Down the Rabbit Hole

This is a drabble series that started out as a response to a challenge to use the word “tall” and later, to focus on Alice.

I categorized this as slash or gen. It can go either way.

White Rabbit

Go ask Alice. I think she’ll know.

Aww, Handsome Hutch. Remember what I’ve always told you.

I don’t remember, Sweet Alice. Please, I need to know.

One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.

You know where to look for what you need.

Not after this. Not anymore.

The White Knight is talking backwards.

Believe in Starsky, honey. That’s all you have to do.

Let Starsky feed your head.

Honey, that’s good enough for now.

When the needle slides in, I’m ten feet tall. I don’t remember . . .

Go ask Alice. I think she’ll know.

Chasing Rabbits

Starsky liked Alice well enough. He just didn’t buy the “Sweet” schtick. He wasn’t so sure Hutch did, either, but the big lug cared about her, so Starsky did. She’d certainly come through for them often enough. Had to give her that.

Why was he thinking about her now, anyway? There wasn’t room for much else in his head when Hutch was missing.

Three days, Hutch. You don’t call? You don’t write?

Not funny, Hutch.

He’d been everywhere he could think of. Twice.

A song circled in is head, stuck there since noon:

Go ask Alice. I think she’ll know.

Red Queen

Melissa Martin had had plans. But a drunken dad and a murdered mom suggested she take up Granny’s Savannah demeanor and charming accent—even her name—and now “Sweet Alice” was who she was. All she was.

Starsky didn’t like her much. Long as he didn’t keep Handsome Hutch away he could think what he liked. He had no problem coming to her for help.

Why was she thinking of him? Time for the Big Finish, get this john off her, clean up some.

A bit of song fell into her head.

Call Alice when she was just small.

The phone rang.

Feed Your Head

Call Alice. I think she’ll know.

Sweet Alice never didn’t answer her phone unless she was “busy.” She had one of those machines, though. Huggy hung up before it could talk to him. Thing creeped him out.

He’d hoped she would know what to do beyond strong coffee, soup, chocolate. Lotta chocolate—more for Starsky than Hutch but who was counting? They both needed to eat, and Huggy needed to feed them. Sometimes it was all he could do.

Someone had put a dime in the juke box. Huggy, grinning at the irony, sang along.

Feed your head. Feed your head.

You Know You’re Going to Fall

Dobey yelled to Cal to turn it down! Halfway to The Pits, though, he knew he was stuck with that damn song.

Between verses he realized there was something he was supposed to do.

Call Alice when she was just small.

That was it.

He found a payphone. No point chancing that Huggy—or worse, Starsky—might overhear. Hutch was still out of it, according to their last check-in.

He dialed.

“Happy birthday!”

“I can always count on you to remember.”

“Of course.”

“Will I see you this weekend, Harold?”

“I’ll call, Alice.”

Dobey looked over his shoulder, and hung up.

When Your Mind is Moving Slow

The Men on the Chessboard

Hutch woke clearheaded for the first time in a week. Starsky and Huggy, sound asleep, looked like scattered chess pieces that had been tossed in the air. Huggy had landed half in and half out of a chair. Starsky’d ended up tipped sideways against the wall, one shoe off.

Hutch rubbed his face. His throat hurt, so did his arms.

There was something . . . something he should have done.

Sorry, Sweet Alice. Sorry I missed your birthday.

A hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call . . .

And Sweet Alice? I think you saved my life.