Conversations with Colby

Years after the events of the story, If Love Is Real: Colby, and the events of the episode, Deadly Imposter, John Colby, incarcerated for life, still manages to complicate Starsky and Hutch’s lives.

Author’s Note: This story is part of a longer work in the If Love Is Real series and covers several episodes. It follows the events in If Love Is Real: Addiction.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2019 zine.

“He’s hurting,” Hutch had said simply.

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed.

That’s all they’d needed to say when they had that first exchange with John Colby after not having seen him for over seven years. Not since they’d been in the Academy together.

They’d sat in Vinnie’s locker room and listened while John told them a complex tale of woe. After leaving the Police Academy, he’d enlisted in the Air Force and ended up in a prisoner of war camp in ‘Nam. A quickie marriage just before he’d gone overseas had ended in a divorce. John had a son he was trying to find. It was a foregone conclusion that his old friends, Starsky and Hutch, would help him find that son.

Too bad it had all been an elaborate lie.

Remembering how glibly John had woven that lie helped Hutch focus as he prepared to face John again—but not as a friend this time.

He handed over his gun to the police officer behind the guard desk, filled out the proper forms without saying anything, handed his briefcase over for inspection, then took it back when the cop returned it. Hutch walked down the dreary corridor to Room 16 alone. There was another armed officer posted at parade rest outside the room, waiting for him. He showed the cop his empty holster and the inside of his briefcase. The man nodded and unlocked the heavy, colorless door.

They all knew about John, and they weren’t taking any chances.

Hutch stepped into Room 16 and felt the thud in his bones as the door slammed shut behind him. Hutch had a moment of pure surprise as he realized he was completely alone with Colby in the private room. There was no glass between them, nothing to keep them from any form of physical contact. It’s not what he was expecting.

“Where’s your lawyer?” he blurted.

John looked up, the sparkle in his eye revealing a subdued glee at Hutch’s discomfort. “I didn’t want him here. This is just between you and me, old friend.”

Hutch stood up straighter. He’d taken John down in hand-to-hand combat after being knocked out cold by the guy barely an hour before. He could take him down again if he had to.

Brazenly, Hutch approached the table where John sat and pulled out a chair opposite him. Settling into it, he leaned back, hoping to look more casual than he actually felt. “You asked to see me.”

“I asked to see you…” John confirmed, still with that unshakable smirk, “alone.”

“And I’m here. Alone.”

Starsky had had a fit.

“This guy’s a professional assassin and you’re gonna go have a friendly chat with him just ’cause he asked for you? Hutch, you busted him! He’s got nothing to lose by taking you out—they can only execute you once for capital murder.”

But ultimately, the federal agent, Brown, had said all the right things. “Colby can hand us enough information to link an untold number of organized crime lords to paid, premeditated murders. The murders they hired him to do. In exchange for keeping him alive and safe from the very men who want him dead to keep that knowledge hidden, he’ll tell all. With one condition—he’ll only tell it to you, Hutchinson. He says you’re the only man he can trust.”

Funny statement coming from a man no one could trust, Hutch thought.

“You bring the equipment?” Colby asked.

Hutch opened up the briefcase and pulled out the small, heavy tape recorder. He placed it on the table between them and plugged it in. He fixed one of the small blank reel-to-reel tapes into its slot and fed it into the empty spool. “Just like you asked.” He turned the recorder on.

John leaned over and turned it off. “Just like I asked.” He smiled, more to himself this time. “We’ll get down to business soon enough, but first, a little social chatter, okay? Just a few things off the record. For starters—when you arrested me, you said it wasn’t your problem if I was killed while in prison. Remember? But even though you said that, you made sure I was protected from the moment you took me into custody. You have to hate me for what I’ve become, but you still did everything in your power to keep me safe. That told me you really are the same choirboy I roomed with in the Academy. My natural cynicism makes it hard for me to believe that, but even I can’t deny reality. I’m here. Still alive. And so far, safe. Because of you.”

Hutch stayed still. You had to be careful with a man like Colby. He’d don any mask he could to play on your feelings, tell any lie. Hutch just wanted to do his job and get out, but this time his job wasn’t that simple.

“Why, Hutch?” Colby asked. “Why go to all that trouble for a man like me? A killer. A liar.”

Hutch wouldn’t prevaricate. “Because it’s the right thing to do. You told me your life would be in jeopardy. It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

It was actually the FBI’s job now since Colby was a federal prisoner, but he wouldn’t cooperate with the feds. Why should he, when he could get Hutch to dance to his tune? That would definitely be more fun, at least by Colby standards.

“The right thing to do,” Colby said, as though it were a stunning new concept. “That simple, huh?” Colby smiled again. “How’s Starsky? He must be jumping through hoops right about now.”

“He’s fine. He knows what the job entails.” Hutch was bullshitting, and Colby had to know it. Starsky had driven him here, grumbling the whole way. And if anything happened to Hutch while he was in here, he did not doubt that Starsky would tear this entire facility down brick by brick to get vengeance on the man who’d injured him.

Colby laughed, but his eyes drifted around the room as if his mind were wandering as well. “Who’d imagine, back in the Academy, that we’d end up like this, huh, Hutch? Across an interrogation table in a soundproof room in a federal prison. Back then, the only thing on my mind was… was…” Colby’s attention faltered. Hutch wondered if he was thinking back to a simpler time when he and Hutch had been roommates, and being a cop seemed like the most exciting job there could be.

Colby looked up suddenly. “Did you and Starsky end up rooming together after I left?”

Every hair on Hutch’s body lifted, but he wouldn’t let his concern show on his face. With everything Colby had gone through since then, he couldn’t possibly remember—

“Sure,” Hutch said casually. “‘Til graduation.”

Colby’s eyes fixed on him, pinning him. “I’ll bet that was interesting.”

Hutch’s stomach tightened reflexively. He’s fishing. Trying to keep you off balance. He doesn’t know anything about you or Starsky. “Oh, yeah. But I survived it.”

“Yeah, you sure did. And you’re still partners after all these years.” Colby gave him a long appraising look. “Guess I was worried about nothing back then.”

Hutch didn’t say a thing. Let Colby stew. Trapped here, that’s all he could do. He would never know anything about them. Never know how the things he’d warned Hutch about all those years ago had inadvertently shaped their relationship, making it, if anything, stronger, more uniquely theirs, if much more complicated.

Colby watched Hutch for another long moment, then seemed to switch gears. “Know how I found you guys?”

Hutch shook his head.

“The Prudholm case,” he said.

Hutch’s stomach lurched again, but for completely different reasons this time. He hated thinking about the sick bastard that had turned their lives upside down for a few weeks. He didn’t think Starsky was over that yet; wasn’t sure he’d ever get over it. The whole thing had made Hutch feel about as useless as yesterday’s newspaper. There had been nothing he could say to make things better, nothing he could do—no comfort to give the man who was so much more than best friend to him.

Ever since Hutch’s enforced drug addiction, comfort wasn’t something Starsky really wanted from him, not over Prudholm’s killing innocent cops in Starsky’s name, not even when Helen was found dead, dragging up memories Starsky could barely face.

Hutch pulled away from that train of thought before it showed on his face. Colby was the last man who would ever find out anything about that.

“You and Starsky were all over the papers after you captured that guy,” Colby said. “I was in town trying to figure out how to approach my latest assignment when you both showed up on the news and page one. Imagine how surprised I was to have you dropped into my lap like that.”

My latest assignment, Hutch thought, masking the disgust he felt. You mean your latest murder. He bit his tongue to keep himself focused.

“And still partners,” Colby mused aloud. “Not that many guys stick together as long as you two have, all the way from the Academy.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “They say it’s like a marriage, when cops become partners. I always worked solo myself, in the Air Force. Special Ops. So I wouldn’t know. Is that true, Hutch?” He grinned openly. “Is it like a marriage?”

Hutch grinned back. “That’s exactly right, John. It’s a real marriage. And I should know, since I was married once. You’re together most of the day, a lot of the nights, and just like a marriage, one day you realize you’re stuck with someone with completely different interests than you, a terrible sense of fashion, poor personal hygiene, lousy eating habits, no sense of punctuality, and bad breath. But the thing that really makes a police partnership a true marriage is the fact that once you make that commitment to each other—there’s never any sex.”

The remark must’ve taken Colby by surprise because he cracked up, slapping the table, but even through his laughter, his eyes never left Hutch’s face.

Yeah, Hutch thought, he’s fishing all right. Hutch couldn’t let himself care. Not after all they’d been through this last year.

“You ready to get down to business?” Hutch asked softly.

As if realizing that he’d pushed this line as far as he could, at least for now, Colby nodded and turned on the tape recorder himself. Hutch tested the equipment, reciting his name, rank, the date, and the name and prisoner number of the man sitting in front of him. And then he asked the first question the FBI had given him to ask, and the session started in earnest.

~~~

Starsky shifted in the Torino’s front seat as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tapped his left foot to an insistent inner tempo. He’d been fidgeting for a solid hour while Hutch sat in the spider’s web—Colby’s private interrogation room—but his eyes never left the gates Hutch would walk through when the interview was over.

That bastard’s got a lotta nerve, making Hutch pull this duty. But that’s so typical of Colby. He always was a user.

Even while thinking that, it still amazed him that the man who’d roomed with Hutch in the Academy could’ve become a stone-cold killer, someone who could lie as easily as not. Lie and murder. Starsky suppressed a shudder, thinking of Hutch alone with him.

In spite of his concerns, Starsky knew Hutch had to do this. And Starsky had to let him. He’d stopped hovering over Hutch weeks ago, after Hutch finally beat an addiction to heroin forced on him by a crime lord doing a damn good stretch in a different facility.

The hovering wasn’t the only thing he’d had to stop.

He slammed the door on that thought before it could blossom behind his eyes—the way it sometimes did at night when he was alone in bed.

Which wasn’t happening too much these days, truth be told. Instead, there’d been a string of good-time girls, easy-going stewardesses, and ladies who weren’t looking for anything more complicated than a quick lay. Even Huggy had mentioned that lately it almost seemed like he and Hutch were trying to set some kinda conquest record. It had been nearly one nonstop party for the two of them once Hutch got over his addiction to heroin—and Starsky got over his addiction to Hutch.

Yeah. You’re over that. Sure you are. You’re over it cold.

They were having fun, right? And the girls were having a good time, too, weren’t they? It was great to see Hutch all healthy and robust again, his sex drive running in the right direction once more.

Hutch seemed happy enough. ‘Specially since he’d put one over on Starsky by stealing Abby right out from under his nose. But even that had worked out okay, since she was definitely more Hutch’s type anyway. Starsky couldn’t imagine himself eating all those wheat germ dinners and vitamin supplements, no matter how robust Hutch seemed.

As for Starsky, he was doing just fine, too, even without the supplements.

Except when stuff like this came up and he had to watch Hutch walk right into the lion’s den without being able to back him up. He didn’t want to think about Hutch sitting across from that snake-bastard Colby.

He especially didn’t want to think about Colby dragging up shit from their past that was better left dead and buried.

Starsky rubbed a hand over his face, then realized Hutch was walking through the gate and coming towards the car. He felt his whole body sag in relief as he leaned over to open the passenger side door.

Hutch flopped into the seat heavily and immediately shut his eyes as he leaned back against the headrest.

One hour with that bastard and you’re totally wrung out, aren’t you?

After a long moment of silence Starsky finally asked, “You okay?”

Hutch nodded without opening his eyes. “Buy me a beer, willya?”

Starsky smiled. Yeah, he was okay. He pulled away and headed back to Bay City and the Pits.

~~~

“Here, try some ice chips,” Hutch said, offering some on a spoon.

Starsky grimaced and turned his face away. “Wanna beer.”

Hutch snorted a laugh. “You’re gonna have to wait a while for a beer, buddy. Come on. I know your mouth is dry. Take a few ice chips.”

Starsky blinked at him blearily. “No beer?”

“No beer. Do you know where you are?”

Starsky pondered that gravely for a moment. “Somewhere with no beer.” He thought some more. “Am I in hell?”

Hutch worked harder to suppress his smile. “Close. You’re in the hospital. You had surgery. They took that bullet out of your back. The bullet you stopped in the Italian restaurant… remember? That’s why you’re feeling so loopy. You’ve had morphine.”

Starsky’s brow furrowed as he thought all that through. “When the morphine wears off can I have a beer?”

“You’ll be out of here in a couple of days then you can have all the beer you want,” Hutch lied. He knew very well the antibiotics would keep his partner off alcohol for a few weeks, at least.

“We got the bad guys, right?” Starsky asked suddenly.

“Yeah, buddy, we did that.” Hutch had killed Joey Martin, and hit Tom Lockly in the shoulder. Lockly survived, but refused to cut a deal, knowing that, as a paid hitman, he’d have little to bargain with without selling out his employers. Apparently, he’d rather take his chances with the state than the mob. The whole ordeal over the Vic Monte assassination attempt was enough to put Hutch off Italian food for the rest of his life.

“Well…” Starsky asked haltingly, still clearly confused by the morphine that was keeping him comfortable, “…since we got the bad guys… can I at least have some ice chips?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve got some right here.” He held out a spoonful and fed them to his groggy partner. “And later, even better, there’s strawberry Jell-o!”

Starsky only grunted.

The doctors had commended Hutch on his first aid. While Starsky had lost a significant amount of blood, the bullet had missed anything vital, including his spine. He would probably have some residual soreness in his shoulder, but if Hutch knew his partner, that wouldn’t slow him down.

Right now, all Hutch wanted was to sit here by Starsky’s bedside, do what he could to make him comfortable, and just enjoy the fact that they had both survived. He was hoping that some recovery time with Starsky might help cut down on the repetitive nightmares he was having. He’d woken up this morning in a cold sweat, dreaming of the moment when he’d carried Starsky, unconscious, into the restaurant’s back room. Only in his dream, when he laid Starsky down on the couch, he was no longer breathing, and nothing Hutch could do would save him.

Don’t dwell on it. He’s right here with you. Alive. Breathing. Thank God.

In some ways this was the hardest part for Hutch after a close call, when they got trapped in a public place like a hospital. All Hutch really wanted to do was climb into bed with Starsky and surround him with his body, hold him close and fall asleep while feeling his rhythmic breathing. In truth, he wanted to do a hell of a lot more than that, but Starsky had backed way off that kind of thing, and Hutch had promised to respect his limits. He understood Starsky’s reasoning, and tried his best not to resent it, even though he never got a vote in the matter.

Right now, that part seemed pretty trivial. Starsky was alive. They could renegotiate limits once Hutch got him home and helped him recover. Starsky loved being babied and cared for, and after a run in as close as this one, Hutch was thinking Starsky might bend a little.

He was startled when the door opened suddenly and Captain Dobey and Federal Agent Bill Shaw entered. Their arrival didn’t help him relax any. They can’t read your mind, Hutchinson, so just cool it. Well, Shaw surely couldn’t, but Hutch wasn’t laying odds on Dobey’s limitations.

Starsky looked up at the men then gave them a friendly finger wave and a goofy smile. “Hiya fellas!”

“Well, Starsky,” Dobey said with a relaxed grin, “I see they’re taking good care of you.”

“Not really,” Starsky said, losing the smile.

“Oh,” said Dobey. “What’s wrong?”

“No beer,” Starsky and Hutch explained at the same time.

Both Dobey and Shaw laughed at Starsky’s woebegone expression.

“Hey, Starsky,” Shaw said, picking up a large fruit basket and putting it on the bedside table. “The guys down at the office sent this over when they heard about what happened.”

By the “guys,” he meant the other federal agents that worked with him under Agent Buckland. Shaw was a tall, dark-skinned handsome man, maybe 28 or 29 years old, at the beginning of his career in the FBI. He made Hutch think of Dobey as a young officer, all spit and polish and by the book, yet basically an honest, decent man—even if he was a fed.

Buckland, his boss, had been involved with Dobey and his men during the Colby case, and was still overseeing the work Colby generated. An entire task force was digging through the details Colby had been feeding Hutch—following up leads, nailing down evidence, serving depositions, and bagging some pretty big organized crime targets. Buckland was happy about that, but he wasn’t at all happy that he had to filter everything through Dobey’s men. But the only way Colby was willing to sing was with Hutch as his audience. So, none of them had much choice in the matter.

Shaw had become the go-between between Buckland and Hutch, partly because Hutch and Buckland couldn’t get along, and partly because Shaw actually liked Starsky and Hutch, and they had to admit a grudging respect for the up-and-coming young agent.

Starsky’s eyes widened. “Wow, Hutch! Lookit alla that fruit!” Then he giggled almost manically, muttering, “Fruits for the fruits—”

“With a little luck,” Hutch said, “they’ll crank down the morphine tomorrow, but he’s sure having a good time today.”

“Well, he deserves a little relief after what you two went through,” Dobey said. “I’d suggest you go home and get some rest yourself, Hutch, but I know how futile that suggestion would be.”

“Thanks, Captain, then that’s one argument we don’t have to have,” Hutch agreed with a smile. But his eyes were on Shaw when he said it.

Shaw smiled shyly, then glanced at the door and nodded his head in that direction.

Hutch clenched his jaw.

Dobey was watching them out of the corner of his eye. When Hutch frowned in acknowledgment of Shaw’s silent request, Dobey moved forward toward Starsky, as though using his bulk to shield Shaw’s and Hutch’s retreat.

But as Shaw reached for the doorknob, Starsky spoke up, his voice suddenly much clearer.

“Where d’ya think you’re going?” The seriousness of his tone couldn’t be ignored.

Hutch turned around. “I’ll be right outside—”

“Don’t give me that,” Starsky said, angry now. He moved as if to pull the covers off and swing a leg out of the bed.

Hutch was by his side in an instant. “Hold it, hold it! Where do you think you’re going?”

“With you!” Starsky said plainly. He was still blinking slowly and his pupils were unfocused. Pointing at Shaw, Starsky said, “You’re here ’cause Colby wants to see Hutch. But he’s not goin’ there without me!”

“Easy, Starsk,” Hutch said, trying to get him settled back in bed, but Starsky resisted.

“You’re not goin’ without me!” Starsky insisted, grabbing Hutch’s sleeve.

“Starsky, just what do you think you’ll accomplish going with Hutch in your condition?” Dobey asked reasonably, placing a hand comfortingly on the agitated man’s shoulder. “It’s not like you can go inside with him—”

“I’m his partner,” Starsky said, really angry now. “His partner. He’s not goin’ there without his partner!”

“Easy, buddy,” Hutch said anxiously. “You’re gonna pop a stitch if you don’t settle down.”

“Hey, Starsky,” Shaw said apologetically, “I just need to tell Hutch something about one of the cases—”

Hutch held up a hand, trying to stop Shaw from making the situation worse with obfuscation.

“He’s not goin’!” Starsky said loudly.

“Starsky!” Hutch said sharply, pulling his attention back. “Settle down! You win. I won’t go ’til you’re well enough to go with me, okay? I promise.”

Shaw looked uncomfortable, and Dobey ran a hand over his hair in exasperation.

Starsky relaxed almost immediately. He gazed up at Hutch, his eyes narrowed. “You promise?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Hutch said.

Starsky nodded and settled onto his side in the bed.

“Now, I want you to relax,” Hutch told him, “while I go outside and talk to Captain Dobey and Agent Shaw. Is that okay with you?”

Starsky looked sullen.

“You know I’ll tell you everything we talk about,” Hutch assured him. “You okay with that?”

“Yeah, okay,” Starsky grumbled, crossing his arms.

Hutch patted his shoulder, then walked out of the room with Shaw and Dobey right behind him.

“Hutch, I’m sorry,” Shaw said before the door was even closed behind him. “Buckland insisted—”

Hutch held his hand up. “We all work for someone else. I understand. Starsky will, too. I’d love to think you just came by to bring the fruit basket, but obviously something else is going on.”

“It’s Colby,” Shaw said, nodding. “He wants to see you right away—”

“So, now we jump when he says jump?” Hutch said irritably. “What’s next, we ask how high?”

Shaw’s expression was apologetic. “He says he has some information that’s time sensitive. If he doesn’t give it to us now—”

Hutch looked at Dobey pleadingly. “Starsky’s not in any shape—”

“Hutch,” Dobey said reasonably, “Starsky won’t be in any shape for at least a week. He’s lucky he’s alive. He doesn’t need to go with you. He doesn’t even enter the prison when he does go—”

“Captain, if it were up to Starsky, I wouldn’t be going at all, and you know it. He needs to be in that car waiting for me. It’s the proximity. If he were the one going in there, I’d want to be in the car, too.”

No one said anything for a while as Hutch clenched his jaw over and over. He felt like no matter what he did, he would regret the decision.

Shaw could barely look at him. “Hutch, I’m sorry. This is a special case. We have to go now—”

“Now?” Hutch looked between the two men. Clearly, Dobey knew this was coming. He had that familiar guilty look Hutch recognized all too well. “Why now?”

“We’ve picked up some stuff on wiretap, but it’s all phrased in careful language, nothing said outright. We think there’s going to be an assassination on a visiting African dignitary, but we can’t figure who or when. When we put it to Colby, he agreed that we had that part right, and we think he knows who the victim is, and maybe even the mechanic. It might’ve been one of the jobs he had lined up that his arrest interrupted. But he’ll only tell you. We were lucky to get anything out of him at all.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. “He knows about the Italian restaurant, doesn’t he? He knows Starsky’s been shot.”

Shaw looked nonplussed. “How did you—?”

“He’s known about this for weeks, and he’s only giving it up now,” Hutch said. “He knows Starsky, knows it’ll make him crazy not to be in the car waiting for me. He waited ’til the last possible minute—”

“Which is the entire point, Hutch,” Dobey interrupted. “This is the last possible minute. The information Colby has could mean the difference between life and death for someone. You’re a police officer. I shouldn’t have to remind you—”

“Of my duty?” Hutch snapped. “No, Captain, you don’t have to remind me of my duty. The reason’s Starsky’s in that bed is because we never need to be reminded of our duty.” He sighed. How the hell was he going to explain this to Starsky?

Turning to Shaw, he said, “I need a car, a big sedan, something really comfortable.”

Shaw nodded. “I brought one of the big Lincolns. I figured you’d be too tired to drive yourself, so I planned on taking you.”

“Get me a wheelchair.” He turned to go back into the room. “Starsky’s coming with us.”

Dobey began sputtering. “Hutch, you can’t be serious!”

Hutch gave him a searing look. “I promised him.”

~~~

Colby was wearing that smug expression that made Hutch want to throttle him. In some ways, he reminded Hutch of a spurned female lover doing everything in her power to punish the man who got away. “Glad you could make it, Hutch. How’s Starsky?”

“He’s just fine, John,” Hutch said. “Nice of you to ask.”

The smugness slipped a little. “He’s fine?”

“Right as rain.” Hutch gave him a wide-eyed look. “You can ask him yourself; he’s down in the car.”

“He’s here?” Colby looked perplexed.

“Sure, he is. We’re partners. He always takes the ride out with me. He kind of likes it. It’s relaxing, watching the countryside—he can be here in five minutes if you really want to say hello.”

Colby hesitated for a moment as if weighing the pros and cons of going further with this, but his curiosity must have gotten the better of him. “I heard he got shot. Heard you two took down two of my competitors when they tried to set up Vic Monte.”

Hutch nodded. “Yeah, the papers made a big deal out of it. Helps circulation.”

“So, Starsky didn’t get shot?”

“Yeah, he did, but…” Hutch had a momentary flash of one of Starsky’s old cowboy movies, “it was just a flesh wound. Couple of stitches and a Band-Aid and he’s back in the saddle.”

Colby frowned. The news seemed to take the starch right out of him.

“You didn’t call me out here to check on Starsky’s health,” Hutch pressed.

As if remembering what his end of the bargain was, Colby sat up, and obligingly turned the tape recorder on. “I had another job scheduled in Bay City after the Karpel hit. There’s going to be a special event connected to the opening of that new Egyptian exhibit that’s touring. There’ll be a lot of Egyptian, Arab, and African dignitaries, and a host of American ones as well. One of the Egyptians is a quiet man, stays in the background, but he’s the president’s main advisor. He’s been pushing the president to crack down hard on crime and illegal exports. There’s a certain business faction that wants him eliminated. There are three possibilities as to who got the job after I was ‘retired’….” He proceeded to lay out details of when the hit might take place and how.

Once he had all the information John could give him, Hutch closed up the recorder in his briefcase, and stood. “Is this the last potential hit that you know of?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I never planned ’em that far in advance. In fact, it was unusual for me to take two assignments so close together in the same town.”

Hutch met his gaze steadily. “So, I have no reason to expect any more midnight runs?”

Colby didn’t answer.

“John… try to remember that this information is a lot more important to the FBI than it is to me. If you jerk the string too hard, it’s liable to break.”

The smirk was back, if subdued. “You’ll be back, Hutch, whenever I’m ready to talk. You can’t help yourself. You’ll be back because you know it’s the right thing to do.”

Hutch didn’t like hearing his own words thrown back at him, but he kept his expression neutral. “Have a good night, John.”

“Give my love to Starsky,” Colby said, and the image of the spurned lover struck Hutch again.

Ironic, Hutch thought. Right now Starsky won’t even let me give my love to him.

~~~

“Is he okay?” Hutch asked, as he slid into the Lincoln’s spacious back seat.

Starsky was curled up in a mound of blankets and pillows, dozing. When the car door shut, he blinked and looked around the dark interior.

“He’s been cuttin’ firewood since you walked through the gates,” Dobey said as Shaw turned the car on and eased out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

“Hutch, you okay?” Starsky asked. His voice sounded rusty from sleep, but Hutch could tell most of the morphine had worn off. There was a tightness around his face that he couldn’t quite mask.

“Me? I’m fine. You’re looking a little pale.”

“Nah. I’m a hundred percent. Couldn’t talk either of these two stick-in-the-muds into getting me a beer, either. Colby give us what we need?”

Hutch smiled reassuringly. “A hundred percent. They’ve already sent the information to FBI headquarters and Buckland’s got the crew analyzing it. Our work is done. So we can go straight back to the hosp—”

“Ah, Hutch, c’mon. We’re already out, so why don’t we just go home?”

“Forget it. You’ve had your last joy right for a while.” Hutch tugged on his shoulder gently. “Come on now, lie down. Put your head on this pillow,” he rested it against his thigh, “and try to get some rest. Your doctor’s ready to skin me alive as it is. You go back looking as white as those hospital linens and I’ll lose all my visiting privileges.”

With only a little bit of grumbling, Starsky did as Hutch asked.

“Your guys better make sure they make the best of that information Hutch got,” Starsky told Shaw.

“We’ve got everybody working on it, Starsky,” Shaw reassured him. “You just relax with your partner while I get us home.”

Starsky sighed. “Home. That’s a ways off yet.”

Hutch didn’t say anything. Sitting in the back seat of the big sedan with Starsky’s head in his lap was home enough for him.

~~~

“How come we never rent apartments on the first floor?” Starsky asked, as Hutch guided him into his own place. For Starsky, walking up the short flight felt like climbing to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

“I’m wondering that myself,” Hutch said, easing him onto the couch with a grunt. “Did you gain weight in the hospital?”

Starsky shook his head. “I wanted to get out of that hospital so bad, I convinced myself I had enough energy to run around the block. But, the drive over here wore me out. I tell ya, Hutch, hospitals just suck the life right outta you.”

“Which is why you badgered the doctor into releasing you two days before he really wanted to.”

Starsky glowered at his partner. “He only let me out because he wanted to get rid of you.”

Hutch looked hurt. “Me?”

“Let’s face it, buddy, you were driving everyone there crazy. ‘Don’t you think Detective Starsky should start physical therapy now? Detective Starsky needs extra pillows to cushion his injured back. Why isn’t Detective Starsky getting his bandages changed daily instead of every other day? Detective Starsky’s sponge bath was late this morning; he can’t heal properly if he’s not clean. Detective Starsky has had red Jell-O three days in a row—'”

“I did not complain about the color of your Jell-O!” Hutch protested.

“Did to,” Starsky said. “You thought I was sleeping when you harangued that poor kitchen orderly.”

“Yeah, well, I noticed you ate the pineapple Jell-O with particular gusto.”

Starsky paused to catch his breath and just enjoy the sensation of being on his own couch in his own home. “I promise to never mention Jell-O-gate again on one condition.”

Hutch looked at him suspiciously. “Which is—?”

“You hand over that beer you’ve been promising me for three days, and no one gets hurt.”

“Starsky—”

“I know damned well Huggy’s stocked the larder with vittles and other essentials—”

“Vittles?” Hutch repeated, raising his brows.

“You heard me.”

“Starsk—”

Starsky slashed a hand through the air. “I do not want to hear about—”

“—You’re on antibiotics—”

“—For two damned more weeks—”

“—We’ve been down this road before—”

“—A journey I’m not taking without a fight! One can!”

“A swallow.”

“Half a can,” Starsky countered. “And that’s my final offer!”

“I’m not bargaining with you about this!”

“Half a can. To carry me through—” he sighed deeply and turned his most woebegone expression on Hutch, “—the next two whole weeks of monk-like abstinence.”

“Okay! Okay! Half a can!” Hutch stormed over to the refrigerator and pulled a cold one from the interior. He didn’t see Starsky do a subdued victory dance on the couch. When he returned Starsky plastered the mournful look back on his face. Hutch pointed a finger at him. “And you just forget the hang-dog expression. Try to remember that I’m immune to your somewhat questionable ‘charms’.”

Starsky dropped the mask and took the offered beer with a grin. “You’re a pal, Hutch.”

“We’ll see if you’re singing that same song tomorrow,” Hutch said, pulling the can away from Starsky before he could drink it all and taking a healthy slug himself. When he handed it back, there wasn’t much left.

Starsky sighed, finishing it and relishing every drop.

“How about some ‘vittles’,” Hutch asked.

“I don’t mean to panic you or anything but—I’m too tired.”

Hutch smiled gently. “Yeah, I bet you are. I’m afraid that jaunt out to see Colby set you back considerably.”

“It was worth it though, right? That information let the FBI get the bad guys, save the diplomat—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Starsky looked at him, hearing something in his tone he didn’t like. “Y’know, talking to Colby is strictly voluntary on your part. No one would blame you if you quit cooperating with the feds—”

“No one but me. The information he’s been giving us is golden. Shaw tells me that they’ve now got some serious evidence against two of the mob leaders who’ve ordered some of Colby’s hits. Plus, they’ve been able to close four long standing murder cases they didn’t even know were connected. Talking to Colby is the right thing to do, even if it makes my flesh crawl, even if I hate every minute of it.”

Starsky watched Hutch’s body language as he talked, and didn’t like what he saw. His friend had to be as physically drained as Starsky felt himself. Since Starsky had been shot in the Italian restaurant, Hutch had been doing both their jobs, plus spending every spare minute at the hospital supervising Starsky’s recovery. Adding Colby to that mix was an extra burden to carry, a heavy one.

While neither of them could take any personal responsibility for the path John had chosen in life, they couldn’t escape the fact that it was Colby who initiated the change in their relationship that Starsky regretted and rejoiced in at the same time. It was Colby who had clued Hutch in on Starsky’s physical attraction to him, and the fact that Starsky was sometimes interested in men. If Colby had never said anything, Starsky was certain he could’ve kept it from Hutch, who had a tendency to take people he trusted at face value. Colby had been like the snake in their garden, bringing them the knowledge of good and evil, and they had never quite gotten over the sweet taste of what could have been.

Starsky closed his eyes. He couldn’t work this through right now. There was too much going on. He was hurting and exhausted and it would be weeks before he’d be back on the streets and they could distract themselves with work. And Hutch, in many ways, was hurting even worse than he was. He was the one who’d had to deal with all the stress and fear of that night in the restaurant. He’d kept Starsky alive, treated him like his partner in spite of his injury, and saved everyone in the restaurant besides. He should have gotten a medal, not more headaches.

“I hate to admit it,” he said suddenly, “but you were right about the beer.”

Hutch paused, then looked at him with concern. “I was? I mean, of course I was. Uh, why?”

“‘Cause it went right to my head. I need to sleep. Can you give me a hand?”

“Sure. In a minute,” Hutch said, trying to hide a smile. “First, I want to write down on the calendar that you admitted I was right about something. It’s a momentous occasion. We can celebrate the anniversary every year.” But even as he said that, he took hold of Starsky’s arm and carefully helped lever him off the couch.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Starsky admonished.

“Can you manage to brush your own teeth?” Hutch asked once Starsky was on his feet.

Starsky waved him off and shuffled stiffly into the bathroom, figuring Hutch would putter around the bedroom moving blankets, and adjusting and readjusting the pillows ’til he came out. Hutch really should have been a nurse.

“Help me with my shirt, will ya?” Starsky asked when he came back to the bedroom. The wound in his back was aching.

“Sure. You want to wear pajamas?”

Starsky shook his head. “Just wanna get in bed.” Hutch helped him stripped down to his briefs. He’d be warm enough with the broad bandaging taped to his back. Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed, ready to climb in. “You gonna sleep with me?” He asked it as casually as he could.

The expression on Hutch’s face ran through a gamut of emotions: relief, joy, yearning, reluctance. All in the blink of an eye. No one else would’ve noticed a thing, but Starsky knew this man too well.

There were a million responses Hutch could give, starting with Nurse Hutchinson’s—”Do you really think that’s a good idea?” to Sensible Hutchinson’s, “It would be better if I camped on the couch,” to Nurturing Hutchinson’s, “I’m afraid I’d hurt you, Starsk.” The only one he really wanted to hear from was the one who usually had the least to say—Honest Hutchinson.

To Starsky’s surprise, that was who answered. “Yeah,” Hutch said softly. “I’d like that a lot.” He immediately started stripping off his own clothes, while Starsky slid under the sheets and got comfortable on his side.

Ah… my own bed. Was there anything as comfortable as getting into your own bed after a hospital stay? Starsky listened to Hutch brushing his teeth, then heard the water turn off, and finally felt the weight of his partner make the bed dip down. Okay, there was one thing more comfortable than being in your own bed after the hospital. Having your partner spoon up behind you after a close call that nearly got you both killed.

Hutch slid his arm carefully around Starsky’s middle and Starsky put his own arm over it and laced their fingers together. He didn’t want Hutch to doubt that Starsky really wanted him there. He felt Hutch sigh heavily and melt against him.

“I’ve been wanting to do this ever since the restaurant,” Honest Hutch admitted in a whisper.

I know, Starsky thought. He’d read it in every touch they’d shared in that restaurant after Starsky got shot. They both needed that physical contact after a close call, and this had been one of their closest. Starsky feared after the bad time they’d gone through getting Hutch over his heroin addiction, Hutch would never ask again. It was little enough to give a guy who saved your life. It ain’t a medal, Hutch, but it’s all I’ve got.

The truth was, Starsky needed the contact, too, and had realized it every time Hutch had handled him in that restaurant.

Within minutes, they were breathing in sync. Starsky lay still, just enjoying the feel of Hutch surrounding him, making him feel safe and secure. Making him feel loved like no one else ever had.

Then they slept.

~~~

When Hutch woke, he found they’d reversed position. He was curled on his side with Starsky pressed along his back. He wondered if they’d shifted all night in unison.

The morning sun was streaming brightly through the window and birds were singing. The curtains moved slowly with fresh breezes blowing through the open window. It was a typically beautiful California morning. What wasn’t typical was the erection pressing against his spine and the furred torso plastered against his back. He felt Starsky’s day’s growth of beard rub absently along his shoulder. He sighed, cataloging all the different sensations he felt while Starsky held him close. It felt good. Way too good, but he didn’t care. He lay there enjoying it and giving thanks for Starsky’s life. It had been too close, this time. Way too close. He needed this intimacy to reconnect with the living man, to celebrate his warmth, his strength, his resilience.

Starsky sighed suddenly and shifted, making Hutch aware that his partner was beginning to wake. That’s all it took, that sudden awareness and Starsky’s slight change in position, for Hutch’s desire to bloom fiercely, his own erection becoming rock hard. He suppressed a moan. He had no right to inflict this desire on Starsky. No right to impose his own need on—

Starsky shifted again, his open palm rubbing circles over Hutch’s abdomen. Starsky snuggled in closer, moving his hips, settling his hard on at the top of the cleft in Hutch’s ass. He huffed a small sound, making Hutch wonder if maybe he wasn’t still asleep.

Then he exhaled, “Hutch,” and he heard the familiar sound of yearning in Starsky’s voice.

There was no way Hutch could stand firm in the face of that sound. “I’m here, babe,” he said softly, and gently stroked Starsky’s arm. He’ll wake up all the way and realize what he’s doing, then be embarrassed. He just needs time to wake up—

Starsky’s mouth brushed the back of his neck, and a wake of goosebumps ran down Hutch’s spine. “Hutch?”

Is he asking permission? There was already too much blood in Hutch’s cock for him to think clearly. Confused, restless, and too excited to restrain himself, Hutch refused to go any further without looking into Starsky’s eyes. He needed to be sure Starsky was really awake. He needed to be sure Starsky knew what he was doing. He couldn’t bear it if Starsky was full of regrets later.

He shifted carefully, turning in Starsky’s embrace, until he was on his other side and they were face to face. He regretted it almost immediately because the expression on Starsky’s face was enough to break his heart. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly.

“I thought they shot you out there,” he said abruptly.

It took a moment for Hutch to catch up. He must’ve dreamed about the Italian restaurant. That moment when Joey fired at Teresa’s boyfriend and I knocked the gun away so he missed the shot. When I got back to the office, Starsky had rolled off the couch, desperate to check on me, trying to help. He tried to joke about it, but he must’ve been terrified and feeling so helpless.

“I thought they shot you, and there was nothing I could do,” Starsky said, his voice rough with more than sleep. “Layin’ on a couch, all shot up, while they killed my partner—”

“Hey, come on, I didn’t get shot. You did.” I saw it happen, saw the bullet hit— He jerked his mind away from that painful memory and touched the side of Starsky’s face to comfort him, try to bring him back to this moment where they were both together, alone in their own special intimacy.

“Colby’s after you, Hutch,” Starsky said, taking the conversation into an abrupt left turn.

“What?” Hutch tried to remember how much pain medication Starsky might still be on, then realized he’d refused to take any more by the end of the second day in the hospital.

“He’s always been after you,” Starsky continued. “When he confronted me in the Academy, I knew that’s what it was about. He wanted you then, and I called him on it. He wants you ’cause you’re everything he’s not. You’re good and honest and clean. That’s why he’s makin’ you come out there, and why I can’t come. He wants me to know he can have you any time he wants. He calls and you go. And he wins every time. He wants to take you away from me any way he can.”

Hutch smiled gently. “Well, even if that is his intent, Starsk, your name comes up too much for him to think he’s succeeding. You may not be in that room physically, but your spirit is there every minute, sitting right beside me, warning me not to say too much, warning me to stay sharp around him, to be careful. You’re there every minute, partner, and he knows it. He could never take me away from you.”

Starsky shut his eyes as if in pain, but Hutch didn’t ask if it was his back.

“I know you’ll keep goin’—and he’ll keep tryin’ to take you from me.”

He passed a hand over Starsky’s hair, not knowing what to say to ease his concerns. “That’ll never happen, Starsk. Never.” Unable to resist any longer, he leaned down and kissed Starsky’s cheek.

Starsky turned his face into the kiss and touched Hutch’s mouth with his. It wasn’t the desperate kiss Starsky had often given him, the kiss that spoke of a soul-hungering need, of a passion barely kept under control. This was a closed-mouth gentle kiss of connection. Of tremendous restraint.

“It’s okay,” Hutch whispered against Starsky’s lips.

Starsky shook his head as if to deny that, then kissed him again, just as chastely.

Then, so softly Hutch almost missed it completely, Starsky muttered, “Just this once?”

“Sure,” Hutch said, “it’s okay. Just this once.”

When Starsky took hold of his painful, aching erection, Hutch shuddered all over. He was so excited, his cock so sensitive, he could feel the whorls of Starsky’s fingerprints, the chill brush of his pinky ring, and the ridges of gun callous on his fingers and palms. It was the touch of a hand he knew better than his own, a touch he felt he’d been waiting for forever. His body sagged in relief as his cock grew even harder. “Starsk!” he gasped.

Starsky’s smile was warm, his face, for the first time in a long time, suffused with joy. Just from touching Hutch. Starsky was handling him so carefully, too carefully for Hutch’s taste, but he was determined to give Starsky whatever he needed. Then Starsky shifted in the bed, brushing his own cock against Hutch’s balls. Hutch gasped at the contact and watched Starsky’s eyes roll up in pleasure. It was all the motivation he needed. He reached down, cupping Starsky’s testicles and rolled them gently. Starsky lurched against him in reaction, then gave him one of those totally disarming wry smiles.

“Always loved your big hands,” Starsky whispered.

“Yeah?” Hutch whispered back, surprised at how much that small compliment affected him. Wanting to give Starsky a reason to say more, he slid his hand up and with only a moment’s hesitation took hold of his partner’s rigid erection.

Starsky let out a hearty sigh, and his grin broadened. “Oh, yeah. Your hands—”

Smiling himself, Hutch stroked firmly, and felt Starsky mimic his action. So good— That was his last coherent thought as the two of them moved slowly but surely, rubbing, stroking, gently pulling each other to a slow but steady climb to orgasm.

Starsky flexed his hips in time to Hutch’s stroke. He pressed his forehead against Hutch’s as if needing an emotional connection more than the sexual one. It gave Hutch a quick flashback to that moment in the restaurant, where he pressed his forehead against Starsky’s for exactly that kind of connection.

Head and heart—together— Starsky’s expert hand was making it difficult for him to think, but not so much that he forgot about his partner’s injury. “Easy,” he reminded Starsky, “take it easy.”

“Don’t wanna,” Starsky said, opening his eyes and giving Hutch one of his most devastating grins. He changed the rhythm of his hand just slightly, but it made Hutch gasp in surprise. “You?”

Hutch could only shake his head and try to keep up. How does he do this to me?

Starsky shifted closer to Hutch, and slid his right hand over Hutch’s ass, petting him through his boxers, the additional stimulus nearly pushing him over the edge. Starsky chuckled, the wicked sound letting Hutch know Starsky had his number completely. He stopped fighting it and just gave in to the moment.

“Yeah,” Starsky growled, and tightened his grip.

The orgasm overwhelmed him completely. The minute he shot across Starsky’s hand, he felt Starsky’s orgasm answer his and pour out, warm and viscous. It was pulsing proof of his partner’s vigor, and it thrilled him as much as his own orgasm did.

He pressed his lips against Starsky’s forehead in an impulsive gesture of love and gratitude and emotions he couldn’t even put a name to.

That made Starsky laugh, as they both softened. Using an edge of the sheet to clean them both, Starsky muttered, “That was just perfect. Perfect.” Then he rolled over, spooning himself up against Hutch, and immediately fell back to sleep.

Just this once? Hutch wondered, but knew he wouldn’t ask. He was too grateful to look for anything more. As he pulled Starsky securely against his chest and let himself sag back to sleep, he recalled the sarcastic rejoinder that now only mocked him: Yeah, I’m immune to your charms. Sure I am…

~~~

The next morning, Starsky felt good, too good to act like an asshole. Apparently, Hutch did, too, because breakfast was surprisingly comfortable, not to mention delicious. Hutch served up bacon, eggs, toast, and a great cup of coffee, all without giving Starsky any static about how much butter he was using, the effects of nitrates in the bacon, or the high cholesterol level of the eggs Starsky was scarfing down. Starsky couldn’t help think, as he mopped up the remainder of the rich egg yolks with his toast, that Hutch wouldn’t just make a great nurse, but a great wife as well.

Maybe that’s what made him ask the next question, even though he worried that it would shatter the mood.

“So, how are things going with you and Abby, anyway? You are still seeing her, aren’t you?”

Hutch hesitated a beat before answering, “Yeah, we’re still seeing each other. I like her. She’s very sweet. We have a lot in common.”

Starsky smiled, sipped his coffee, and waited.

“You’re not still mad about that, are you, the way I hooked up with her?”

Starsky laughed. “Hell, no. She is real sweet, but we wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. She’s definitely your type.”

Hutch fixed him with a firm stare. “Do you want me to stop seeing her?”

Starsky felt himself go soft inside. He held Hutch’s gaze, understanding that Hutch meant the offer with all his heart. All Starsky had to do was say “yes” and Abby would be history. And you’d be mine, all mine— He sighed, imagining a different world than they the one they really lived in.

“That’s the last thing I’d want you to do,” he said, with the same honesty. “She’s a lovely girl. I think it’s great that you’re seeing her.”

Hutch nodded, and there was a shadow of disappointment in his eyes. Maybe he was imagining the same kind of world Starsky wished they lived in. “Y’know, I like Abby a lot, Starsk… but we’re not exclusive. We’ve both agreed on that. We’re… not ready for any kind of commitment—”

Starsky nodded. “That’s good. You’ll know when you’re ready… to settle down again.”

Hutch looked away. “I don’t know. After Van—you get burned like that—I don’t know.”

“In our line of work, Hutch,” Starsky said solemnly, “you can only take it one day at a time. You never know what tomorrow’s gonna bring.”

He didn’t have to mention the Italian restaurant. It sat there in the bandaging on Starsky’s body, the stiffness in his moves, the very fact that they needed to make love to be able to live with the memory of it.

Starsky almost asked, You okay about last night? then thought better of it. This morning they seemed to have a stronger connection than they’d had since the whole Ben Forrest nightmare. He and Hutch looked at each other with a clear gaze and open hearts. If they didn’t understand where they both stood now, they never would. He waited a few beats to see if Hutch wanted to bring anything up, since he was the one who usually had to analyze the great meaning of things, and when he didn’t, Starsky relaxed.

It had been a wonderful night. He’d remember it forever. It wasn’t something they could make a habit of. And there was no use pretending there was going to be any rose gardens or picket fences here. Just two partners giving each other something they needed at a critical moment. He could live with that. He had to. They were lucky they had gotten away with it so far.

Finally, Hutch said, “You ready for more coffee?” and that seemed to signal the end of it. Unusual move for Hutch—the less-said-the-better approach. Starsky wasn’t going to argue with his luck.