Biorhythms

159

Bee stings, garlic, and the events of several episodes put many things in perspective.

 

Originally published in the SHareCon 2019 zine.

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Starsky watched Hutch’s relieved smile stretch into wide-eyed, open-mouthed disbelief, Huggy’s gasped expletive voicing what was no doubt a matching expression of horror. After a beat of stillness, when the moment reached its dramatic peak, Starsky wriggled his fingers and silenced his pained yelp. He turned a sly grin on his picnic companions. “Fooled ya.”

Huggy smacked his shoulder, laughter at odds with his outraged frown. Hutch was still clearly trying to process both the bee’s narrow escape and Starsky’s convincing performance. And really, what was the big shocker? Starsky was one of the two best undercover detectives in Bay City. If he couldn’t realistically feign a bee sting, then God help them next time they had to go up against the criminal underworld’s Big Bad du jour. It’d been a close call, honestly, he could’ve sworn he felt the bee’s wings brush his palm as it zipped past the closing tunnel of his fingers. No one could blame him for seizing the opportunity to teach his well-meaning friends a lesson about that kooky biorhythm malarkey. He’d show them what a guy with his natural flair and charisma could do to a triple-zero phase! Accident-prone, his ass.

Hutch wore the mask of disdain he reserved for Starsky’s corniest jokes, but there was warmth in his eyes, warmer than Starsky had seen in several months. Then Hutch seemed to remember the script they played from recently; his gaze sparked with outrage to match Huggy’s. “Damn it, Starsky.”

Starsky flashed him an aw-shucks grin. “Aw, you were worried about me.”

That got him a perfect Hutchinson eyeroll. “Are you kidding? That would’ve been your gun hand, chump. I would’ve loved to see you explain to the captain why he’s suddenly a man down for tomorrow’s shift, after we’d had a day off.”

Huggy snorted, busy unwrapping one of the forgotten sandwiches. Starsky felt a swat on his leg, roughly mid-thigh, and had barely registered the mild physical “scolding” from his partner, when Hutch let out a pained, vicious, “Goddamn it.”

Oh, boy. Hutch’s jokes weren’t on par with his, but they weren’t usually pathetic. “Come on. Your comedic timing’s off there, pal. No one’s gonna believe you just—”

“Hold your tongue, brother,” Huggy said, tone urgent. Next thing Starsky knew, he  practically had a lapful of concerned Bear. Huggy was leaning over Starsky’s legs, gesturing with both hands, sandwich flapping. Then Starsky spotted the bee, the very real, non-imaginary bee, that had fallen to its death on the blue beach towel doubling as their picnic blanket.

Starsky took a turn at gaping in astonishment. “No way! Is that the same bee? It flew off! Did it come back? What, was that the Don Quixote of bees?”

“Don’t think it’s the same one.” Huggy let his sandwich drop by the wayside in his anxious scanning of their picnic paradise. “Maybe we should make like the proverbial Robin and fly, like the good song says, ’cause I read somewhere that these tiny stingin’ killers go down swinging. They sting you, then produce a scent that tells all the other winged buzz-saws of death to go to battle stations. We might get swarmed!”

“What the—!” Starsky swiveled around to look for any hint of an oncoming air attack from the park’s bee population. “Are you messin’ with us, Hug? Is that really a thing that can happen?” He fought the rise in his vocal pitch that always accompanied any attempt by Mother Nature to undermine his city boy sense of security.

“He’s right.” Hutch cradled his right hand in his left, palm up, and bent over. “About the scent thing. I doubt we’ll get swarmed though. I just—” He grunted, face darkening with pain. “Damn it, why am I always the one who gets stung? You had a bee right there on your leg. Twice! No sting.” His palm’s angry swelling appeared to double right in front of Starsky’s eyes.

“Check your little biorhythm machine,” Huggy said. “Maybe Starsky’s triple-zero phase reading is contagious?” He raised both hands in surrender. “Turn those glares off. I’m just sayin’.”

Starsky’s protect-Hutch instinct had caught up with events. In the competition between worrying about a future massive bee attack, or Hutch’s present misery, the latter won out by a landslide. “Huggy, we got ice in the cooler. You got another towel we can use?”

“Sure do.” Huggy scrambled off the blanket and made a dash for the car.

“Starsky, I know how to take care of a bee sting. I just need—”

“You needta sit there and stop with the huffing and puffing.” Starsky snagged Hutch’s sleeve. “Lemme see your hand.”

Hutch cradled his no-doubt throbbing hand against his chest and tried to scooch over on the blanket, away from Starsky’s zealous first aid. “Starsk, no offense, but—”

“But nothin’. Give it here.” Starsky’s lips twitched at Hutch’s mutinous expression, damn near a pout in response to his handful of stinging, eye-watering pain. Starsky wasn’t fooled. Hutch was holding in a wounded grizzly roar that might blow some blondness right off his head. Starsky had a fondness for that blondness along with 99% of everything else about Hutch, but his persistent stoicism definitely resided in the one percent that made Starsky want to let out a roar of his own.

Lately that stoicism had come with a side of sorehead, a different kind than Starsky had grown used to over their years of partnership. Sure, Hutch had always grumped when Starsky one-upped him on a joke or snagged top spot in one of their competitions. Recently, however, he’d sported a look of hurt… and not in the wounded-pride way, more in the weary, disillusioned way. Starsky hated that look with every single biorhythm he had. He just hadn’t known what to do about it, or how to help. Right now, while Hutch warred with himself, Starsky braced for a rejection that would somehow hurt worse than a thousand insect stings.

“Starsky.” Hutch huffed a laugh that sounded both resigned and affectionate, but he unfolded his arm and offered his injured palm.

For the second time in just minutes, Starsky felt a strange tug of relief in his gut, an instinct that something had shifted in a positive way between them, upending the miserable status quo of the last several months. He eagerly dumped the wrapped sandwiches and soda cans from his lap, and hitched his hip to reach for his wallet.

“What—” Hutch squinted at him.

“Credit card.”

Hutch’s evil eye should’ve melted the charge card Starsky had fished out of his wallet.

“I’m thinking it’s a little late to bribe the bee not to sting blondie,” Huggy said, dropping back down beside Starsky on the blanket. He draped a towel over Starsky’s shoulder.

“Ha-ha, Hug.” Starsky took Hutch’s arm, yanking him closer, and spread his swollen hand out, palm up, on Starsky’s thigh. “The card’s for scraping out the stinger.”

“I’m less concerned with Huggy’s questionable sense of humor, than I am with how filthy that card must be. Come on, Starsky, just let me go get a pair of tweezers—”

“Hutch, you got a pair of tweezers concealed on your person? You, Huggy? Didn’t think so. The secret is to get the stinger out soon as possible. ‘Sides, this thing—?” Starsky rocked the card between two fingers. “Gets so little action it’s practically sterile, like a scalpel.”

“Guess it’s better than extracting it with your grubby fingernail,” Hutch conceded.

Starsky hmphed. “Says you. My hands are immaculate. You’re the one who digs around in potting soil, Mr. Greenhouse Gardener.”

“Where’d you learn this unique technique?” Huggy was leaning over again, clearly intent on getting a closer look at the first aid in progress.

Hutch waved him back with his free hand. “Don’t block his light, Huggy. All I need is for him to scrape half the skin off my palm and leave the stinger intact.”

“Oh for—!” Starsky scowled at both of them in turn. “I read it somewhere. And I’m not gonna—there it is, the little bastard.” He positioned the credit card’s edge over Hutch’s palm. He tried to do what Hutch called “centering” himself, too. He felt the weight, the subtle heat, of Hutch’s hand on his thigh. He breathed in, immediately reminded how Hutch’s herbal deodorant mixed with sun and sweat into a sexier “cologne” than any on the market. Starsky was peripherally aware of Huggy rearranging their snacks and beverages and humming the Boogie Oogie Oogie melody under his breath. Right. He narrowed his focus to the tiny stinger in Hutch’s wounded flesh and began, as gently as possible, to scrape-scrape-dig.

“Yow, that smarts.”

Starsky reined in his visceral response to Hutch in any kind of pain. The man had nearly had this same hand blown off by a trunk bomb once upon a time. This was just a bee sting, he was fine….

He must have vocalized that last thought, because Hutch snapped, “It’s a hundred microscopic wildfires raging across my palm, thank you very much. What, you’re digging for oil in there, Starsky, would you just—damn it.” Hutch’s voice was sharp, but when Starsky risked an upward glance, he saw almost serene calm on Hutch’s face. Huh.

At Starsky’s side, seemingly right in his ear, Huggy snapped his fingers and caused the patient to jolt. Starsky fired a glare over his shoulder at their friend. “You mind?”

Huggy shrugged. “Sorry. Just remembered where you found that credit card thing. It was in that book, what’s it called, Tome of the Medicinal Home, something like that?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch groaned. “Oh, no.”

Huggy practically bounced with excitement. “Did you see that thing about avocado for razor burn?”

“Yep, you smear it right on the skin.”

“And the duct tape to kill a wart?” Huggy sounded smug. “I know that one works. Tried it myself. Wet spinach behind the ear to stop a nosebleed, though? That’s a dud.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” sniped Hutch.

 “And that thing for hiccups? Stroking the uvula with a Q-tip? That’s just obscene.” Starsky snuck another glance at Hutch, who didn’t disappoint, already assuming his haughty, I-know-something-you-don’t-know expression.

“Starsky, you’re thinking of—”

“I know the difference, Hutch.” Starsky tilted his head, baring his neck. “Uvula’s in the back of the throat. Just seein’ if you’re paying attention, or if the bee venom’s already gone to your head.”

“Always.” Hutch’s look sent flames licking up Starsky’s spine.

Starsky would not duck his head like some schoolgirl in a teen romance playing coy with the cute guy, but damn, what the hell was up with Hutch, throwing out looks and lines like that in front of Huggy?

The Bear’s rich brown complexion would hide any blush, but he didn’t look uncomfortable or embarrassed. He simply took a healthy chomp out of his sandwich and said, “Yeah, I can tell you from years of proprietorial experience that a whole glass of vodka flavored with a tablespoon of pepper won’t cure no cold, neither.”

Starsky cleared his throat. “Well, that’s a shame.”

“No, but I’m sure on the road to alcohol poisoning you’ll probably forget you had a cold.” Hutch shook his head. “I should’ve known better than this. I could’ve walked all the way back to Venice for my tweezers by now—”

“Got it.” Starsky scraped the stinger off onto the blanket and wagged the credit card in front of Hutch’s face. “Never leave home without it.”

“That sure as hell isn’t an Amex.” The snip in Hutch’s tone didn’t match the quirk of his mouth under his mustache. Starsky would’ve sworn on the Torino’s transmission that Hutch was swallowing laughter, the faint lines around his eyes crinkling with amusement, not pain.

Wondering yet again what had caused such a shift in Hutch’s general demeanor, Starsky decided to play along and see where it got them. “On a street cop salary, who’re you kidding? My wallet doesn’t run with such a rich crowd.” He brought Hutch’s palm up to blow gently over the puffiness, as if cooling a cup of coffee.

Hutch blinked. A slow blink. A very slow blink that could easily be mistaken for closing his eyes, and unless Starsky was hallucinating, his partner’s shoulders had a slight tremor. Bright sunny day, warm enough that Starsky had worn his thinnest button-up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms, yet he couldn’t help a shiver. If he looked down at his arms, he’d probably see goosebumps.

Starsky swallowed hard, his heart trying to flamenco dance in his chest. Christ, he was in so deep. He’d known just how deep the other night in that disco when he’d left Monique on the dance floor to order a tired, grumpy Hutch home for some rest. Sitting across the table from his droopy-eyed partner, Starsky would’ve given the whole world, maybe the galaxy, for the chance to take Hutch home, crawl in bed with him, and see how fast they could pretzel themselves together and fall asleep in the middle of the mattress. Yeah, nothing doing, and Hutch would split something laughing if he found out that Starsky was in the market for a “home in front of the fire type of guy” who didn’t mind conking out with him in front of some show on the tube.

“What now?” Huggy asked. “Ice it?”

“Actually… what I really need is garlic.”

“You need what now?” Hutch yanked his hand out of Starsky’s grip.

“I got you covered,” Huggy said.

“You do not.” Starsky stared at him. “You brought garlic, fresh garlic, to a picnic in the park?”

“Sure did. It’s Halloween, Starsky, I got no plans to be out in this city without protection.” He slid his hand below his undershirt’s neckline and drew out twine strung with cloves of garlic, much like a smelly shark’s tooth necklace.

Without even looking, Starsky knew Hutch was rolling his eyes skyward. Sure enough: “Huggy, for the hundredth time, there’s no such thing as vampires.”

“Gimme.” Starsky reached for the twine. “Sorry, Huggy, but I gotta destroy this.”

Huggy gave him a solemn nod. “For a good cause. Anything for my blond brother.”

Starsky grinned, but Hutch didn’t look so thrilled. “Oh, this is great. This is just terrific. There goes my career in law enforcement. You realize this is my gun hand, right? Once you’re done with your weird home remedy, I’ll end up with some kind of necrotizing infection and probably lose the whole damn hand.”

“Yeah, what do you know? Nothing can happen to me in a park, you said. Safest place for me, you said. Look what almost happened to me! Look what did happen.” Starsky gestured at Hutch’s still flushed, swollen hand.

Hutch shifted a little farther away on the blanket. “No one expected you to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a yellow jacket, Starsky. The audacity! The hubris. No wonder one of its buddies came around for a little retribution.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Starsky winked at him, then nudged Huggy. “Remember those words for the next Scrabble night.” He worked out the knotted twine acting as the necklace clasp and tried to tug one of the cloves of garlic, but it refused to budge. “What the—? How did you even—? What, did you drill tiny holes in these cloves?”

“It’s magic.” Huggy touched a finger to the side of his nose.

Hutch sighed. “Here.” He produced his pocketknife.

Starsky made quick work of cutting several garlic cloves free from the twine, ridiculously excited that Hutch would go along with the first aid efforts in spite of his skepticism. “Hand me one of the soda cans, Huggy? And the cooler lid? Thanks.”

Huggy swiveled around to drag the cooler closer. The lid served as a makeshift work surface for Starsky to spread out his cloves and crush them under the can. He waggled his fingers until Hutch, visibly reluctant, thrust his hand back within reach. Starsky spread the crushed garlic all over Hutch’s palm and then warned him with a look and a stern nod to hold his hand still, while Starsky filled the clean smaller towel with ice and spread it out on the blanket. “Now, rest your sore paw on that ice. There ya go.” Starsky wrapped the ends of the towel around Hutch’s hand, tucking them under into a gaudy terrycloth mitten wrap. “Voila. Leave that on for ten minutes and you’re golden.”

Hutch frowned down at his bulky green-and-white striped hand. “I don’t understand why this is any better than tweezers, some soap and water, and honey.”

“Honey?” Starsky snorted. “For a bee sting? Isn’t that takin’ ‘hair of the dog’ too far?”

“My gramma always used a baking soda paste right on the sting.” Huggy stretched over to hand Hutch one of the other drink cans. “Here, get this down. Put some pep back in your step. Hutch, m’man, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d go in for natural remedies.”

“Well, sure. If they make any damn sense. You know, grounded in reality, not the bizarr-o land of Starsky’s ‘weird and wonderful’ fact books.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune in ten minutes. Meantime, here’s something else you can stuff your face with until it’s time for you to eat crow.” Starsky unwrapped a turkey-and-sprouts sandwich and tore off a bite-sized piece. “Open wide.”

Hutch eyed him with alarm. “You’re not going to feed me, Starsky.”

“You got one hand outta commission and the other wrapped around a soda. You planning to use the power’a your mind as a tractor beam to get the sandwich in your mouth?”

Huggy burst out laughing. Hutch’s eyes flashed outrage in baby blue, but his lips twitched into a smirk that made Starsky feel he’d been somehow maneuvered right where Hutch wanted him. Oh, hell. In for a penny and all that. At least no one had ever died from an inconvenient boner, Starsky was fairly sure.

Hutch didn’t pull anything too outlandish. He leaned in and accepted each bite without making any contact between his lips and Starsky’s fingers, almost prim. Lost in the wonder of Hutch being, well, Hutch, Starsky didn’t realize he’d run out of sandwich to offer until sudden movement forced him back into the moment. Huggy was rising up on his knees and then to his feet, stretching and adjusting his hat.

“Hey, where you goin’?” Starsky asked.

Huggy shot him a raised eyebrow. “Well, if you must know, Starsky, I’m goin’ in search of the facilities, such as they may be in this underfunded piece of Bay City municipal real estate. Wasn’t aware I needed to file a flight plan?”

“I just wanted to know I’d have some backup if Hutch starts to shift into a were-bee.”

Huggy threw his balled-up sandwich wrapper at Starsky’s grinning face. He gave them a look that didn’t lose any potency through the filter of sunglasses, and then smiled, a sweetly fond expression Starsky was sure he’d never seen in years of close friendship. “Aw, Curly, you got nothing to worry about. He starts to turn, just give him some sugar.”

Hutch broke into a coughing fit, but Starsky damn near swallowed his own tongue. Huggy tipped them a jaunty salute. “Back in a few, gentlemen.”

Yeah, Huggy Bear Brown was known in official circles as their eyes and ears on the street, a man about town who’d never met a rule he didn’t love to bend all the hell out of shape. People who mattered, and anyone with three functioning brain cells, knew the truth. Huggy was Starsky and Hutch’s closest friend, had been for their whole plainclothes career, and they lived in his inner circle of trust as well. They’d gone to the mat for each other more than once and always would. Starsky suddenly got the idea Hutch had been sending Huggy a message: we trust you; you’re allowed to really see us.

They could talk about how they and Huggy made a good team. They could thank him for information, assistance, and they did, often, but probably still not as much as they should. But this? This was handing him the keys to the kingdom. Huggy knew about them, but plausible deniability went a long way. This was trusting him with something that could get them both killed on the street, in broad daylight, by one of their brothers in blue.

This was trust in action.

Huggy deserved even more, really, but this was a start.

We see you; you see us. In a world that talks about love, but too often shows hate, we’ve got each other’s backs. Yeah, not a bad message to send their friend Huggy, but why now?

“Here.” Hutch had unwrapped Starsky’s pastrami-on-rye, one-handed, his drink sitting on the cooler lid. Well, that confirmed Starsky’s hunch: Hutch had let Starsky fuss over him not so much out of necessity, but for other, more complicated reasons.

Starsky used the sandwich as a convenient stall tactic. He barely tasted the food, too intent on how to start the conversation they needed to have. Best keep it simple. “What gives?”

“What?”

Starsky brushed sandwich crumbs off his hands onto his jeans and looked his partner up and down. “You’ve been carrying around your own personal thundercloud for weeks now. No time for us outta work hours; hell, not much time for me on the job. Trying to prove you’re Super Cop, ready to do our job one-handed with a blindfold on. When we’re in the same zip code off shift, it’s like you’re not really into anything unless we’re going head to head in some game. There’s been no… you know… for months either, and now….”

“Now what?”

“Now you drag me here to a park, let me play paramedic to your bee sting and feed you picnic food, and you were gettin’ your flirt on in front of Huggy, which hey, would’a been nice if we’d talked about that first. God knows I love Hug: he’s more’a brother to me than Nicky ever will be, and Nick and me’ve got blood between us. But you were shining a spotlight on our extracurriculars, get it? I think I know why, at least partly. I’m good with that. But still—”

“Starsk.”

“A little heads up, that’s all I’m asking—”

“Starsky!” Hutch was fidgeting, picking at the towel wrapped around his right hand. “This ready yet? Feels like it’s been on there a week.”

Starsky consulted his watch. “Yeah. Twelve minutes.” He could give Hutch some time to stall and think, too. Putting tough shit into words didn’t come easy for either of them. “All right, let’s see if my ‘weird and wonderful’ book is more wonderful than weird.”

With infinite care, Starsky lifted Hutch’s swaddled hand and unwrapped the towel, now soaked from melted ice. He used the wet cloth to wipe away the garlic oil, as the bits of clove fell on the blanket. The smell wasn’t great.

Hutch wrinkled his nose. “Jesus. Might have to soak my hand in lemon juice when I get home.” He held his palm up, the sunlight glinting off his chunky silver-onyx ring. Starsky wanted to do a boogie twirl in triumph, because the redness had faded to barely-there pink, just a half shade brighter than Hutch’s normal flesh tone, and the swelling was nearly gone.

“Look at that, wouldya? No sign of… what’d you call it? Necro-whatever infection. How’s it feel?”

Hutch made a fist, flexed and shook his hand around, then stroked two fingers down either side of his mustache, and made another hilarious face at the pungent garlic odor even closer to his nose. He shrugged. “I’m not prepared to sign off on you performing brain surgery anytime soon, but this isn’t half bad, Starsk. Of course, it wouldn’t work on anyone allergic.”

Starsky shuddered. “Don’t even go there. My aunt’s best girlhood friend died from a bee sting. Aunt Rose hated bees ever since.”

Hutch glanced around. Starsky followed his gaze. They’d chosen well for privacy with the Torino and shrubs and hedges providing cover on three sides. In front of them the nearest park goers were more than a hundred yards away and busy with a game of frisbee. Suddenly, Hutch leaned sideways, brushing his knuckles down Starsky’s cheekbone to rub under his jaw line. Shuddering again, for entirely different reasons, Starsky turned his head to puff some air right over Hutch’s wrist bone, the gentlest breeze through fine blond hairs that Starsky loved to feel against his lips, his tongue, in a more private setting.

Hutch let out a gut-punched ungh, hardly more than a whisper, that sent a dizzy rush through Starsky, hardening him somewhere not compatible with tight jeans. He stretched out his legs on their towel-blanket, relieving pressure and signaling to Hutch that they needed to cool their jets before things got too frisky for daytime in a park in the middle of their precinct.

Hutch popped the top on another can, offering it to Starsky, who gave him a headshake, content for now to just soak in the sun. After a long swallow of probably tepid soda, Hutch said, “You’re right. About Huggy. I should’ve said something to you first. I thought I was just letting him see a side of me I hadn’t been open about around him, that it didn’t say anything about you unless you chose to react to it, but Huggy knows we’re a package deal. There’s an assumption he’d make, just from my actions, and—”

“Hutch, it’s okay. He knows. We know he knows. We just don’t usually let him see. Anyway, apology accepted.”

“Is that what that was?” Hutch raised his eyebrows. Then he sighed. “Yeah it was, but not just for that. You know what, Starsk? Last several weeks, we’ve seen a lot of pain. Leslie Slate. Now Monique.”

Pain was an understatement. Starsky knew why doctors and social workers burned out: so much suffering, no way to stop it, no way to save everyone. He and Hutch had already hashed out every what-if related to the Slate case, drowning their regret, grief, and disgust in cheap beer and what passed for appetizers at the Pits. But Monique Travers! Starsky still couldn’t believe he’d had no idea how much she hurt. What kind of brutal psychic wound did it take to split a human being into two personalities without her knowledge? He and Hutch had tried discussing the issue, only to gape at each other like twin fish, words gone. Just when he thought he’d seen everything on this job, they encountered a whole new level of human tragedy.

“Yeah, a lot of pain,” Starsky agreed. “So much shit, new and old, on the job lately.”

Hutch nodded. “I’ve been so goddamned tired. Everywhere I see people wanting some kind of validation, some kind of humanity and compassion, and not ever getting any. Then I went and got into a pissing contest with that meter maid.”

“Oh, come on, Hutch—”

“No, Starsky. O’Reilly was just doing her job. I pulled rank and did an end-run and made her professional life harder than it already was. Where the hell was my brain? Halfway up my own ass, that’s where!”

Starsky bit back a joke about Hutch’s very fine ass. Now wasn’t the time. “Wow, look’a there: you’re human too.”

Hutch glared at him, but again Starsky saw a difference. Just days ago, a glare like that would’ve meant chilly silence, the whole atmosphere going subarctic as Hutch froze out everything around him. Now? Hutch shifted closer on the blanket and stretched out to match Starsky’s relaxed sprawl, and Starsky felt a nudge against his shoulder from Hutch’s.

“Hutch?”

Hutch let out a sigh that matched Starsky’s sun-sleepy content. “Hmm….”

Starsky smiled. “Before you drift off over there, you gonna tell me what all that’s got to do with the extra pep in your step, as Huggy would say?”

“You remember what the ER doc told us about the stuff Monique put in your tea?”

Starsky’s smile disappeared. “Vaguely. Whole thing’s still a blur, kinda.”

“She mixed a potent combo of paralytic and disinhibitor,” Hutch said. “Not only were you losing control over your neuromuscular function, but by the time I got on scene, you couldn’t have told a lie at gunpoint. You were fresh out of filters, buddy.”

“Oh, fuckin’ hell. What’d I say?”

“Nothing psychedelic.” Hutch gave one of his genuine heh-heh laughs that made Starsky’s whole inner being purr like a satisfied cat. “You made sure I understood she’d drugged you. Then you kept telling me over and over again ‘She can’t help it. Somebody’s got to help her. Help her, Hutch.’ You were there to protect her, and ended up her next target, but at your lowest point, your inner core exposed, you were compassionate.”

Starsky felt his face go hot; he cleared his throat and stared up into the sky hoping for a cloud to distract him with some funky shape he could point out to Hutch. That was his instinct: distract from the heaviness; deflect. But not today. He could sense that wasn’t what Hutch needed, and he didn’t either, really. And whatever Hutch needed, he got, period.

“And Bobbie, Monique’s sister? Crying damn shame, it took something so horrific to open her eyes, but man, I watched her stare down Dobey, her own attorney, the ER doc, the consulting psychiatrist. She didn’t budge from her sister’s side and she took her side, Starsk. Set aside all that judgmental shit and came out swinging on Monique’s behalf.”

“Good. There’s hope for humanity after all.”

“Exactly.” Hutch lifted his hand and stabbed his finger at the sky. “Humanity, compassion. I think I needed a reminder that they still exist. I’ve got some cosmic gratitude, too. I don’t know how I even managed to breathe between figuring out that Monique was the killer, and getting to her house and finding you still alive.” Hutch’s voice had gone hoarse, more pained than when he’d just been freshly bee stung.

Starsky sympathized. “Yeah, probably same way I managed a breath or two when you were stuck with that murderous sack of garbage, Pardee, and fighting off botulism. We do what we gotta do. Speaking of which…” He glanced over, took in Hutch’s profile and imagined a world where he could reach over and stroke his cheek, or hell, lean all the way over, and press kisses to his lips, his chin, his worry-lined forehead, creased by too many recent close-calls.

Hutch met his eyes. “What?”

“Lemme slap some validation on you too. I don’t remember much from that night, but one thing I recall is how sure I was that you were coming for me. You’d get there. You’d figure it out and you’d get there. Before things got too wonky, I even asked Monique to call you. Outta my head and I still knew you’d save the day, and apparently even on what amounts to a truth serum, I knew if anyone could help Monique it’d be you. What’s all that tell ya?”

“Starsk.” Hutch was staring at him with a grin that would look dopey on any ten guys, but even his lousy taste in shirts these days couldn’t dampen his sex appeal. Starsky knew the mustache figured in somehow, but fuck if he could write any kind of formula to explain the phenomenon. Not his shtick anyway, junk science. That was Hutch’s gig. Biorhythm calculators, for Chris’sakes.

“We’ll always come for each other, Starsky.”

“In more ways than one.” Starsky winked at him. Hutch smacked him on the hip. “Couldn’t resist. So, you’re saying you gained some fresh perspective?”

“Fresh perspective, second wind, I don’t know. I just decided, if I want to continue to roll with the punches this job throws, I need to focus more on the things that bring me joy, the things I’m grateful for, use my advantages for the betterment of others, accept myself, and celebrate the people I care about. Meaning you, turkey. And that string bean in a fedora who’s been gone long enough to find a bathroom in Barcelona.”

“That string bean’s got the inside scoop on the most happening Halloween extravaganza in our fair city.” Huggy appeared out of nowhere and plopped back down on the blanket. “I ran into a good friend of mine—”

“Of course, you did, Huggy.”

Huggy tilted his head at Hutch. “What’s that mean?”

Starsky chuckled. “He means, the only people in this ‘fair city’ you don’t know—”

“Are people who aren’t worth knowing,” Hutch finished.

Huggy preened, tweaking an imaginary bowtie and tipping his hat. “It’s nice to be appreciated. I got you cats an invite. It’s a costume party but that’s no big deal ’cause one of you is already dressed.” Huggy nodded at Hutch.

Starsky laughed out loud. “You really don’t have a defense for that shirt, partner.”

“Hey!” Hutch looked down at his shirt.

Starsky patted his shoulder.

Huggy said, “So, you in?”

“Sounds like a wingding time.” Starsky was already scrolling down a mental list of clothing items he could turn into a costume, but on the other hand… maybe he needed to send a message of his own, to Hutch. “But I dunno, Hug, I think I’m more in the mood for a night at home, in front of the fire.”

Hutch shot him a look hotter than a make-out session in the Torino’s backseat, but Huggy scoffed. “What the holy hell, Starsky? You install a fireplace lately?”

Starsky tapped his temple. “I got a vivid imagination.”

“How about a compromise,” Hutch offered. “We go to the party, let off a little steam, and then you and I can leave in time to make it back to your place for the late-night horror flick. I’ll do up some homemade popcorn.”

Starsky faked an aggrieved sigh. “Are you gonna spend half the time at this party ranting about the nutritional dangers of candy, consumerism, the holiday’s Americanized ridiculousness, and the appropriation of perfectly legitimate Pagan forms of worship?”

Huggy opened his mouth, looking ready to jump to Hutch’s defense, or the defense of his friend hosting the party, somebody’s defense, anyway. Hutch puffed up, too, but his voice held acceptance, not defensiveness, when he said, “Yeah, probably will, matter of fact. I’ve regained some perspective, Starsky, not had a lobotomy.”

Starsky let out a whoop. “Perfect!” He slapped Huggy on the back. “We’re in!”

“All riiiiight.” Huggy clapped, then rubbed his hands together. “Okay, up, let’s get to it.”

“We just got here,” Starsky protested.

Huggy looked unimpressed with his timekeeping. “Starsky, I have an idea for the costume of this decade, but it’s gonna take time to pull together and I need to swing by Duke’s thrift shop for some threads.”

“Can’t fight fashion.” Hutch rose to his feet, offering his unhurt hand to pull Starsky up.

They quickly gathered their trash and moved the cooler off the blanket. While Huggy was shaking out the large towel as if they’d been on a sandy beach instead of trimmed park grass, Starsky took Hutch by the elbow and tugged him close. “I’ll tell you something else for nothing,” he said, right into Hutch’s ear.

Hutch turned his head. They were still far enough apart to look like two guys just talking, but close enough that Starsky could feel Hutch’s breath on his face. “What’s that?” Hutch’s husky tone nearly buckled Starsky’s knees.

Starsky looked him right in the eyes. “I don’t need a fancy schmancy biorhythm calculator to know our phases line up just fine.”