Defenses Down

Originally published in the VegaSH Convention Fanzine in October 2009.

Historical Note: This is the first Starsky and Hutch story written by the late Paula Wilshe. Early in our friendship, Paula and I talked about turning it into a slash story but we never did. Paula put the story to the side but did send it to a friend or two. Years later, after Paula’s death, one of those friends, Marcy, was planning on doing a zine. Marcy loved this sweet, gentle story and asked for my permission to include it in her zine. I didn’t take the decision lightly–after all, Paula had never published it online or in a zine–but after much thought I decided that the story deserved to be read.

I’m very happy now that Paula and I did not turn it into a slash piece. I think it’s perfect as is and it’s pure Paula in every sweet word. —Keri T

---

Hutch came awake slowly, trying to shake off the mantle of a troubled and inadequate sleep. He became aware of a low buzzing noise, and rolled over slowly, reaching out to shut off the offending alarm. Lying back again, he sighed, thinking it odd that he had been awakened by his alarm clock for the first time in years. He set it dutifully each night, yet a well-trained body clock always saw him up, showered, and dressed, well before the appointed time of rising.

Well, not today. He sighed, draping an arm across his eyes, wondering why it hurt to swallow. He massaged his throat absently, and stayed in bed for a few precious moments. He yawned, and stretched his aching muscles, wishing he could doze off for another hour or two. The previous night had seen him and Starsky wrap up a case on which they had been working for months. The normal euphoria that surrounded such an event had been glaringly absent this time. Although they had chased down and investigated each and every lead, the closer they had gotten to the truth, the more repulsive the case had grown, until there was finally no choice but to accept that a trusted fellow officer from their department, Sam Beckett, had betrayed his own partner, with whom he had been friends for years.

The discovery had been intensely painful for Hutch and his own partner-their own partnership and friendship had always been so safe, so secure-that both privately wondered what could have driven Sam to such an act. Cornered, finally, by his own partner, Sam had pulled a gun and shot him, point blank, then turned the gun on himself as Starsky, Hutch, and half of the precinct had rounded the corner, closing in, horrified at the scene playing out before them.

Seduced by the dark side, Hutch thought, and he tried again to go over the sequence of events in his mind, wishing he could find some clue there that would adequately explain what had happened. There was no logical explanation, certainly, he finally decided. Gambling debts, financial troubles-he could not conceive of a life trauma so desperate that betraying his best friend would be the only available choice. There was nothing to justify this, nothing to make it better, and he sighed again, this time sadly.

Now all that remained were the mounds and mounds of paperwork and reports necessary to close the case. Families had been notified, counseling had been offered to fellow officers, all the usual controls were in place. The paperwork from an involved case was never looked forward to, but he knew that today, seeing everything laid out in black and white as they struggled to find some sort of order, it would be particularly painful. He swallowed past the annoying ache in his throat and rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering why he felt so sluggish, and trying to will it away.

Hutch threw the covers aside, and padded to the window, pulling aside the blinds. He peered out at the gray morning. Raining, damn it, although not unexpected for late January in the Los Angeles area. More of a steady drizzle than a downpour, he thought, shivering, and he pulled his arms about him as he moved to the counter to make his usual breakfast drink. He dropped ingredients into the blender by rote, clamped on the lid, and hit the switch. At nearly the same moment, he took a sharp breath, yanked a paper towel off the rack, and sneezed, doubling over from the effort. Sneezing again, he straightened slowly, thought about how much his throat hurt, and realized the awful truth. He was getting sick.

“No, no, no,” he moaned in a soft voice. “Not today.” Thinking quickly, he reached into the cabinet for three vitamin C pills, which he dropped into the blender. That should do it, he thought, and promptly sneezed again. “Damn it.”

Although there was one more day of work to get through, and the aforementioned unappetizing paperwork to file, he and Starsky had planned a relaxing weekend up north, at one of the less populated beach hamlets. It had been Starsky’s idea, really, and while Starsky’s own idea of relaxation would have lain closer to town, maybe hitting the clubs, or driving to Vegas, he had clearly suggested the getaway because he knew that Hutch needed some time to brood and hike and work through all of the unpleasant aspects of the case they had just completed. A quick call to Huggy the previous evening had secured the beach house with a flick of Starsky’s credit card, and Starsky’s quick nod to Hutch as he hung up the telephone let his partner know their weekend plans were confirmed.

Starsky didn’t seem to process things the same way he did. He wondered if it was because his partner’s emotions rested much closer to the surface than his own, and in some ways he wished he could be more like that. He knew that today Starsky would be buoyant and full of life, and he would be quiet and moody, and yet each would be in great need and glad of the other’s company.

Oh, shit, he thought with a horrified sniffle, as he poured his frothy concoction into a glass He suddenly remembered yesterday’s lunch, and the turn the conversation had taken when they had finished discussing the case.

~~~

“Here, eat some fries,” Starsky had said, pushing the plate closer to the center of the table.

“Starsky, there is no nutritional value in French fries,” Hutch had countered. “All that grease….”

“Yeah, but they taste good, Blintz,” Starsky said, grinning around a mouthful.

“You see, Starsk,” Hutch had said, with a slightly pontifical air, “your body is a temple. You have to take care of it, watch what you put into it. This is why every year you end up with some horrible raging flu, while I escape unscathed.”

“Oh, come on,” Starsky said, an evil glint in his eye. “That’s got nothin’ to do with it. As I recall, the last time was because you made me jump off the dock into the ocean. Which was freezing, by the way. You’re lucky I didn’t have pneumonia, ’cause it woulda been all your fault.” He shook his head in remembrance.

“But, Starsk, I jumped off that dock, too. I was every bit as wet as you were. You didn’t see me huddled under the covers chugging down Huggy’s mustard broth, did you?”

Starsky dismissed this truth with a wave of his hand, which made his partner smile at his conveniently selective memory skills. Starsky chomped on another handful of fries. “Anyway, I’d rather that than go through my whole life eating rabbit food and poison shakes like you do. Come on,” he coaxed. “Just try one….”

Hutch pushed away his own half-eaten salad and sighed. “Thanks, no,” he said. “I don’t even really want this either. This whole day’s kind of ruined my appetite.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “What am I gonna do with you?” he asked with an affectionate smile. “That crud on your plate isn’t gonna help you either, if you don’t eat it.”

“Ah.” Hutch had grinned, feigning cheer. “But I have great reserves. Of which I will happily remind you, the next time you’re sniffling and hacking all over me.” He stood up and stretched. “Come on,” he said, “time to go back.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, rising, “just let me get a brownie to eat in the car.”

~~~

Hutch closed his eyes and tried to will himself well. This would never do, he thought. Starsky would be merciless if he found out. He stood up straight, drank down the shake in a few gulps, and nodded to himself.

Be a man, he thought wryly, remembering the time his father had made him go to school with a temperature of a hundred and three so he wouldn’t tarnish his perfect attendance record. He laid the glass in the dishpan, rinsed out the blender, and headed for the shower. I’m good, he thought, shrugging it off. I’m fine.

~~~

Starsky slumped behind the wheel of his candy apple red Torino, peering out through the rain, waiting for his partner to emerge from his apartment.

Crummy weather, he thought, wishing it would brighten up before he and Hutch headed up the coast. Three days just to do nothing.

Although a little more excitement would normally suit him better, he knew that both of them were beat up and bummed out, and probably three days of wandering on the beach, drinking wine, and playing Monopoly would do them more good than anything. He found that he couldn’t wait for this quiet time, which surprised him, but then again, it had been a hell of a week. He still couldn’t believe that both Sam and Will were dead, although he had been on the force long enough to deal with, if not accept, death in the line of duty, lives cut tragically short. It was just that…well, the way this had happened…inconceivable. Unacceptable.

He knew it bothered Hutch a lot, probably more than it bothered him, actually. For all of his controlled demeanor, sometimes his best friend took things so very seriously, so very much to heart. Which was okay, most of the time. But this time…there was no reason, there was nothing they could do to understand it better. It was just plain ugly, and Starsky knew he was powerless to help his partner work through it, because his partner would never let him. The only thing he could offer was his physical presence, his unconditional support, and the occasional humorous remark to break the tension. This was something Hutch would feel the need to process on his own.

He’ll be okay, Starsky thought, cheering slightly. We’ll have a good time, it’ll be all right. Just get through the goddamned reports and get the hell out of the city.”

A bit of movement caught his eye and he saw his partner emerge from the doorway of his home. Overnight bag slung over his shoulder, cooler in both of his hands, he paused for a moment on the step, and Starsky knew he was running through a mental checklist of all that should be packed, and all that he was leaving behind.

Hm, thought Starsky, smiling and trying to imagine what his partner was thinking. “Stove’s off, got my book, got the steaks, bed’s made…” Starsky could see his friend checking off the items in his mind.

Uh-oh, Starsky thought, he’s getting sick. He frowned, wondering how he knew that. Certainly there was nothing in Hutch’s demeanor to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary. He didn’t know what it was, maybe the tilt of his head? Earache, maybe? Face a little flushed?

Ah. Getting a cold. It’s not his stomach, he decided, again having no clue why this was so blatantly obvious to him. Maybe it was because he was a good detective, he mused, or maybe…Didn’t matter, he guessed it just came from having spent such an incredible amount of time that he knew every nuance of body language, every fleeting expression. Kind of neat, really, and he knew Hutch could always do the same with him. Their nonverbal conversations were almost legendary in the department, Starsky thought, with a smile, and drove everyone at the precinct nuts, which was…just…fun.

An evil chuckle escaped him as he recalled yesterday’s conversation at lunch. All those vitamins, all that leafy green stuff, hah! This could be a fun day after all.

But then…something in the slump of Hutch’s shoulders as he turned to lock the door washed away all thoughts of retribution, of teasing. Ah, poor kid, Starsky thought, with a sympathetic shake of his head.

~~~

Okay, thought Hutch, this is it. He turned toward the door, sniffling hard, and hoping it would hold him for a while. He knew that he simply did not have enough emotional verve to withstand his partner teasing him today. Just trying to deal with an unaccustomed cold would be more than enough, thank you. Worse yet, every once in a while Starsky would be sweet and solicitous and try to take care of him…and that was just damned mortifying, embarrassing, and quite simply not going to happen.

He raced down the walk, dropping his flight bag and cooler in the trunk, which Starsky had thoughtfully opened with the inside button. Slamming it down, he pulled open the door, and slid into the seat, wiping the raindrops from his face with one hand.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Mornin’,” his partner replied, giving him a sidelong glance. “How are you?”

“Good,” Hutch replied. “I’m good. You?”

Starsky looked toward his left side mirror to hide a small smile. Was right, he thought. Can hear it in his voice. Pleased with his powers of observation, he made his expression serious and looked back at Hutch. “I’m great. I’ll be greater at five o’clock.” He looked sideways at Hutch. “Cold, huh?”

“What?” Hutch asked, startled.

“It’s cold out,” Starsky said easily, looking to the left again to hide a grin. “Hope you remembered your jacket. Did you bring the steaks?”

“Of course,” Hutch said. “I threw a bunch of other stuff in there, too. At least we’ll eat well.”

“Did you pack anything edible?” Starsky asked. “Or just germs and stuff?”

“Germs?” Hutch repeated, not looking him in the eye.

“Yeah, you know, wheat germs and oat crud?”

Hutch rolled his eyes to hide his relief. “Oh, Starsky, Starsky…when are you going to learn that I’m only trying to look out for you?” Suddenly nervous that the conversation might take an uncomfortable turn, he smiled placatingly. “Threw in stuff to make spaghetti, too,” he offered, “and some cookies, and a bunch of snack stuff…okay?”

“Well…” Starsky grumbled, negotiating the traffic as he merged onto the freeway to head downtown, “okay.”

The day passed fairly quickly and without incident, although poring over all of their previous documentation regarding the case made it seem that much more real, and that much more depressing than it had the night before. Somehow, seeing it all there in black and white did not clarify things in Hutch’s mind as it normally would have. He finally decided that it was not the sequence of events that he could not comprehend, it was more the horror that the situation had come to exist in the first place.

Hutch plowed frowningly through his documentation, making progress, and wishing he were half as successful in keeping his oncoming cold at bay. He was pleased that he had given no hint of anything amiss to his partner, although trying to act as if he felt perfectly fine was making him more tired than he already was. He suspected that Starsky was so engrossed in his own stack of paperwork that he likely would not have noticed anyway. At one point he headed for the men’s room, where he grabbed several paper towels, and muffled a series of sneezes he’d been trying to hold in for the last half hour. The effort left him sniffly and teary-eyed, and he splashed cold water on his face before heading back out to the squad room. But his partner was hunched over a stack of files, scribbling, and did not even look up, for which he was grateful.

~~~

Starsky tossed the last of the cut up vegetables into the pot of chicken soup he was making, and absently rubbed the band-aided his finger he’d sliced, mistaking it for a carrot. He gave the pot a stir, turned the flame down to simmer, and leaned in close as the delicious, steamy aroma washed over him.

That’ll make him feel better, he thought. Total and complete comfort food.

He glanced at his watch, noting that he hadn’t seen Hutch in nearly an hour, then wiped the condensation from the kitchen window of the beach front cottage, peering out through the wind-driven rain. The last time he’d looked out, Hutch had been pacing furiously up and down the water’s edge, anger and frustration evident in his stride. Knowing that his partner simply needed to release his nearly palpable tension, Starsky had instead concentrated on preparing the dinner he had offered to make, knowing that Hutch needed to eat, and trying to make it as appetizing as he possibly could.

Now, as he squinted through the rain, he could see Hutch sitting on a large rock. Just sitting. Not moving. Not coming in out of the rain either, the big dummy.

Starsky shook his head, and decided that enough was enough. He pulled on his own jacket, and grabbed Hutch’s from the hook by the door. What kind of an idiot goes out in the rain, with a cold, and no jacket, he wondered, his thoughts sounding even in his head like something his Aunt Rosie would say. That was kind of scary, he thought, and made his way slowly down the beach, until he was standing silently by Hutch’s side.

Hutch was aware of his presence. He knew that, so he didn’t say anything right away, just stood there. Glancing over, he could see that a lot of the worry lines had lessened. Whatever he’d been thinking about, Starsky mused, he’d obviously worked through a lot of it, typical Hutchinson process.

Finally, Hutch looked up at him. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself,” Starsky answered, draping Hutch’s jacket around his partner’s shoulders.

Hutch smiled up at him in gratitude.

The rain was coming down fairly hard now, not a soaking downpour, but Starsky felt chilled nonetheless even though he’d only been out a few minutes. Hunkering down next to Hutch, he smiled at him affectionately. “You know…” he began.

“Hm?”

“You’re getting a cold, Blintz. You shouldn’t be out in this,” he pointed out gently.

Hutch looked at him sharply, pushing wet hair off his forehead. “How did you…?”

Starsky shrugged. “No clue,” he said. “Knew it as soon as you walked outside this morning,” he said honestly. “Don’t know why.” He leaned over and squeezed Hutch’s shoulder. “I always know. Maybe I’m like one o’ them psychics.”

“Psychotics, more likely.” Hutch smiled. He shook his head in defeat, somehow not surprised, and just a little relieved, which surprised him somewhat. “Thought I was doing a pretty good job hiding it,” he said, smiling, embarrassed.

“Oh, yeah.” Starsky grinned, “That little trip to the men’s room ’cause you were sneezing your head off was a work of art, Hutch, really priceless.”

“Oh.” Hutch flushed slightly. “Busted, huh?”

“Busted,” Starsky agreed. “Totally.” He stood up slowly and tugged at his partner’s arm. “Come on,” he said, “the jig’s up. Let’s get you out of this rain before you catch pneumonia and ruin my weekend.”

Hutch pulled away from him and sneezed loudly.

“Prob’ly it’s too late for that,” Starsky said, expending a martyred sigh. “Bless you. Here,” he offered, pulling a wad of tissues from the pocket of his jacket and handing them over. “Blow your nose and let’s get out of this rain, I’m freezin’.”

“Okay,” Hutch put his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “You’re right.”

“‘Course I’m right,” Starsky said, with a snort. He breathed out, the steam from his breath visible in the twilight air. “Look at that.”

The two began a slow walk back to the path that led to the house. Halfway there, Starsky nudged his friend’s arm. “Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“You okay now?”

Hutch nodded slowly. “I am, mostly,” he affirmed. “I’m…did a lot of thinking…”

“Can’t make it better, babe,” Starsky offered. “It is what it is. And it sucks. But there it is.”

Hutch looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to process the twisted phrasing. Suddenly he burst out laughing, and squeezed Starsky’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, Starsk,” he agreed.

Starsky flashed him a grin. “Cool. Got the emotional crisis out of the way on the first night,” he said jubilantly. “Damn, I’m good.”

“Yes, you are, Starsk. Yes, you are,” Hutch agreed, thankful that the weight of the world seemed to have been suddenly lifted from his chest. He pulled the wad of tissues from his pocket and muffled a sneeze. “God bless me,” he said, hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said, feeling suddenly bad that the fact that he did not feel well might take some of the fun out of the weekend for Starsky, who needed the break as much as he did.

Starsky rubbed his hands together. “Don’t be stupid, Hutch. Now, the thing is, we gotta get rid of that cold, because otherwise it’s not gonna be fair when I’m beatin’ you at Monopoly all weekend, ya know. Takin’ advantage of some sick guy ‘n all, that’s not my style. So the first thing we’re gonna do…”

“Starsk, we’re not gonna do anything. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, ’cause you sound fine,” Starsky said, pushing Hutch through the door. “C’mon, outta those wet clothes.”

“Starsky-”

“What were you thinking, staying down there all that time in the rain? No wonder ya sound so awful…. Oughtta have better sense than that-”

“Starsky-”

“C’mon, you need a hot shower and a-”

“STARSKY!”

“What?”

“You sound like Aunt Rosie,” Hutch said, blinking tiredly. “Stop it.”

Starsky stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Hutch, his eyes widening slightly. “Jesus…I do sound like her…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “That’s scarin’ the hell outta me.”

“Me, too,” Hutch said mildly.

Starsky took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Go get changed, I’ll get dinner, okay?”

“Okay,” Hutch said with a nod. “Hey, Starsk?”

“Mm?” Starsky said, heading back toward the kitchen.

“Thanks.”

“Piece ‘o cake, Hutchinson,” his partner grinned.

Hutch emerged from the bathroom a short time later, enveloped in a cloud of steam. Despite the hot shower, and the warm comfortable sweats he had donned, he still felt chilled and shivered as he made his way into the more moderately temperatured kitchen.

He buried his face in both hands and sneezed, blinking as he straightened up.

“Gesundheit,” Starsky offered, looking up from the stove.

“Thanks,” Hutch answered, with a sigh.

Starsky looked him up and down, shaking his head at his tousled partner. “Shower didn’t do it, huh?”

“It’s okay,” Hutch said, moving closer to the stove. He shivered again, slightly. “I’m just tired. I’ll be fine. I guess the rain di-didn’t…” He muffled a sneeze with his arm, and reached for a napkin from the counter. “‘Scuse me. Didn’t help.”

“For God’s sake, Hutch,” Starsky said in exasperation. He rooted through a brown paper grocery bag on the counter, and tossed his partner an unopened box of Puffs. “Here, these’re softer.”

Hutch caught the box in midair, and looked at his partner in surprise. “Uh…thanks…. Where’d this come from?”

Starsky went back to the stove, giving the soup a stir, his face the picture of childlike innocence. “I made a supply run while you were down in the file room this afternoon. Figured if you’re gonna be sick, you might as well enjoy it.”

Hutch calmly tore the top off the tissue box. “Enjoy it?” he asked. “Are you nuts? Besides, I’m fine, and I-” He pulled a handful of tissues free, barely in time to catch another sneeze. He looked at his partner for a moment, tissues firmly pressed over his nose and mouth, only his eyes visible.

“‘Cause you sound fine,” Starsky said, again, conversationally. Starsky leaned toward him, looking intent. “You’re runnin’ a fever, ya know.”

“Of course, I’m not, Starsk,” he answered a little sharply, but he took a step backward to thwart any attempt by his partner to lay a hand on his forehead. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Starsky shook his head. “Nah, you definitely got one, your eyes are gray.”

“My eyes are gray,” Hutch repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Yeah,” Starsky nodded, and picked up the teakettle. “Whenever you get sick, your eyes look gray instead of blue. You know, like the ocean on a cloudy day.” He poured hot water into a mug that he had placed on the counter. “Come on.” He put a hand on his partner’s arm, and began to nudge him firmly toward the couch.

Hutch allowed himself to be pushed, mostly because he felt achy and cold and sniffly, and didn’t have the energy to argue the point. He draped his lanky frame onto the end of the sofa, and wrapped one arm around himself. He looked toward the fireplace where an obviously newly lit blaze was crackling. “Fire,” he said, “that’s nice.” He inched a little closer to the radiating heat.

Starsky reached down, and laid a hand along Hutch’s cheek, then moved it up to his forehead. “See? Y’are.”

“I are what?” he asked, irritated, pulling away uncomfortably.

“You ARE sick,” Starsky said simply. “So, don’t deny it. God bless you,” he added, as Hutch sneezed again. “Do you feel as bad as you sound?” he asked, as Hutch pressed his lips together and sniffled hard.

Hutch looked at him mutely. His partner was annoying him, and yet he realized that he was actually more irritated with himself. This wasn’t the way the weekend was supposed to go, he thought. He felt fine yesterday. There must be some strange parallel, he thought, that this should happen now; maybe because he’d been so upset about Sam…which was stupid and ridiculous. He should be able to deal with those things, he thought, not get sick like some stupid kid who can’t handle a little job related stress. “Starsky, honestly….”

Starsky held out the mug in one hand, and two aspirin in the other. “Drink this,” he said, “and take these. Make you feel better, I promise.”

Hutch looked down at the mug suspiciously. “What is it?” he asked, popping the tablets into his mouth.

“It’s tea, you big dummy,” Starsky told him. “With honey. Good for you.” He ruffled Hutch’s damp hair lightly. “It’ll calm the shivers a little bit. Trust me.”

Hutch sighed up at him. “Thanks, Starsk,” he said, taking a small sip. “Tastes good….”

“Of course it does,” Starsky grinned, flopping down beside him.

He had never before met anyone who took things so much to heart as his best friend. Loved him with all his heart, Starsky did, but he didn’t always understand him. What was the big deal anyway? Getting a cold was no day at the beach. Well, actually this time it was. But it sure wasn’t the end of the world, either. Sometimes Hutch had this thing, this weird thing…like, getting sick was some sign of failure. Didn’t act that way when he got hurt on the job, really, Starsky mused, so why was this such a…a thing with him?

Particularly since Hutch could be such a mother hen when it was Starsky on the receiving end. Half the time, if Hutch caught the flu, Starsky would barely know about it until afterward-Hutch would hole up in that apartment of his, virtually incommunicado, until the germs were gone and he’d exorcised his personal demons, and dealt with the raging self-deprecation they inspired.

Just really dumb, Starsky thought. He knew that embarrassment was a big part of it, but he was sure there was more, there, way under the surface. He wished he could change it, to make his partner realize that accepting a little comfort was totally okay, and not the mortifying scenario he had somehow gotten stuck in his head.

Besides, Starsky thought, with all the serious injuries they’d faced on the job, life and death always a factor, there was something in the security and comfort of a manageable malady on a rainy Friday night. It reminded him of being a kid, tucked up on the couch with tissues and tea, slathered down with Vicks Vapor Rub, and feeling safe and cared for. He wondered if his partner had never experienced that sort of feeling and just the thought made him inexplicably sad.

For once, Starsky was pleased just to be there with Hutch, and maybe to have a chance to show his friend how much his quiet strength meant to Starsky…. Pay him back in kind somehow. Wasn’t that what friends were supposed to do anyway?

Breaking from his reverie, he looked back at Hutch. “Think you can eat?” he asked softly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Yeah, sure, of course I can eat,” Hutch said, taking another gulp of tea, and hoping to heaven he could eat. “What’d you make?”

“Chicken soup. What else?” Starsky beamed. “Old family recipe.”

“Family?” Hutch looked at him sharply. “But-”

“Not Aunt Rosie’s,” Starsky assured him, shaking his head. “This one’s my grandmother’s.” He kissed his fingers. “She made the best-hey, bud, you’re really shivering, aren’t you?” He pulled a throw blanket from the back of the couch. “Lean forward a little bit,” he instructed, and wrapped it around Hutch’s shoulder.

Hutch gave him a pained look. “Starsky….”

“Don’t go away,” Starsky said with an impish grin.

~~~

Later, Hutch pushed away his half-eaten bowl of soup, and leaned back against the sofa. “Thanks,” he said, “That was really good.”

“You didn’t eat much,” Starsky said, peevishly, then tossed his spoon into his empty bowl. “Worked all afternoon makin’ that, cuttin’ up chicken and all those leafy things….”

“They’re called vegetables, Starsk,” Hutch said dryly.

“Well, whatever,” Starsky replied. He held up his hand. “Cut my finger ‘n everything.”

“I’m not…it was…” Hutch shrugged his shoulders. “It really was good, Starsk, honest. Finger okay?” he asked, reaching for his partner’s wrist.

Starsky looked at him for a long moment. “You wanna talk?” he asked.

“About what?” Hutch asked, looking at him sharply.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Starsky said, as he leaned over to toss a small log onto the fireplace. “Stuff.” He grinned. “What have you been up to the last couple of days?”

Hutch laughed in spite of himself. “Not so much,” he said. “You?”

“This and that,” Starsky replied. “You know, workin’…”

“Mm. Me, too,” Hutch said. He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “Starsk?”

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Starsky asked, stretching out his legs in front of him.

“Just…” Hutch shook his head, “…sorry. For being a pain.” He looked down at Starsky, who was reclined on the floor, through half-lidded eyes. “It can’t be easy for you.”

“What?” Starsky prompted, honestly puzzled.

“The fact that sometimes things…get to me so much. I don’t mean them to,” he said, rubbing his forehead tiredly. “It just happens. I keep thinking…” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat. “What if…?”

“You’re losin’ your voice, Blintz,” Starsky pointed out gently. He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Look, well, you know, the ‘what-if’ thing is mine anyway,” he said, smiling. “But even if it wasn’t…sometimes you just make me crazy,” he continued, in a tone that let Hutch know he wasn’t at all angry. “Like…you’re the one who took the psychology courses in college, but…”

“But?”

“Sometimes you just don’t get it. Like, sometimes things happen and there aren’t any explanations, or at least none that you feel you can accept. Sometimes you can’t just play ‘what-if’ because what people do kinda depends on who they are, where they’re from, what they’ve done…. I mean,” Starsky rubbed his eyes as if trying to put his emotions in line verbally was very taxing for him. “Sam was his own person. He wasn’t you, or me, or anyone else in the department for that matter. He did what he did because of what he was inside, because of all the things that made his life…his life. Y’know?”

“Wha…?” Hutch asked, blinking at him uncomprehendingly.

“Um, well…like…nobody could explain what it was inside him that made him do what he did. So why are you torturing yourself about it? Because you think it could’ve been us?”

“No…no, not really.” Hutch massaged a cheekbone and sniffled absently. “That’s not it. Like, maybe I could have been more perceptive, seen what was going on…helped…”

“Hutch, listen to me,” Starsky said firmly. “What you think you shoulda done is irrelevant. You could only see what he allowed you to see. You can’t do more than that, be more than that. It’s like this control thing you’ve got goin’ sometimes, you know?”

“What control thing?”

Starsky stifled a laugh. “Oh, boy,” he said. “For as long as we’ve been partners, and as long as we’ve been friends.” Starsky heaved himself up from the floor and flopped on the couch next to Hutch. He tapped the blond’s head lightly with his finger. “Sometimes I don’t understand all the stuff that’s goin’ on in here.”

“What’s to understand?” Hutch asked him, genuinely puzzled. “You know me better than anyone else; you always have.”

“Sometimes,” Starsky said, “I think I know you better than you know yourself.”

Hutch smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Probably,” he added.

“Then why…?”

“Why what?”

“Well, for instance, if something happens to me, what do you do?” Starsky asked him seriously.

“Well, I…look after you. You’re my partner, my best friend, that’s what I’m supposed to do, aren’t I?”

“Okay,” Starsky nodded, hoping he was moving in the right direction. “Do you do that because it’s what you’re supposed to do?”

“I…no, of course not. I do it because I…do it.”

“If somethin’ happens to you while we’re workin,'” Starsky continued. “It’s me who’s there, right there, takin’ care of it, right?”

“Right,” Hutch agreed. “Me and thee. Who do you trust. All of that, sure. Wouldn’t want anything else.”

“Then why is something like this so different?” Starsky turned to look at him, tilting his head slightly.

Hutch leaned away from him and sneezed tiredly. “Like what different?” he asked, reaching for the tissue box and sighing. “‘Scuse me.”

“Like that,” Starsky said, “‘n bless you. Like, you keep telling me, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine….’ Like it would be some earth shattering thing if you just…just…weren’t fine for once.”

“I…don’t know,” Hutch answered honestly. “It’s…. Look, for years I’ve heard your stories of flu season at the Starskys’,” he said, “and it wasn’t like that at my house.” He shrugged his shoulders and smiled ruefully. “It just wasn’t.”

“What was it like?”

“Starsk, I appreciate what you’re trying to say, but I don’t see the point in rehashing…”

Starsky pushed back an irritated retort. “Look, Hutch, when I was a kid, and I was sick, my mom had me bundled up on the couch, feedin’ me juice, my dad’d bring me comic books, my brother’d wait on me…. I think back to that and I feel…I don’t know, secure, maybe? The thing is, you kinda do the same thing for me too. Well, I mean, you harass the shit outta me, and I’m still waitin’ on the comic books, but the feeling’s the same. I don’t get why it’s so different when it’s the other way around. Like, you act mad at me because you’re sick.”

“Is that the way it comes off?” Hutch asked him. “I don’t mean it that way. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, Hutch. I’m not lookin’ for an apology.”

Hutch pulled the throw blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “At my house,” he said, “a child getting sick was an inconvenience.” He smiled sheepishly. “It might necessitate staying home with your kid instead of going to the Country Club with the other lawyers in the practice, or the ladies from the garden club. Even when I was really little,” he said, “they’d leave me with a babysitter or whatever…and they’d act as if I’d come down with something just to get attention, or to put a damper on their plans, make things tougher. That’s how it felt, anyhow. So, rather than feel like that, I just…stopped saying anything.”

“Hutch, that’s awful,” Starsky breathed, feeling an overwhelming empathy for an ill child who, now an adult, still bore the scars.

“Well, it wasn’t ideal, that’s for sure,” Hutch said, “but that’s how it was. Maybe that’s why, now, I tend to go the other way with other people. I like doing that; it makes me feel good.”

“That’s some progress, I guess,” Starsky admitted. “But you know what, Hutch?”

“Hm?”

“Everybody gets sick once in a while. Including you. It isn’t a personal failing or a loss of control. You can’t take it personally, you know, it just…happens. It’s almost like…” Starsky raised his hand in an uncomprehending gesture. “…Like, you won’t give yourself a break ever. You punish yourself before anyone else has a chance to.”

Hutch looked at him dryly. “I think punish is too strong a-”

Starsky looked at him very seriously. “See, the thing is, you’re a good boy, Hutch,” he said softly. “A good boy.”

Hutch looked away quickly, blinking.

“You don’t always have to be in control of anything, and you don’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. You world isn’t gonna fall apart if you’re not the one holdin’ it up for a little while. It’s just…not. Nothin’ bad’s gonna happen if just once you admit to yourself, ‘I feel crummy.'”

Hutch exhaled slowly, and turned to look the dark-haired detective in the eyes. “Starsk?”

“Yeah, what?”

Hutch raised one eyebrow at his partner, looking forlorn and embarrassed. He made a sound that was half laugh, half moan. “I feel crummy.”

Starsky grinned at him, eyes twinkling. “Hey, pretty good! Was that so hard?”

“Yes,” Hutch answered with a near pout and a sniffle. “It was horrible. Can you get me a comic book now?”

Starsky leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Don’t push your luck, Blondie.” He grinned. “Ya big baby,” he muttered, the smile still firmly in place.

~~~

Hutch smothered a sneeze in his pillow, and scrunched his eyes tight in a not terribly successful attempt to ward off another. Rolling onto his back, he sniffled, and pushed his hair back off his forehead. He wondered what time it was, and wished he could breathe well enough to fall asleep, even for a little while.

“G’sundheit….” Starsky murmured, still sound asleep, burrowing further into the covers of his own bed. The rest of his verbalization was lost in a string of unintelligible syllables.

This is stupid, Hutch thought. I’m gonna wake him up.

Rising silently, he could just barely see the outline of his partner, sound asleep, in the other twin bed. He shook his head, smiling, knowing without looking that Starsky was flung across the other bed in his usual sleeping state of reckless abandon. He chuckled to himself as he padded to the living room, where he sank down on the couch, rubbing his eyes tiredly, and wondering at his partner’s consistent ability to know where he was and what he was doing, even in such a deep sleep.

Sometime during the evening, his cold symptoms had begun to settle in as though they planned to stay, and Hutch had resigned himself to the probability that the illness wasn’t going to go away as he’d hoped. His throat was scratchy and raw and everything ached, including his face and his teeth, which he supposed was some sort of sinus pressure that was proportionate to his increasing congestion. For Hutch, the unaccustomed malady was torturous. He reached for a tissue, and thought absurdly that he would almost rather be shot than have a cold, particularly one which seemed to be quickly closing the gap between annoying and miserable.

“Maybe if I read for a while I’ll get sleepy,” he told himself, and moved quietly to the kitchen where he retrieved his book, and filled the kettle with water, reasoning that a cup of tea couldn’t hurt. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he slipped into the bedroom silently, dragging his pillow and blanket back to the couch.

Settling on the sofa a few minutes later, he took a sip of tea and wondered why it didn’t taste nearly as good as the cup Starsky had made for him earlier. He’d even added a dollop of honey, just as his partner had, but he reasoned that the proportions must have been off. It just wasn’t the same.

Trying to concentrate on his book, he alternated between thinking, absently turning pages, and blowing his nose. His mind wandered back to the conversation he had had with Starsky earlier. He wished he could just let himself relax, just once, and take on the world with the same enthusiasm as his dark-haired partner. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to take on the world; though, exactly, that wasn’t quite it…. It was more like sometimes he simply didn’t want to let the world in.

He remembered being a little boy and knowing that his parents loved him very much. But also knowing that their love was somewhat conditional, and positively rewarded only for perfection, or as close to it as the small blond child could manage.

Perfect grades, perfect health, don’t get in the way, Kenneth, and how could you let yourself become ill when you know we have an engagement? You’ll feel better when you pull yourself together and go to school, Kenneth, we can’t stay home with you today, we have important things to do.

As if a six-year-old child wasn’t important at all, he thought, with a touch of anger.

He remembered sitting in the nurse’s office at school, nearly in hysterics because the kindly woman wanted to send him home.

“You have a fever, honey,” she had said. “You need to be in bed and have your mommy take care of you.”

That was a laugh, he thought.

Something in the child’s voice had gotten through to the nurse, and she had bundled him into the bed in her office, stroking his forehead and saying kind words, as her heart broke for this poor lonely little boy.

She had called his mother, who, sounding distracted, instructed the nurse to send him back to class. “He has perfect attendance, you know,” the nurse told him she had said, “and that is very important to Kenneth.”

Hutch shook his head to clear it of the memory. It made him sad and lonely, particularly when he was sitting here, miserable and alone, at three o’clock in the morning.

That was then, he thought, this is now, I’m stronger for it.

Just the same, he willed to himself that, should he ever have a child, he would be the one who was nurturing and indulgent, just as he had not been treated himself.

Intent upon his thoughts, he did not notice his partner materialize in front of him, until Starsky sank down next to him on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Hey,” Starsky said gently.

“Hey,” Hutch answered, wondering at the absurd relief he felt at the sight of his partner. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Mm-mm,” Starsky assured him, shaking his head. “I was thirsty.” He peered at Hutch, through sleep-tousled bangs. “What’s the matter? Why can’t you sleep?”

“Every ti-time I…” Hutch paused and reached for a tissue. He sneezed, took a breath, sneezed again, and looked over at his partner, shrugging his shoulders. “That, mostly,” he said, with a crooked smile.

Starsky reached over and gently massaged the back of Hutch’s neck. “That’s pretty crummy,” he offered, smiling as Hutch leaned his head down, closed his eyes, and accepted the gesture. “Did you take anything?”

“Mm-mm,” Hutch said, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t bring anything.” His eyes moved toward his partner, but he carefully did not turn his head, as if not wishing to do anything that that might make Starsky stop rubbing his neck. “I thought it would go away.”

“Well…” Starsky looked at him appraisingly, “I think maybe it’s not gonna go away,” he said. “You sound terrible.”

Hutch nodded. “Mm, I guess,” he agreed grudgingly, sitting up.

Starsky got up and began rummaging through the grocery bag he had left in the kitchen. He came back to the couch with a thermometer, a spoon, and a bottle of green liquid. “This’ll fix you up,” he said, as he sat back down. “Take your temperature first,” he said. “Open up.”

“Starsky, come on,” Hutch protested. “You know how much I…” He glanced at his partner, and opened his mouth. “A’right,” he acquiesced.

Starsky popped the thermometer in his mouth, and began reading the directions on the side of the bottle. “This stuff’ll fix you up,” he assured Hutch, silently noting that the medication claimed to not only lessen the sniffling and congestion, but would also help him to sleep. Probably what he needed more than anything at this point.

After a few moments, Starsky retrieved the thermometer, squinting in the dim light at the tiny numbers. “Hey, Blintz, you don’t mess around,” he said. “It’s a hundred and one.” He winked at his partner. “Not bad.” He leaned over and smoothed Hutch’s hair back from his face. “Let’s get some medicine in you,” he said. “You don’t feel sick to your stomach, do you?”

Hutch shook his head. “No, just my head.” He sighed. “Starsk, go back to bed. This is…. There’s no reason in the world you should have to sit up with me in the middle of the night. I can take care of it. You’re gonna be exhausted.”

“You think I’m stayin’ in here because I wanna take care of you?” Starsky asked him with a grin. He unscrewed the lid from the medicine bottle and poured a liberal amount into the spoon. “The only reason I’m here,” he assured his partner, “is ’cause I’m afraid you’re gonna eat all the food I bought before I get the chance.” He looked up at Hutch. “Open up.”

“Uh…no,” Hutch said firmly.

“Hutch, come on, it’ll make you feel better,” Starsky cajoled. He held the spoon aloft. “Come on.”

“Starsky, I’m not taking that. It’s…it’s…it’s…green.”

“That’s all the tiny time pills swimmin’ around in there,” Starsky assured him. “Honest. Besides,” he looked at his partner accusingly, “you eat green stuff all the time, all that rabbit food.” He grinned. “C’mon, little boy,” he urged. “Open up; here comes the airplane….”

“STARSKY!” Hutch said, wearing a mortified expression.

“Oh, stop makin’ your mad face,” Starsky told him. “Open your damned mouth.”

He shoved the spoon toward Hutch, and surprisingly Hutch swallowed the medicine.

“Are you happy now?” he asked, petulantly. “That stuff tastes horrible.”

“It’s supposed to taste horrible,” Starsky argued, “That’s how you know it’s workin’.” He reached across Hutch, fluffing a few tissues from the box on the end table. “Here,” he said, handing them over. “Relax and give the stuff a chance to work. Honestly. Kids.”

Hutch had to smile as he watched his partner huff off to the kitchen, knowing that Starsky wasn’t angry at all, just playing the game so Hutch wouldn’t feel so self-conscious. “Starsk?” he asked, hoarsely. He cleared his throat, feeling for his voice. “Can I have a drink?”

“Of course,” Starsky said. “You should keep drinkin’ if you have a fever. Good idea. Hang on a minute.” He returned a few moments later, and handed Hutch a glass of juice. “Here you go.”

Hutch took a sip and looked up at his partner in surprise. “Where’d you get this?” he asked. “It’s good.”

“Made it myself,” Starsky said proudly. “While you were down on the beach catchin’ pneumonia. Bought the oranges ‘n all.” He gestured toward the kitchen.

Hutch blinked quickly. This gesture, so simple, so kind and so giving, touched him to the point that he actually felt a catch in his throat. Turning away to hide what he suspected were slightly teary looking eyes, he gulped the rest of the juice. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “That was really nice of you. You’re…” He smiled. “That was really nice.”

Not missing the moment, Starsky patted him on the shoulder. “S’okay,” he said. “I just thought it might taste good to you. You wanna go back to bed?”

“No,” Hutch said. “I’d rather stay here.”

“Okay,” Starsky said agreeably. “But let’s make you a little more comfortable.” Starsky took hold of his arm. “Stand up,” he said, “and let me fix the couch. You wanna lie down?”

Hutch groaned as Starsky pulled him to his feet. “It’s worse when I lie down; it makes my nose run. Why does everything ache so damned much? Geez.”

“Okay, that’s okay,” Starsky soothed. “That’s prob’ly from the fever, Hutch,” he said. “Stay here a minute,” he instructed, disappearing back into the bedroom. When he re-emerged, he had the other pillow and the quilt from Hutch’s bed in his arms. He arranged the pillows against the back and end of the couch, and guided Hutch gently to a sitting position. He pushed an ottoman into place in front of the sofa, and Hutch stretched out his long frame gratefully.

Hutch leaned his head against the pillow that was propped up against the back of the couch. “Perfect, Starsk. Thank you.”

Starsky surveyed his handiwork, satisfied, and glanced at the table to make sure Hutch didn’t need more juice or tissues. He turned out the light on Hutch’s end of the couch and draped the quilt around his partner, who was rubbing his face tiredly. “You look miserable, Hutch,” he said.

“No, I’m…” Hutch began automatically. He looked up at Starsky. “I feel miserable,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. He covered his mouth and sneezed. “God bless me,” he said, with a shiver.

“You still cold?” Starsky asked, concerned.

“Yeah, a little.” Hutch pulled the quilt up higher. He exhaled loudly and looked at his partner. “Some fun weekend, huh? I’m awfully sorry, Starsk.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Starsky responded easily. “Not your fault. You want something else hot to drink?”

Hutch considered the offer for a second before replying. “No, because then I’ll have to keep getting up to pee.” He smiled. “I’ll warm up in a minute. It’ll be okay. You going back to bed? You look exhausted,” he asked as Starsky stifled a yawn.

“Think maybe I”ll just…” Starsky pointed to the other end of the couch, “…if you don’t mind, that is? You’re not takin’ up a lotta room….”

“I don’t mind at all; I just don’t want to keep you awake. That’s why I came out here in the first place.” He hitched the quilt up higher. “You need sleep, too.”

“I can sleep,” Starsky assured him, yawning again. He went back to the bedroom, retrieving his own quilt and pillow, then flopped down on the empty end of the sofa, curling up his legs, and pulling the blanket up over himself. “See?”

“If you say so,” Hutch said dubiously. He moved around a little bit to get more comfortable, and another wave of shivers crept through his body.

Without a word, Starsky sat up and moved down the sofa until he was sitting up against his partner. He pulled the closest end of Hutch’s comforter free and slid in, so that his arm was right up against his friend’s. “Body heat,” he offered. “That’ll do it.”

“Starsky, you can’t sleep like that,” Hutch said, although the warmth of Starsky’s arm felt wonderful against the chills. “You’ll get a crick in your neck. I’ll have to hire a crane to get you up in the morning.”

Starsky leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Shut up, Blintz, and go to sleep. I’m fine right here.”

Without meaning to, Hutch inched himself closer, the comforting presence of his partner and his normal body temperature simply too good to resist. He sat up for a moment, coughing, and Starsky ran a hand gently across his back.

“Doesn’t sound too good, Blondie,” he soothed. “Y’okay?”

“Mm-hm,” Hutch said, leaning back against him again. “Feel like a dope.”

Starsky smiled. “That’s okay. Humility is good for you once in a while.”

“If you say so,” Hutch murmured, around a yawn. He closed his eyes.

Starsky sat quite still, hoping that the medicine was beginning to kick in and his partner would soon be dozing off. After several moments, he felt the tension in Hutch’s body relax into drowsy warmth, and before long, the blond head dropped down and nestled into his shoulder. Starsky grinned down at his partner’s innocent expression and rested his cheek lightly against Hutch’s hair. “Piece o’ work, Hutchinson,” he whispered. “Piece o’ work.”

He carefully maneuvered his left arm free, and eased it around Hutch’s shoulder, tugging the quilt up higher as he did so. Without waking, Hutch leaned in more comfortably, dropping down slightly so his head was burrowed somewhere in the middle of Starsky’s chest, his arm thrown lightly across Starsky’s midsection.

Starsky stretched his own legs out lazily, thinking how peaceful he felt, and how very satisfying was the feeling of keeping the world at bay for them both, even for this brief time. He wondered if this overwhelming empathy might be something akin to that felt by a parent holding a sick child in the middle of the night. He hoped that Hutch would be able to get some sleep, good sleep, and he wondered if he should try to extricate himself so Hutch had more room to stretch out.

Another glance at Hutch dashed this thought from his mind. Hutch needed the contact more than he needed to stretch out.

In a funny way, Starsky knew, so did he.

As he drowsily looked down at his partner, he had a fierce desire to take away all the hurts that had built up inside him for most of his life, although realistically, he knew this was not possible. Most of the time Hutch was okay, he thought: happy, engaging, full of life, full of hope even. He realized that, in part, it was the cold, and the slight fever that was tapping into Hutch’s carefully constructed protective shell. In that moment he knew exactly why his friend did not deal well with these sorts of things, because it all left him just too vulnerable, and open.

Starsky shook his head in sympathy, wishing his partner could somehow reconcile with himself, and knowing that it was a great honor bestowed upon him that he was indeed the only one allowed into that inner circle, the only one trusted enough to have earned this closeness. It was reciprocated, of course, always, and a hundredfold. As he dozed off, he vowed to himself that he would never betray this trust, that he would always be there, doggedly urging, and continuing to pull down that wall, brick by brick, if that was what it took.

He leaned in close and whispered, “You don’t ever have to be anything in front of me, partner…. You just have to…be….” And he closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep.

~~~

Starsky awakened several hours later to his partner’s sudden movement, as Hutch, still resting heavily against his chest, tried vainly to get away from him.

Hutch, eyes squeezed tightly shut, had one hand clamped over his mouth and nose, and unwillingly succumbed to a succession of sneezes, which left him breathless and teary eyed, and effectively woke him from his mostly restful sleep.

“Hey…” Starsky murmured, “hey, y’okay?” He tightened his arm around Hutch’s back, holding him firmly in place, and he rubbed his hand up and down Hutch’s upper arm. With his other hand, he pushed Hutch’s hair back off his forehead. “Well, good morning to you, too,” he said with a smile. “And gesundheit.”

Hutch looked up at him with a sigh and a sniffle before pulling slightly away. “Oh, Starsky, I’m so sorry. You’re gonna catch my cold.” He indicated their positions on the sofa with a flutter of his hand. “I should never have…” He rubbed at his eyes miserably and sniffled again.

Starsky pulled away slightly to get a good look at his partner. “Hey, if I’m gonna get it, I’m gonna get it. I’ve been with you for the last two days anyhow,” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not.”

He looked at Hutch appraisingly. If it was possible, his partner looked worse than he had the night before. His cheeks were pink with fever and sleep, eyes puffy and tired, nose pink, and his upper lip slightly chapped and swollen.

“Aw, Hutch,” he said, squeezing his arm. “You look awful. You look worse than something the cat dragged in. You look like a…like a…a sick rabbit.”

“A what?” Hutch asked, blinking uncomprehendingly. “Rabid?”

“No, you know, a rabbit…white and pink…” Starsky’s eyes twinkled.

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Whatever you say. I personally think you’ve gone over the edge, but…”

“Guess you don’t feel any better, huh?”

“Not especially,” Hutch agreed, his voice congested and hoarse. He sat up straight and stretched. “Mind over matter,” he said. “Pull myself together. I can do this. I’m good, I’m great.”

Starsky leaned back against the sofa cushions and watched him, just a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” he asked.

“Um…” Hutch smiled self-consciously. “Both?”

“Ain’t working, partner.” Starsky got up and padded to the window. “Wow, still raining, look at that.” He looked back at Hutch. “Guess that lets you off the hook for volleyball on the beach this morning,” he said.

“Damn,” Hutch said, reaching for a tissue. “I was so looking forward to that, too. He sneezed loudly. “I was going to beat your ass with my lightning fast and accurate serving technique.”

“Dream on, Blintz.” Starsky chuckled. “I may not be as accurate as you, but I’m tenacious. And unbelievably quick.”

“Funny,” mused Hutch. “I’ve heard girls say that about you a lot of times.” He dodged the pillow that Starsky threw at him. “Seriously, Starsk,” he said, and cleared his throat, “this can’t be any fun for you. Do you wanna head back home and drop me off? Maybe I can sleep this off, and you can still salvage most of the weekend.”

“Nice try, Hutch, but no,” Starsky said firmly. “I think it’s good for us both to be away. No phone, nobody knows where we are…. We need the break.”

“I guess,” Hutch shrugged. “But you need a break too, you know, and staying up half the night with me isn’t going to do it.”

Starsky looked at him seriously. “You know what, Hutch? It is going to do it. For me, anyhow. I mean, I’m sorry you’re sick ‘n’all, but for me…” He gestured with his hand. “You know that helpless feeling you get when somebody really, really close to you has somethin’ awful happen and you can’t do a damn thing to make it better?”

“Well…yeah…”

“I can’t take away what happened at work this week, and I can’t change how you’re feelin’ about it. I can’t make your cold go away either, an’ I wish I could because I hate to see you feelin’ bad…and I know how much you hate it…but…”

“But what, Starsk,” Hutch prodded.

“Well, bein’ here like this… doin’ some of the little stuff…makin’ you soup…it helps me because even though it’s just…little stuff…it’s something. Something I can do, because usually you back away and I…feel…” He shook his head. “I’m not makin’ sense, I know….”

“You make perfect sense,” Hutch said. He smiled gently at his partner, amazed at the depth of emotion and strength and compassion that lived within the dark-haired detective. “I don’t make it easy on you, do I?”

“Well,” Starsky mused, “no, you don’t.”

“It isn’t that I don’t-wouldn’t-” Hutch looked down and studied the rug thoughtfully. “I’m not backing away from you. That’s not why I do it.”

“I know. But that’s how it feels. And it makes me crazy, because you’re so hard on yourself. You don’t have to be.”

“I don’t…I don’t know how to be any different,” Hutch admitted. “Because I’ve always…”

“But you don’t have to,” Starsky said firmly. “This is what friends do. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, or feelin’ like a dope for…somethin’ like this….” He sighed. “It’s what friends do.”

Hutch sighed. “Okay. I get the point. Would it help if I were whiny and petulant?”

“Yes,” Starsky said, smiling. “I think it’d do you a world of good for once. I’m a firm believer in whining.”

“I’ve noticed.” Hutch chuckled.

“It’s good for you to give in to it on occasion. Why the hell not? It’s just me. Everybody needs to feel good and sorry for themselves once in a while. Honest.” He smiled gently. “Even you, Hutchinson. You do that sometimes, it makes you stronger for the serious stuff, you know?” He bounded off the couch. “Now, you want some breakfast?”

“Honest? I’m not putting you off, but I’m not hungry,” Hutch said.

Starsky picked up the thermometer from the table and shook it down. “Let’s see what we’re dealin’ with here,” he said, and Hutch opened his mouth without a word. “You’ve gotta eat something,” he said, “cause all this cold medicine’s gonna make you feel sick if you don’t…. How about a little toast? Toast and tea? Toast and juice?”

Hutch nodded slightly. “M’kay,” he said around the thermometer, and pushed it to one side with his tongue. “How ’bout toast?”

“Toast it is,” Starsky said, patting him on the head. “Excellent choice.” He moved to the kitchen and popped two slices of bread in the toaster, then came back to check the thermometer. “Hundred and two, you’re up a little.” He shook it down and felt Hutch’s forehead with the back of his hand. “No wonder you look so crummy.”

Hutch ran a hand through his hair. “Do I look that awful? You’re starting to give me a complex.”

“Nah,” he replied, tousling the blond hair. “You’re beautiful, Blintz.”

“Well…” Hutch chuckled. “Aw…shoot.” He ducked his head down, feigning embarrassment, but Starsky could tell he was honestly pleased. “Mind if I take a shower while you’re making breakfast? I feel…kind of blehhh…” He punctuated the sentence with a sneeze, then pressed his fingers on his cheekbones. “Ow…. Christ, that hurts.”

“Long’s you make it really hot,” Starsky agreed. “Might clear up your head a little bit.”

“Well, that would be a good thing,” Hutch admitted, sniffling miserably. “Because at this point it feels like my brains are running out my nose.” He pushed himself off the sofa and blinked tiredly at his partner. “Could you…make the tea the way you did last night?” he asked. “It was really good…sweet.”

“You got it,” Starsky said, striding back toward the kitchen. He turned as Hutch reached down for the Kleenex box. “Be careful,” he said, with a shake of his finger. “Don’t blow your brains out.” He grinned and left the room.

~~~

Hutch stood under the steaming spray of hot water, rinsing his hair once more, even though he knew the shampoo was well out. His tired and aching muscles began to relax under the warmth, and he stayed that way for a time, enjoying the sensation. Eventually, however, despite the elevated temperature of the water, the chills began in earnest, and he shivered his way out of the shower, wrapping a towel around himself to get dry. He wiped the steam off the mirror and glanced at his reflection.

Not one of your better days, Hutchinson, he thought.

“Hey?” came a knock and his partner’s voice from the other side of the door. “You alive in there?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pushing wet hair off his forehead. “I’m getting dressed.”

“Okay,” Starsky said. “You need anything?”

“Uh-uh.” Hutch doubled over in a sneeze and reconsidered. “A new head?”

Starsky’s chuckle was muffled through the door. “Can’t do anything about that, Blintz, I’m sorry. Breakfast is ready, though.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” He slowly pulled on his clean jeans, a dark t-shirt, and his favorite blue plaid flannel. He made his way back to the couch and sank down heavily as Starsky moved toward him carrying a plate and a glass.

“Here you go,” Starsky said cheerfully, setting down the plate on the table in front of him. “Oh, but first,” he reached in his shirt pocket, holding out two pills, which he held out to Hutch. “Take these.”

Hutch popped the pills into his mouth and downed them with a sip of juice. “That wasn’t, like, cyanide, right?” he asked with a smile.

“Nah,” Starsky said, flopping down next to him. “Plain old aspirin, that’s all.”

Hutch gazed over at him. “It wouldn’t have done me any good asking you after I’d already taken them, though,” he said. “Pretty astute cop, huh?”

Starsky smiled. “Usually you do better; you’re just having an off day,” he said, “Lucky for you I’m not a homicidal maniac. Eat some toast.” He pointed toward the plate. “That’s boysenberry jelly, you know.”

Hutch looked at him sharply. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” Starsky said with a shrug.

“But why on earth…?”

“Because you like it.”

Hutch shook his head and reached for a piece of toast and the mug of tea. “You know what, Starsk?” He took a bite of toast, washing it down with a sip of the steaming brew. “Someday you’re gonna make a great mom.”

Starsky flushed slightly at the offhanded praise. “You probably can’t taste it anyway,” he said, watching him.

“Some,” Hutch admitted. “But just the fact that you did it means more than…. Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I did already, while you were steaming your head,” Starsky assured him.

“It’s still raining?” Hutch asked, poking the crust in his mouth.

“Pouring,” his partner told him. “Horribly. I’m not going to get a tan this weekend.” He smiled. “It’s cold, too.”

“That’s beautiful.” Hutch smiled wryly. “So, now what do we do? Got any plans?”

“That’s up to you,” Starsky said, and he smiled, remembering a time when Hutch had said those very words to him. It was raining then, too, he remembered.

“Bolivia’s out,” Hutch grinned, indicating that he, too, remembered the conversation. “Can’t get on a plane with my head stuffed up like this; I’ll pop an eardrum. You wanna see whining….”

“Probably, yeah,” Starsky agreed. “I could buy you an ear trumpet.”

“A what?”

Starsky laughed. “Eh?” he intoned loudly, leaning toward his partner. “Seriously, Hutch, why don’t you read for a while or something, and try to take a nap. You didn’t get an awful lot of sleep last night. You might feel better.”

“What about you?”

“Here’s the great thing,” Starsky told him, grinning. “I’m a big boy; you don’t have to entertain me.” He stood up and patted the sofa. “Come on, Blondie, stretch out.”

Hutch nodded, and wordlessly pulled his long legs up onto the sofa as Starsky reached down to collect the breakfast dishes. “You know,” he mused, “it feels really good, just lying here with nothing to do, even though I hate to admit it.”

Starsky patted him on the shoulder. “Then you keep doin’ what you’re doin’,” he said, handing Hutch his book.

Starsky moved to the kitchen and quickly did the dishes. When he was finished, he stepped outside onto the porch, feeling the cold dampness of ocean wind swirled with rain on his face. The rain was coming down so hard that its roar had become intermingled with the sound of the waves, until they were nearly indistinguishable. He reached inside the large wood box, selecting several likely logs and some kindling, and quickly made his way back through the door, closing it with his foot.

He leaned down by the fireplace and carefully placed the wood inside it, lighting it with a match from his pocket. The fire hissed and crackled. Although the wood was not wet, some of the ocean dampness had seeped into its pores, so the initial lighting was smoky and pungent and smelled of the outdoors. Starsky leaned in and took a deep appreciative breath, and watched as the curls of smoke filtered up the chimney.

He glanced over at his partner, who was watching him intently over his book. “What?” he asked, slightly embarrassed at being caught in dreamy reverie, particularly one which smacked of communion with the outdoors, which he professed to loathe.

Hutch lowered the book and smiled affectionately at him. “Nothing,” he said, with a shake of his head. He sat up restlessly, and reached over and took another sip of tea, then set the mug down with a sniffle. “I keep feeling like I’d feel better if I slept,” he mused, “but I can’t sleep because I can’t breathe when I lie down.”

“Oh, I can fix that,” Starsky said, jumping up from the floor.

Hutch eyed him warily. “How do you intend to do that?”

“My mom’s gonna be so proud of me,” Starsky said with a devilish grin over his shoulder. He moved back from the kitchen, unscrewing the lid from a jar he had picked up from the counter. He leaned down and breathed in deeply. “God, that smells great.” He sighed blissfully. “Open up your shirt, this’ll fix you up.”

Hutch looked at him suspiciously. “No, and what the hell is that?” he asked.

“Vicks Vapo Rub,” Starsky said, thrusting the jar full in Hutch’s face. “It’s the best.”

Hutch, who had been in the middle of taking a breath, began to cough violently as the pungent vapor assaulted his congested sinuses. “Starsk,” he said hoarsely, between coughs, “that smells awful….” He wiped teary eyes on his sleeve.

“See that? It really works!” Starsky said enthusiastically. “Come on, here, open up.” He undid the top two buttons on Hutch’s flannel shirt, pulled down the t-shirt collar, and planted a dollop of the mixture in the middle of Hutch’s bare chest.

“Starsky, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Hutch protested. “Get that stuff away from me.” He looked down at the ooze on his chest. “Now what am I supposed to do?” he fumed.

Starsky reached over to rub in the mixture, but Hutch pulled away. “We rub it in.”

“I can do it. I can do it,” Hutch told him peevishly, trying to figure out how to do it without getting the greasy mixture all over his hand.

“‘I can do it. I can do it,'” Starsky repeated, mimicking him. “So do it,” he urged. “Honest, it’ll make you feel great. Warm all over. My mom always-”

Hutch made a face, silencing his partner, and rubbed the stuff around on his chest halfheartedly. “It’s greasy, Starsk,” he complained, “and I just took a shower.”

Starsky eyed him critically. “Go up a little higher,” he instructed, “your neck, too. it’ll help the cough. I promise,” he added with a grin. He watched as Hutch complied grumpily, then nodded in approval. “Good, great, now turn around.”

“Turn around?”

“Gotta do your back. ”

“This is like a nightmare, right?” Hutch said in a sullen tone. “I’m gonna wake up soon, I just know it.” But he turned around and pulled up the backs of his shirts, knowing that it was pointless to argue with Starsky when he had that “Sacred Mom” tone in his voice. As Starsky began gently massaging in the pungent ointment, Hutch found himself unwittingly beginning to relax, although he tried to resist. Through the penetrating warmth of Starsky’s practiced fingers, and the soothing prickle of the Vicks, the tension in his aching muscles began to recede gradually. He breathed in through his nose, first time in hours, and suddenly the tingling vapors and the radiating warmth began to soothe him, and he could feel some of the ache begin to slip away.

Starsky kept up a quiet, matter-of-fact patter. “See, all around your shoulders, here, and down lower on your back?” He continued to massage gently, even after the ointment had been absorbed into his partner’s skin, knowing that the simple act of contact was as comforting as the medication itself.

Hutch found his head dropping lower, and his eyes closing in contentment. He wondered if this was the same ritual of Starsky’s childhood memories. He pictured his partner as a small child, his father, home from the precinct, readying his son for bed, doing this same thing, for no other reason than to make the child feel better, and to let him know how much he was loved.

Hutch blinked several times; damn stuff was making his eyes water. He remembered the emotional emptiness of his own youth. How lucky he was, he thought, to have found this person, this exuberant, flamboyant, intelligent person, who understood him, accepted him, and encouraged him continuously to break down the barriers he had taken nearly all of his life to construct. And liked him anyway, despite everything.

Starsky was…if he’d had a brother…it was like that unconditional love people spoke about, the kind that was normally reserved for family…. The kind Hutch had not experienced until Starsky had come into his life. The funny thing was, although he so often tried to push that away, to never be dependent, to not let that vulnerable side of himself loose…it felt good.

“Feels good, huh, Blintz?” Starsky asked in the same soft tone.

He continued rubbing his hand across Hutch’s back, the heat from his hand combining with the warmth from the Vicks that finally began to chase away the chills. Finally, Starsky pulled down first the t-shirt, then smoothed the flannel down over his partner’s back. He continued rubbing lightly, through the shirts, and he felt, rather than heard, Hutch sigh. His hands moved up to Hutch’s shoulders, squeezing away the tension with strong fingers, unwilling to break the physical bond, which he correctly perceived to have more importance than a slathering of mentholated chest rub.

“How you doing?” he asked quietly. “Feel okay?”

Hutch nodded. “Mm-mm,” he said, not trusting his voice to anything more. He let Starsky push him back against the sofa, and wordlessly met his eyes.

“S’okay, Hutch, no big deal,” Starsky said easily, acknowledging the grateful gaze, and letting Hutch know that he was aware how difficult the acquiescence had been for him. “Help a little bit?”

“Helped a lot, Starsk,” Hutch admitted. “Thank you….”

Starsky grinned at him, screwing the cap back on the jar, and deflecting Hutch’s self consciousness with humor. “My mom’s gonna be so proud I remembered to do that,” he said. “Know what else she used to do?”

Hutch held up a hand. “You’re pushin’ it, Charlie,” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Okay,” Starsky gave in. “But lie down. I want you to get some rest.” Hutch eased his large frame down from sitting to lying on the couch, and Starsky covered him warmly with the quilt, tucking it around him with a flourish. “How ’bout that?” he asked. “Warm enough?”

“Perfect,” Hutch murmured, wondering why he suddenly had difficulty keeping his eyes from drifting shut. He yawned, and hitched the covers up even higher. “Warm.”

“Cool,” Starsky said, flopping down on the floor in front of the fireplace. He picked up Hutch’s discarded book and began flipping through the pages. “Mind if I…?”

“Be my guest,” Hutch said drowsily. “You might like it…. S’a pretty good social commentary….”

“Hutch, it’s a cop book.”

“Mm-mm.” Hutch shook his head slightly, closing his eyes. “S’Helter Skelter, all the stuff we missed before we started, kind of interesting…. I think he even mentions Dobey at one point….”

“Okay,” Starsky said. “Boy, I wish we’d brought the cassette player or at least a radio. I shoulda thought of that.”

“Play my guitar,” Hutch said, his eyes slits. “It’s in the bedroom.”

“You don’t mind?” Starsky asked him.

“No, not at all,” he said, rubbing his eyes and sniffling. He turned over on his side, facing the fireplace and his partner. “I like hearing you play.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, putting down the book. “I’ll read this later, then.”

He stood up slowly, stretching. Boy, sleeping on the sofa with Hutch nearly on top of him sure did make everything ache, he thought. He was tired, too, he knew. He hadn’t gotten all that much sleep, and his eyes were kind of burny and they hurt. Maybe it was the smoke from the fire, he reasoned, that was making it worse all of a sudden. He cracked his neck as he walked and came back a few moments later, carrying his partner’s guitar gingerly.

Starsky sat cross legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and absently tuned the strings. It was not too bad out of whack; Hutch had only played it a couple of days before. He picked out a few soft tunes he remembered from the radio, and a couple he had heard Hutch play. Finally, frowning in concentration, he began working through a tune that had been running around in his mind for a day or two. He tried playing it a couple of different ways, and was pleased with the way it sounded on the acoustic strings. He glanced over at his partner, not wishing to disturb him, but he could tell Hutch was just resting, and not sleeping. He hoped he wasn’t keeping him awake.

“I’m not keeping you awake, am I?” he asked. “I’ll stop if-”

Hutch reached over his head and grabbed a tissue from the box without looking. He sneezed, paused a moment, and sneezed again. “Sorry,” he sighed.

“Bless you,” Starsky offered, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Didn’t mean to break the mood,” Hutch apologized, with a lopsided smile, his voice stuffy and hoarse. “No, you’re not keeping me awake, not at all. It sounds nice. That one of yours?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, playing the opening again.

“Got words?”

“Not really,” Starsky admitted. “Only the beginning. Something like, ‘There have been times…'” he sang softly, then fiddled with the strings some more. “…And something like, ‘when it’s been raining…’ Something like that…. I like the chord changes in the bridge, though.”

“Me too,” Hutch said, and yawned. “Keep working at it, it sounds good.”

Starsky looked down at the strings again, shifting his fingers easily, and played the tune from the impressions in his head.

When he looked up at the couch again, Hutch was sound asleep, his breathing deep and even, all of the worry lines relaxed.

Starsky smiled affectionately as he continued to play softly, knowing and wondering why he knew that Hutch’s fever was starting to go down.

Eventually, his back grew stiff, or stiffer, he thought, and he rose and stretched again, carrying the guitar carefully back to its case. He spent a blissful half hour cutting up vegetables and making spaghetti sauce, reasoning that if his partner’s taste buds were anything like his own when he had a cold, that something a little tangy would taste really good to him, and perhaps encourage him to eat. He leaned down over the burner, savoring that smell of simmering tomatoes and peppers and onions that was so reminiscent of his childhood. He dipped in a spoon and took a quick taste. Perfect, he thought.

Turning off the burner, he poured himself a glass of juice and settled on the opposite end of the long couch from Hutch, reading his partner’s book. After several chapters, he glanced over and was surprised to see the blond, eyes open, silently watching him read.

“Hey,” he said, putting down the book. “Welcome back. How you feeling?” He reached down and patted Hutch’s leg under the quilt.

“M’okay,” Hutch murmured. “Better, I think. How long was I asleep?”

“Couple of hours,” Starsky answered. He stood up and moved to Hutch’s side and reached to feel his partner’s forehead. “You’re fever’s down a little,” he said, offering a strong arm as Hutch struggled to sit up.

“I actually do feel a little better,” Hutch admitted. He sniffled and cleared his throat. “Like, I still can’t breathe through my nose, but my eyes don’t hurt. And my head doesn’t.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“That’s ’cause the fever’s down,” Starsky said. “But what an awful cold,” he said sympathetically. “At least you were able to get some sleep.”

“Did you take a nap?” Hutch asked him, yawning.

“Nah….” Starsky resisted the urge to yawn as well. He was exhausted, he had to admit. “I’m not tired; played the guitar for a while…started dinner…’n I was reading…. Think you can eat tonight?”

Hutch nodded. “Yeah, I’m actually hungry,” he said. “I feel bad that you’re doing all the cooking, though.”

“Don’t feel bad. I like to do it, you know that.”

“What are we having?”

“Spaghetti, that okay?”

“Spaghetti sounds great,” Hutch said. “I think I might possibly be able to taste that.”

Starsky grinned. “Okay, I’ll go toss in the pasta. The sauce is made and the water’s boiling.”

Dinner and the early evening were spent in companionable camaraderie, the sort befitting two dear friends who had somehow become even closer during the last day, which, Hutch thought, amused, he wouldn’t have imagined possible before, but it had happened nonetheless. Finally relaxed, his self consciousness all but gone, he found himself reveling in the little things of the evening, enjoying his partner’s solicitousness, his kindness. He felt warm, cared for, and cared about, and did not have the slightest bit of his usual anxiety that he had allowed this to happen at some great cost to himself and his emotional control.

Starsky looked exhausted, Hutch thought, and he felt bad for having been such a difficult patient early on.

“You okay, Starsk?” he asked, as he rolled the dice for his next turn at Monopoly.

“More than okay,” Starsky assured him, “because you just landed on the Electric Company, and that’s mine. Seventy five dollars,” he said. “Hand it over.”

Hutch counted out the money grudgingly. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll beat your ass anyway.” He smiled. “Seriously, you look awful tired.”

“I am,” Starsky admitted. “But it’s like a good kind of tired, you know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I’m easy. I’m having a really nice weekend. We needed this.”

Hutch reached for a tissue and sneezed loudly. “Well, I didn’t need this,” he said, making a face. “But you’re right. It’s good to be away from the city.” He smiled slightly. “Bad week.”

Starsky rolled the dice, and counted out the spaces on the board. “Goddamn it, Hutchinson,” he moaned.

“Two thousand dollars, please,” Hutch said, eyes glinting greedily. “Or I’m goin’ through your clothes…” he added, quoting one of his songs.

Starsky flipped through his meager pile of cash. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Damn it. Make a deal?”

Hutch exploded into laughter. “With what?” he asked incredulously. “The Water Works and the Reading Railroad? I think not.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Fine, you win.” He stretched and yawned. “You wanna play another one?”

“Nah,” Hutch answered. “You’re too easy to beat. I’m kinda tired anyhow. Want to give it up and go to bed?”

“That sounds like a plan,” Starsky agreed, because, really, he felt totally drained and devoid of energy. Bed sounded like a wonderful place to be. “You want some tea or somethin’ before we turn in?”

“Well, I’d like a glass of wine,” Hutch said, “but you won’t let me have any.”

“Not with all that cold medicine, Blintz, I keep telling you that. I don’t want a cheese doodle for a partner.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Why the hell not?” he asked, with a grin. “I’ve got one.”

~~~

Hutch rolled over in bed, wide awake. He’d slept for a few hours, and now he’d been awake for…he squinted at the clock…two. Tonight was different than the previous one, he knew. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get comfortable because he felt so sick. More like, he’d slept on and off during the day and simply wasn’t tired anymore. He was so relieved for the lessening of the headache and the pervasive aches caused by the fever that he didn’t even mind the persistent sniffles so much. That was annoying, but at least he was able to function without his brain feeling as though he was trying to think through syrup.

There was rustling from the other bed in the room. Starsky was having a restless night, he thought. Poor guy, he was probably overtired from taking care of Hutch-the food, the fire, and everything else they’d done. Or the Monopoly game was giving him nightmares, Hutch mused with a smile. He got himself comfortable and closed his eyes, but knew there was no way he was going to drift back to sleep. His mind kept humming the tune Starsky had been playing with earlier…. Really pretty, and soft, he thought.

Rising quietly, he picked up his robe from the chair and slipped it on, then freed his guitar from its case and padded to the living room. He tossed some wood in the fireplace and lit it carefully, but didn’t turn on any other lights, enjoying the reflection of the dancing flames as they gained ground on the kindling. Playing the guitar came from so far within that he didn’t need to see the strings. He sat sideways and began fingering the strings lightly, playing the first bit of Starsky’s tune, over and over.

The phrase, “it’s not that I’m hurting,” ran through his head, and suddenly the song began to mean more to him than an idle progression of musical notes. It’s just… he thought, that I always seem to miss so much….

He stopped playing for a moment, pondering the lines. They were pretty and they flowed, certainly, but they also summed up his sentiments about the direction the weekend had taken. One step ahead…and two behind… he thought. Could use that in there somewhere too….

Before he realized it, he was singing along with the guitar. His voice was congested and strained, and he was sure it sounded awful, but he couldn’t help it; he had to hear how the words would sound with the music. He hoped Starsky wouldn’t be pissed that he was diddling with his song. He didn’t think he would be….

One small shadow…looks a lot like me….

That sounds good there, he thought, and gulped half a glass of juice to soothe his throat.

He started over, the firelight warming him, and slid down onto the floor to be closer to it. He could hear the rain slashing at the windows still and mixing with the comforting crackle from the fireplace left him with a glowing warm feeling, a feeling of peace and serenity that he had not had all week.

Amazing, he thought, how was it possible to feel so sick, and yet so content, all in the same moment. That was certainly not something he had ever experienced before.

He smiled as he thought about Starsky and the fresh squeezed juice, the homemade soup, the selflessness of giving up his own chance to relax to take care of Hutch. He could still smell the lingering menthol of the Vicks, and could almost feel its warmth on his back, and his partner’s comforting touch chasing away the chill, but he decided that probably it was just the fire warming him.

He dropped his head down, picking at the strings lovingly, and began to play again, this time adding a few more words here and there, until the song glowed with longing and ache and hope.

~~~

Starsky opened his eyes, and could see in the dim light flickering through the doorway that Hutch was no longer in his bed. He crept quietly to the doorway and leaned up against the door jamb, watching Hutch with sleepy eyes.

The blond was sitting on the floor, hunched over his guitar, playing, singing softly. His voice was raspy, but on key. And Starsky was touched beyond belief when he realized that Hutch was putting words to the melody he had been noodling with earlier.

Hutch looked completely relaxed and calm; he looked calm. His tousled hair caught the light from the fireplace and gave him an ethereal, other worldly appearance. Well, it was partly the dancing light from the flames, but Starsky knew his partner often wore that distant and dreamy expression when he was involved with his music, one of the things Starsky loved about him the most. Here was this guy, fearsome in his profession…could handle a gun, and the most dangerous and terrifying of situations…and yet he had to have this well of placid serenity tucked deep inside him to bring out at moments like these. He wondered idly if it was because the facets of his personality could be so very different, that Hutch sometimes had difficulty reconciling the absurdity and random violence of his work with the incredibly gentle side of his normal nature.

Sometimes, Starsky admitted to himself, he wondered if he pushed Hutch too far. He knew that Hutch had a lot to process from his past, or maybe had already reconciled it in his own way…which included his fierce aversion to dependence on anyone but himself over certain random issues. The weird thing was, Hutch could be so very open in most areas of his life…certainly he wasn’t afraid to free his emotions…. Starsky had lost count of how many times his partner had gotten teary-eyed or cried in front of him, just as had he in front of Hutch. He was well aware that this was a trust that neither of them placed lightly, as if despite the limitations Hutch placed on himself he also knew when he simply had to let go, but only over the big stuff. Still, Starsky felt privileged, knowing that he was the only one who was allowed into that inner circle.

And Starsky pushed him, over and over, rather terrier-like, he thought with a smile, to let go on the little things. He must be getting through to him, too, Starsky thought. At least this weekend, he’d seen Hutch get misty over the juice and the chest rub. He knew exactly the emotions Hutch felt from the experiences, and he knew it was a good thing, a welcome thing, a necessary thing.

Starsky felt a tickle begin at the back of his throat, and buried his face inside his sweatshirt. “Mmshmpf….”

Hutch never took his fingers off the guitar strings. “Bless you,” he said, turning to Starsky with a small smile. He reached over and held out the box of tissues. “I’ll share,” he offered.

“I’m sorry, Hutch,” Starsky said. “I was just…I was …”

“I knew you were there,” Hutch said, gently.

“How could you not?” Starsky said, wryly. “With me makin’ noise and all….”

“No, I knew before that,” the blond assured him. “You okay? You’re not getting sick are you?”

Starsky shook his head. “Mm-mm,” he said, “just dust or the smoke from the fireplace or somethin’….” He moved over and sat down on the couch, watching his partner intently.

Hutch looked up at him. “You don’t mind that I.,.do you?”

“Hutch, of course not,” Starsky replied adamantly. “It’s beautiful. Would you sing it again, all the way through?”

Hutch cleared his throat and sniffled hard. “If my voice will hold out for one more time, sure,” he said. “Sound like crap.”

“No, you don’t,” Starsky insisted, but he was unable to verbalize how the slightly deeper voice, the hoarseness and congestion, only made the song that much more poignant, more meaningful, more heartbreaking. Instead, he said, “You sound fine. Honest.”

“You’re a liar, but okay.” Hutch grinned.

Leaning down over the guitar again, he started the song from the beginning, and when he ran out of words, just picked out the rest of the medley and hummed softly in accompaniment. Putting the guitar aside, he stretched and yawned. “Whaddya think?”

“I think it’s great,” Starsky said. “It’s perfect. Thank you.” Starsky rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Hutch stood up slowly, and extended a hand to pull his dark-haired partner to his feet, noticing the sluggishness in Starsky’s response.

Wore him out, Hutch thought, reaching out a hand to steady Starsky’s elbow when he was on his feet. “Let’s go back to bed,” he suggested. “You’re kind of sleepwalking here.”

Starsky nodded. “Kind of…” He looked up at Hutch. “Do you need anything? Think you can sleep? You hungry?”

Hutch smiled warmly. “Nope, don’t need anything. Yes, I can sleep. And no, I’m not hungry. I’m actually feeling a little better,” he said. “And I’m sorry that I wore you out, and woke you up.”

Starsky dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“Starsk?” Hutch said.

“Mm?”

Hutch pulled him into a hug. “Thank you for…for everything,” he said softly.

Starsky returned the hug with a laugh. “Oh for God’s sake, Hutch, it was soup and tea, don’t overdramatize it.”

“It was more than that, and you know it,” Hutch insisted. “You’re always….” He paused, and repeated quietly, “It was more than that. Thank you.”

Starsky did know it; he understood completely. He hugged his partner back fiercely. “Any time, Blintz,” he said. “Wait till you see what I’ve got planned for tomorrow.”

“I can hardly wait,” Hutch said, as the two headed for their respective beds.

~~~

Several hours later, Hutch sat straight up in bed, wondering what in the hell had awakened him. He looked around. Nothing seemed disturbed, so he lay back down and turned on his side. Closing his eyes, about to drift off, he heard it again and snapped to consciousness.

Starsky was coughing, a rattling harsh sound, from deep within his chest. And he was obviously doing his best to muffle it into his pillow.

Hutch closed his eyes for a moment, sighing sadly. Poor guy, he thought, no wonder he looked so exhausted.

He swung silently out of bed and moved to his partner’s side, sitting down lightly on the edge of Starsky’s bed as another round of chesty coughs consumed his friend.

“Aw, hon,” Hutch said softly, laying a hand on Starsky’s back and rubbing it gently. “Starsk?” He moved his other hand up to his partner’s forehead, smoothing back damp curls, and was taken aback by the heat that radiated from his skin. “Starsk?” he asked again.

“M’okay, Hutch,” Starsky slurred. “M’just…s’okay….”

“I think okay’s a little strong,” Hutch said, leaning in close over him. “You’re awful hot,” he said, wincing as Starsky buried his head in the pillow once more and coughed harshly. “I’m so sorry,” he said, softly.

Starsky turned his head and opened one eye. “F’what?”

“You’re getting my cold, damn it,” he said. “Come on.” He urged Starsky to turn over. “What hurts?”

“My eyes…and…” Starsky pointed vaguely to the center of his chest, “…just…there, when I cough….” Which he illustrated, drawn under by another painful jag.

Hutch grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to a sitting position up against him, bracing Starsky’s chest with his shoulder. “There you go,” he murmured, “take it easy.” Again, he rubbed Starsky’s back until the spasm subsided.

Starsky swiped at his eyes, tearing from the effort, and sniffled. “Shit,” he said, finally awake and coherent. “Just…shit.” He looked at Hutch. “I can’t be getting this from you,” he said, with a cough. “You’re not soundin’ like this…. Bless you,” he added, as Hutch leaned away and sneezed. “You’re soundin’ like that….”

Hutch tipped his head back and sniffled. “Same song, different verse, I think,” he said, “or different arrangement, anyhow…. Aw, Starsk, I feel so bad, I’m sorry….”

Starsky smiled in spite of the wave of chills that rippled over him. “M’not real happy either, Blintz, but it isn’t your fault. Coulda got it from anywhere….”

“I know, but…” Hutch sighed. “You buy any cough medicine in your little field trip to the store yesterday?”

Starsky nodded, afraid to speak lest he start coughing again. He pulled the covers aside and started to stand up. As soon as he was on his feet, he felt dizzy, and clutched at Hutch’s arm. “Oops,” he said, standing still for a minute. “Sorry, lost my balance,” he said, with a crooked smile and a tilt of his head that didn’t fool Hutch for a second.

“Right,” Hutch said, pushing him back down onto the side of the bed. “Get back in there. You’re shivering.” He turned on the light and looked at Starsky in surprise. “Jesus, Starsk, you’re totally flushed and your eyes…are all…glassy.”

“But are they gray?” Starsky asked, pulling the covers up as high as they would go and curling his body up underneath them. “That’s the thing, you know….” He mashed his face in the pillow and coughed.

“Aw, Starsk,” Hutch said, rubbing his arm. “That’s, like, way down in your chest. That can’t be good.” He left the room for a few moments and came back with two bottles of medicine, one green and one red. “How ’bout a nightcap?” he offered. “Cold medicine for me; cough syrup for you?”

At Starsky’s nod, he handed over the red bottle, and the two took simultaneous swigs from their respective bottles. Hutch made an involuntary face as the horrid stuff slid down his throat.

“Mine’s better,” Starsky teased him. “Cherry.”

“I don’t know what this stuff is,” Hutch said, “but I think we could use it in the interrogation room. It’s so bad it’d force a confession out of anybody.” He recapped both bottles and set them on the nightstand with a grimace.

Starsky coughed again and resumed shivering.

Hutch grabbed the quilt from his own bed and draped it over his friend. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Starsky said gratefully, although he continued to shake as before.

“Want something hot? Tea? Cocoa, maybe?” Hutch offered.

Starsky shook his head. “No, thanks…. Don’t feel good. Stomach’s kinda…” he admitted, wobbling his hand back and forth.

Hutch thought for a moment, then moved around to the other side of the bed. “Move over,” he said, nudging Starsky’s back with his knee.

“What?”

“Move over. I’m coming in.”

Starsky said nothing, but he moved himself toward the side of the bed, turning away from Hutch as he coughed deeply.

Hutch climbed in gingerly, pulling the covers up over both of them. “You need to be warm,” he said, tucking the blankets up over Starsky’s shoulder. He moved closer, and put his arm around his partner, drawing him closer. “That any better?” he asked.

“Some. Thanks,” Starsky admitted. “But I feel dopey.”

“Better than feeling Dobey, perish the thought,” Hutch pointed out, muffling a sneeze. “‘Scuse me.”

Starsky chuckled. “Okay, I’m Dopey, you’re Sneezy.”

“And we need to find Doc,” Hutch pointed out, grinning.

“I’d settle for Snow White,” Starsky mused. “Seriously, Hutch,” Starsky said, “This is kind of embarrassing. What if someone saw us like this?”

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“Well…no….”

“Then shut up and let yourself get warm,” Hutch said. “You can’t sleep if you’re shivering like this. Nor can I. I can hear your teeth rattling.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Starsky agreed. Hutch pulled him tighter, and he allowed himself to relax into the warmth of his partner’s body. He reached around to pat Hutch on the arm. “Thanks, Blintz,” he said, yawning.

Hutch gave his arm a squeeze. “No sweat. S’what friends are for. Somebody told me that, but I can’t remember who. Go to sleep.”

“Okay, and it’s ‘whom,'” Starsky said, his voice a drowsy murmur. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“You called me ‘hon,'” Starsky said. “S’the least I can do….”

Hutch winced and blushed to the very roots of his blond hair. “You…uh…heard that? I-”

Starsky pulled Hutch’s arm tighter around himself. “Heard what?” he asked, drifting off to sleep.

~~~

Grey morning light filtered, diffused through the blinds, lighting the room just barely enough to see. Hutch moved his eyes around and then closed them again, not quite ready to surrender to wakefulness. He could hear droplets of rain hitting the window. Not pouring driving rain, but enough to let him know that the front was still hanging off the coast.

Been raining for days…. What we get for a weekend at the beach in the middle of February…. Doesn’t matter much anyway…better than Duluth…. Probably snowing there….

Hutch yawned, glancing over at his partner, who lay sound asleep beside him. Hutch could feel the feverish heat that emanated from Starsky’s form even through the blankets, on top of which rested his own arm.

With his free hand, Hutch rubbed his face tiredly and tried to think.

Really need Kleenex…. Really need to take a leak…. Don’t want to wake him…. He needs to sleep….

Slowly, carefully, Hutch undraped his arm from Starsky’s sleeping form. He extricated himself from the blankets and quilts and carefully tucked them back around Starsky.

For his part, the dark-haired detective showed no sign of waking, but immediately moved over and nestled into the warm spot where Hutch had been lying,

Still cold, Hutch thought, with a shake of his head. Damn it.

Hutch padded first to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, finding the tissues and filling the teakettle with water. He turned on the stove and leaned over, peering out the kitchen window at the beach that, although wet and windswept, looked somehow beautiful and free. Storm-driven waves crashed and foamed on the deserted sand, no two of them the same.

Having a sudden urge for air, real air, fresh air, he made himself a cup of tea, pulled on his jacket, and went to stand out on the porch, savoring the sting of the chilly salt wind on his face. He’d always loved the water, always wanted to live near the ocean, and it was one of the main reasons he had chosen to settle in California. There was something about the vastness of it and the relentless tides that made him revel in his own inconsequence, and always allowed him to think things through or put things in better perspective. Which he certainly had this weekend.

Although to be honest, that had more to do with the tenacity and enthusiastic ferocity of his partner than anything else.

“At least you thought to put on your jacket this time,” came a hoarse whisper from behind him.

Startled, Hutch turned to see Starsky standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of the quilts from his bed. “What are you doing up?” he asked blankly.

“It’s mornin’,” Starsky answered, clearing his throat, trying to find some voice. “How do you feel? Didja take your medicine?”

“How do I feel,” Hutch echoed, taking in Starsky’s appearance. “Starsk, you look terrible.” He moved to the dark-haired man’s side as Starsky coughed deeply. “and you sound terrible.” Hutch shook his head and pushed Starsky back through the doorway.

“S’okay, Hutch,” Starsky protested, blinking at him. “‘M’all right, honest. Hey…”

Hutch pushed Starsky down on the sofa and propped the pillows behind his back. He leaned over and felt the dark-haired man’s forehead, shaking his head as he did so. “Starsky, you are really sick,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?”

“This is all my fault,” Hutch said. “If I hadn’t…. I mean, I shouldn’t….”

“You shouldn’t, hadn’t what?” Starsky asked him uncomprehendingly. “Hutch, I don’t feel good; please talk English,” he pleaded.

“I knew I was sick,” Hutch tried to explain, “I should have gracefully bowed out of the weekend, instead of…of…. For God’s sake, Starsk, you were as upset about the case as I was…almost…. You needed to relax…and instead you’ve spent the last two days with very little sleep, and me breathing germs all over you….”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Hutch,” he slurred, sniffling and clearing his throat. “That’s just stupid.” He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “And besides, it wasn’t your call. I needed to do what I been doing; it isn’t like you coulda stopped me. Here, your place, my place, whatever, I’da been doin’ the same stuff anyhow.” He sneezed loudly, and looked up at Hutch looking pathetic. “I’m dyin’, Hutch,” he said. “Don’t push me. Go take your medicine.” He peered up at his partner through tousled bangs. “You don’t look so hot either, you know,” he observed. “How do you feel?”

Hutch shrugged. “Better. Little better, anyway.” He moved to the kitchen and retrieved the thermometer from its case. He quickly poured a glass of juice for Starsky, and came back to sit on the couch next to him. He plunked the thermometer in Starsky’s mouth without comment, and leaned back against the couch with a sigh. “Boy, we are some pair of tough cops,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Damn right,” Starsky mumbled around the thermometer.

Hutch pulled the thermometer from Starsky’s mouth and squinted at the instrument. Shaking it down, he said, “Pretty good, Starsk. You’re a hundred and two.”

“Think you can beat that, Blintz?” Starsky asked him, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, let’s see who’s tougher,” Hutch grinned, popping the thermometer into his own mouth.

“Oh…Hutch…don’t….” Starsky protested with a wince. “Come on. What if we don’t have the same thing?”

Hutch made a face at him. “Like that’s a possibility?” he said, moving the thermometer to one side with his tongue. “Besides, we just slept together.” he grinned around the instrument. “Doesn’t make much difference now.”

“I guess,” Starsky sighed. “God, just don’t tell my mom, she’d have a fit.”

“About the thermometer or about the sleeping together?” Hutch smiled lopsidedly around the instrument.

“Either one,” Starsky mused. “Although she’d prob’ly be more upset about the thermometer. She’s very careful about germs, you know.”

“Mm,” Hutch acquiesced with a tilt of his head. He pulled the thermometer out and read it. “You win, tough guy,” he said. “I’m only a hundred point two.”

“Terrific,” muttered Starsky, coughing. “C’n I have the…ah…thanks,” he said, as Hutch slid the tissue box between them on the coffee table. He grabbed a handful, and held them over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ah…”

“Bless you,” Hutch chimed in angelically, as Starsky, concentration lost, glared at him.

“Whadja do that for?” Starsky demanded, sniffling.

“Do what?” Hutch asked him innocently. He handed over the glass of juice. “Drink this, come on,” he said. He reached behind Starsky to arrange the pillows more comfortably, and took the juice glass from Starsky’s hand as Starsky began to cough. He rubbed a hand up and down Starsky’s back. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Take it easy…. That sounds terrible….”

“Oh, here we go,” Starsky said darkly, when he was able to speak.

“Here we go where?”

Starsky rubbed his eyes. “You’re on autonurse.”

“I’m on what?”

“Autonurse,” Starsky said with a roll of his eyes.

“What the hell is autonurse?” Hutch said, pulling the edges of the blanket closer around Starsky’s chest.

Starsky looked down. “What you’re doing there.” He indicated Hutch’s hand on the blanket with a nod of his head. “Autonurse.”

“Should I be offended?” Hutch asked him.

“Not at all,” Starsky said with a sigh. “It’s what you do. But I don’t want you to do it right now.”

Hutch turned away from him and coughed. “Why not?” he asked. “You’re sick.”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Starsky pointed out, “so are you.”

“Well…” Hutch frowned, “You’re sicker than I am,” he said defensively.

“Yeah, but you’ve been sick longer,” Starsky countered.

Hutch picked up the glass of juice and handed it back to his partner. “Drink some more,” he said. “I’ll make you something hot.” He started to get up, but Starsky’s hand landed on his arm.

“Hutch, settle, willya?” Starsky said, his voice firm. “I’m okay; it’s all right.”

Hutch looked at him blankly.

“Hutch, look,” Starsky said, his tone softening. “This is an unfortunate turn of events here, because I’m pretty sure we both feel like crap.”

Hutch started to protest that he felt much better, which wasn’t exactly the truth, but Starsky held up a hand and he closed his mouth. “Okay,” he said. “So?”

“So, you gotta tone it down for once,” Starsky said. “You can’t keep jumpin’ up and doin’ stuff for me.”

Hutch muffled a sneeze. “Starsk, you’re running a good fever there. What do you expect me to do?” He pointed to the other side of his partner. “Um…I’ll wrestle you for the tissues….”

“Here,” Starsky said, handing them over, but pulling out a handful for himself first. “But you’re still sick too,” said Starsky. “If you don’t just relax, you’re gonna get sicker again, and we’re never gonna get off this merry go round.”

“I see your point,” Hutch said. “God, this is awful,” he added, in a frustrated tone.

Starsky patted his arm. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “We do stuff together all the time,” he pointed out. “We work together; we eat out together; we go to the movies…. Today, let’s just…hang out and be sick together.”

“Well,” Hutch considered, “this is something we don’t do together very often,” he said. “Usually, you know…” he waggled a hand between them, “it’s one or the other. This could be a whole new dimension for us, you’re saying.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said, bringing the blanket up to cover his face, as he dissolved into a rattling coughing spasm.

“So in other words,” Hutch continued, absentmindedly rubbing Starsky’s back. “We’ll just…be.”

Starsky nodded. “Did you eat?”

“No. I’m making us some cocoa, though. You hungry?”

“Mm-mm,” Starsky shook his head. “Why don’t you get that, and I’ll get the rest of the blankets.”

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, “And I’ll start the fire back up, huh?”

“Yeah,” Starsky said with a shiver. “It’s cold in here.”

“Probably it isn’t,” Hutch commented. “It’s our thermostats that are off.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I thought I’d feel better than this today,” he said honestly, looking over at his partner. “I mean, I feel better than I did, but whatever this is, it doesn’t want to let go.”

“S’only been two days, Hutch,” Starsky murmured. He squinted at his watch. “So I should start feelin’ better, like, Tuesday morning at nine?”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Hutch said. “I’m sure you will.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, leaning against the side of the couch and closing his eyes. “Wake me up on Tuesday then….”

Hutch grinned at him. “Okay.”

Within minutes, Starsky had fallen asleep, and Hutch prowled restlessly around the small dwelling, not quite ready to relax. He took note of the food in the refrigerator, enough stuff in there, and he tossed the steaks into the freezer compartment. No way either of them would feel like eating that, as well as most of the other food they had brought. He did the few dishes that remained from the night before, and stoked the fire with two logs and some kindling. Back in the kitchen, he took two aspirins and a swig of cold medicine, and padded back to the couch, where he curled up on the end that wasn’t full of Starsky.

He picked up his book and began to read, savoring the quiet and the serenity of the morning, and soon he too, dozed. He awoke with a start a short time later, glancing around, but everything was in place. Starsky was still sound asleep, burrowed down under the covers like a puppy seeking warmth. Hutch leaned over and tucked the blanket more firmly around him and rose, stretching.

He resisted the urge to wake his partner and insist that they return home a day and a half early. He knew that Starsky would never go for that. Having this time away together was somehow really important to him, and truthfully, despite the fact that it hadn’t gone at all as he’d expected, Hutch found himself reluctant to have it end as well. Part of him sort of thought they’d be better off at one of their apartments, a little closer to civilization and the all night Sav-On Drugs, but what the hell, for another day and a half they’d manage. They’d done just fine so far.

Starsky was burrowed under the blankets, coughing, and to Hutch, it sounded just horrible, deep and rattling. That was one thing about not being closer to home, he thought; he could be feeding his partner vitamins and herbal teas instead of aspirin and cocoa. Maybe he should hit a grocery store down in Malibu, he thought. He was beginning to go stir crazy anyway, and the drive might do him good.

Hutch stealthily put on his shoes and found his jacket, scribbling a “be back soon” note in case Starsky woke while he was gone. He fished the keys to the Torino out of Starsky’s jacket pocket, and within minutes was heading down the Pacific Coast Highway. The traffic was light but it was a weekend, and it was raining and cool, so the usual beach goers were not out in their normal force. He could see a few hearty surfers down on the beach, their black wetsuits blending into the gray panorama of the ocean, and he shook his head thinking that was the last thing on earth he’d want to do this morning.

Passing up a larger supermarket in the closest shopping center, he instead hung a left onto Topanga Canyon Road. If he remembered correctly there was a funky little general store and attached café there, which had most of the usual amenities, and, in deference to the more bohemian population inhabiting the nooks and crannies of the canyon, some items that he himself might find more palatable than more traditional comfort measures. The small store was only about two miles in, just as the road began to wind up into the hills. Hutch was relieved to find it open and operating on a rainy Sunday morning.

Dashing through the downpour, he opened the door, setting off the delicate chimes that heralded the arrival of new patrons. An older, gray-haired woman looked up from her book and nodded at him as he picked up a basket and began making the rounds of jam-packed aisles at the front of the store. He began selecting a few random items: two boxes of cough drops-the natural herbal ones he preferred and a box of cherry Luden’s for Starsky, another bottle of cough syrup, some aspirin might bring Gordo’s fever down…. What else? He paused in the frozen food section, deliberating, and grabbed a half gallon of chocolate ice cream, figuring that, if nothing else, it would cheer his partner up and maybe help his throat. He tossed in two extra boxes of tissues as their current supply seemed to be depleting at an alarming rate. On impulse, he picked up two comic books from the magazine rack, smiling to himself as he laid them in the basket.

He moved to the counter and the gray-haired proprietor looked up from her book and smiled. “Will that be all?” she asked. “And good morning!”

“Good morning,” Hutch said. “Uh…no, I think I need some take out from the café.” He turned away, paused for a moment, and sneezed. “‘Scuse me,” he said, embarrassed. “Maybe I’d better open these now,” he added, reaching for a box of tissues.

“Oh, honey, God bless you,” the woman said, peering at him over her reading glasses and taking in his tousled appearance. “That’s a good cold you’ve got there.”

Hutch buried his face in a handful of tissues and sneezed again. “There is no such thing,” he said, hoarsely. He blinked at her and smiled shyly. “I hate this.”

“You poor thing,” she sympathized. “We’ve got some really good vegetable soup today,” she offered, “and homemade beef stew. Either of those sound good to you?”

“Both, actually,” he admitted. “Could I have two quarts of each?”

“Two quarts?” she said. “You’re going to eat all that?” she teased.

“No, no,” Hutch chuckled. “It’s…I’ve got someone else sick. I left him at home.”

“Ah,” she said, “that’s a shame, sweetheart. Lots of things going around these days, all this cold weather and dampness, you know. Does he have the same thing as you?”

“Well, sort of,” Hutch said. “But mine’s all up here,” he indicated his head, “and his is…” He pointed vaguely toward his chest. “He sounds awful. But I don’t know what to do other than cough medicine, you know?”

“I’ve got just the thing,” she said, sliding off her chair. She moved to the back counter and returned with a bag of dried leaves. “This’ll do the trick,” she said.

Hutch moved his eyes around suspiciously, feeling himself begin to blush. “Pot?” he squeaked in a near whisper. He moved sharply, knocking into a rack of TV Guides, and his hand shot out and steadied them just before they landed at his feet. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed. He tried to look nonchalant. “Pot?” he asked again.

The woman burst into bubbling laughter. “No, no, no,” she said, when she was finally able to speak. “But you’re right,” she peered down into the bag, “chopped up like that it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

“It is, yes,” Hutch grinned, relieved. “What is it?”

“It’s eucalyptus leaves and ground herbs,” she said, pointing to a larger piece of leaf. “See that one there?”

“Oh, uh-huh…” Hutch said. “I can tell you right now, he won’t eat that. He’s kind of picky.”

“Oh, they all are,” the woman agreed, “but you don’t eat it. Do you have a spaghetti pot?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, put a few tablespoons of this in the bottom of the pot. Pour a teakettle full of boiling water over it and cover it, you know. You let it steep and let the water activate the herbs. Then make him sit over it and cover up his head so the vapors don’t…you know, vaporize.”

“You’re serious?” Hutch asked her.

“I’m absolutely serious,” the woman said. “Living up here, you learn all kinds of things. There’s sage in it too,” she added, “which is very soothing.”

“And what will this do, other than make him aggravated at me?” Hutch grinned.

“Won’t cure the cold, hon, but it will give him some breathing room; the steam, the leaves, honest, it will really help.”

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, reaching for his wallet. “Sold. Oh, and the soup and stuff.”

“Coming right up,” she smiled.

She returned a few moments later and began to ring up the items for him. Carefully placing them in two bags, she pushed them across the counter toward him. “Oh, almost forgot these,” she said, stashing the comic books in the top of one of the sacks. “I think you’ve got all the right things here to make him feel better,” she said approvingly. “Especially these,” she said, indicating the comics. “How old is your boy?” she asked.

“My…uh….um…he’s thirty-five,” Hutch said with a sheepish grin.

“Thirty-five?” she asked.

“Uh, um, yeah…chronologically, anyhow.”

The woman laughed merrily. “Two big kids,” she said. “You remind me of my son.” She reached across and squeezed his arm. “You feel better, honey, both of you, okay?”

“Thank you, thanks very much,” Hutch smiled warmly. “For all your help, and…everything.” He zipped up his jacket and picked up both grocery bags, feeling an inexplicable and joyful camaraderie with humanity, and lighter than he’d felt in days.

Arriving back at the cottage a half hour later, he hustled the bags through the misty rain. He was glad to have taken the drive, but at the same time, relieved to be back in the familiar kitchen. He put the groceries away, leaving out the soup to heat up for lunch.

Hearing Starsky cough from the other side of the couch, he walked over and leaned down to his friend. “Hey,” he said softly. “How are you doing?”

Starsky, huddled on the end of the sofa, looked up at him, relieved. “Where you been?” he asked hoarsely.

“I went to the store. Didn’t you see my note?”

Starsky shook his head. “Note?” He blinked sleepily.

Hutch picked up the slip of paper from the coffee table and sat down. “Note,” he said, handing it over. “How long you been awake?”

“Not very,” Starsky said. “What store? Where?” He reached a hand toward Hutch. “Your hair is wet.”

“It’s raining,” Hutch reminded him. “Down in Malibu….”

Starsky nodded. “Place in Topanga?”

“Mm-hm. I brought us lunch. Can you eat?” He leaned over to feel Starsky’s forehead, which felt warmer to him that it had that morning.

Starsky pulled back quickly. “Your hand’s cold,” he said.

“Your head’s hot,” Hutch pointed out, “and that cough doesn’t sound any better.”

“It should.” Starsky raked a hand through his tousled hair. “I’ve been practicing the whole time you were gone.”

“Bozo,” Hutch chuckled, shaking his head. “I brought you some stuff,” he said. “Homemade soup and some stew and ice cream…”

“Ice cream?” Starsky asked hopefully. “Really?”

“Mm-hm,” Hutch said, pushing him back down on the couch. “For after lunch.” He strode quickly to the kitchen and returned, tossing a bag on Starsky’s chest. “And these,” he offered, with a smile.

Starsky looked at him suspiciously for a moment before reaching into the bag. His face lit up in a joyful lopsided grin. “Comic books?” he asked. “You got me comic books? Hey, thanks!”

“You’re welcome. I’d sorta like to read that Adam 12 one when you’re done, if that’s okay.” He smiled. He winced, then, as Starsky half turned on his side and dissolved into a spasm of croupy coughs. “God, Starsk…you’ve really got it good….”

His partner struggled to sit up, wiping vaguely at a teary eye. “When you’ve got it,” he said, hoarsely, “flaunt it…boy.”

“I’ve got something that will help that too,” Hutch said. He pulled the small plastic bag of herbs out of his pocket and held it out to the dark-haired man.

“Pot?” Starsky squeaked. “Hutch….”

“Not pot, Starsk, geez, give me a little credit,” Hutch returned benevolently. “It’s eucalyptus and herbs and…” He brought the bag up to his face for closer inspection, “…stuff.”

Starsky looked at him evenly. “I’m not eatin’ that, Hutch. Looks worse than your damned granola….”

“I don’t want you to eat it,” Hutch assured him.

“I’m afraid to ask what you do want me to do with it then,” Starsky replied, pulling at his ear.

“There are so very many ways I could answer that,” Hutch mused with a grin, “but since you’re so sick, I’m gonna take pity on you. I’m gonna boil some water and dump this stuff in a pot, and you’re gonna just breathe it in and you’re gonna feel better.”

“Just breathe it in,” Starsky repeated.

“Yup, just breathe,” Hutch replied. “The lady at the store said it will help. Honest.”

Starsky reached for the bag, opened it up and took a tentative sniff. “It’s, uh…” He sniffled. “Uh…it’s…” He sneezed loudly, and pushed the bag back at his blond partner. “It’s makin’ me sneeze,” he said. “That what it’s supposed to do?”

“She didn’t mention that,” Hutch said. “I’m sure it’s better when it’s diluted.”

“Okay,” Starsky said, feeling too miserable for a comeback. “Whatever.”

~~~

“Be careful, now, this is really hot,” Hutch warned, as he set the steaming pot of herbs down on the coffee table. “Come on,” he coaxed, helping Starsky to sit up. “Stick your head over that.”

Starsky looked over at him but said nothing as his partner pushed gently on the back of his head. He leaned over the pot and breathed deeply several times, then looked over at Hutch with a sniffle. “Makin’ my nose run, the steam,” he said. Hutch handed him a tissue and he blew his nose, then leaned over the pot to try again.

“How’s that feel?” Hutch asked him, not removing his hand from the back of Starsky’s head. “You’re wheezing, you know that? I can hear it when you breathe.”

Starsky shrugged noncommittally and continued breathing deeply, but Hutch could feel him begin to relax as the soothing vapors engulfed them both.

“There you go,” Hutch soothed, “That’s it….” He let his arm drift down from the back of Starsky’s head, pulled the blanket up around his partner’s shoulders and rubbed lightly at his back.

Although Starsky would never attempt to verbalize his feelings on the subject, he could think of nothing more comforting in the world than his partner’s voice, particularly when he spoke in those soft tones. How many times had Hutch used that voice with him, he thought? Well, there was the whole Bellamy thing, and the time in the restaurant….

Starsky felt a little bad for teasing him about being on autonurse earlier, although in a way, it had been a compliment. Hutch sounded like that sometimes when he sang too, soft and warm and caring, and he wished that Hutch could know what being the recipient of that feeling was like.

He glanced over at the blond, who was watching him intently, smiling, and looking at peace with the world as he so often did when he was in his nurturing mode. Maybe, Starsky mused, after this weekend Hutch did have a clue, because he’d allowed, albeit grudgingly, Starsky to do some of these simple things for him.

Starsky knew that his own ministrations were no match for his partner’s, but he hoped that they had helped in some small way, and that maybe Hutch understood how very, very much it had meant to him that Hutch had allowed it. Of course, Hutch had felt so miserable yesterday that maybe he’d just lacked the strength to fight back. Starsky chuckled to himself, because he knew that if nothing else he was pushy and tenacious and could eventually wear the blond down.

One step at a time, he thought, brick by brick, the wall comes down.

Finally he sat up and blinked at Hutch. “I think I’m done,” he said. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Hutch said, laying his hand flat on Starsky’s chest. “Take a breath.”

Starsky did and was surprised that it did not make him cough, that his chest didn’t feel quite so tight.

“That’s better,” Hutch said. “I can feel you’re not wheezing and rattling so much.” He pushed the cooling pot aside. “Guess that lady knew what she was talking about, huh?”

“Guess so,” Starsky admitted. “How are you feeling, by the way?” he asked, leaning back against the sofa.

Hutch inclined his head. “Not bad,” he said. “Nothing hurts or anything, just…tired of breathing through my mouth.” He positioned his fingertips along his cheeks and pressed lightly. “Sinuses have had it,” he sighed.

“You’ve given them a pretty good workout,” Starsky said lightly. “Except when your allergies get really bad, you never sound like this.” He smiled ruefully. “Not exactly the weekend we’d planned, huh?”

Hutch laughed. “No, no, it certainly didn’t turn out the way I expected,” he admitted. “But in a weird kind of way…I hate to go back tomorrow.”

Starsky nodded slowly. “Yeah, me, too.” He looked at Hutch seriously. “Maybe we should do this more often, huh, Blintz?”

“Share the cold from hell?” Hutch snorted. “I’ll pass next time, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Starsky said. “I mean…you know….”

Hutch smiled at him, then leaned back against the sofa, relaxing, enjoying the closeness and warmth of his best friend and this time away. “I know what you mean,” he said, “and you’re right. Sometimes we-I-get so caught up in…” He shook his head. “…All the things that are wrong in my world,” he said. “Sometimes I don’t think about all the things that are right with it. You did a lot for me this weekend, Starsk, and…. Well…thank you.”

Starsky smiled at him, knowing that for once he had broken through the carefully constructed Hutchinson veneer. “You’re welcome.” He reached for the box of tissues, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Even if you did pay me back by givin’ me your crummy cold.”

“Now, wait a minute, Gordo, I thought you said you could have gotten it anyplace,” Hutch argued.

“Oh, yeah, sure, anyplace,” Starsky teased him. “There you were, sleepin’ all over me, sneezin’ on me….”

Hutch picked up a pillow and hit him over the head, then pulled him close for a quick hug. “Hey, partner,” he said, “what happens to you, happens to me. Me and thee. Right?”

Starsky returned the hug, then pushed him away. “Right. Me and thee. Now is thee gonna get me some ice cream, or does me have to get ugly?”

~~~

“Starsky! Hutchinson! Get in here now!” bellowed Captain Dobey from the depths of his office. “You’re both late. It’s nearly eight fifteen.”

Starsky looked at Hutch and winked, and Hutch returned the communication with a quick nod and a grin.

Starsky pushed open Captain Dobey’s door, and fell into the first available chair with a sigh. “Good morning, Cap’n,” he sighed. He braced his chest with a hand and coughed deeply as Hutch bustled through the door.

“You sound terrible,” Dobey said. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, Starsk,” Hutch said, “you don’t sound any better at all. Here, drink this,” he offered, pushing a steaming Styrofoam cup into his hands.

“Thanks,” Starsky said, hoarsely. “Feels like my chest is on fire.”

Dobey eyed them suspiciously. “How was your weekend?”

Hutch sat down on the chair next to his partner. “Well…” he said. “It was…”

“It was what?”

“Didn’t turn out quite the way we expected,” Hutch explained. “I’ve got a…got a….” He faked a loud sneeze. “‘Scuse me, Cap’… got a cold and Starsky’s got….” He shook his head as Starsky began to cough again. “Starsky’s got whatever that is….” He took a wad of Kleenex out of his pocket and gave half to his partner. “Here you go,” he said solicitously.

“Thanks,” Starsky croaked, and looked at their boss. “We been sick all weekend,” he said. “Aw, Hutch, bless you,” he offered, as Hutch faked another sneeze. “You want some of this?” he asked sweetly, handing over the cup of tea.

“Thanks, Starsk,” Hutch said, taking a sip. “Hey, is it time for…?”

Starsky checked his watch. “Yeah, just about.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out Hutch’s cold medicine and his own cough syrup, handing one to his partner.

“Thanks,” Hutch said, looking down at the bottle. “No, wait, I’m green, you’re red.” They switched bottles, and each took a swig. Starsky handed his to Hutch, who slipped them in his own jacket pocket this time.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” Dobey bellowed.

“Whaddya you mean, Cap?” Starsky asked innocently. He sighed and looked at Hutch. “I just feel awful,” he said in a voice that was almost, but not quite a whine.

“I know you do, Starsk,” Hutch soothed. “You’ll feel better once we’re on patrol. I’m sure I will, too.” He faked another sneeze. “God bless me.”

Dobey narrowed his eyes. “Out of here,” he ordered. “Both of you. Go home to bed.”

“We can’t do that,” Hutch argued. “We’ve been off for four days. We’re fine, honest.”

Starsky allowed himself a perfectly dreadful fit of coughs, finally sitting back up with a wheeze. “Yeah, Cap, we’re fine,” he agreed. “Have you got anything new for us?”

“Do you two hear me?” Dobey raised his voice. “Get the hell out of here before you infect the whole damned precinct!”

“But, Cap,” Starsky protested.

“Out of here! Now!” roared Dobey. I don’t want to see either one of you for at least two days. I can’t afford to have my whole department down with the flu right now. Go home.”

Hutch pulled himself painfully from the chair, then leaned down to help Starsky, who groaned as if every muscle in his body ached miserably. “Well, okay,” Hutch agreed, “if you think it’s best….”

“Thanks, Cap,” Starsky murmured, steadying himself against Hutch’s arm.

“Come on, Starsk. I’ll take you home and tuck you in,” Hutch said, holding on to him. He turned back to Dobey. “Thanks an awful lot, Captain,” he said gratefully. “We really feel crummy.”

“Just get out of here and take care of yourselves,” Dobey growled. “Don’t need either one of you keelin’ over, or in the hospital with pneumonia. Go.”

As the two detectives made their way out the door, Dobey reached in his desk drawer and found a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of vitamin C. He shook two of each into his palm and gulped them down with his lukewarm coffee.

Don’t want to take any chances, he thought.

He looked out of the window of his office in time to see his two top detectives climbing painfully into Starsky’s car, dismissing the vague possibility that he’d been had. No, of course not, nobody could fake that, they both looked terrible. Poor kids, he thought. Hope they feel better.

As Starsky and Hutch slid into the Torino, Hutch looked over at his partner. “How you feeling?” he asked.

“Good,” Starsky said. “Pretty good. You?”

“I feel great,” Hutch said, pulling the medicine bottles from his pocket and tossing them into the back seat. He peered out the windshield at the warm, golden sun. “Perfect day,” he observed. “Glad it stopped raining. What do you want to do?”

Starsky turned the key in the ignition. “Uh…beach?”

Hutch grinned over at him. “Sounds great, Starsk. You got our towels and stuff?”

“In the trunk,” Starsky said. “Got some wine and the steaks are in the cooler, too. Ready?”

“More than ready,” answered his partner.

“Let’s do it,” Starsky yelled gleefully, and the Torino roared away from the curb.

The End