutter. “Grandmother always said you should make it with love—that you could taste it.”

“Yeah?” Starsky couldn’t take his eyes off Hutch.

“I can taste it, babe,” Hutch said.

“Really?” Starsky finally dug into his own portion. He had to admit, the meal had turned out pretty damn good. “I was thinking today. Once Dobey talked to me. Once I got my head out of my ass.”

“About…”

“Us. Maybe ’bout how I can show you some other loving,” Starsky said.

Hutch bumped his foot against Starsky’s. “Mmm hmm.”

“You know I didn’t have time to make dessert.” Starsky stared at Hutch while he slowly ate another bite.

“You know I’ve always liked creamy desserts,” Hutch said.

“I might be able to take care of you, Kenneth Richard.” Starsky felt suddenly warm, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the food.

“Maybe I should put the food away right now.” Hutch suggested as he took his plate to the fridge. “Maybe we might be hungry later.”

“Maybe.” Starsky agreed. “Maybe I should go check on dessert while you get things cleared up.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Starsky went to the bedroom. He looked at the bed, suddenly apprehensive despite the stirring in his lower belly. They hadn’t had sex since before Gunther. Not that he hadn’t been willing and wanting throughout his recovery. His body just hadn’t wanted to cooperate. Even listening to Hutch panting and grunting in the shower had done nothing to wake up a certain part of his anatomy. What if he couldn’t? Would Hutch take it as an affront?

He slowly stripped and lay down on the bed. In the kitchen, Hutch was banging pans and slamming drawers in his haste to get back to the room.

Starsky closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, practicing the visualizations his therapist had taught him to deal with his fears and anxiety after the shooting.

He heard Hutch come into the room, kept his eyes closed while Hutch undressed and then lay down next to him.

“So beautiful,” Hutch whispered. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Hutch ran a hand down his arm to his wrist, turned it over and pressed a kiss there—right over Starsky’s pulse.

Starsky felt his heart speed up as Hutch worked his way back up Starsky’s arm, a kiss every inch.

“Hut…” Starsky groaned as Hutch moved his attention to Starsky’s collarbone and then the hollow of his throat. A barely there nip, and then Hutch moved lower.

“You like this, David Michael?” Hutch whispered against Starsky’s sweat slick skin. He shivered under the breath.

“I like very much.” Starsky gasped as the need he thought was gone for good awakened under Hutch’s loving attention.

“Open your eyes,” Hutch demanded. “I want to see you look at me.”

Starsky obeyed—he could do nothing else at that voice. Hutch’s eyes were dark, his lips reddened and glistening. “Hutch.”

Hutch straddled him, bent down and peppered Starsky’s chest and abdomen with kisses. “Let me. Let me.”

“Always.” Starsky caught his breath as Hutch moved lower, used his tongue to lick Starsky’s suddenly cooperating cock. He grabbed Hutch’s hair as Hutch took him fully into his mouth. His mind whirled—sparks and a kaleidoscope of colors, although he couldn’t seem to form a single word. He’d forgotten what it was like. He thought he never would feel it again, but here they were, back together, back the way they belonged. As he came, he let out a cry of triumph—release, joy, passion all tumbling out and into Hutch. He reached out blindly towards Hutch, covered Hutch’s hand with his own and helped Hutch reach his own release.

Starsky drifted a bit, only coming back to reality when a warm, damp cloth touched his belly. He opened his eyes again. Hutch was sliding the washcloth over his chest, over the scars, his mouth moving, although Starsky couldn’t hear a thing.

“Hutch?” Starsky pushed himself into a sitting position.

Hutch dropped the cloth on the floor, looked at Starsky with his eyes gone wide and oh so blue.

“Babe? You okay?”

“Thank you.” Hutch’s voice cracked, and he leaned forward, put his head on Starsky’s shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whispered.

“That should be my line,” Starsky said. “You made me feel…I forgot what it was like. Didn’t know I’d ever be able to.”

Hutch raised his head, shook it emphatically. “Not that. Thank you for living.”

Starsky smiled, rubbed his thumb over the line between Hutch’s brow. “You’re worth it. Although I don’t know how much I had to do with it.”

“I don’t think I could have gone on if…” Hutch cleared his throat. “You know.”

One time when Starsky had been a kid, his dad had taken him to Coney Island-just him alone. Nick was too little, his dad said. And his mom had waved them off with a smile, reminding them not to eat too many hot dogs and popcorn. Of course they hadn’t listened but what Starsky remembered now was his dad taking him on a ride where the little car twisted and turned along a track. It was dark and scary but at the end, they came out into the sunshine again and all the fear was gone. He felt that way now—as if he and Hutch had finally come back into the sunshine, no matter that outside it was night. And he realized just how terrified Hutch had been on this long long ride.

“Here.” Starsky opened his arms, and Hutch relaxed into his embrace willingly. “It’s time to rest, Kenneth Richard. We’re back in the sun.”

“Huh?” Hutch murmured. Starsky could feel his body already growing heavy with sleep.

“Later. There’ll be time later,” Starsky said. He kissed Hutch’s shining hair. There was. There would be. At the moment it felt like they had all the time in the world. And that was all that mattered. Him and Hutch together? They could make a difference. After all, Starsky thought, they had a pretty good record so far. Maybe there were a few more dragons out there still waiting to be slain.