After Hours

198

While Starsky is recovering from Gunther’s assassination attempt, he gets an unusual late night visitor: Sugar, the transvestite entertainer from the Green Parrot. Their unusual conversations gives Starsky a lot to think about.

 

Author’s note: Special thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta, Jadis.

Originally published in the zine Dance With the Devil by Lucy and Elaine in 2003. Art by Ruth Kurz.

---

 

He awoke to the sound of machinery, the steady hum washing over him, strangely reminiscent of the waves he heard crashing on the beach those nights he’d spent at Venice Place. In fact, the way he felt—the overall exhaustion and fatigue, coupled with the stiffness that originated in his neck and seemed to go all the way to his toes—he could almost believe that he’d simply slept over on Hutch’s old lumpy couch….if it wasn’t for the steel side rails or the I.V. the ward nurse had been forced to replace following the impromptu party beneath the sprinklers.

Turning his head gingerly, he saw a shadow sitting in the corner, silent, just outside his peripheral vision.

“Hutch?”

“No…” came the quiet reply. ”Sorry.”

The voice wasn’t familiar and, for a moment, he felt a flash of fear, still shaken by the most recent attempt on his life. He moved his hand, the one he would have normally used to reach for his gun, towards the call button. Feeling, more than hearing the near soundless hitch in his breathing, small beads of perspiration slid down his face. He cursed silently, hating this newfound weakness almost as much, if not more, than the man who’d caused it.

“Do I know you?”

The chair scraped across the cold tile floor as his visitor moved closer, this time securely within sight. It didn’t matter. Although there was something familiar about the short, middle-aged man with closely cropped hair, lines cutting deep into a face that spoke of too much sadness and too many cigarettes, and eyes that sparked equal parts amusement and grief, he still couldn’t put his finger on just how, or where, they’d met.

“You realize Officer Starsky,” he began with exaggerated politeness. “I had assumed that it would be harder to get in to see you. I mean, given your celebrity status…”

He gripped the small paging device silently, his thumb hovering cautiously over the button. What had Hutch told him when he’d left? ‘The nurses will be in here in 15 seconds if you need anything-probably less if you keep flashing your baby blues at ’em.’

“…I was fully expecting to be subjected to a full body search…” The voice changed, became higher, teasing, more familiar. “In fact, you could say that I was counting on it, but the boys in blue never fail to disappoint. Do they, doll?”

Synapses fired and memories, all of them bad, came flooding back. Tension, old and all but forgotten, coursed through him, replacing the fear with which he’d become so recently acquainted.

“Now, if that partner of yours with all of that divine blond hair had been doing his duty, I probably would have insisted. As it was, someone out there’s had one too many donuts, if you know what I mean. And that is not a good look in street blues.”

“Sugar?” He croaked, disbelievingly, even as the call button slipped from his fingers.

“Got it in one, lover.” The man smiled, though the expression did not completely touch his eyes….eyes that Starsky better remembered painted in various shades of green, black, and gold.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, not completely sure that he wasn’t still asleep.

“Just wondering what the chances are that I’d ever be able to convince anyone down at the bar that I’d had the opportunity to watch the incomparable Officer Starsky while he lay dreaming—looking, if I may say so, like Lucifer himself must have looked the day he was cast out of heaven….” Sugar paused meaningfully. “Right after he hit the rock quarry, that is.”

Starsky closed his eyes. Dreaming? He thought disgustedly. Is that what they called it?

“Were they bad? The dreams, I mean.” There was no pretense in Sugar’s voice, just concern, plain and simple, making Starsky wonder just how long he’d been sitting there.

Reopening his eyes, Starsky turned to face his unexpected visitor. The clock radio that Hutch had left on the bedside table read 2:19 and the shadows cast by the light streaming in from the hall failed to obscure the dark smudges beneath the lounge singer’s eyes—smudges that Starsky was pretty sure weren’t mascara.

“Surely you have something better to do than watch me sleep,” he stated quietly, then closed his eyes once again, too tired to keep them open. “I read about it in the papers.”

He could feel Sugar lean in closer and straighten the blanket around him, carefully, avoiding snagging the I.V.

“It must have been terrible.”

Starsky laughed. “I read about it too—I sure as hell don’t remember any of it.”

“It’s probably better that way.”

“So they say.” He coughed and immediately felt a hand slide beneath his neck, lifting him. He opened his mouth hesitantly and took a small drink. “Thanks. You wouldn’t be thinkin’ about changin’ careers, would ya?”

Sugar snorted derisively. “While I do look fabulous in white, officer, I prefer my men standing…”

Managing to open one eye, Starsky raised his eyebrow disbelievingly as Sugar lowered him back down to the pillow.

“Well…” Sugar winked, and for a moment, Starsky found himself missing the fake lashes, the Carol Channing hair, and the cheap imitation jewelry. He shook his head, thinking that he must be dopier than he thought. However, the fact was that he actually found it somewhat disconcerting to be flirted with by someone who could have passed easily for one of mother’s brothers….that is, if his mother had a brother.

“You didn’t answer the question, Sugar” He stated abruptly. “What are you doing here? It’s two o’clock in the morning and while it might have been an unexpected perk for you to find me here all lit up like a Christmas tree with all these bells and whistles, I can’t imagine that you came all the way out here to watch me sleep.”

Something shifted.in the other man’s countenance, but Starsky didn’t care. He wasn’t sure what game Sugar was playing, but he hadn’t trusted the man two years ago and he wasn’t about to start now. “Besides, don’t you have a show in, say, 30 minutes?”

“Oh, you think I like seeing you like this, you ungrateful little prick?” Sugar’s voice broke unexpectedly as he leaned forward, grabbed Starsky’s chin, and forced him to meet his gaze. “Well, you’re right. I do get a kick out of seeing you all lit up like a goddamn tree, because it sure as hell beats the alternative, doesn’t it? Whether you like it or not, Dave, I didn’t just show up out of nowhere,” Sugar informed him, his voice little more than a raspy hiss. “I was here when they brought you in. I watched that blustering captain of yours turn down meal after meal, despite the fact that the man looks like he never missed a meal in his entire life, all the while trying to run a precinct from a barren waiting room overrun with the city’s finest.

“I also watched a very old friend leave his business in the hands people who—true or no— he really believes will rob him blind the minute his back is turned so that he could be here to make sure that you were still alive and that if you weren’t that your partner didn’t take down the whole city for lunch and then eat his own gun for dessert.” Sugar loosened his grip and stroked Starsky’ s chin apologetically.

“And I was also here the day that you did die and I was here when your big, butch partner burst through those emergency doors as if he could will your heart to beat again and, then, made it happen.”

Starsky opened his mouth, wanting to deny the images but he didn’t have the words.

“And, later,” Sugar continued, mercilessly, as if blind to Starsky’s silent plea. “…I watched his tear streaked face as he leaned against the observation glass praying to some god that he obviously didn’t believe in.” He hesitated, and then took a deep breath. “And long before those slugs tore through your gut and turned your world to shit, I used to dance and sing on a bar and listen to a handsome stranger, who meant far more to me than you could ever know, or possibly even appreciate, tell his lover—his male lover—about a young man by the name of David Starsky—the son he’d never had.” Sugar’s face hardened.

“So yes, you self-centered little bastard, I do get a kick out of seeing you here,” he finished dramatically. “Just exactly like this.”

To Starsky’s amazement, Sugar’s eyes filled with tears. Obviously embarrassed, he jerked his hand away from Starsky’ s face and wiped his eyes angrily.

“Oh, Jesus,” Sugar laughed, a brittle sound. “I’m sorry, officer. I must be more tired than I thought.”

“It’s all right,” Starsky slurred, moving slowly, easing the pressure from his shoulder, while keeping his unlikely companion in sight. “What’s going on, Sugar?” he asked, with none of his previous sarcasm. It was obvious that the other man was hurting, and Starsky wasn’t so far gone that he hadn’t noticed that Sugar had yet to tell him how he’d come to be at the hospital in the first place. “Why are you here?”

“A friend of mine is in another ward,” he answered shortly, as if that explained something…everything.

Starsky remained silent; in fact, he found himself wanting to drift off, but he was determined to hear what his visitor had to say.

“My lover,” Sugar supplied finally. “He’s dying. When they throw me off his floor, I come here. There are so many people waiting to see you,” he remarked, his voice somewhat defiant, “they hardly notice one more.”

Starsky looked away, somehow not wanting to witness the devastating emotion in one that he himself had tried and convicted as both judge and jury and who, resurrected, with an uncanny ability, the same awkwardness he’d felt when talking to Peter Whitelaw. That same uneasiness he’d experienced while watching Hutch sleep in the uncomfortable bedside chair, wrapped in all of his grief, fear, and—if the truth were told—madness, for the entire world to see.

“You’re disgusted, aren’t you?” Sugar asked unexpectedly, his voice surprisingly calm after his emotional outburst and his oddly emotionless admission. “You’d rather I go sit in the parking lot, wouldn’t you?”

Starsky shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Really?” Sugar questioned archly, his voice colored with disbelief. “Whatever for?”

Despite his best intentions, sleep was fast approaching. “For being the ungrateful prick you said I was,” Starsky managed softly. “And for your friend. For both of your friends.”

It was Sugar’s turn for silence.

“And you were right,” Starsky admitted as he reached out his hand…a hand which the other man took only hesitantly.

“About?”

“The dreams…” Starsky stifled a yawn before burrowing his face deep in the limp pillowcase. “…they’re terrible.”

* * * *

“Rise and shine, buddy. Time for breakfast.”

He opened his eyes and took in the tray of oatmeal and Jell-O. “I thought you were bringin’ burritos?”

Hutch laughed, reaching around and helping him sit up. “Not on your life, Gordo, after the other night, the nurses were checkin’ me over with a fine toothed comb.”

“Terrific,” Starsky groaned as Hutch held up a spoonful of the unappetizing goop. “I guess it’s too much to hope that there’s a little butter and sugar in there, huh?”

“Sorry.”

Hutch lifted the spoon to his lips and Starsky forced himself to take a bite, grimacing. It was cold. Ten bucks said the Jell-O was equally warm.

“Maybe tomorrow though,” Hutch placated, as he scooped up another spoonful. “By the way, Starsk, how did you sleep last night? The doctor says you slept through the 5:30 rounds. That’s the first time this week.”

Starsky allowed Hutch to feed him and then forced himself to swallow. “I actually had a bizarre dream last night.”

“About the shooting?” Hutch asked, his expression clouded with concern. When Starsky didn’t answer, Hutch offered another bite of the offensive cereal. “Come on, this is good for you.”

“Tastes like shit.”

Hutch laughed, obviously in spite himself, and Starsky smiled.

They sat in silence, while Starsky forced himself to eat at least half of the food on his tray. He knew that if he ate less than that, Hutch would worry about him the rest of the day, but if he ate any more than that, he’d be less likely to be able to convince his partner to bring him some real food when he came back at 7:00.

When he came back at 7:00. Starsky stole a surreptitious glance at his friend who was there every morning at 6:45 to make sure he had his breakfast, at work by 8:00, and back by 6:45 to supervise dinner and to watch a couple of hours of T.V.

Not for the first time, Starsky saw the exhaustion that marked Hutch’s Nordic good looks, the pale blue veins that seemed increasingly pronounced beneath the fading tan. Life hadn’t been kind to Hutch, and Starsky was suddenly aware…more than he wanted to be…that many of the ravages that marked Hutch’s fair beauty were caused by him.

‘I was here when your big, butch partner burst through those emergency doors as if he could will your heart to beat again and made it happen…and later I watched his tear streaked face as he leaned against the observation glass praying to some god that he obviously didn’t believe in.’

Dreams or memories? Starsky couldn’t be sure, wasn’t even sure it mattered

“Want to talk about it?”

Starsky shook his head.

“It might help.”

“It might,” he conceded ironically. “But, then again, it might not.” Catching his friend’s frown, Starsky sighed and pushed the half-empty tray away. Deciding to go with the improbable, rather than the disturbing, Starsky managed a crooked grin. “I dreamed that Sugar was my candy-striper.”

Pale blue eyes flew open in surprise. “Sugar? From the Green Parrot?” When Starsky nodded, Hutch went on, “You do realize, buddy…” The blond leered suggestively. “…That is one image that I did not need to have in my head.” Then, conversationally, “Did she offer to change your catheter?”

“You’re real funny, you know that?” Starsky shifted ever so slightly. Though part of him started to reply in kind, another decided to be honest. “Actually, babe, he told me about what happened when I died—you know, about how hard it was for everyone. Huggy. Dobey.” Starsky looked away. “You.”

“Wuh, well…” Hutch stammered, the entire mood in the room swiftly changed. “I’m not an expert on these things, Starsk, but don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, you’re remembering what happened and that your mind…for whatever reason…picked the unlikely vehicle of Sugar to help facilitate that?”

Starsky shrugged. “I don’t know, Hutch. It seemed pretty real.”

Hutch leaned forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the mattress, and clasped his hands in front of his face. “You think Sugar was really here, Starsk? Why? And even if she was here, what’s the likelihood of her being able to slip in without somebody noticing?”

“Not a ‘she,’ but a ‘he.'”

“What?”

“It wasn’t like he was all dolled up or anything like that—he just looked like a normal guy.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why she—he—was here or how he got by the guards.” Hutch shook his head. “I don’t like it, Starsky. I mean, no offense, but why, of all people, would Sugar come visit you, huh? It’s not like either one of us did a damn thing to endear ourselves while we were at the Parrot.” The words ‘you least of all’ hung between them, unspoken.

Starsky shrugged and then sucked on his upper lip lingeringly. “He said his lover was in the hospital—dying. He said he came down here when he couldn’t stand it anymore.”

Hutch opened his mouth, then closed it without saying a word.

“He seemed different, Hutch— sad.” Starsky trailed off, then looked up and caught Hutch’s look. “He told me that John used to tell Whitelaw that I was the son that he never had.”

The tall blond sighed and laid his hand over Starsky’s. “I’m sure that John did tell Whitelaw that. It was no secret how much he cared about you.”

“I miss him, Hutch.”

“Yeah, me too, buddy.”

Silence surrounded them for a moment before Hutch pulled his hand away.

“You want me to stay today? I could read you one of those murder mysteries that Dobey sent over to make sure you don’t lose your edge.”

Starsky yawned, but then shook his head. “No thanks, blintz.  I’m all right.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.” Starsky hesitated. “You know what?”

Hutch raised his eyebrows silently.

“It probably was just a dream—you know, what I said about Sugar bein’ here. So, don’t bother mentionin’ it to the guard, okay? It’s bad enough that they all think I’m an invalid… don’t think I could stand it if they thought I was completely losin’ it.”

“You sure?”

Starsky grinned reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t wanna be put back in the psych ward again. Once was enough.”

Hutch stood, sliding the chair back against the wall. “Be here when I get back?”

“Oh, I think that’s a pretty safe bet, don’t you?”

“Okay, babe, see you at 6:00.”

* * * *

Glass shattered as the bullets tore threw metal…through flesh. The ungodly sounds of death and destruction and unmistakable smells of melted rubber, burnt leather, and blood filled his senses.

 “Hutch! Get down Hutch!” Pain ripped through his chest, setting off a coughing jag that shook his entire body.

Strong hands clamped his shoulders, forcing him back down into the bed. “Wake up, Officer Starsky—it’s just a dream.  Damn you, wake up!”

His eyes fluttered open and, gradually, he recognized that the only thing he could smell was the faint tinge of antiseptic mixed with his own sweat.

“There, there, doll. It was just a dream. You’re safe now…you’re all right. Hutch is too.”

“Sugar?”

“That’s right. Sugar’s here…it’s all right. Go back to sleep now…I’m right here. I got you, baby…go back to sleep….it’s okay.”

* * * *

The next night, Starsky palmed his sleeping pills and slipped them furtively beneath his pillow, while the nurse was futzing with the blinds. Overall, he thought happily as he feigned fatigue, it had been a good day. The I.V. had been removed and Hutch had finally been swayed to sneak him in a sandwich and chips from the deli up the road. Even though the diet police had vetoed Starsky’s request for beefsteak and cheese on rye, smoked turkey and mozzarella on a homemade Kaiser tasted like heaven after three weeks of hospital food, aside from those four bites of veal he’d managed before the sprinklers went off. And while he could tell that his partner was tired, they’d played two games of chess before Hutch had called it a night.

Once Hutch had checked in to let him know that he’d made it home, Starsky curled up with one of Dobey’s mysteries and waited.

Based on his conversation with the guard that afternoon, it seemed like there was a ten to fifteen minute window between midnight and one, when the door was left unattended. On the off chance that Sugar really was sneakin’ in his room at night, Starsky told the guard that he was expecting a late night visitor and not to sweat it if a 50ish something man showed up around midnight.

‘Sort of short and scrawny? Short hair? Chain smoker?’ ‘Yeah, that’s him. You seen him?’

‘Yeah, a couple of times. Friend of yours?’

‘Uh, family—an uncle who works the night shift.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know you had family out here, detective. Actually, I’m surprised Officer Hutchinson didn’t mention it.’

‘Well, we’re not particularly close. You know how it is—you only see each other when there’s something wrong.’

‘Yeah, ain’t that the way it is with family these days?’

‘Yeah. Just don’t give him any hassle, all right?’

‘No problem. So, when you think you’re gonna get out of this place?’

‘Don’t you mean when can you look forward to getting out of this place?’

‘Well, now that you mention it…’

He turned the reading light off at 12:15 and at 12:45 the door opened quietly. He waited in silence until Sugar had settled in the bedside chair.

“Can I get you something, Sugar? Coffee, perhaps? Tea?”

Sugar gasped, then stood up, indignantly. “Jesus Christ, officer, you could scare a girl to death like that.”

Starsky reached over and flipped on the lamp. “Nice to see you, too. And thanks for the wake up last night.”

Sugar took a seat, his expression still flustered. “I take it you’re feeling better, Officer?”

Starsky laughed. “I think we’re a little past that. How’s your friend?”

The older man shrugged, lines of fatigue marring his brow. “Today wasn’t a good day. How’s yours?”

Starsky blinked. “You mean Hutch?”

“Who else would I mean? Unless, of course, there’s someone else?”

Starsky flushed at the innuendo in the other man’s voice and was immediately mad at himself for taking the bait. “It’s hardly the same thing,” he remarked caustically.

“And why not?” Sugar asked, sounding completely sincere. ”He’s certainly handsome enough to tempt a saint—are you so above temptation, David, that you’ve never even considered the possibility?”

“We’re straight, Sugar,” he answered roughly, uncomfortable with the sound of his given name rolling off the other man’s tongue. “There’s no possibility to consider”

“Oh, damn…” Sugar battered his eyelids dramatically. ”Another day, another dollar. How am I going to break it to the boys at the bar? Though there’s always that statute of limitations…guaranteed at 15% for up to three years following…”‘

“What?” Starsky interrupted rudely. “What the heck are you talking about?”

“The pool, of course.” Sugar reached out and straightened the blanket. “The boys at the bar have had a pool running whether or not you and the illustrious Officer Hutchinson really were what you appear to be.”

Starsky shook his head, signaling his confusion. And while he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the unfrocked drag queen was talking about, he couldn’t help himself. “What we appear to be?”

“You know…” Sugar rested his chin on his hand coquettishly. “…Two big, straight, macho cops…the stuff from which rough trade fantasy is born.” He sat up suddenly. “The minute you two walked in, the boys sat up a pool—you know, both gay, one gay the other not, the other gay the other not, both not but gay curious, gay and together, gay and not together…”

Starsky covered his face. “I get the picture,” he mumbled. “And just how, by the way, were you ever going to find out who won? I mean, it’s not like either one of us would be advertising the fact even if we were…you know.”

“Pish tosh, my love, it was a bit of fun. But now that I know….” Sugar trailed off thoughtfully. “You know, David, a lot of men are going to be out quite a bit of cash….myself included. Are you sure you wouldn’t reconsider?”

Starsky’s head jerked up, but it didn’t take him long to realize the other man was teasing. Forcing himself to look for the humor in the situation and, much to his surprise, finding it, he managed a weak smile. “So you’re telling me that both straight didn’t have a lot of takers?”

Sugar laughed. “Darling, your friend Huggy is going to be a very rich man.”

Thank God for Huggy.

“It’s too bad though that he hedged his bets at the last minute. I think he could have stood to win close to $500.”

“What?!” Starsky sat up too quickly; a sharp pain tore through his chest. Sugar’s hands were right there, steadying him, adjusting his pillow so as to take the weight off of his abdomen. “Huggy hedged his bet?” His voice squeaked in disbelief.

“Yep—fifty on both straight and $25 one gay and one curious….” Sugar closed his eyes and then shook his head. “..Or did he go with one true pairing?”

Starsky’s eyes widened. “One true pairing?”

“You know…” Sugar fluttered his hands gracefully. “…You’d never look at another man, but one day you just look up and it’s like you’ve found religion.”

“I didn’t know I was looking for it.”

“Don’t be droll, my dear,” Sugar admonished with mock gravity. “And you cannot tell me that you’ve never looked.”

“I’ve never looked.”

“And I’ve never waxed either.”

Stomach tightening, Starsky shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t looked. Why would I look at my best friend, huh?”

“Because he’s the hottest thing around?” Sugar smiled suggestively. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Starsky shook his head, closing his eyes as he lay back down on the perpetually flat pillow. Sugar had a point: Hutch was easy on the eyes. But just because the ladies and, apparently, some men seemed to be attracted to the blond like bees to a honeycomb didn’t mean that he was. He had half a mind to tell Sugar that if he was so god awful hot for Hutch then maybe he should give him a call—but the other half knew that that was one offer he’d never make. Geez, his head hurt just thinkin’ about it…finding religion, indeed.

“You fall asleep on me over there, sailor?”

“No,” Starsky answered shortly.

“I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I?” Sugar leaned forward and re-straightened the blanket, giving Starsky’s chest a gentle pat…a gesture not unlike the one his mother had used when she’d tuck him in after he’d lost a fight with some bully at school. “You pissed at me, Officer?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he admitted without opening his eyes. “I guess that I’m just surprised that you’re all hot for my partner, that’s all.”

“Well, then, I guess we’re even.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m just simply aghast that you’re not.”

Starsky opened his eyes, then shifted to catch the other man’s gaze. “We’ re straight, Sugar,” he repeated evenly. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

The other man scooted to the edge of the hard vinyl chair, then crossed his legs and brought his hand to his chin. “But you love him.”

Suddenly embarrassed, and not completely sure why, Starsky clenched his jaw before answering. “Yes, I do.”

“And he loves you.”

“Yeah, so?”

Sugar sighed dramatically. “If Hutch told you tomorrow that he slept with men—either exclusively or part time—would that change the way you feel about him?”

“Hutch don’t sleep with men, exclusively or otherwise.”

“But if he did?” Sugar pressed. “Would you stop being his friend? Would you stop loving him?”

Starsky could feel the sweat beading on his brow and wondered if he was feverish; he also wondered if, perhaps, they were talking about something or, rather, someone else. “It depends.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Starsky swallowed, remembering those ugly, painful days when he and Sugar first met. “If it was something he’d been doin’ all along and lied to me about I’d be mad. I won’t say that I wouldn’t love him anymore, because…” Starsky cut himself off. He’d started to say that he couldn’t imagine not loving Hutch, but that, somehow, seemed more information than the pushy lounge singer needed to know. ‘I’d be mad,” he amended, instead. “And it might take me a while to trust him again because he’d lied to me…” Just like John lied to me….to all of us…though maybe to himself most of all.  “…but I wouldn’t stop bein’ his friend.”

“Hmm…” Sugar tilted her head, as if considering his answer. “…And if the tables were turned, do you think he’d stop loving you?”

“No,” Starsky answered with certainty, realizing, in hindsight, how much better Hutch had handled John’s betrayal than he, himself, had. “Even if I’d lied to him about it, I don’t think he’d stop loving me.”

“That’s a pretty strong endorsement,” Sugar muttered. “You’re lucky.”

“Yeah.” Starsky yawned loudly, suddenly exhausted. “I am.”

* * * *

The three of them fell into an easy, if not comfortable, routine.

Since Starsky was sleeping later and later, he freed Hutch from his early morning visitation.

Against Hutch’s initial teasing protests that Starsky obviously preferred his “dream visitor’s” conversation to his—Starsky had somehow never told his partner that Sugar really was sneaking into his room at night—Starsky loosed the big blond with implicit instructions to either get some sleep for himself, or some exercise, whichever he preferred.

Starsky spent his mornings with physiotherapists and afternoons on personal hygiene and rest. He’d also gotten hooked on the afternoon soaps—or stories, as his mother called them. Sometimes his mother would call to discuss the latest atrocities of who was sleeping with or lying to whom. He didn’t tell her about Sugar either.

Dinner and late evenings were spent with a much less harried partner, with Hutch, after just a few days of extra rest, looking and acting more like himself than he had in months. Their conversations were better for it. He typically slipped out of the hospital around 10:00, far after official ‘visiting hours’ were over.

Then, at the stroke of midnight, like clockwork, Sugar waltzed in, vastly amused to find out from the night shift that he’d been elevated to the status of family.

Starsky couldn’t say that he wholeheartedly enjoyed the lounge singer’s visits…but he’d gotten used to them. While Sugar gave up precious little information about his lover or their relationship—a topic that Starsky found himself surprisingly fascinated by—he was continually mining Starsky for bits and pieces about Hutch and their relationship.

He never asked if Starsky had told Hutch about his nightly visits, for which Starsky was grateful. Starsky hadn’t quite figured out why he kept his fledgling friendship…acquaintance…with the transvestite a secret. He kept telling himself it was because the content of their conversations, of which Hutch featured predominantly, would embarrass the taciturn blond, but he wondered if he was really afraid that in the telling he’d embarrass himself.

Starsky threw down his hand disgustedly. “Fold.”

“Temper, temper,” Sugar scolded, picking up the discarded cards. “You’re in a foul mood tonight, David. Why don’t you tell Mama Sugar all about it, huh?”

Starsky shook his head vehemently. There was no way that he was going to tell Sugar anything, except maybe to get the hell out of his room. All of her crazy talk had finally gone to his head. When he had told her he’d never looked that way at his best friend and partner—never once in the ten years they’d known each other—he had meant it. Until today…

Hutch came bustling in, bearing gifts. Hushing Starsky into silence, he spread a small linen tablecloth over the bedside table and unpacked two of the most beautiful beefsteak sandwiches Starsky had ever seen, a side of coleslaw, and a bucket of fries.

But he didn’t stop there.  Just as Starsky was about to make some stupid comment about ‘thinking he was in love,’ the big blond pulled out the same set of bulbous candlesticks that he’d used the night he’d surprised Starsky with the Paul Muni special many years ago.

Keeping his silence, Hutch smiled sweetly, almost as if he were embarrassed, as he lit the candles.

‘Hut…’  Starsky had begun, only to be cut off with a warning finger.

Then moving with a gracefulness that had been too long missing from his friend’s increasingly lanky frame, Hutch went to turn out the lights, leaving the flames to cast warm, flickering shadows across the otherwise sterile room.

Starsky realized that he’d forgotten how much candlelight loved Hutch, but as he found himself lost for words when he saw the expression of tenderness in Hutch’s baby blue eyes, he wondered if he’d ever truly known.

Something deep within him stirred and it scared the shit out of him.

 “I just fail to see why you think me having Hutch’s dick in my mouth is going to make me love him more than I already do,” he demanded abruptly, angrily.

Sugar gasped and, much to Starsky’s chagrin, started to laugh. Loudly.

“It’s not funny!”

“Of course it’s not,” Sugar placated, reaching over to plump his pillow. “But it was unexpected.” She paused strategically. “What, pray tell, brought that on?”

“Nothing,” Starsky denied.

“Really?” Sugar gathered the cards up and put them away. “And for your information, David, I said no such thing. Though please let me thank you for that rather…” Sugar fanned herself “….titillating image, as I am sure that I will have lovely dreams tonight. I was talking about intimacy, child, not sex.”

“Hutch and I are plenty intimate, thank you very much.”

“Don’t think that I don’t already know that, love,” Sugar assured him. “But there’s just so much about him that you can’t possibly know with your clothes on.”

“I’ve been naked with plenty of people I didn’t know as well as I know Hutch.”

Sugar shook his head slowly. “Intimate, Officer, not naked.” Sugar paused, as if considering. When she spoke again, her voice was low. “Do you know what I miss the most about Roger being in this place?”

Surprised by Sugar’s willingness to share anything about his personal life, Starsky snapped to attention. “No. I have no idea.”

“I miss getting up at night for a glass of water and crawling back into bed, only to have him reach for my hand without waking.” She smiled sadly. “I miss the heat coming off the back of his thighs that seep into my old, tired knees as I spoon up against him after a hard night at the club.”

Starsky frowned; he felt a nervous fluttering deep within his abdomen.

“I miss the taste of his skin, especially how I know that the spot behind his left ear is saltier than the place beneath his collar bone or the small of his back. I miss the thousands of little things that you learn about someone for no other reason than you’ve spent year after year together in the same bed, between the same sheets.”

“How long have you been together?”

“We were together years ago, but I’d never forgotten,” Sugar answered quietly. “This time not nearly long enough.”

Starsky felt like a kid who’d been caught peeping in his parents’ bedroom door; fascinated, excited, though a little repulsed. The man’s grief tore at him in a way he couldn’t explain—a way he didn’t want to even think about. “So if you loved him so much, why did you break up the first time?”

“Why else?” Sugar shrugged. “He was straight.”

“If he was straight, he wouldn’t have been sleepin’ with you.”

Sighing loudly, Sugar pushed herself up to her feet and began pacing, and, in that moment, it didn’t matter that she was nothing more than a middle aged man pushing 50 dressed in tattered jeans and a sweater, because in the shadows of the hospital room, she was a diva.

“What is it with you so-called straight men and your goddamn labels?” she asked, the portrait of outrage. “If I had a dollar for every straight man who’s come into my bar and left for some romp with some beautiful boy, I’d be rich by now. Hell, if I had a dollar for every straight man who’s broken some honest queen’s heart with their bullshit lines, I could have retired ten years ago.” She stopped, placing hands on hips. “John Blaine was like a father to you wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“It shows.”

Starsky blushed hotly, riot only as a result of the comparison, but also at the slight on his surrogate father’s memory; he struggled to sit up against his pillow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He broke Peter Whitelaw’s heart. Peter, one of the most decent, upstanding men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Starsky blinked. He was confused. “I thought you said you and John were friends?”

“I did,” Sugar snapped, crossing back over to the bed. “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean that I can’t be angry with him. Was I mad at John Blaine for being a lily-livered coward? Yes, I was. Did I stop loving him? No, I didn’t.” Sugar paused and eyed him suspiciously. “Am I your friend, David?”

“I don’t know,” Starsky answered honestly. “Are you?”

Sugar opened her mouth, but then closed it.

Starsky was surprised by the surge of disappointment that tore through his belly; apparently the other man really was killing time after all. “I guess that answers that.”

“David… ”

“What?” he interrupted abruptly. “It’s a little late to be sparing my feelings, isn’t it?”

Sugar took a deep breath and then began slowly. “All I’m trying to say, David, is that I know what I saw when you two came into the bar all those years ago and that, in all its Technicolor glory, was but a pale imitation of the devotion, the love, and the passion that I have witnessed played out in these halls.”

Starsky looked away, uneasy.

“Take it from someone who knows,” Sugar beseeched. “Whether he knows it or not, your so-called straight partner is in love with you and I think you’re in love with him, too.” She hesitated, her eyes imploring, and once again, Starsky could almost lose himself in the spell that the stage performer was weaving. “All I’m doing is raising a possibility, because I don’t want to see you waste your lives like I’ve seen so many men waste theirs.

“Neither one of you are getting any younger and God knows you’ve had heartbreak enough between you…”

“And what if I don’t want that possibility raised?” Starsky interrupted stubbornly. What the hell did Sugar know about his life? What the hell could she possibly tell him that he hadn’t thought of already?

Sugar’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone wants love, doll. It’s the human condition.”

“I’ve got love.” Starsky winced, the knots in his gut completely unrelated to his physical injuries. “And just so you know,” he ground out hoarsely, barely able to force the words out past the lump that had traveled up from his chest and into his throat. “I don’t need to know what Hutch’s skin tastes like or what his naked skin feels like against mine, because I’ve been there, done that.”

Starsky closed his eyes, allowing his mind to travel back to those awful hours in the room above Huggy’s bar, just after Hutch had managed to free himself from Forrest’s goons. “I don’t need to taste him,” he elaborated, finally, just in case Sugar’d gotten the wrong idea. “Because I’ve inhaled enough of his blood and sweat to last a life time.

“I’ve held him when he was sick until we both reeked of puke and urine,” he stated boldly, almost choking on the words. “You want to talk about intimacy, Sugar, you just keep it up, because I can guarantee you dollars to donuts that I’ve got you beat any day of the week.”

“Well, well, well,” Sugar drawled, as she glided towards his bedside, all hostility gone. “So you’ve had the bad… why not allow yourself to take the good?”

“It’s all good, Sugar.” Starsky raised his eyebrow mockingly. ”Hutch and me don’t need hearts and flowers. There ain’t nothin’ that either one of us could ever do that would make me love him any less or more than I do right this minute… ” We proved that much with Kira. “And the same goes for him.” And Lionel—poor, poor Lionel.

“Then don’t think about it as a matter of more or less,” Sugar suggested. “Try to think about it as keeping what’s yours.”

Starsky frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If that’s how you really feel, then how do you handle it when some new lady comes along? You both like the ladies, don’t you?” She batted her eyelids suggestively. “Doesn’t it ever worry you when some lovely lady comes along? Is this one the one? Is this the one who will break his heart for good?”

Something dark stirred behind his eyes. An old memory, long suppressed, reared its ugly head: a tastefully decorated apartment and an envelope of cash he couldn’t afford.

“Or, God forbid, is this the one who won’t?” Sugar smiled evilly, ignoring Starsky’s murderous glare. “What was the name of that beautiful blonde creature that worked for Grossman? Gillian, was it? With a ‘G’?”

Bull’s eye.

“He would have married her, you know,” Sugar pointed out dreamily. “If she’d been what she said she was. Where do you think she would have fit in with ‘me and thee’?”

Too stunned to even ask where Sugar’d gotten her information, Starsky just laid there, letting the words hit him like blows; he thought he was going to be sick. He hadn’t thought about Gillian in years. He hadn’t allowed himself too. His own actions, there, were unforgivable, desperate.

Hutch had thanked him afterwards, never once asking the question that Starsky asked himself for months after her death: what gave you the right?

“Get out.”

“You’re afraid, David,” Sugar pressed on. “Admit it.”

“Goddamn it, Sugar, I said get out.”

“And I said you’re afraid,” she threw right back at him. “You say you couldn’t love him anymore than you already do, but we both know that’s bullshit. You’re afraid to love him anymore than you already do. You can do blood and guts but sneer at hearts and romance because you think of one as more manly than the other—well, you’re wrong. Blood and guts is easy compared to what I’m talking about, because as long as you’re just brothers-in-arms with your fast cars and your guns and your bimbos between you you’re still strong, you’re still in control, you’re still a man.” She threw up her hands, her disgust evident. “Jesus Christ, John Blaine had nothin’ on you!”

Starsky reached for the call button.

“Oh, don’t bother.” Sugar sighed as she reached for her afghan that had fallen from the chair. “I’m going, David, but mark my words: one day the right one will come along…and you will be sorry that you didn’t even explore the possibility that was there long before I took the trouble to raise it.”

* * *

For the next twenty-four hours Starsky planned his rebuttal.

How dare Sugar anyway? She might have got a few things right about Gillian—he was going to have to have a little talk with Huggy on that—not to mention that little thing about the hedged bet. Yeah, thanks a lot, Huggy.

Spurred on by his temper, he worked extra hard at physical therapy only to be too tired to keep up his end of the conversation when Hutch showed up at 7:00 with a casserole, a salad, and Starsky’s favorite chocolate chip cookies still warm from the oven.

Oh, how the evening nurse had fussed when her hero had shown up with a home cooked meal.

‘Oh, did your wife send you with those?’

‘Uh, no…’ Hutch stammered, all that polite Midwestern upbringing rushing to the fore.

Strategic silence. ‘I’m not married.’

‘Oh, well then your girlfriend’s a lucky woman.’

‘Uh, actually.. ‘

Oh please.

Starsky thought he was going to puke just thinkin‘ about it.

Though, if truth were told, she was nice enough, if not somewhat obvious. And she was pretty, too. True, she wasn’t one of those wraith-like blonde angels that Hutch normally went for, but she was all right.

Without warning, Marianne Owens’ face swam before his eyes. Starsky shuddered. He still hadn’t figured that one out. Hell, the sultry blues singer hadn’t even been Hutch’s type—other than her undeniable need to be saved.

Huggy had been shocked when Starsky told him how Hutch had been so over the moon about the diminutive brunette. Starsky squinted. What had Huggy said, exactly, when he told him?

‘You’ve got to be kidding me—Marianne? You mean that chimney stack at the blues bar down on 27^th street?’

‘Yep.’

‘The one that looks like she could be your twin sister?’

Remembering that, Huggy’s caustic remark when he’d shown up at the Pits to meet Kira suddenly took on all new meaning…

‘What it is, boss?’

‘Get me a beer,’ Starsky answered as he leaned against the bar. ‘And set me up a daiquiri. I’m expecting a beautiful blond.’

‘Uh huh.’

Not ten seconds passed when Hutch entered, exactly as scheduled.

‘Hutch,’ Huggy greeted, his voice suspicious; Hutch took his position at the other end of the bar.

‘Get me a beer—and set me up a daiquiri, I’m… ‘ Hutch glanced over at Starsky and cut himself off.

Huggy looked back and forth between them before taking Starsky his beer. ‘Hey,’ Starsky stalled Huggy, pitching voice to carry to the end of the bar.

‘Yeah?’

Starsky nodded towards Hutch’s general direction.  ‘Ask him what he’s doin’ here.’

‘What are you doin’ here?’ Huggy asked, paused, and then turned back to Starsky and asked, ‘Is he the beautiful blond?’

Not wanting to drag up either set of those memories or to try to determine whether Huggy’d seen what apparently the two of them never had or was merely stokin’ his own interests, Starsky glanced over at the clock. It was 11:55.

He and Sugar were going to have to lay some ground rules if their little visits were going to continue. He’d let Sugar think that she had finally gotten too close to his masculine pride, but, in reality, it was because she was getting to him.

It was bad enough, for example, that he’d caught himself yesterday actually thinking about the little shit as a she, but today—today things had gotten completely out of hand. He’d started watching Hutch, really watching him, as he might watch some beautiful lady.

Hell, he’d even been jealous—well, a little bit—over that silly little nurse who just happened to come in and water his plants, oh so conveniently, during Hutch’s evening visit.

He glanced over at the clock: 12:03. Sugar was late.

Well, if Sugar was going to play hard to get, he’d be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of waiting up for her. Reaching for one of the paperbacks that Dobey had sent over with Hutch, Starsky found his place and settled down to read.

12:07; Starsky flipped forward a couple of pages. The plot was crystal clear, obviously it was the stingy uncle….either that or the disgruntled auto-mechanic who’d just broken up with the sister.

Damn. Where was she? Too impatient to read, Starsky tossed the book into the empty bedside chair and reached for the deck of cards.

He lost one game of solitaire at 12:11 and another at 12:16.

She really isn’t coming. He thought about calling the night nurse to make sure that something hadn’t happened, but then realized that he didn’t know Sugar’s lover’s last name. Roger, she had said, nothing more, and Starsky, wrapped up in his own drama, hadn’t even bothered to ask. Starsky shook his head disgustedly; he didn’t even know what the man was in for.

At 12:45, Starsky swallowed two of the sleeping pills that he’d stashed in the Kleenex box and settled down to a restless night’s sleep.

* * *

For two days, he waited.

For the first time in a long while, his days seemed like weeks. Not even Hutch’s presence in the evenings made a difference. In fact, realizing how much he looked forward to seeing Hutch at night made him nervous…it made him think maybe, just maybe, Sugar had a point.

Just as he picked up the phone to call Huggy to see if he knew what the hell had happened to the feckless drag queen—’just because I was mad didn’t mean I stopped being his friend,’ he mimicked sarcastically—Hutch stuck his head in the doorway and cleared his throat softly.

“Hey partner, how ya feelin’?”

Starsky smiled all the way down to his toes. “Hey, Hutch…” He greeted, feeling suddenly shy as he lowered the receiver back into its cradle. “Whatcha doin here? Ain’t you supposed to be at work?”

Hutch shrugged, keeping one arm tucked behind his back as he made his way into the room.

Starsky frowned. It wasn’t like Hutch to just show up in the afternoons. What if something had happened? “You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?” he asked, nodding towards Hutch’s shoulder:

Hutch shook his head, a faint tinge of pink coloring his cheeks. “I actually just came by to bring you these.” He brought his hand forward to reveal a beautiful bouquet of red tulips wrapped in purple and green cellophane. “I thought you might still be in therapy,” Hutch mumbled, as he laid the flowers in Starsky’s lap. “Thought maybe I could surprise you…see if I could cheer you up.”

Starsky melted and without thinking, he reached up and took Hutch’s hand in his own. Who says we’re too macho for hearts and romance? “Thanks buddy—you didn’t have to bring me flowers,” he looked away, embarrassed. “But I kinda like the fact that you did.”

“Really?” Hutch sat down, turning his hand until their fingers intertwined easily, his thumb rubbing gently across Starsky’s knuckles. “I thought you might think it was weird.”

“I think they’re beautiful,” Starsky assured his friend, surprised at how much he enjoyed the simple contact. He remembered the first and only time they’d held hands like this and suppressed a small shudder…

‘If this were a cowboy movie, I’ve give you my boots…’

“I mean, I like flowers,” he added, instead, this time determined to try not to make light of his feelings. “And I can honestly say that it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten any from such a handsome guy.” Good God. Starsky cringed inwardly as he realized what he just said. I have been hanging around Sugar too long!

Luckily for him, Hutch merely laughed. “Well, I would hope so.” Clearing his throat, Hutch sat up and pulled his hand away slowly, before wiping his palms on his thighs. “Actually, Starsk, I’ve got a little bad news.”

Starsky frowned. “What’s the matter, babe? You all right?”

“I’m fine,” he assured quickly, then looked around nervously, as if not sure where to begin. “It’s sort of strange really, but do you remember that night you dreamed Sugar was in your room?”

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Starsky nodded silently.

“Well…” Hutch whetted his lips hesitantly. “…It looks like you weren’t dreaming.”

Starsky closed his eyes. He knew he should have told Hutch when he had the chance. Now it would look like he’d been lying. And if Hutch thought he’d been lying, then he’d want to know why.

“You see…” Hutch began, pulling Starsky out of his panic. “… I stopped in at The Pits this morning to see if Huggy had time to come with me to see you and he told me that he had to go to a funeral…”

Oh no.

“Seems like Sugar’s lover…” The big blond looked uneasy, as if trying to gauge his reaction. “…Well, he died two days ago. Apparently he had cancer.”

Starsky shook his head in disbelief, kicking himself. How could he have been so stupid not to have even asked the guy’s name? I’m a detective for God’s sake. I could have found out—should have found out. Poor Sugar must be devastated.

Flashing back to the recent nightmares that had left the blond lying face down the pool blood and glass, Starsky shuddered. He glanced over at Hutch gratefully. Thank God it wasn’t you… that’s one injury I wouldn’t have survived.

“So, I guess,” Hutch continued, seemingly oblivious to Starsky’s misery, “maybe he really was here—I mean, Huggy said that the guy’d been hospitalized for weeks.” When Starsky still didn’t respond, Hutch paused. “Starsk, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered quickly, a little too quickly as he glanced down at the beautiful bouquet in his lap—an arrangement that obviously hadn’t come from the hospital gift shop. Understanding dawned, followed quickly by gratitude that he knew his friend wouldn’t expect, or even understand. God, I love you, he thought simply, unabashedly. “You sent flowers, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did…” Hutch looked away, obviously embarrassed. “But, but I, I didn’t sign the card—wasn’t too sure how Sugar’d take it coming from us, you know?”

“You might be surprised.” Starsky smiled weakly. “And that was really nice of you, buddy. Thanks. I owe you one.”

Hutch laughed. “No, you don’t. You know, I’m not even sure why I thought to send them…not really.”

Starsky’s smile deepened, realizing that Sugar was right… well, more right than Starsky had given her credit for. He did love Hutch, and it wouldn’t take all that much to be in love with him—that is, if he wasn’t already.

“How about because it’s the right thing to do and you’re one of the finest people I’ve ever known?”

“Well,” Hutch deferred automatically, pink once again tinting his fair skin. “I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

“I would.” Starsky closed his eyes and settled back against his pillow, content to lie there in the silence. He didn’t need to look to know that Hutch was pleased, if somewhat bemused, by his reaction.

“So,” Hutch finally said, scooting closer to the bed. ”Since it’s a pretty good chance that Sugar did actually come to visit you, I wonder what he wanted.”

Starsky opened his eyes, but when he didn’t answer, the big blond leaned closer still, his features gentled with concern. “Starsk, are you sure you’re all right?”

Reaching out, Starsky brushed Hutch’s hair back behind his ear and smiled, hoping the love he felt at that moment shone through. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine.”

Hutch looked puzzled , but didn’t pull away. “Good,” he said softly. “I’m glad.”

“Me, too, babe,” Starsky answered, just because it was true. “Me, too.”

* * * *

Starsky almost fell out of the wheelchair as he crossed the threshold.

“Well, well, well,” came the sardonic greeting from just inside his room. “Look what the cat drug in—and just when I thought you’d stood me up.”

“Sugar,” Starsky gasped, as the nursing attendant brought the chair to a halt next to the side of the bed. “I wasn’t sure you were comin’ back,” he said honestly. “How are you?”

“Just fine, darling,” she smiled faintly, reaching out to touch his face. The silk of her glove was smooth against his unshaven cheek. “And how are you?”

Starsky shrugged and then motioned for the attendant to leave them.

“You sure you’re okay to sit, Officer?” the woman asked, voice dubious. “It won’t take a minute to get you into bed.”

Starsky ignored Sugar’s insinuating smirk. “I’m fine,” he said sharply. “I’ll call you if I get tired.” He waited until she left, pulling the door partially to.

“Sugar,” he began, reaching out to lay a hand on her nylon-clad knee. It was the first time she’d come to see him in full regalia; he was surprised at how little it mattered. “I’m sorry.”

The singer’s painted face crumpled, but only for a moment. “You really should have been there, doll.” She said brightly. “The music, the flowers…hell, I felt like I was in Vegas again.”

“Sugar, don’t…”

She snorted elegantly. “But it’s the only way I can live with this, don’t you see that?”

Starsky nodded, suddenly realizing how hard it must be for her—how hard, no, how impossible it would be if it were him and something had happened to Hutch. God, how many times had he come to losing the blond? Three? Four? “Go on.”

“It was a family funeral. You know, his family, not ours.” She paused. “Roger had three adult children and a handful of brothers and sisters. His parents were there. “I’m so sorry.”

“And so was I—there, I mean—resplendent in Brooks Brothers of all things.” Sugar laughed, a brittle sound that nearly broke Starsky’s heart with its fragility. “And not even one silk stocking tucked inside the jacket pocket for solace.”

“I didn’t realize,” Starsky said awkwardly. “I understood that Huggy went with you.”

“He did—in a charcoal suit.” Sugar straightened her lapel. “It was very tasteful.”

Starsky smiled. “How come I find that harder to picture than you in a tie?”

“You’re such a flatterer.” Sugar laid her hand over Starsky’s and squeezed. “All those flowers—lilies of the valley and white carnations…for God’s sake. Roger hated lilies. What is it about funerals that make people want to send lilies, daisies, and white carnations? Though I must admit, the white hyacinths from his parents took the cake. I bet Roger turned in his grave.”

Starsky shook his head, confused. “What’s wrong with hyacinths?”

“I’ll pray for you, my love,” Sugar drawled sarcastically. “His parents couldn’t accept their son was gay…whether that was their way of telling him one more time or signaling it to the rest of the family, who knows? On any other occasion, I swear I would have snagged one for my button hole.

“There was one spray of flowers, however, that really caught my eye—not white, not signifying grief or innocence or any such nonsense.”

Starsky coughed and shifted in the chair uncomfortably.

‘”A spray of zinnias, poppies, and heliotrope, the colors of passion,” Sugar continued, ignoring Starsky’s discomfort. “So bright, so beautiful, that I knew they couldn’t have come from any of Roger’s fuddy-duddy relatives.” She paused. “So, thinking they’d come from one of my friends, I pulled the card, but it wasn’t signed. What do you know about flowers, David?”

Starsky shrugged, thinking that now might be a good time to call the nurse.

“In the Victorian era, people used flowers to communicate symbolically. Zinnias signify condolences for absent friends, poppies consolation, and heliotrope devotion.”

“That’s real nice, Sugar.”

“I thought so…” Sugar trailed off, then stood up and pulled the sheets and blankets back to the foot of the bed. “Would you like to lie down?”

Starsky shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt.” Taking a deep breath, Starsky raised his arms and allowed himself to be hauled up into a careful embrace. He braced his hands against Sugar’s shoulders as she turned his back to the bed and sat him down carefully; he gave her a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he mumbled as she lifted his legs up to the mattress and covered him up.

“Yes, I am,” Sugar returned enigmatically, her face etched with sorrow. “But I do miss him, David.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t” she denied, but there was no heat in her tone, no anger. “And I hope you never do.”

“Sugar…”

“I told you that you were a coward,” Sugar interrupted. “But maybe I was wrong.”

Starsky frowned “What do you mean?”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re just smarter than I was. It hurts, David. Nothing should ever hurt this much.”

Starsky closed his eyes and reached for her hand, tugging until she perched uneasily at his side. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“What choice do I have?”

They sat in silence. Starsky didn’t know what to say—how could he?

After a moment, she sniffed and looked down to meet his eyes. “I was telling you about the flowers.”

Starsky blinked, surprised by the sudden change of subject. “Yeah, I guess you were.”

“Well…” Sugar wiped her eyes carefully. “Curiosity piqued, I took the unsigned card to the florist—who happens to be a friend of mine—and, lo and behold, who do you think they were from?” She didn’t even pause. “They were from one Detective Hutchinson, Bay City P.D.”

Sugar stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, her hand trailing across the nightstand, coming to rest on the tulips that Starsky had had put in a vase. “I see he sent you some, too.”

“He’d gone to see Huggy yesterday,” he offered softly. “That’s how he found out about Roger.”

“So, tell me…” Sugar plucked one of the tulips out of the vase and sniffed appreciatively before laying it on Starsky’s chest. “…Does your partner have a thing for flowers, or was it a lucky guess? My friend says he picked the arrangements himself.”

“Hutch has a greenhouse in his place,” Starsky said with quiet pride. “I’m sure he knew what he was doin’. He really knows plants.”

“Really?” Sugar reached down and touched his cheek. “Do you know what tulips mean?”

“No.”

“Do you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” Starsk evaded, wondering just how a lounge singer knew so damned much about flowers anyway. “Do you want to tell me?”

“If I were truly your friend, I’d tell you they meant friendship, pat you on the head, and send you on your way.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, Sugar.”

“No,” she smiled wistfully. “I don’t suppose you are.”

“So you gonna tell me?” he pressed. “Or you gonna make me ask Hutch when he gets here?”

“Now there‘s an interesting idea,” Sugar clasped her hands together dramatically. “Do you think he’d tell you the truth?”

“Hutch never lies.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“And you’re not goin’ anywhere?”

“No,” Starsky assured her solemnly, recognizing the question for what it was.

“Well, in that case…” Without giving him a chance to respond, Sugar leaned down and surprised him with a kiss on the cheek. “…They’re a declaration of love, doll. Congratulations.”

* * * *

Starsky waited impatiently, the single flower that Sugar had laid on his stomach clenched tightly in his hand. He’d rehearsed this a hundred times, but somehow he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do it. Sugar had told him that ‘hearts and romance’ was scarier than ‘bloods and guts.’ She wasn’t kidding.

But then again, Starsky thought, taking a deep breath, Hutch had brought him flowers—how much more romantic could you get? Surely to God he had what it took to give the big blond his heart—hell, it wasn’t like he hadn’t had it for years anyway.

Besides, life was too short for games—the irony that he’d learned that particular life lesson from a fifty-plus year old man who looked better in a dress than he did in jeans did not escape him.

It really isn’t that big of a deal, he’d tried telling himself, but he knew he was lying. It was a big deal. The possibility that he might be wrong, however, hadn’t crossed his mind. How could it when Sugar’s words continued to tear through his psyche with the same velocity that Gunther’s bullets had torn through his flesh…?

‘I also watched a very old friend leave his business in the hands people who—true or not—he really believes will rob him blind the minute his back is turned so that he could be here to make sure that you were still alive and that if you weren’t, that your partner didn’t take down the whole city for lunch and then eat his own gun for dessert.’

Starsky had played Sugar’s words over and over in his head and kept coming back to the same spot. What did it mean, exactly, that Hutch might consider taking his own life if something had happened to him?

And did it mean more or less than the realization that Starsky would do the same if their situations were reversed?

Hutch stuck his head in at 6:45. “Hey Starsky,” he greeted neutrally. “I heard you had some company today.”

Starsky frowned, something telling him that his carefully crafted declaration of love had just been blown to hell. “You did?”

“Yeah, I saw Lieutenant Stephens in the lobby.” Hutch sat down in his usual spot, then scooted closer, his eyes troubled. “He said your uncle come by today, though, this time, he looked more like he could be your aunt.”

Starsky sighed. “Sugar came by to say thanks for the flowers. I guess she thought it’d be easier to track me down than you.”

Hutch leaned back in the chair casually, too casually. “She doing okay?”

“As well as can be expected….” Starsky trailed off; he could tell Hutch was hurt, if not pissed. “I guess this means that you realize this isn’t the first time she’s been here.”

“I sort of gathered.” Hutch frowned. “How come you didn’t tell me that she was coming by every night?”

Starsky shrugged. It was a question that he’d asked himself many times, but he still didn’t have an answer…at least not one he could articulate.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s any of my business,” the blond assured him hurriedly. “I mean, I might have said something about her keeping you awake, but I wouldn’t…”

“Hutch,” Starsky interrupted, before he lost his nerve.

“Yeah?”

Starsky motioned for him to come closer, slipping his hand into the blond’s hair as he came within arm’s reach.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

Instead of answering, Starsky tugged him even closer, his lips brushing Hutch’s cheek once, before ghosting across to caress the comer of his mouth.

“Starsky?” Hutch pulled back, his cheeks aflame.

“I love you, babe,” Starsky mumbled gently as he buried his face in Hutch’s neck.

His heart was pounding so hard it hurt… and all from one tiny kiss, a touch that had occasionally, with others, meant so little. How could such small thing as that one touch mean so much now, with a man that he’d touched so many times, and in so many ways, before?

“I… I… I know you do,” Hutch stammered softly. “I love you, too, but, I’m not sure I understand…”

Starsky pulled back just enough to see Hutch’s eyes, which, to his surprise, were bright with tears. “Sugar told me about the tulips,” he said by means of explanation.

Hutch stiffened. “She what?”

“She said…” Starsky hesitated. “She said that they were a declaration of love.”

“Well…” Hutch tried to move away, but stopped when Starsky held firm.

‘”…That’s what they were, I mean…” He swallowed hard and sighed. “She’s right, Starsk, they are.”

“Don’t worry about it, babe…” Starsky guided Hutch back down until their lips met once again in a kiss that lasted a little longer and was both sweeter and surer than its predecessor. “…somethin’ tells me she’s gonna be right about a heck of a lot more than flowers as soon as I get outta here.”

And it looks like Huggy, God bless him… Starsky shivered with delight as Hutch’s tongue met his tentatively for the very first time … may end up a moderately rich man after all.

 Finis