Sensing Trouble

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A companion piece to Sensing Things. It’s also sort of a Christmas story in a dark, angsty kind of way.

 

Gen or Slash: Gen. But feel free to imagine that the moment the camera turns away there’s all sorts of mad passionate lip-lockage going on. Or not. As you like.

Rating: PG-13, because there’s hurt of both the physical and emotional kind. And some language your mom wouldn’t approve of.

Disclaimer: They still ain’t mine.

Betas: Enthusiastic thanks go to CC, who was willing to go back and forth with me over characterization, and put up with endless e-mails from me in her inbox. And on Christmas Eve, too! Nik Ditty and EH offered several pertinent (and helpful!) suggestions, too.

Notes: This is a companion of sorts to Sensing Things, but both stories are intended to stand alone, complete in themselves. You don’t have to have read one, to read the other.

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Part 1

“So what do you think?”

Starsky’s response was disappointingly lackluster. “She’s pretty.” He switched his hotdog to his right hand and licked the mustard off the palm of his left.

“Pretty!” Hutch tossed him a paper napkin. “She’s not pretty, she’s gorgeous. She’s… she’s like a piece of fine art, absolute perfection in color and form.”

Starsky shrugged, and folded the napkin around his hotdog, before taking another bite. His mouth full, he mumbled, “Never been one for the art scene.”

Hutch shook his head, grinning. “Buddy, you’ve got no class.”

“Never claimed I did.”

In the end, Hutch decided it was for the best. At least there would be no competing over this one.

~*~*~

With open appreciation, Hutch watched her cross the restaurant floor. As the ladies’ room door closed behind her stiletto heel, he leaned across the table to grin at Starsky. “So…?”

Starsky looked at him without expression. “So, what?”

His attention momentarily diverted from his date, Hutch searched for a logical reason for Starsky’s lack of enthusiasm. He asked, “Are you still upset that we didn’t go to the Pits?”

“Nah, this restaurant’s great.”

“It’s important to expand your horizons sometimes. Beer and pretzels only go so far, sometimes you want to experience a place with real ambiance.”

“Ahm-bi-ahnce. So that’s what they call it when you pay twice the money to get half the food, and the waiter looks down his nose at you.”

Hutch laughed. “You’ve got no…”

“I know, I got no class. I been hearing that a lot lately.” Starsky caught the napkin that was in danger of sliding off his lap and deliberately tucked it into his collar. He raised one eyebrow challengingly at Hutch.

“I was going to say, you’ve got no appreciation for fine dining, but if you’d prefer to call it class, that’s fine with me.” Hutch reached for his wine glass. “Next time, you can pick the place, okay?”

Starsky smiled and shrugged.

Hutch felt a twinge of worry, but then she came back to the table and he forgot all about Starsky.

~*~*~

“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it last night,” said Hutch, raising his voice in order to be heard over the gym shower.

“I told ya, I had stuff to do.”

“You don’t like her.”

But Starsky had ducked his head under the water and didn’t answer. Hutch waited a moment, and then came to the conclusion that Starsky hadn’t heard him. He stepped out of his sweatpants and kicked them over onto the bench next to his shirt, before turning on the closest showerhead. The water stung his back, but the heat felt good on his tired muscles. He lingered, taking a little longer than strictly necessary.

He was drying his hair, when he became aware that he was under scrutiny. He turned to find Starsky leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Starsky asked, “Did she do that to you?”

Hutch twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. “It’s just a couple scratches. Does it look bad?”

“It looks like you slept with a werewolf.”

Hutch felt his cheeks heating up, but he rallied with a grin. “Jealous?”

Starsky shook his head. “Pain ain’t my thing.”

“Oh believe me, what I was feeling last night wasn’t pain.” Hutch snapped his towel at Starsky’s hip, before reaching for his jeans. He felt that familiar warmth below his breastbone, the one that had been buoying him up for weeks now every time he thought of her.

It’s love.

~*~*~

“We’re going dancing tonight, are you coming?”

“No.”

“Since when do you turn down dancing?”

“Since you started going to clubs with velvet ropes across the doors.” Starsky pushed his chair back and stood. He gave Hutch an affectionate pat as he headed for the door. “You go have fun with your girl. Me, I’ve got a date with my favorite redhead and a bucket of suds.”

Hutch blinked. Did he just tell me he’s staying home to wash his car?

~*~*~

The warehouse across the street appeared deserted, the barred windows and steel doors remaining mute, stubbornly refusing to reveal their secrets.

Hutch drummed on the edge of the window, and idly listened to the light rain on the roof of the car and the sound of traffic in the distance. The ache in his back, the one the doctor said was the result of emotional tension and which no amount of medication or meditation had been able to dispel, was a low thrum in the background of his consciousness.

“What?” asked Starsky, suddenly.

Hutch was jolted from his thoughts. He realized that he’d been scowling in Starsky’s direction for the last several minutes, and his partner was now looking at him with a distinctly worried expression.

“Nothing,” Hutch said. He shifted, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. “My back hurts.”

“Oh, so that’s your pain face.” Starsky brought his foot up onto his knee and ran a finger down inside his sneaker to scratch beneath his ankle. “You’re right, you know,” he said, slowly, his attention riveted on his chosen task. “I don’t like her.”

The tempo of Hutch’s fingers picked up. “You never like any of my girlfriends.”

“That’s not true,” said Starsky. “I liked Abby just fine.” He dropped his feet to the floor and let his hands settle on the steering wheel. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb running along the worn surface. Then he took a deep breath, and said, “I don’t like her. I don’t think she’s good for you.”

Hutch stopped drumming. He’d been waiting for this confrontation for weeks. He had even tried to bring the issue up himself a few times, only to have Starsky dodge him, refusing to discuss what was obviously on his mind. Lately they’d been having most of their arguments in the silences between words. It should have been a relief to finally have it out in the open, but all he could feel now was a sullen kind of misery. I love her and she needs me. What gives him the right…?

Starsky scratched his neck. The sound of his fingers on his rough skin scraped at Hutch’s last nerve.

Hutch’s fist hit the edge of the window. Bitterness edged his voice as he said, “It must be nice to be the expert on relationships. Because all of yours have turned out so incredibly well.”

“Fuck you.” There was more weariness than anger in Starsky’s voice.

The rain continued to fall, heavier now. The silence in the car was absolute.

Finally, Starsky sighed heavily and said, “Did you ever play marbles when you were a kid, Hutch?”

Hutch felt a surge of disbelief. Now he wants to pretend that everything’s fine? “Starsky, just don’t talk to me. Okay?”

Starsky made a cutting gesture with the edge of his hand. “Gotcha. Won’t say another word.”

And he didn’t.

It was a very long stakeout.

~*~*~

They worked together, and at the end of the day they went home to their separate lives. There was nothing wrong, nothing out of place. If anything their professionalism had improved. Even Dobey commented approvingly.

Hutch tried setting Starsky up with a friend, but it didn’t work out. He was briefly hopeful when Starsky began dating a girl he met down at the carwash, but it turned out that her idea of a good time was hanging out at the demolition derby followed by a drag race over the dunes.

“Racing off-road is illegal, Starsky.”

Starsky smirked. “What’cha gonna do? Arrest me?” Jamming his hands into his pockets he sauntered off, tossing one last comment over his shoulder. “Have fun down at the gallery tonight.”

Hutch watched him go. There was a new feeling dogging at his heels these days, and he was disconcerted to discover that it was loneliness.

I love her, and she says we’re forever.

So, why do I feel like I’ve just been dumped?

~*~*~

Hutch wasn’t willing to give up that easily. If the woman he loved and his best friend weren’t going to get along with each other, then he would just have to make space for both of them separately.

He cornered Starsky in the evidence room. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Yes.” But the slight pause before his answer gave him away.

Hutch leaned forward, trying to catch Starsky’s gaze. “I’m not trying to set you up, Starsk! I just thought maybe you’d like to, um, watch the game.” He could feel his cheeks heating up and he thought, This is ridiculous! I’m not trying to date him, I just want things back to normal.

Now Starsky met his eyes. “You think she’ll go for that?”

Hutch straightened, offended. “She doesn’t dictate my every move.”

Starsky first raised an eyebrow ironically, but then the expression dissolved into an honest grin. “I’ll pick up the pizza. Vegetarian for you?”

It was almost like old times. Almost. Her name was never mentioned between them, but she was still there, somehow, separating them.

~*~*~

It was Jefferson who commented first. “Hot date, huh, Hutchinson?”

Hutch fingered the dark semi-circular bruise on his neck, too high to hide under a turtleneck. Deciding the best defense was a good offense, he smirked. “Jealous?”

“Happily married man like me?” Jefferson handed Hutch the files he’d requested. “Trust me, I don’t miss the swinging single life at all.”

Starsky took the topmost file from Hutch’s hands and flipped it open. “And hey,” he said. “Once they got you wearing that ring, they don’t feel the need to mark their territory quite so obviously.”

Hutch was annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But Starsky was already heading for the door, and he never answered.

~*~*~

The front wheel of the LTD hit the curb, and Hutch’s car jolted to a stop. He blinked away the alcohol haze and glanced up at the window of Starsky’s apartment. He felt a jolt of irritation at the sight of the paper turkey leering from the window.

For crissake, why does Starsky always have to make such a ridiculous deal out of the holidays? Doesn’t he know it’s just a bid by corporate manufacturers to get people to waste their money on stuff they don’t need? Why does he let them manipulate him like that? Hutch aimed a sideways kick at a sagging leftover jack-o-lantern as he stomped up the stairs to Starsky’s door. He staggered slightly, and caught himself on the railing. He’s probably not even home.

Hutch pounded on the door with the side of his fist. He was already turning away, when the door opened. It was obvious from Starsky’s expression that the last person he expected to find on his doorstep was Hutch. And certainly not a pissed off, drunken Hutch.

The look of puzzled concern on Starsky’s face only served to annoy Hutch further. He didn’t wait for an invitation. Shouldering past his partner, he stomped over to the couch and threw himself down on it.

“You win,” snarled Hutch.

Starsky closed the door quietly and moved carefully around him to sit in the wicker chair at the end of the couch. His expression was neutral.

“She wanted me to choose,” said Hutch. “She said it was you or her, and God help me, I picked you.” His mouth snapped shut, clamping down on a sob, or perhaps a scream.

Starsky started to say something to him, but the words were meaningless in Hutch’s ears. He pushed himself up off the couch and headed for the door.

A hand landed on his arm and he spun on his heel, trembling with suppressed fury and a terrifying desire to strike out at the innocently worried face staring at him now. Why would I turn my back on love, just for this?

“Are you okay?” asked Starsky.

Hutch yanked his arm away. “You won. Isn’t that enough?” His voice cracked on the last word and he left before he could humiliate himself any further, slamming the door behind him.

~*~*~

They were supposed to work Thanksgiving. It was unlikely Dobey would consider a hangover a legitimate excuse to stay home on a day when he would be shorthanded anyway.

Hutch crawled out of bed with a groan and reached for his shirt. As he pulled it back, his eyes landed on the small black velvet box lying underneath.

First you give her the ring, and then you set a date. Buy a house, and eventually you have a white picket fence, two-point-six children, and a dog digging up your neighbor’s yard.

It’s the American dream, Hutch told himself, and it’s just as false as every other prepackaged, commercialized lie they sell. The family gathered around the table for Thanksgiving, the picture of harmony, matching smiles on every face, and the moment the camera flashes, they’re turning on each other, teeth like knives, tearing at the soft underbellies of the ones they profess to love.

None of it’s real.

He threw the ring in the wastebasket on his way out of the room. Three steps, and he halted with a curse. He couldn’t. It was an absurd gesture, too romantic by far. He could almost hear her laughing at him as he went back and fished the ring out from under crumpled tissues and too many condom wrappers. He rinsed it off and found the original jeweler’s box… and the receipt. He wondered if there was any significance to the fact that he’d saved the receipt.

Hutch skipped breakfast, and his run, and headed straight for Starsky’s house. It was his turn to drive, and he couldn’t think of any reason not to make an early start. He was halfway there, when a vague memory of the previous night suggested itself to his battered brain.

Did I really go over there and yell at him?

He climbed the stairs with a deep sense of apprehension. He noticed that Starsky’s pumpkin had gotten smashed overnight, and he frowned at the slimy mess it left on the steps. I told him to get rid of that thing weeks ago.

He knocked, tentatively. The wait was long enough that he had begun to worry, when the door finally opened. Starsky stood there in his blue pajama bottoms, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

“You’re early.”

Hutch rubbed the back of his head. “I can come back later…”

The look Starsky gave him suggested that he thought Hutch had lost his mind …and Hutch himself was inclined to agree. He had the feeling he should be apologizing for something, but the words stuck in his throat. What the hell would I apologize for anyway? If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be with the woman I love.

“Well, come in,” said Starsky, finally. “You can make yourself some toast or something.”

It almost felt normal. Hutch made breakfast for two while Starsky clattered around the house, getting ready for work. But there were still a chasm between them, and he didn’t know how to bridge it.

They ate in silence.

Finally, Starsky put his fork down and asked, “Are you going to try to patch things up?”

Hutch shook his head. He had to swallow his last bite of toast past the lump in his throat. “I’m a cop. I can change a lot of stuff about me to make her happy, but I’m not going to change that.”

“I never thought you needed to change.”

“Nice to know I’ve always got your confidence, buddy.” Hutch heard the edge of bitterness in his own voice, and felt like a world-class jerk. He abruptly stood, and began clearing away the dishes.

Starsky said nothing.

~*~*~

They surveyed the remains of Hutch’s apartment. Plants were scattered across the floor, and the balcony door had been smashed.

“I think she’s a little pissed at you, Hutch.”

“How do you know it’s her? It could have been…” Hutch trailed off as Starsky took him gently by the shoulders and turned him around to face the wall behind him. The angry words scrawled in glaring red lipstick left no doubt as to either the author or the motive behind the destruction.

Starsky said, “Maybe you should stay at my place tonight.”

Hutch shook himself free of Starsky’s grip, and bent down to pick up a plant. “She’s not Diana. I can handle this myself.”

“You’re not going to report it?”

Hutch dropped to his haunches and tried to scoop some of the soil off the floor and back into the pot. “And tell them what? That one of my ex-girlfriends trashed my apartment? Again? I can just imagine how well that will go over.”

Starsky shuffled, anxiously. “Maybe I should stay.”

“I don’t need a babysitter… or a bodyguard.”

“Do you want to take a shower before I go?”

“Out!” Hutch pointed firmly at the door. He picked up another plant. Behind him he heard Starsky sigh heavily, and then make his way slowly out of the apartment and down the stairs. Hutch waited until he heard the Torino’s engine start up and pull away, before venting an exclamation of deep exasperation.

~*~*~

A noise by the front door startled Hutch out of a deep sleep and sent him rolling off his couch onto the floor, his gun in his hand. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked up to find Starsky staring over the back of the couch at him, amusement written all over his face.

“Christ! Can’t you knock?”

“If I was Christ, I wouldn’t have to knock. I’d probably be able to walk right through your walls.”

“I thought he only walked on water.”

“Oh… right. Um, I was probably thinking of Santa Claus.”

“Santa doesn’t walk through walls. He comes down chimneys.”

“And what if you don’t have a chimney? How do you think he gets in then? Hey, smart guy?” Starsky’s expression was triumphant.

Hutch put his gun down and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache these sorts of conversations with Starsky always caused. “You do know he’s imaginary, don’t you?”

“Of course he is. How else do you think he manages to deliver presents to all the good boys and girls in the world in just one night? And walk through walls?”

“I suppose you think you’ve been very good.” It figures. One day after Thanksgiving, and he’s already thinking of Christmas.

“I know I am.”

“I’m still not buying you a present.” Hutch climbed slowly to his feet, and collapsed on the couch, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Then I’ll buy one for me and put your name on it.” Starsky swung his feet over the back, and dropped down onto the cushions next to Hutch. “I did a little investigating.”

“Huh?” Hutch wasn’t following the sudden change of topic.

“Your girl. I asked a few questions last night. You know, she has a history of not taking breakups particularly well.” All of the lightness of earlier had vanished from Starsky’s demeanor.

“She’s had a few rough relationships.” Hutch felt guilt at the realization that he’d added to the burden she had already been carrying. I never meant to hurt anyone… “She made some bad choices.”

“Hutch, I talked to one of her old boyfriends last night. He said he broke it off with her because she was jealous of his closeness to his family.” Starsky paused. “He said that two days after the breakup, someone killed his mother’s poodle. They couldn’t prove it was her…”

“Because it probably wasn’t!” Hutch pushed himself up from the couch. He turned and scowled down at Starsky. “She’s been hurt a few times, and I hurt her again. She took out her frustrations on my apartment, but that doesn’t make her the kind of person who would kill a pet.”

“Hutch…”

“I think I know her a little better than you do!” Hutch knew Starsky had done nothing to warrant being shouted at, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. He wanted to hit something, anything… anyone. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away.

“But you don’t know…”

“It’s over. She’s gone. I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

Starsky subsided with a resigned shrug. “I hope you’re right.”

 

Part 2

He was wrong, of course.

Hutch knew he should have seen it coming. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he’d always known she had a vindictive streak wide enough to bring whole worlds to crashing ruin.

Plants could be replaced, and guitars repaired. He had no pets, no children, no wife, no close family at all. Hutch was not in the habit of making himself vulnerable, and he didn’t have much in his life that he considered irreplaceable.

Except Starsky.

Even having to explain to Dobey how it had happened that his ex-girlfriend had kidnapped his partner, in a fit of rage over having been dumped, paled in comparison to the pain he felt at the thought that Starsky might already be dead.

He retraced Starsky’s tracks, heard the testimony from her ex-boyfriends, and wondered how he could have been so blind. She wasn’t a beaten or abused victim of circumstance. She was the director of her own drama, rearranging each scene until it suited her best.

The door to Starsky’s apartment was sealed with yellow tape. Hutch took it down and folded it neatly before slipping it into his pocket. Starsky’s home had become a crime scene. He opened the door, and paused. The furniture had been rearranged, cupboards and drawers emptied, and fingerprint dust littered every flat surface. He tried to imagine his habitually tidy partner’s reaction to the disarray, and couldn’t. All he wanted was Starsky back. The rest of it didn’t matter.

He sat down on the couch, now in the middle of the room, and fished her note out of his pocket, underneath the tape. He unfolded it carefully.

If I can’t have you, then you can’t have him.

We could have been so happy together.

Just remember whose fault this is.

It’s my fault, thought Hutch.

~*~*~

One of the men she’d hired cracked. Afraid of going down for murder, he placed an anonymous call to the precinct and gave them the location of the missing cop.

It was a gift. More than he deserved.

Hutch raced out of the room even as Dobey was on the phone yelling for back up. He pulled up to the warehouse, leaving the black and whites in the dust of his wheels. He caught them trying to flee the scene. He didn’t bother pulling his gun. He didn’t bother identifying himself.

They knew who he was.

He laid one man flat on his back in the dust, ignored the pain blossoming in his knuckles, and literally ran right over the second in pursuit of his real quarry.

Her.

She stopped at the corner, and, as if the distance between them was somehow immutable, he stopped as well.

“You won’t shoot me.”

Her voice, so confident. That half smile. The face he had once loved – and maybe still did love, a little. He hesitated, and she was gone, darting around the corner of the building.

Hutch ran after her, his Magnum in his hand, but she had disappeared into the maze of buildings.

He was lost. Turning on his heel, looking and listening for some clue. And in the silence, he heard something else. A sound that kicked him in the gut and made him stumble as he ran. He used his shoulder to ram through the warehouse door.

He stopped. Just for a moment, and then he was across the floor and on his knees beside Starsky. He didn’t know where to begin.

Starsky was blindfolded, and his hands were cuffed behind him. It looked as if he’d been tied to a chair at one point, but he had kicked himself free and was now struggling to get to his knees.

His feet. Hutch felt a surge of nausea at the sight of Starsky’s feet. They were bare, and streaked with blood and soot. She burned him. The bitch burned him, and I…

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s shoulders, “It’s okay, I’m here…”

Starsky jerked at his touch, throwing himself backwards. “Ain’t you assholes had enough of me yet?”

“Ssh, Starsky, it’s okay. It’s me…”

Starsky bucked violently, and Hutch lost his grip. The back of Starsky’s head hit the concrete. Hutch grabbed the sides of Starsky’s face, hanging on, trying to prevent Starsky from injuring himself further.

“It’s me, Starsk!”

But Starsky continued to fight, and gentleness was not an option left to Hutch. He was forced to pin his injured partner to the ground. As he struggled to untie the blindfold, his fingers touched a tacky trail of blood and his eyes traced the source to Starsky’s left ear.

Oh, buddy. “Please, please don’t fight me,” he begged. Terror made it hard to speak. Why doesn’t he hear me? “Please!”

The blindfold came free, and Starsky abruptly stilled, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Hutch?” asked Starsky, tentatively, as if not quite certain. He blinked, and then squeezed his eyes shut. “Hutch! Oh god, my feet hurt!” He arched his back, pulling futilely at his wrists. “Get these goddamned cuffs off me!”

Hutch fumbled for his key, but Starsky’s hip bumped into his hand and he dropped it. Behind him he was aware of people entering the room, and the sound of sirens outside. “Please, Starsk, stop pulling. I’ll have them off in a sec…” He scrambled to retrieve the handcuff key, and almost dropped it again as Starsky yanked his hands away, toppling forward to land on his face on the concrete floor.

Growing frantic, Hutch bellowed, “Stop pulling!”

That got through to him. Starsky froze, shivering, his cheek pressed to the rough ground. Hutch saw tears leaking from under his closed eyes, his eyelashes sticking together damply, clinging to his bruised skin. He tried not to look too closely, needing all his concentration for the task in front of him.

Breaking down was not an option.

One more turn of the key, and the cuffs fell free of Starsky’s bloodied wrists.

Starsky immediately curled forward on his side, reaching for his feet. Afraid that he might hurt himself, Hutch caught his hands. Starsky’s left sole scraped the rough cement, leaving a bright smear of blood behind. With an exhausted sob, he let his head fall back. Looking up at Hutch, he asked, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

~*~*~

Later, in the hospital, there was no blame. Starsky was in and out of consciousness, heavily medicated. Nauseous, dizzy and deafened by the concussion, in extreme pain from the burns on his feet, he was barely coherent. The doctors took a skin graft from the inside of his thigh to repair the sole of his right foot.

He looked for Hutch every time he woke, clinging to him fiercely.

“I love you,” he said.

Hutch laughed, because it was better than crying. He had thought he loved her, but it occurred to him now that if he had thought that was love, then he obviously had no idea what the word meant.

~*~*~

“I have to hear it, Captain.”

Dobey rumbled worriedly under his breath, but nevertheless slid the tape recorder across the table at Hutch.

She taped him. She was planning to torture him for days and send me the tapes… And why? Was it just because she wanted to hurt me, or was it because she couldn’t accept that I love him, too?

Or because she knew I never really loved her at all?

He pressed play.

~*~*~

Starsky was asleep, bandaged wrists folded over his chest, his burned feet elevated on a pillow. Hutch stood in the doorway, unwilling to approach any closer.

This is my fault.

He knew he was a coward. The concussion had temporarily deafened Starsky, but that was no excuse for not leaving a note. For not at least trying to explain.

So did you shoot her?

That had been almost the first thing Starsky had asked when he’d woken, and to his shame, Hutch had found himself actually grateful that his partner couldn’t hear. He shook his head no, and Starsky took that to mean that she was in custody.

Hutch had let the lie stand between them. Deaf, or not, he couldn’t think of any way to explain that he’d let her get away.

He’s going to be angry when he wakes up and realizes I’m gone.

Hutch jammed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the scrape of the fabric on his damaged knuckles, and turned away. The uniform seated on the folding chair outside Starsky’s room nodded at him.

“Don’t wanna wake him, huh?”

“Yeah,” said Hutch. “He needs his sleep. I’ll see him later.”

I hope.

Because there was only one thing he could think of that would make any of this better.

Finding her.

~*~*~

He took the tape from the Evidence room, dispensing with the usual forms and necessary permission. Dobey would have a fit. It was a thought that didn’t worry Hutch particularly. Any and all consequences could be dealt with later, after he’d found her.

He left his badge on Dobey’s desk. He thought about leaving a note as well, but anything he could write seemed irrelevant considering the circumstances.

Later, alone in his hotel room, he listened to the tape again.

Whose fault is it?

What Hutch couldn’t understand was why Starsky resisted. He listened as his partner cursed, and cried, and then finally broke, telling her what was only the bare truth.

It’s Hutch’s fault!

He hadn’t been listening earlier when Starsky had tried to warn him, but he was listening now.

~*~*~

She cheated him. He wanted answers, and she gave him none.

He wondered if ultimately she considered it winning.

~*~*~

“You got her, then? Good job.” The officer stationed outside of the hospital room was clearly happy to be relieved of duty, quickly straightening from his bored slouch.

Hutch wasn’t up to explaining the particulars. He simply nodded, his smile fixed. The other man stood, brushed a few crumbs off the front of his uniform jacket, and straightened his cap. He left with a grin, and a parting shot.

“Man, if I had your luck with women, I’d take a vow of celibacy.”

Hutch nodded again, too tired to try to think of a comeback.

He braced one arm against the wall and stared hopelessly at the door to Starsky’s room. There was no reason to expect sympathy or compassion from anyone. His poor judgment had led directly to his partner’s kidnapping and torture.

Eight days.

It had been eight days since he’d last seen Starsky. Eight days since he’d stood in the doorway of his best friend’s hospital room, lacking the courage to even leave him a note, explaining why he had to leave.

And now here he was, crawling back to face the consequences. To find out if he still had a best friend, or if sometimes love wasn’t enough.

Hutch let his arm drop to his side. A deep breath, released slowly, and finally he reached for the doorknob. He let himself into the private room.

Starsky glanced up sharply, an alarmed expression on his face. Then he relaxed and scowled. “Oh, it’s just you.” He pointedly turned his attention back to the task that had been occupying him before Hutch had entered

Hutch had to step around several large baskets lined up on the floor. Flowers and fruit crowded the tables, ample testament to the good will of family and friends. Starsky was sitting up in bed, his feet on top of the covers. His right foot, the one with the skin graft, was still heavily bandaged. But the other was bare, the sole pink and glistening with burn ointment. It was obvious from Starsky’s reaction that his hearing had returned, at least partially, and Hutch took that as a good sign.

It would certainly make talking to him easier. And hadn’t a lack of communication been the root of their problem these last several months?

Wax in assorted primary colors had run down the front of Starsky and onto the sheets. He was trying, apparently without much success, to peel it off. Hutch stopped at the edge of the bed and frowned down at him in confusion.

“I’ve been melting crayons,” said Starsky, as blandly as if this was the sort of everyday statement anyone might make to a friend they haven’t seen in over a week.

Some weather we’ve been having.

Work’s been a bitch, lately.

I’ve been melting crayons.

Then, to Hutch’s horror, Starsky turned toward him and sparked the lighter. “See?”

Hutch grabbed it out of his hand without thinking. Heat singed his palm. With a yelp, he dropped the lighter on the floor and stuck the side of his palm in his mouth. A moment later, he removed it and took a breath preliminary to giving Starsky a piece of his mind.

“Haven’t I been burned enough for one lifetime?” interrupted Starsky, preempting him with unnerving accuracy. He gave Hutch a dark look. “Yeah, we might want to discuss that one, partner. But to answer the questions you were so clearly about to ask, I scammed the lighter off an orderly. I’m not gonna hurt myself. I’m not gonna set my bed on fire. And I’m not gonna burn this ward down, much as I might be tempted sometimes.” With a sudden violent motion he grabbed the remains of the crayons in his lap and flung them against the wall. “My left ear won’t stop ringing. I’m not allowed to walk. I’m fucking bored!”

Hutch bent and picked up the lighter. His heart was still in his throat. Was it as simple as boredom, or could this be a sign of something much more serious? Had the torture affected Starsky’s mental health somehow?

Starsky continued to vent.

“You could’a sprung me from this place any time you liked. Forty-eight more hours the doc said, and then all I need is someone to help me out at home for a month until I’m back on my feet. But no, you go and talk to him, and the next thing I know it’s, ‘We gotta keep you a while longer, Mister Starsky, just for observation.’ Bullshit! You think I don’t know there’s been a uniform parked outside my door all this time?”

Hutch had no answer for him. He looked at the red plastic lighter in his hand, slowly turning it over. Ironically, he’d come prepared to talk, but now Starsky wasn’t letting him get a word in edgewise. However, after the last eight days he’d probably earned the right. Oh hell, after the last six months he’d earned the right. And it was fair payback for all the times Hutch had told him to shut up. Just let him get it off his chest. It’ll be good for him, and I can tell him after.

Assuming he still wants to hear anything I have to say.

“I don’t see you, I don’t see Dobey, everyone giving me the ‘don’t you worry, just rest your pretty head’ line.” Starsky’s expression shifted subtly, from anger to pleading. “Okay, I know I’m not real fast on my feet these days. I still can’t hear so good, and my balance and co-ordination are shot, but so far as I know I’m still your partner.” He paused. “I am still your partner, right?”

The anxious question cut straight to Hutch’s heart, rendering him speechless. He reached for Starsky. Always, you’ll always be…

Starsky pulled his hand out of Hutch’s. “Then why the hell are you keeping me in the dark?”

Hutch flinched at the rage in Starsky’s voice.

Starsky crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I can make some guesses. In fact, I think I have a pretty good idea what’s going on. But I want to hear it from you, because I’ll tell ya right now, I’m not happy with the lack of communication we got here. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Hutch felt his knees collapse beneath him, and he sat down abruptly on the edge of Starsky’s bed. He looked at his hands, and at the lighter. He folded it into his fist, closing his eyes as the memory hit him with visceral force. He could clearly hear Starsky’s voice, almost two weeks earlier, laced with pain, saying, “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

God help me, I’m hearing you now.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice changed. The anger was gone, and now he sounded concerned.

Hutch realized that he was hunched over, perched on the edge of Starsky’s hospital bed, his hand over his face. Muttering an apology, he started to rise, jamming the lighter into the front pocket of his pants. He had to get away, wash his face, compose himself. The last thing Starsky needed was to have him break down.

After all, he wasn’t the one who had been tortured. Whose feet had been burned, and whose toes had been broken, who had been beaten and concussed. He had no right…

Starsky clamped a hand over his bicep, stopping him.

“Look at me.”

Mute, Hutch shook his head.

“Look at me.” Starsky’s voice was gentle, insistent.

Hutch bit down on the inside of his bottom lip, tasting blood. The urge to cry retreated a fraction, and he raised his head. The compassion in Starsky’s eyes was worse than the anger had been earlier. Hutch looked away quickly, blinking.

“She got away,” said Starsky. “And you were planning on telling me this, when?”

Hutch’s guilt was obvious. All that remained now was the conviction and sentencing.

Starsky scooted over, angling himself so that he could see Hutch’s face. “And all week you’ve been running yourself into the ground trying to track her down and make it right.”

Hutch met his eyes, choking on the words he wanted desperately to say.

“You’re sorry?”

Helplessly, Hutch nodded.

A half-smile tugged at one corner of Starsky’s mouth. His voice rose, “For what? For not being able to gun down an ex-girlfriend? Oh heck, Hutch! I’d be more worried if you had!”

Acquittal. The suddenness of it left him reeling.

Starsky’s hand settled on Hutch’s leg. His shoulder bumped into Hutch’s shoulder. “So, tell me the rest. I need to know why you’re bleedin’ all over my sheets.”

Hutch started to protest that he wasn’t injured, and then realized belatedly that Starsky was speaking metaphorically.

He felt a surge of anger and he almost pointed out that it just might have something to do with the fact that Starsky had been tearing one strip off him after another from the moment he’d stepped into the room.

Except that he’d been blaming Starsky for everything these past few months, and he was tired of it. Bone tired. He looked into his partner’s face, and felt his irritation fade as a new thought occurred to him. My tourniquet. He flushed at the sentimentality of it, and saw the corners of Starsky’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“She got…” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “She got all the way to Tijuana.”

“She got where?” asked Starsky, his eyes fixed on Hutch’s mouth.

Belatedly, Hutch realized that Starsky’s hearing still wasn’t a hundred percent. He repeated himself, louder.

“She should’a been home free, then,” said Starsky. “You don’t have to shout if you talk to this ear. It’s my good one.”

He was so close he was almost in Hutch’s lap now. The contact felt… good. Better than he deserved. His hand found Starsky’s wrist, and his fingers lightly traced the healing marks. It hardly shows…

“I went after her.” Hutch paused. “Not as a cop.”

Starsky whistled quietly. “Well, that explains why I haven’t seen Dobey all week. He must’ve been going crazy.”

“I don’t know.” Hutch looked away and picked at his slacks, only now noticing how grimy they were. “I haven’t seen him. I came straight here from the airport…” He was mumbling again, but Starsky seemed to understand regardless.

“Because you missed me so bad, you couldn’t stand another moment apart,” said Starsky, with gentle sarcasm.

“Yeah.” There was nothing but honesty in Hutch’s response. Lifting his eyes, he found the place on Starsky’s cheek where she had burned him. It was only a faintly pink patch of new skin, under the rough afternoon shadow. Almost all better, now…

“So did you get her?” asked Starsky, after a moment.

Hutch shook his head. Memories of pleading with her, begging her not to… “She… um, she k…” He couldn’t catch his breath. He was ashamed at his reaction. They were just words. Say them one after another and don’t think about what they mean. “She took her life.”

Heavy silence, and then Starsky said, “Shit.”

Hutch heard volumes of compassion in Starsky’s voice, and knew it was all for him. But, then again, Starsky doesn’t know the full extent of my betrayal yet…

“Starsk, I-I know she hurt you, but she wasn’t well. I thought I could…. She was hurting. I just wanted–” He couldn’t find the words he so desperately needed, and he struggled to bring the few he had under control. At least he could count on Starsky to listen for as long as it would take…

“I know,” said Starsky, sounding pained.

How can he possibly know? Hutch was suddenly aware of a new tension in Starsky’s body. Looking down, he saw that Starsky’s hands had clenched into fists. Is he angry at her. Or at me?

But Starsky looked up at him now with a determined smile. “So what did you buy me?”

“Huh?” Hutch felt a nasty jolt. Of all the reactions he had prepared for, this was not one that had occurred to him. He had so much to say. After all this time he was finally ready to talk. And now it looked like Starsky was no longer going to listen, after all. The irony of it was almost enough to make him want to cry.

“Well jeez, Hutch! You went to Tijuana! Didn’t you get me anything?”

Hutch read pleading in Starsky’s face. He was asking if they couldn’t let the matter drop, go back to normal, pretend that none of this had happened. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

If there was an edge of hysteria in Hutch’s laugh, Starsky didn’t comment.

“I can’t believe you’d ask me that,” said Hutch, making a desperate decision to play along. “Is that all I am to you? The guy who buys you stuff?” Maybe I don’t want to discuss this stuff either. Maybe it’s really okay to let it all go. He tried to douse the spark of resentment this thought ignited.

Starsky pulled him down backwards, until they lay side by side on the bed. The wax covered sheets crackled, bright bits of crayon flaking off between them. Starsky threw half of his blanket over Hutch, hissing under his breath as a corner dragged across his tender soles. “Well, considering that you’ve been using any excuse you can to get into bed with me, I figure…”

Hutch’s chuckle was closer to genuine this time. “You’re the one who said he loved me.”

“I said that?” There was honest puzzlement in Starsky’s face. Hutch realized that he’d forgotten the conversation.

“Yep. First day you were here.” And I hung onto that the entire time I was in Mexico, wondering if you’d still feel the same when all was said and done. It occurred to Hutch that he’d been a fool to question the constancy of Starsky’s love. It was always there, even when communication failed.

I should find that more reassuring than I do. Is love enough?

“Wow.” Starsky looked thoughtful. “I guess that explains a lot.”

“How so?”

“Well, why else would I put up with all the crap you dish out?” His grin took the sting out of his words. But then his smile vanished and he hoisted himself up on one elbow to look at Hutch with deadly intensity. “However, if you ever cut me out again, I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you pay.”

Hutch made a sound of tired agreement. It was probably not the most appropriate response, but he was too exhausted to think of anything else. He couldn’t summon the energy to force Starsky to listen to him, and he was no longer even certain that talking would be a good idea anyway. Eventually, he would have to face Dobey. There would be questions to answer, and dues to pay.

At the moment, none of that seemed important.

He was remembering the warmth and weight of his grandmother’s crocheted throw, wrapped around him as he dozed in front of the large fireplace at the farm. He felt a similar lethargy claiming his limbs now. Too tired to think…

“So, what about my present?” asked Starsky, returning to his previous complaint.

“Look what you did to the last present I gave you,” said Hutch, his eyes closed. I give up.

“Okay, so I melted the crayons. But only after I finished the coloring book.”

Hutch felt something lightly tossed onto his stomach, and he opened his eyes to see the Jumbo Coloring Book he’d bought for Starsky. It had been a gag gift, nothing serious. He’d half expected Starsky to pass it onto Rosie or some other child. Curious, Hutch picked it up and flipped through the book. Every page had been colored. Tiny holsters had been carefully drawn under the arms of most of the characters, who seemed to alternate between bright yellow and curly brown hair. And every single car was candy apple red.

Starsky and Hutch go to the Circus. Starsky and Hutch feed the Elephant. Starsky and Hutch bust the Creepy Clown.

Starsk, buddy, you’re scary when you’re bored.

“Hey, Hutch?”

He let the book fall onto his chest. “Yes?”

“If she’s dead, does this mean I get to go home?”

Hutch closed his eyes again. “I’ve already started the paperwork. But I’m going to have to move in with you until the doctor gives you the okay to walk again.”

He smiled to himself at the sound of Starsky’s barely audible, but unmistakably joyful, “Yes!”

Tomorrow, Hutch decided, he would find another bit of odd Mexican pottery to give to him. And he would apply some thought to the problem of keeping Starsky entertained while he was off his feet.

And maybe pick up a fire extinguisher. Or two.

Just in case.

~*~*~

The dreams kept coming back.

There was the one in which he stood by the side of the road as they took her body away in a jeep. The motion of the vehicle over the packed earth and stones caused the sheet to slip off of her face. Her head fell back, her dead eyes opened and she looked at him, the red line of her mouth stretching into an impossibly wide grin. Her expression was pure, horrifying triumph.

The other dream was the one in which he was fatally wounded, his chest ripped open, and she refused to let him die. He asked her why, and she replied that only animals get mercy. Because, unlike men, animals take no more than what they need. It’s men who are greedy, who demand more than they are entitled to, and who end up having to pay.

He woke several times a night, staring into the dark, his heart racing. Logic had little power against the unsubtle working of his subconscious. Self-examination got him nowhere.

What he really wanted was someone to talk to, but Starsky continued to refuse to discuss her, and eventually Hutch gave up trying. She was gone, but the distance she had created between them still persisted, and he didn’t know how to bridge it without Starsky’s help.

They were both ordered to see the department’s psychologist. Hutch did not tell her about the dreams. He wondered what Starsky told her, and drew no comfort from the knowledge that it was likely his partner had also said very little.

 

Part 3

A bored Starsky is a more-than-slightly crazed Starsky.

Hutch smothered a cough and took another long look at the sleeping form sprawled carelessly across the rumpled bed. Nearly two weeks in the hospital, followed by two more weeks of strictly enforced bed-rest at home, had evidently led Starsky to desperate measures in his search for entertainment.

Because what other reason would he have for being stark naked in bed, clutching his camera like a Teddy Bear?

Hutch knew he would never have the nerve to ask to see the photos. He also knew that this sight should inspire at the very least an irresistible urge to take his own photos and post them on the station’s bulletin board.

He wondered what was wrong with him, that it didn’t.

The itch in his throat became unendurable and he fled to the kitchen. He leaned over the sink and covered his mouth with both hands, attempting to cough quietly.

He was not successful.

“Hutch, is that you?”

Who else would it be, dummy, he thought. If he hadn’t been doubled over trying not to cough up a lung, he likely would have answered with something along the same lines. If you’d needed me to pick you up some girly magazines, you could have just asked.

“Hutch?” Starsky was beginning to sound worried, as if some other person might be making all that noise in his kitchen.

Hutch was vaguely amused at the idea of a burglar breaking in just so he could cough all over Starsky’s food.

Of course, considering what he eats, a few germs might improve the nutritional value.

“Hutch, answer me!”

Finally regaining control of himself, Hutch stood and reached for the coffee pot, intending to make some excuse about starting breakfast. Two things stopped him. The first was the fact that this last attack seemed to have left him without a functional voice. What instead emerged from his throat was a damp squeak that would certainly not reassure Starsky, even if it did carry all the way back to the bedroom. The second thing that stopped him was the sight of his own hand reaching for the coffee pot.

Germs.

Shit. The doctor had been extremely clear about the importance of keeping Starsky’s surroundings sterile while he healed.

I shouldn’t have come here today. I should have sent Huggy over.

“Hutch!”

He wanted to wash his hands, but he knew that if he did he’d have Starsky hopping out here on one foot, anxious to investigate, and never mind the delicate skin graft on the sole of the other.

Hutch jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried back to the bedroom. Near the door he jammed his toe against the fire extinguisher, still sporting the price tag hanging off the handle. His curse was a bare dry whisper, as he hopped the last few steps.

The fire extinguisher had been bought during Starsky’s “Fun Things to do with a Lighter” phase of self-entertainment. Which had been a particularly disturbing one for Hutch, considering the circumstances of his injury. He had spent several days finding and confiscating all of Starsky’s lighters and matches.

Can’t you amuse yourself some other way?

Nope.

Watch TV.

Boring.

Read a book.

Boring.

Work on one of the new ship models I bought you!

Boring.

Well, what do you want?

I want to play with my lighter. Unless, you’re offering to entertain me some other way…?

You know I have to be at work in ten minutes!

All I know is that you’re the meanie who won’t give me back my lighter.

Starsky didn’t deal well with restrictions on his mobility. Now that he was feeling better, it seemed he was jumping at any excuse to get back on his feet. It was taxing all of Hutch’s creativity to keep him in bed the prescribed amount of time. He had taken to crossing days off the calendar, counting down. Just four more days before his next doctor’s appointment, when hopefully Starsky would get the green light to start traveling with a crutch.

And sure enough, there was Starsky, already swinging his bare legs over the side of the mattress. Hutch pointed emphatically at the bed and gave him his best scowl. Starsky immediately climbed back in under the covers.

“All right, all right! Geez…” He cocked his head to the side and regarded Hutch inquisitively. “Hey, you look like shit. How come you didn’t answer me?”

Hutch cleared his throat, and felt a queasy glob of mucus slide down into his stomach. “Got a cold.” The effort it took to speak upset the fragile balance he’d maintained so far. A racking cough ambushed him. He buried his face in his elbow and turned away.

He was straightening, having barely caught his breath, when a box of Kleenex hit him in the head. His startled exclamation triggered another bout of coughing, and he was forced to cling to the doorframe to stay upright.

He heard Starsky say, “You sound like shit, too. You’re making me sorry I ever got my hearing back.”

Hutch staggered as he bent to retrieve the box of Kleenex. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispered, hoarsely. “I really appreciate the boost to my self-esteem.” He dried his eyes and then blew his nose.

Starsky threw back the covers and shuffled over to the side of his bed. “C’mon, climb in. It sounds like you need this more than I do.”

Hutch shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the door. I should go…

Starsky’s smile disappeared. “What’s the problem?” He lifted the sheets lying across his lap, made a show of checking, and then said, “I put some shorts on, if that’s your issue. Besides, you know your virtue’s safe with me.”

Again Hutch shook his head. “Germs,” he croaked.

“Germs? Hutch, my feet aren’t going to catch your cold.”

Hutch took a step, backwards, toward the door.

Starsky’s expression darkened dangerously. “Lie down, before you fall down.” He played the trump card. “Or I’ll come over there and make you.”

Hutch surrendered. He was not up to arguing with Starsky today. He did as he was told, clutching the Kleenex box to his chest like a shield.

“You keep dragging me into bed with you,” he said. “Maybe I should be worried.”

“Believe me, buddy, snot isn’t one of my big turn-ons. Now, if you were covered in whipped cream…”

Hutch abruptly reconsidered his decision to get into Starsky’s bed. The man was dangerous when he was bored.

“Come back here! I’m joking.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s shoulder and firmly pushed him flat onto his back. Hutch felt his chest rumble dangerously and he concentrated on controlling his cough as Starsky tucked him in so snugly he couldn’t have run if he’d wanted to.

He was too close. Imagining an invisible cloud of germs growing exponentially with every passing minute, Hutch held his breath. He stared up at Starsky’s rough textured chin and thought, this is a bad idea. He’s going to get sick, or infected, or something.

Starsky, apparently pleased with his efforts, patted Hutch’s chest, causing him to exhale with a gasp and a cough.

“Dobey told you to go home, didn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m not that sick,” protested Hutch, just as another spasm in his chest made a liar out of him. He rolled onto his side and hid his face in the pillow. Damn, I’ll probably have to burn this thing when I’m done.

“Oh, yes you are! And that means I get to look after you for a change.” Starsky sounded ridiculously pleased with the idea, and a moment later Hutch heard the hum of a dial tone as the phone by the bed was picked up.

He rolled back and cracked a watering eye open. “What are you doing?”

Starsky didn’t answer, he was busy dialing, the numbers clacking around in a circle. In a moment, Hutch heard him say, “Hey, is Huggy there? No. No… Geez, no! This isn’t a social call. Or a crank call. Yeah, I know last time, but… Yes, I know you have a business to run. Aw, will you just tell Huggy I need to talk to him? I want to order some food!”

Starsky covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and made a face at Hutch. “Some people get so cranky.”

It occurred to Hutch that it might not have been a good idea to leave the phone beside Starsky’s bed these last two weeks.

“Hey, Hug! Yeah, I’m doing great. Is Anita having a bad day? Never mind. Listen, I’d like to order a bucket of your chicken soup. No, not for me. Hutch is sick!”

Huggy must have read the same thing into Starsky’s voice as Hutch did, because Starsky’s next comment was an indignant, “No, I’m not happy about it! Geez, what gave you that idea? Anyway, if you could pick up some cough syrup and decongestant on your way over, I’d really appreciate it. And a burger with fries for me.”

Starsky hung up the phone and turned toward Hutch with a grin. “This is going to be fun, just like a sleepover!”

Hutch gave him a dubious look.

“Didn’t you ever have sleepovers when you were a kid? No wait, don’t answer that. You probably didn’t.”

He’s looking at me like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s seen in weeks. Hutch resisted a sudden urge to hide under the covers. Instead, he said, “You mom let you have sleepovers with sick kids?”

“All the time,” said Starsky, confidently. “Especially if they had something worth catching. That’s how I got mumps, measles, and chickenpox.” The pause that followed was weighted with significance. “Besides, this will give us a chance to talk.”

The serious tone in Starsky’s voice put Hutch on instant alert. He raised his head from the pillow and regarded Starsky with alarm. “About what?”

“About this.” The sweep of Starsky’s arm encompassed much more than his physical surroundings. “About you.” His hand landed lightly on Hutch’s chest. “About her.”

Hutch worked one hand out from under the blankets and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a tension headache building behind his eyes.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about her.” Hutch felt a brief twinge of resentment, mixed with disappointment that things couldn’t have been left well enough alone, unexamined. Every time he’d tried to talk about the way things had gone down, Starsky had cut him off. He’d finally decided to take it as a gift, permission to avoid the issue, and try to get back to normal.

Except that things aren’t normal, are they?

Because if things were normal, he’d be able to feel something. Instead of a numbness that suggested to him that maybe he’d died in Mexico, with her.

Starsky said, “I didn’t. Then. I was too busy hating her, and being mad at you. But I’ve had… a little… time to think since then.” He was speaking very carefully, as if Hutch might do something unpredictable at any moment, and needed to be treated with exceptional care.

And I thought he was the one who was going crazy.

Hutch felt the mattress shift, and opened his eyes to see Starsky propped on an elbow, staring at him intently. He rolled over and tried to kick himself free of the confining blankets. Enough is enough.

A hand clamped firmly over his bicep, holding him back.

“Let me go!” snapped Hutch. A coughing jag ripped its way past his throat, knocking him down onto the bed. Unable to cope, he covered his face with both hands. His chest rattled and he choked on phlegm, trying to pull air into his straining lungs.

He felt the blankets folded back, and then the same hands that had been restraining him a moment earlier were helping him sit up and lean forward. He drew his knees up to his chest, and leaned his head on them, exhausted.

“She died, and you never got any chance to say goodbye.”

“I was there when she killed herself.” The rattling snarl that emerged from Hutch might have had more to do with the mucus in his lungs than it did with anything intentional, but it felt right.

“And believe me, I know you weren’t saying goodbye. You wanted to save her.” Starsky reached for the pitcher of water on the table next to the phone.

Hutch silently cursed Starsky’s persistence. Apparently having time to think made the man, in his own mind at least, an expert on Hutch’s psychology. Coming over today had definitely been a mistake. If I don’t end up giving him some sort of horrible infection, then he’s going to drive me to commit partner-cide, just to shut him up.

“Don’t—” he started to say, and then discovered that his voice had disappeared again. For crissake!

“You loved her,” said Starsky, as he poured water into a glass.

Hutch shook his head in emphatic denial. I didn’t love her, I only loved the idea of her. I lost sight of what love really means.

“None of it’s your fault, you know.” Starsky handed him the glass of water.

Yes it is.

“No, it’s not.”

Hutch’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Starsky snorted derisively. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking. And it isn’t your fault. She was everything you love in a woman.”

Hutch swallowed some water and found his voice. “You never liked her.” That nasty little flare of resentment sparked in his chest and, deeply ashamed, he attempted to squash it immediately.

“We hardly got the same taste in women, Hutch. I thought she was a snob, and she thought I was…” Starsky paused, clearly trying to recall the word she had used. “Uncouth. But to you she was beautiful and smart and cultured, and I think you saw something in her that needed-” Starsky stopped abruptly.

Hutch was unable to think of any way to finish that would adequately describe the enormity of what she needed. She had been all about need. She’d taken from Hutch as much as he had to give, and when he had nothing left, she’d turned on him.

And on Starsky.

Hutch pushed himself back on the bed, until he was propped up against the headboard. He remembered a woman with honey colored hair and light eyes, and skin so fair she glowed in the slanted light of the setting sun. She looked fragile, but she loved with a passion that left long bloody wounds in its wake.

It had been an accident, the first time he’d marked her. Shamed and horrified, he’d hastened to apologize.

“The opposite of pleasure is not pain,” she said, smiling. “It’s a lack of sensation. It’s death.”

If pleasure and pain are on the same side of the coin, maybe love and hate are as well. Hutch wondered where that left him. Feeling nothing.

“You ever play marbles when you were a kid, Hutch?”

Hutch shook his head. He had no idea where Starsky was going with this, but he knew better this time than to presume that it was a change of subject.

“We used to take some of our marbles and heat them in my mom’s oven. If you left them in there long enough the glass would crack. Not so much that the marble fell apart, but enough so that you had these thin lines running through the center. Prettiest thing you ever saw.” Starsky took the empty glass back from Hutch and placed it on the table. “But you couldn’t play with them. If you knocked them even a little, they’d break.”

Hutch felt the corner of his mouth twitch into something that was maybe a smile.

Or maybe something else.

He said, “You’re saying she was cracked.” Great, now he thinks he’s a philosopher.

Starsky simply looked at him, expressionless.

Hutch sighed, and then coughed lightly. “If it was so obvious, how come I never saw it?”

“Because you were looking at how beautiful she was, inside and out. I saw cracks, you saw…”

“…light,” finished Hutch. “Refraction, reflection, brilliance.” He lowered his head, grasping a fistful of hair. The pain felt good. It was much better than feeling nothing. “She hurt you,” he said. “You tried to warn me. I wouldn’t listen. And when she turned on me, she did it by attacking…” The one person I loved more than anyone. “…you.”

“She hurt you, too,” said Starsky. “And I was too wrapped up in myself to even notice.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Remember just before you sprung me from the hospital? I hardly let you get a word in edgewise. I was an ass, and you just let me get away with it!”

“I took off without a word, and left you there for eight days.” That did it. Hutch folded over as another round of coughing shook him.

Starsky rubbed his back, following the line of his spine. “You were busy tracking her down and getting your heart ripped to shreds, and then you come back, and what do I do? I tear into you some more.”

“You pulled me into bed with you. Again.” Hutch gave him an amused glance.

“It’s the only way I can get you to stop running away from me.”

Hutch frowned. What the hell was Starsky talking about? He wasn’t running away. He’d been sleeping on Starsky’s couch, checking in from work five times a day, doing everything Starsky couldn’t do for himself, and trying to keep on top of things down at the precinct as well. He’d dealt with the official reprimand, the inquiry, and the piles of paper work Dobey seemed to consider fair trade for his inexcusably unprofessional behavior. He’d been living practically on top of Starsky, bossing him around, lecturing him, bullying him into taking his meds, hiding his lighters…

And anyway, wasn’t it Starsky who had been refusing to talk?

He coughed again. Starsky handed him a Kleenex and he blew his nose.

“I was really worried you’d gone insane,” rasped Hutch. Unbidden, his hand traveled to his pocket where the latest of Starsky’s lighters still resided.

Starsky grinned. “What, the lighter thing? I’ll have you know the department’s psych says it was a perfectly healthy way of coping with boredom, under the circumstances. Plus, I was probably ‘facing my demons,’ though I don’t think I actually had any to face. And you know, you really didn’t have to hide all the matches and candles in the house as well.”

Hutch shrugged, and then started coughing again.

He was still coughing when Huggy arrived with their food. He paused in the door of Starsky’s bedroom, his arms full of parcels and his eyebrows climbing up into his hairline.

“It’s a pajama party, Hugs!” said Starsky cheerfully. “You wanna join us?”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Huggy with considerable dignity. “But I will pass, especially as you do not appear to be wearing pajamas, and he sounds like Typhoid Mary’s blonder cousin. I’ll take my payment in cash, thank you.”

This time when Hutch choked, it had nothing to do with his cold.

Starsky hollered at Huggy’s retreating back, “Aw, but we were going to pay you in jelly beans!”

Hutch felt his cheeks growing hot. He slid down the bed, pulling the blankets up over his face. As he listened to Starsky and Huggy banter, however, a new feeling began to supplant the embarrassment. It was an easing of a tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying, a final letting go of resentment and blame.

Starsky didn’t have a college education, but he was by far the wisest man Hutch knew. He had real class, in a way that had nothing to do with his taste in art or fine dining.

He’s right. I did love her. That felt good to admit, finally. But, I love him more. And that felt even better.

Hutch reached above the covers for the box of Kleenex. He didn’t dare emerge, and he didn’t want to wipe his streaming eyes on the underside of Starsky’s blanket. A hand shoved a wad of tissues at him, and he pulled them under the covers and blew his nose.

He felt Starsky lean over him, and heard him say, very quietly, “My feet got a little crisped, so what? Healing’s easy. You, on the other hand, have been doing a great impression of the living dead, and you haven’t been getting better. So, when your throat’s up to it, you’re going to tell me everything that happened. Because I’m ready to hear you now.” One rough pat, and then Starsky was back to yelling at Huggy in the kitchen.

Hutch generally thought of himself as an agnostic. Sometimes, on his bad days, he even considered that he might be an atheist. But the thought that occurred to him now was an honest prayer, both a promise and a plea to a higher power.

From now on – God help me – I swear I’ll listen to him.

~*~*~

For a brief, disoriented moment he wondered where he was. It didn’t seem right to wake up feeling quite this good. There was something almost unsettling about having experienced a full night’s sleep, without any dreams of any sort, disturbing or otherwise. But then he rolled over and saw the reason fast asleep on the pillow next to him.

Hutch smiled to himself, and lay back. For the first time in weeks he felt truly alive, and not even the congestion in his sinuses, or the alarming way his chest rattled when he breathed could impact on that. His gaze traveled around the room, taking in the cluttered tabletop, and the assorted flower arrangements brought home from the hospital. His contentment faded, replaced with puzzlement. Something was missing.

It took him a few minutes to put it together, to realize what had almost been overlooked in the chaos of the past month.

Hutch carefully slipped out of bed. If he was very quiet he might be able to pull the boxes down from the top of the bedroom cupboard without waking Starsky. After all these years of complaining about Starsky’s decorating, he thought he had a pretty good idea of where everything should go.

Only maybe this year he would get a real tree, a small one in a pot, instead of the tacky silver aluminum tabletop thing Starsky favored. He could give it a home in the park after the season was over.

Hutch was balanced on a chair, trying to reach a box on the top shelf that looked promising, when he thought he heard a noise from the bed. He turned to look, but Starsky still had his eyes shut, apparently asleep.

It might have been convincing, if it weren’t for the lines of stern control around his mouth. He was clearly struggling not to laugh.

Hutch grabbed the box, and stepped down off the chair with a thump. He tried to say, “I know you’re awake,” but his voice still seemed to be missing in action. He coughed a few times instead, and Starsky lost his battle with himself. His eyes flew open and he chortled.

Hutch scowled. Grabbing something from the top of the box, he pitched it at Starsky. The clump of plastic mistletoe impacted with Starsky’s chest and bounced onto the covers.

Starsky retrieved the ornament and held it up. “Is this a hint? You trying to tell me something here?” He blew a kiss in Hutch’s direction. Then he ducked as a stuffed Rudolf bounced off the wall above his head. “Hey, reindeer really can fly!”

Hutch rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t suppress the grin on his face.

Few people would call this normal, but this was what he’d been missing. This was where he belonged.

End.