Night Reflections

121

Starsky has an out of this world experience but it makes him see his future in a different light.

 

Originally published in the zine Blue Eyes and Blue Jeans published in 1995 by Linda McGee.

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Starsky leaned back against the stacked pillows at the head of the bed, cradling the phone on his stomach. His fingers dialed the well-remembered number with automatic ease; then, he pressed the receiver to his ear. The number rang once, twice, while he nestled deeper into the pillows, and tried to remember where he’d stashed his candy bar. Jacket pocket, or duffle bag? Then again, maybe he’d already eaten it in the car.

The warm, familiar “Hello?” was music to his ear.

“‘s me.”

“How’d it go? Any trouble?”

“Nah. When Henessey saw me walk into the courtroom with the file connecting him to Amboy in ’76, he knew it was over. Y’know, I think he actually thought he’d get away with relocating to Oregon and starting a new scam. It was worth puttin’ on a tie just to see the look on his face when I showed up. Worth the drive, too. I was back on the road by noon.”

“Where are you?”

“A little south of ‘Frisco. Decided not to push it.”

“Good idea. I’d rather see you hale and whole tomorrow than think about you snoozing your way down the Interstate tonight.”

“Starsky grinned, rubbing one sock-covered foot against the other. “You sound like my Aunt Rosie, Hutch; next thing, you’ll be tellin’ me to wear my galoshes. ‘Ma big boy now.”

“Could have fooled me. Since when does a grownup eat Twinkies in bed? And then kick me awake at 3 a.m. because of a sugar-induced nightmare?”

“Ah, c’mon, Hutch. You didn’t seem to mind my company at the time—or would you rather sleep alone?”

“Oh, I don’t know… Maybe I’ll check to see if the Boy Scouts run a dating service. Then I’ll find someone who acts more mature.”

“Ha, ha. Such a comedian. Where d’you think you’re gonna find a Boy Scout as charming and gorgeous as I am? You need the touch of class I give. ‘Sides, you can’t get rid of me—remember, I was an innocent and you corrupted me. You’re responsible for me now.”

“God, what a thought. What hotel are you staying at, by the way?”

“Hotel, schmotel. I decided to go first class this time. Y’know those Bed and Breakfast places, where people fix up these old houses and rent the rooms out? I found this great place a little outside of town; it was built in the 1890’s, and all the furniture is antique—Hutch, you’d love it. The only drawback is that all the rooms on this floor share one bathroom, down the hall. Otherwise, it’s better than bein’ at home. Everything’s old-fashioned and cozy. Which reminds me—how come we’ve never gone on a honeymoon? A place like this’d be perfect.”

“You have to get married before you can have a honeymoon. Gimme one reason why I should marry a turkey like you.”

“‘Cause I love you, asshole.”

“Jeez, Starsky, will you can the mush? I just ate.”

“Speakin’ of eatin’, I can’t wait for the home-cooked breakfast I’ll be gettin’ in the morning. Ham, eggs, pancakes, hashbrowns—you name it. It’s the best part of stayin’ at a place like this.”

“‘Beats cold pizza and flat root beer.”
“Well… maybe.”

* * * *

After several more pleasurable minutes of conversation, Starsky reluctantly returned the phone to the bedside table, and stretched lazily. He decided that a shower now would save time in the morning, so he collected his gear and padded down the hall to the bathroom. It was empty, and he took his time standing under the steaming water, letting the warm jets ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. He’d been driving for nearly ten hours, and he tired far more easily now than he used to. Starsky frowned, arching his back against the ever-present tightness in his chest, and scratched a thumb irritably over the line of three bullet scars, still dark red after over a year-and-a-half of healing. Hutch was very careful not to hover over him, but every now and then he allowed his concern to show, reminding both of them that the damage to Starsky’s chest had been extensive, and that he would never regain his former stamina.

Starsky’s lips thinned angrily. Even Dobey had suggested that Hutch take his temporary partner, Lawson, as a permanent replacement. Dobey knew, or suspected, that Hutch’s relationship with Starsky had taken a more amorous turn after the trauma of the shooting, and tactfully hinted that their newfound “closeness” would put additional stress on a professional working alliance between them. Hutch had blown up in Dobey’s face, and Starsky made a trip to the station to give the captain a taste of bis own fury. When tempers had cooled, both detectives realized that Dobey was only trying to help, and apologies were made. They also made it abundantly clear, however, that Hutch would resume his partnership with Starsky as soon as the latter’s health permitted—other options were not being considered at that time. Starsky threw himself into rehabilitation with a vengeance, determined to rejoin Hutch on the street in a year. The year passed, but Starsky still struggled to build up bis endurance, unwilling to return to active duty without having made more complete recovery.

“I’m gettin’ there, buddy,” Starsky mumbled, massaging shampoo into his dripping curls. Still, his mind could not turn loose of one fact—he had to be sure he could back Hutch up one hundred percent, as a fully competent police officer, before they could team up again. He had been focusing on this goal with characteristic stubbornness, refusing to acknowledge other alternatives. He had resumed light duty in Homicide, spending nearly all of his time behind a typewriter and seeing Hutch only occasionally in the squad room. All the same, they had all of their non-duty hours to make up for being separated professionally, and Starsky knew that Hutch had never doubted that they would one day bit the streets again as full partners.

Starsky smiled and began to relax, bolstered once again by his friend and lover’s unflagging confidence in him. Still, he was tired… But who wouldn’t be after ten hours on the road? He was really looking forward to sleeping in the soft, four-poster bed in the quaint bedroom.

It was after midnight when he toweled his hair dry, shrugged into his bathrobe, and returned to his room. He shut and locked the door, donned briefs and a t-shirt, and, without further ado, slid between the cool sheets under the heavy handsewn quilt. Thoughts of a candy bar made his mouth water, but he remembered that he’d already eaten his Baby Ruth that afternoon, and this place probably wouldn’t have a vending machine. Oh, well. Breakfast would more than make up for being a little hungry now.

He let his thoughts drift, and images of soft, shining hair, clear blue eyes, and the smell of sun-warmed skin carried him into sleep. He nestled his head closer against the soft cotton pillow, and gave in to exhausted slumber.

* * * *

The despair was endless, and black grief shot through his soul like a bullet. Starsky choked on his own sobs, and twisted his aching body on the strange mattress. He pushed the pillow from bis face, gasping for breath, and moaned as another wave of sorrow crashed over him. Alone. All alone. The pain of loss was crushing the life out of him, and death seemed preferable to this agony.

He and Hutch were on a dangerous call, and Hutch had been running so far ahead of him that he just couldn’t keep up. His chest was burning, and he had to stop to catch bis breath. He looked up just in time to see Hutch get ambushed by a couple of dirtballs; the blond cop fell as they emptied their guns at him. There was no way Hutch could have survived. Starsky wanted to scream, but he could not get enough air into his pain-locked chest. Hutch was dead, because Starsky hadn’t been there with him—because Starsky had no business trying to be a street cop, when he couldn’t run worth a damn…

Another spasm tore through his chest; the burning felt like sharp ice in his lungs. He shivered with the cold, then tried to push his body farther away from the frigid air. An outstretched hand brushed against the telephone on the nightstand; the receiver clattered on its cradle.

Starsky sat bolt upright, fully awake. Tears still oozed down his face, and his chest hitched a little with the aftermath of those gut-wrenching sobs. “What gives?” he muttered, trying to figure out where he was, and why it felt like he was sitting in front of an open refrigerator.

He passed a hand through the darkness, feeling for the source of the chill air. His fingers touched nothing, but the temperature began to rise until the room reached a more normal warmth. Puzzled, Starsky fumbled for the bedside light, then looked around the room, wiping his wet face with the edge of a sheet.

He saw nothing but a few small pieces of antique furniture. The window was closed and fastened; no draft could be getting through there. His eyes scanned from wall to wall, finally resting on the bedroom door. With a jolt, he realized that it was ajar, and gently closing.

Starsky rolled out of bed, grabbed his gun from the upholstered seat of a small chair, and yanked the door open. Although it rook him less that three seconds to complete this sequence, the dark hallway was deserted. Light from his open doorway provided sufficient illumination for him 1n see that there was no place for a person to hide. There were two other rooms on the hall in addition to the bathroom, but all the doors were far enough away from his bedroom so that it would be impossible for someone to reach them without his having seen or heard them. Just to be sure, he eased silently down the hall and listened at each of the closed doors, then checked the bathroom and stairwell. Nothing, except for some quiet snoring from one of the bedrooms.

Starsky returned to his own room, and manipulated the old lock on the door. It was solid, and in perfect working order, although age had made it a bit stiff. There was no way it could have come unlocked by itself. He looked out into the hall one last time, then pulled the door to. Then, before he could twist the lock, a brief series of staccato knocks sounded on the outside of the door.

He yanked it open immediately. The hall was still empty. Starsky felt a chill; he looked up at the high ceiling, reminding himself that old houses make weird sounds as they settle. Somehow, he didn’t feel reassured. He shut the door again, and waited a moment; hearing nothing, he turned the lock and returned to bed.

He sat with his forearms propped on his knees, bathed in the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he said softly. He wasn’t the crying sort—it took a lot more than some kind of bad dream to make him bawl like that. Although this had certainly been a whopper of a nightmare. But why had the room gotten so cold, only to warm up again almost immediately? The tapping he could almost write off as some sort of creepy acoustical effect, but nothing should have made that door come unlocked. He felt exactly as though someone—or something—as trying to get his attention…

Starsky shuddered, then pulled the sheets higher around his shoulders, although the room remained pleasantly warm. He decided to leave the light on; his dream still echoed in his mind, and shards of guilt and doubt imbedded themselves deeper into his gut. Then, a rush of anger scattered the feelings. “What’m I, some kind of little kid, to let a nightmare screw up my mind like this?” He pummeled bis pillows into a backrest, and decided to read awhile until he could get his mind off of the dream. He pulled a Travis McGee mystery out of his duffle bag, flipping the pages until he reached the chapter where he’d left off. He placed his gun next to his pillow, just in case.

The story was a good one, and soon he relaxed, although he kept his senses on the alert. An hour passed, and the fatigue of the long drive began catching up with him again. He yawned and decided to finish up with this chapter before trying to fall back asleep. Then, he became aware of a new noise.

This time the tapping was fainter, exactly like a fingernail on the glass of the window. Starsky eased out of bed and approached the window. The tapping continued until his face was inches from the glass. He could see no one outside. The lawn was moonlit, and there were no trees near the casement, so the sound was not the result of a branch clicking against the panes. He looked carefully at the window frame and noticed with some surprise that there was a screen covering the outside. The screen was secure and intact; nothing could get at the glass from outside the house. So, the tapping had to have come from inside the room…

Starsky moved back slightly, bis skin prickling. He could see his own features blurrily reflected on the glass, surrounded by the image of the bedroom interior. Then, he started; there were two faces on the window surface.

He spun around; there was no one else in the room. In disbelief, he turned again to the window. Now, he could see only one face in the glass, and that was bis own. There was no stark, white visage staring over his shoulder, with eyes like bruises of despair. Starsky checked the reflection and the room several more times before cautiously returning to bed, and there he sat, staring at the window.

The strange events of this evening were unlike anything in his experience. He understood fear; he felt it every time a gun was fired at him, or at Hutch. This was different. It was as if part of him had shut down, refusing to fully realize what was happening. In a way, he was grateful that he wasn’t thinking so clearly; he had a feeling that if he took a long, hard look at the facts, he would run panicked from the room. Some things apparently could not be explained solely in the light of conventional logic and high school science.

In this frame of mind, Starsky was not really surprised when he noticed that the temperature was dropping. His intuition told him he was not alone, and he turned expectantly toward the Victorian chair. Oddly, it seemed as though all the fear had been pushed somewhere in the back of his mind, through no effort of his own. For now, he was tense but receptive, and waited.

His vision seemed a bit blurred, and he rubbed his eyes, but the mistiness remained as he looked at the chair. The mist grew more distinct, and began to assume a shape, until he thought he could make out a dim human outline sitting slouched on the seat. Again, strong feelings of desolation and loss washed over Starsky, but this time he realized that the source of the emotions was outside himself.

The figure never became fully solid, but he saw enough of the face to recognize the man he’d seen peering over his shoulder in the window reflection. The eyes were intense pools of wretchedness and heartache, and seemed to meet his in a silent appeal for sympathy. Starsky gradually became aware of a soft muttering sound, which increased in volume and distinctness until he could detect the rhythm and cadence of speech. The phantom’s lips were not moving; still, he seemed to be the source of the sounds. Starsky listened carefully, and suddenly one phrase came through clearly: “My partner is dead, and it’s my fault.” With this the muttering stopped.

Starsky waited for something more, but the effort of  speaking seemed to leech energy out of the apparition. The figure lost its outlines until it was a wisp of vapor; then, even that was gone. The old chair was empty, and the feeling of cold passed rapidly. The entire experience had lasted about six minutes.

Starsky sat quietly watching the vacant seat, feeling drained and emotionless. After a few minutes, he leaned over to turn out the lamp, and rolled onto his side, his arms hugging the pillow. Instinct told him that the show was over for the night. Still, the grey light of dawn was showing at the window before he was able to fall asleep.

* * * *

The owner of the Shadyview Inn noticed that the charming, exuberant man who’d checked into Room Five the night before seemed a bit subdued at breakfast. This didn’t appear to affect his appetite, however, and she was gratified by this silent tribute to her cooking skills. Later, when he checked out, she looked at bis rumpled, somewhat haggard expression, and ventured a question.

“Sir, did you sleep all right last night? I hope everything was comfortable.”

His blue eyes were slightly bloodshot, but his gaze was direct and thoughtful.

“The room was great, but I had a neighbor who was a bit noisy.”

Her eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “The only other person staying on your floor last night was Mr. Jackson. He’s a regular guest, and he’s always been a real quiet type. Funny, when he checked out this morning, he said he’d slept like a rock.”

“I don’t think Mr. Jackson was the problem.” Her customer distractedly ran a hand through his curly, dark brown hair, but his eyes never left hers. “I was thinking maybe it was someone else.”

She began to explain that this could not be the case; then, suddenly, her eyes widened and she stuttered to a stop.

The man’s gaze sharpened suddenly, and he almost seemed to pounce. “What?

Tell me—somethin’ just occurred to you, didn’t it?”

She nodded, feeling a bit ill. “Did what you hear seem a little… strange?”

His blue eyes added a wealth of meaning to his next words. “Oh, out of this world.”

Her face crumpled apologetically. “Mister Starsky, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand it. We’ve only had trouble with Room Five during the late fall and winter—never at this time of year. I never would have put you there if I’d thought there’d be a problem.” She placed a hand sympathetically over the tanned knuckles resting on the desk. “Can you… tell me what happened?”

Be smiled wryly. “Let’s make a deal, schweetheart. I’ll give you my story, then you tell me all you know about Room Five.”

* * * *

When Starsky cruised into the outskirts of LA, he was still mulling over the tale of the Shadyview Inn ghost. It was brief enough; all the owner knew was that a policeman named Jorge Perez had committed suicide in what was now Room Five, and at certain times of the year, hotel guests had complained of cold spots and rapping noises in that room. One visitor had seen a grayish man standing outside the door one night, but the figure had quickly dissolved. Otherwise, no one had actually seen the ghost except Starsky, and no manifestations had ever occurred before in the late spring.

“Guess I’m privileged, huh?” Starsky smiled grimly, easing the Torino past a transfer truck. He felt ragged, physically exhausted and emotionally strung out. Hours ago, he’d stopped trying to force a non-ghostly explanation on the events of the previous night. Now he sat in a faint backwash of the black depression he’d shared with a man long dead. Although he’d listened to a lot of stories out of the San Francisco precinct, he’d never heard the story of Jorge Perez; but then again, the man had died fourteen years ago. A morning phone call to a friend of a friend in the ‘Frisco police department helped till in the gaps. He’d ended up talking with Mike Surratt, a captain in Homicide.

Surratt gave Starsky a personal and detailed account of Perez’s tragedy, and Starsky felt the last vestiges of his fear vanish. Fear came from facing the unknown, and Perez seemed all too familiar now that his story was told. The ghostly accoutrements seemed almost beside the point; Perez was a Homicide detective, who was desperately trying to get a message across, and Starsky was the one who had received it. Now it was up to the living man to decide what to do with the dead man’s revelation. “Nobody likes to remember a cop’s suicide,” Surratt had offered, “but Perez was a good man, and we could all sympathize with him. He blamed himself completely for his partner’s death—he and McLean were real close—and I guess he just couldn’t live with feeling responsible.”

“Brought you out of hibernation in an off season, just to talk to me, cop to cop,” Starsky grumbled to the absent Perez, gripping the steering wheel hard. “I almost wish you hadn’t bothered.” A headache was building behind his eyes as he tried to look objectively at the experience, but the same unpleasant conclusion kept cropping up, no matter how he looked at it.

“Dammit!” Frustration boiled within Starsky, and he gritted his teeth as the tension in his chest muscles sent bolts of pain radiating outward. He forced himself to breathe deeply, trying to clear his mind so he could look for his exit off of the Interstate. Soon he entered the familiar streets of his city, and he began to feel a calming warmth as he neared Hutch’s apartment. “We’ll work it out—Hutch ‘n’ me just need to talk…”

Nonetheless, his heart began racing again as he pulled in behind his partner’s battered excuse-for-a-car and he sat for a moment, inhaling slowly. Then he left the Torino and started up the stairs. As eager as he was to see Hutch again, part of him felt as though he were going to his own execution. “Stop thinking about it that way, dope,” he muttered to himself. “You haven’t even talked to him yet.” He stood in front of the door, staring at it as if he’d never seen it before. He couldn’t seem to move; again, he gulped in breaths of air, trying to soothe the pounding in his chest. He was startled yet somehow relieved when the door jerked open, and his lover stood facing him.

Hutch was frowning, and concern deepened the vertical line between his brows.

“What’s wrong? Why’re you just standing out here? I saw you pull up five minutes ago.” He searched Starsky’s face, and the dark-haired man felt bolstered by the love he saw so clearly in the blond’s eyes. Whatever else happened, he would depend on that love to always be there for him, today and tomorrow…

Hutch was waiting, looking more worried by the second. Starsky felt his paralysis drop, and grabbed Hutch in a bearhug, pulling their two bodies together until he felt his blond’s ribs creak. Still holding on desperately, he began murmuring in Hutch’s ear. “Hey. Listen, we need to talk. Now —it can’t wait…”

Hutch backed into the apartment, drawing Starsky with him. “Hang on just a minute, willya? Your heartbeat feels like a hydraulic hammer. Why’re you all wet? Hell, Starsk—is this sweat? Sit down—now. Damn, you’re shaking. What the hell’s happened?”

Starsky couldn’t hold back a grin. “If you’d stop yakkin’, maybe I could tell you.” He lowered his head and took a few more calming breaths. Then he met his partner’s eyes again. “Hutch… D’you, uh, believe in ghosts?”

Hutch sank down onto the low coffee table, facing the couch where Starsky waited. His expression was incredulous, and he seemed temporarily robbed of the ability to speak. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, and asked in a much quieter voice: “What?”

Starsky sighed and leaned back into the cushions. “Guess I couldn’t expect this to be easy,” he muttered. He collected his thoughts a moment, then began giving an account of his experiences at the Shadyview Inn. He began with the dream, and took Hutch in sequence through the entire night’s events, up to his morning call to the SFPD. Hutch made no move to interrupt, but sat with his eyes glued to Starsky’s, reading the emotions behind the words.

As the story poured out of him, Starsky was surprised to feel his tension ease; the warmth of Hutch’s eyes on him seemed as palpable as a physical touch. When he began relaying his conversation with Captain Surratt, however, his throat began closing up. He stopped for breath, and felt one of Hutch’s hands move to rest on his knee. The other reached to grasp his hand.

Starsky felt a rush of surprised gratitude. “I haven’t even got to the really weird part, y’know, and you haven’t started to give me a hard time about all this.” He gripped the hand holding his, and smiled blearily.

Hutch didn’t return the smile, but his words were soft and reassuring. “Starsk, I know you. If you say all this happened, then I know it did—and I can trust you to not to go off half-cocked, and imagine something like this. Not that it’s easy to swallow.” He sighed. ltd be a lot simpler to assume you dreamed it all, but I know better. You never believe your nightmares are real for more than a few seconds after you wake up, no matter how tired you are. But—you’re sure there’s no way you could have been drugged?”

“Absolutely not. I would’ve been muzzy-headed—or abnormally clear-headed—it didn’t feel like that at all. It was real; he was there.” Starsky screwed up his courage, and went on.

“And here’s the clincher. Jorge Perez was a detective in ‘Frisco Homicide, with a partner, Phil McLean. They were this dynamic duo on the force, and did everything together, on-duty or off. Remind you of anyone?” Starsky grinned, but his humor was brittle, and he knew Hutch. could see the pain leaking through the cracks. “Surratt said that rumors were goin’ around the department that they were gay, but Perez had an ugly temper, so the cops learned to keep it to themselves. Perez was one of those steely-eyed, serious types, and didn’t really have any friends other than McLean. After they were partnered, though, Perez warmed up some, and most of the force started to like him.

“They were real sympathetic when he took a bullet through the knee on a call. Sympathy didn’t give Perez back his kneecap, though. He was in rehab over two years, and all that time he was agitatin’ to be put back on the street with McLean. He insisted that the knee wouldn’t slow him down enough to really matter—” here Starsky closed his eyes briefly, and Hutch tightened his grip on his partner’s hand. “—and his cap’n got tired of tryin’ to argue him out of it. McLean was right there with him, pleadin’ and threatenin’ to resign if Perez wasn’t partnered with him again.

“Homicide decided they couldn’t really afford to lose ’em both – they both had outstandin’ service records—so they let Perez take up light duty with McLean, with a warnin’ to avoid trouble. Well, Hutch, you know how easy it is for us to stay outta hot water —” Starsky’s tired grin was answered by Hutch’s—  “and these guys were the same. On one of their first outings, they stumbled across a weapons trade, and were pinned down in a gunfight. McLean made a run for the warehouse, with Perez coverin’ him as a diversion. When Perez sprinted out to follow, his bum knee skewed sideways, and he collapsed on the asphalt, right in front of the smuggler’s guns.”

Starsky couldn’t sit still any longer; he got up and paced as he continued the story. “He was lucky, I guess; a shot into his bullet-proof vest knocked him out for a while, and the thugs ignored him to focus on McLean. Police backup arrived too late. By the time Perez came to, McLean had been cornered and killed. It had happened so quickly that Perez didn’t seem to grasp the reality of the situation; Surratt said he dragged himself over to sit by the body, just starin’ at McLean’s face.

“Still, he was a good cop. He snapped out of it long enough to see the case wrapped up, and the bad guys put away. His witness testimony was the trump card for the prosecution, and he didn’t break down or forget any details in the courtroom. Really, as far as anyone could tell, Perez was handlin’ the situation well. No one even hinted that the knee injury had been the reason that McLean had been caught without backup.” Hutch stood up, and tried to put his hands on Starsky’s shoulders, but Starsky slid away. His voice came low and tense, and the words tumbled out, almost in a rush.

“With all the evidence and paperwork in order, his chief sent him home to recover from his injuries and to grieve for bis partner; he said they could hash out Perez’s future with the department later. Perez seemed reasonable and businesslike, as usual. But he disappeared within six hours of arrivin’ home.” Starsky stropped pacing, and looked into the blond’s sympathetic eyes.

“He was found less that a day later, lyin’ next to a chair in a rental room, his service revolver lyin’ where he had dropped it after eatin’ the barrel. This was at the future Shadyview Inn. There was no suicide note; no explanations.”

Starsky’s voice faltered to a stop. He could no longer meet Hutch’s eyes, and turned his head away slightly while he worked to loosen the knot in his throat. Hutch was silent while he fought for control, but he slipped his hands onto Starsky’s upper arms, gripping gently until his partner looked up again.

“Pretty obvious what Perez was tryin’ to tell me, isn’t it?” Starsky whispered, bis face feeling cold and set. “I mean, there he was, pushin’ to be partnered with McLean again, and ignorin’ his injury. Now, both of them are dead. But Hutch, we’re still alive, and we love each other… God, Hutch… The streets are too dangerous, there are thousands of creeps out there who would waste a cop, and I’m probably in worse shape than Perez was. Are we goin’ to risk everything because I don’t want to face up to that? Because we won’t admit that I can’t back you up in a tight spot?”

“Starsk—“

“My wind’s gone. I can’t handle the sort of acrobatics and runnin’ that we need to nail a case. We need to look at this objectively, so we can plan our future. I’ll never be a street cop again, but I can do all but the tough physical stuff—research, interviews, brainstormin’ over the facts. I could do a desk job for awhile, and maybe in a few years, we’ll be able to team up again, though not in Homicide. Y’know, Dobey even said somethin’ about that, and told me to come around to talk to him about career options. Maybe if I didn’t piss him off too much, I can drop by tomorrow…”

“Starsk, listen—”

‘Y’know, I wasn’t goin’ to tell you this but… Dobey kinda hinted that you needed to get on with your career, and that you were holdin’ back to be with me…”

“Damnit, Starsky! Shut up a minute and let me think.” Hutch’s face was white, and something close to panic was stirring in his eyes. He slid his fingers down Starsky’s arms to grip his hands, however, and despite the harshness of his words, love pulsed between their joined fingers.

The secret fear was out in the open now, and although no decisions had been made, Starsky felt almost limp with relief. No matter what happened, the two of them would be together for the rest of their lives, and he would make sure that nothing could take that away from them. It hurt. It felt like giving up, like losing the fondest dream of this life, to let Hutch go on the streets without him. Still, the most important thing was their relationship, and staying alive to enjoy it. He would never be comfortable trusting someone else to watch Hutch’s back on the job, but he had to face up to the fact that Gunther had injured him beyond his own body’s ability to heal. He would remain a cop regardless, so when all was said and done, Gunther had failed. Starsky felt a fierce pride in that. The only issue remaining was in determining how Starsky’s career would progress, and where it would dovetail later with Hutch’s. No, it wouldn’t be easy—but it could be done.

Raising his head, Starsky almost smiled at the inward look of intense concentration on Hutch’s face. Hell, if the college boy couldn’t find a way to work all this out, no one could. Besides, it really wasn’t going to be that difficult. The hard part was deciding to let go—for a while, anyway.

Starsky began to feel a little guilty for unloading his fears on Hutch. The poor guy looked positively morbid. They both needed to lighten up some. “Hey.” The pale eyes lost their introspective glaze, and focused on him again.  Starsky continued: “‘Y’know you get really sexy lookin’ when you’re tryin’ to think.” He could not repress a grin of delight at the stark amazement on his lover’s face.

“Never thought I’d go for the intellectual type, but hey—if the brain comes in a package like yours, I’m not complainin’.”

Hutch was obviously stunned. He blinked slowly, swallowed, and opened his mouth to speak. The effort seemed too much, however; he silently stared at the grinning man standing opposite him.

“Ah, c’mon, Hutch. It’s gonna take a while to hash all of this out, but we’ve got all the time in the world. The hard part was admittin’ there’s a problem. We’ll figure  the rest out later. Right now, I’d like an armload of gorgeous blond.”                                                                                                                                             ^I

Very slowly, a glint of humor came into Hutch’s gaze. His mouth quirked slightly at the comer, and he reached out to his life partner. They met in a standing hug, then eased onto the couch.

Hutch maneuvered himself on top of the smaller man, and kissed him lingeringly. He then sighed, a longsuffering expression on his face. “Starsky, that was the mother of all mood swings.”

Starsky chuckled and ran his fingers along lean hips. “Sorry, babe.”

“Sorry,’ my ass. Where do you get off bringing home a load of shit like that, dumping it all over me, and then deciding you’re not upset anymore—you’re just horny? Since when am I your emotional garbage dump?”

“Since ‘me and thee,’ babe. Remember? Sorry I kinda fell apart on you. It just hit me all at once. Y’know, this is the first time I really seriously considered whether or not I’d be fit to go back on the streets with you again. It kinda did a hatchet job on my insides.” His voice dropped. “It scared me.”

The broad mouth hovering over his smiled gently. “Scared me too, love. But let’s not make all our choices at once. I want to talk to the doctors again before we write you off of Homicide.”

Starsky felt a sadness creeping over him, and his smile became wistful. He knew Hutch could read his face all too well, and could see the tiredness which had become familiar in the last year, when he spent hours stretching and working out to build his stamina. No one could have worked harder in rehabilitate. But now he watched Hutch’s mouth harden as he realized that Starsky did not intend to rejoin him on the street. The blond sat up on the couch.

“Aren’t you kind of giving up?” He was trying to keep his voice gentle, but the words held the bite of frustration. Starsky couldn’t keep the sudden pain out of his eyes. He could tell that Hutch was immediately sorry but was not going to just accept waiting years before the two of them could team up again professionally. Hutch ran a palm across his forehead, looking like a trap was closing around him. “Lawson’s okay, but he’s not you, Starsk—never will be. Can you blame me for wanting the best?”

Starsky sighed. “So that’s what this means to you—I’m a quitter?” He felt bis face begin to heat up with irritation, and he pushed off from the couch. “Whaddya think I’ve been doin’ for the past year ‘n’ a half— goofin’ off?”

Hutch stood up and grabbed the other man, before he could walk away. “No, please, that’s not what I meant—Starsky, stop for a minute; time out.” Both men stood silently for a moment. Hutch was thinking furiously. Starsky wondered if he was considering the last three years, remembering his own near burnout as a cop, and the death of optimism; Starsky had been his balance in those times, with unfailing belief in the rightness of what they were doing. It was a strange irony that Gunther’s attack had actually renewed Hutch’s confidence in the value of police work; the sacrifice of a good cop did sometimes result in justice served, and Starsky’s suffering had not been in vain. Gunther was in prison, and his “empire” had fallen. The beauty of it all was that the cop’s sacrifice had not been fatal, not in this instance. Starsky lived.

He lived—and was getting royally pissed off. Hutch moved to diffuse the bomb as quickly as possible. “Hey, babe, I’m sorry—I know you too well to really think you’d ever give up. I just… don’t like thinking about waiting so long to get back my real partner… you know?” Suddenly, Hutch’s face cleared. “Wait a minute. Why can’t you team back up with me, even now? We’ve spent so much time running around being supercops that I think we forget it doesn’t have to be that way. Our job is to be detectives—not unofficial members of a S.W.A.T. team. If we give up the worst of the fire escape diving, you’ll be back on the streets tomorrow. I bet you won’t even miss all the pulled muscles and sprained joints.” He gently cupped his hands around the beloved face. “Starsk? Please?”

Resentment gradually faded from the pit of Starsky’s stomach, and he absorbed the healing that flowed through Hutch’s fingers. “I know you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I guess I’m a little touchy about anyone—’specially you—thinkin’ I’m some sort of drop-out. I’m not resignin’ myself to bein’ less than I was—hell, the way you’re talkin‘ now, I won’t even have to move on to somethin’ different. It’ll be almost the same, and maybe even better. And you’re gonna be part of it, all the way.”

“That’s right, buddy. Just give me time to think some more on this.”

Starsky’s good humor had returned. “Yeah, well, I’m too tired for any more headwork. Let’s drop it for tonight, hmmm? Always told ya you think too much. What we need is a distraction. So—what’s takin’ you so long to get out of those jeans?”

“Listen, turkey—I still owe you for putting me on this emotional rollercoaster, and I intend to get a piece of your hide.”

The embrace dissolved into a wrestling match, with Hutten quickly pinning the exhausted Starsky. “Now—what do you think I ought todo to you, now that you’re in my power?”

“Anything you want, babe—’s long as we’re together.”

“Have no fear.” The blond nibbled lightly at his captive’s neck. “I wouldn’t want to miss one second of the fun. Tell the ghost of Perez to beat it—we want our privacy.”

“He’s had his say —I don’t think he’ll need to be slinkin’ around the Shadyview Inn anymore. He seemed the practical type. After scarin’ the livin’ daylights outta me, he probably took the next bus to heaven, so he could bitch to McLean about havin’ to go through this hauntin’ business, just to get through to a thick-skulled LA cop. Still, I can’t say I’m sorry he stuck around long enough to warn me about takin’ better care of you.” He leaned back his head, to look directly in Hutch’s eyes. “So—guess it’s a good thing I won’t have to give Lawson any pointers on the care and feeding of Hutch-as-a-partner.”

“Yeah, especially since you don’t know the first thing about decent food…”

“I thought you were going to punish me or somethin’. Or is talkin’ me to death what you had in mind?”

Hutch’s grin was positively sadistic.