Sweet Recovery

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Starsky is finding convalescence hard to handle following Gunther’s hit.

 

With thanks to Morgan Logan, C_C and Dawn for help, advice and constructive criticism — not to mention encouragement! And to Sheila for a final beta. Thank you all.

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“Get outta here! Just get out and don’t bother coming back, you hear me? I don’t wanna see your face here again. I’ve had it, buddy.”

The venom in this last word made Hutch flinch, and without another look at his partner, he picked up his jacket and left. He had no idea how his legs had carried him down the stairs and across to where his car was parked, but somehow he found himself sitting behind the wheel, clutching at it with both hands, while his heart battered at his chest and his partner’s final words resounded in his skull. This surely was the end of their long partnership, their even longer friendship. Starsky had made that abundantly plain.

With a gaping void inside himself, Hutch started the car and began to drive.

 

Two months earlier

Starsky sat on the couch in his apartment, feeling oddly numb. After months in the hospital recovering from Gunther’s assassination attempt, being back home was the fulfillment of a dream. But now he was there, the dream was beginning to turn dull around the edges, and he had only been home thirty minutes.

Grimacing, he shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. He couldn’t. His couch was designed for sprawling, not offering support to a bullet-ravaged body. That was just another disillusion to add to his list. Crazy though it was, he realized that somehow he had been pinning a lot on the day he got home, as if by some miracle he would be well again. If anything, being back in these familiar surroundings only reinforced how far he still had to go. The small traces showing that Hutch had moved in to give him a hand until he could manage by himself also bugged him, although he knew that without Hutch’s offer to stay he would still have been in the hospital.

“What can I get you for lunch, buddy?” Hutch’s face was almost as bright as his hair, and Starsky felt a twinge of irritation. What have you got to look so fucking happy about? I’m sitting here, feeling like shit, and you look like you don’t have a care in the world.

“‘m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You need to eat something, Starsk. You know what the doctor said. You’ve got to start building yourself up before you can really get started on the physiotherapy.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m still not hungry.”

“Well, I am. How about I heat up some of this soup? I’m sure you could manage just a little of it, huh?”

But when it came to it, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Hutch sighed to himself as he removed the untouched bowl, and replaced it with Starsky’s midday medications. Watching his partner swallow the pills, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he and Starsky had been together in this room. It was strange, he mused, how much more frail his partner looked here than he had at the hospital this morning, as if putting him back in his own context had highlighted the injuries he had suffered.

Mentally, he shook himself. Positive thoughts, he reminded himself. The docs have all agreed it should just be a matter of time now—and hard work. The physiotherapy isn’t gonna be much fun, but it will pay off, I just know it will.

“I’m gonna go lie down.” Hutch came out of his reverie at the sound of his partner’s voice.

“Uh, sure. You need a hand?”

“I think I can manage to undress myself,” came the sarcastic reply.

Hutch could almost see the black mood descending on Starsky, even from the other side of the room. Its tendrils stretched out to him, crawling along his skin. Biting his lip to keep himself from saying anything, he watched as Starsky painfully levered himself up off the couch and across to his bedroom. There was no door, but Hutch could hear it slam anyway.

~oOo~

Starsky’s mood lifted a little as the days passed, although he was still unusually irritable. Hutch tried hard to maintain an even temper, but it was very difficult at times. His initial euphoria on learning that Starsky would live, and would not be permanently disabled, had quickly settled into a degree of contentment he could not remember feeling for years—if at all. But Starsky’s continuing misery, both physical and emotional, was slowly bleeding Hutch’s cushion of contentment, each bad day letting a little more of the padding out, making it a little thinner and less secure. The doctors had warned them both that long-term convalescence was hard not just on the sick person, but also on those taking on the caregiver’s role, and whenever Hutch found his temper fraying, he reminded himself of how much he had to be thankful for. Most of the time, it worked. When it didn’t, he tried to get out to do the grocery shopping or any of the many other chores constantly demanding his time. At least he could leave Starsky alone now, for a short while. It gave them both some much-needed breathing space.

~oOo~

“Hutch, just get off my back, willya? I’ll do the exercises when I’m good and ready.”

“Starsk, you know Dan said you needed to do them regularly or they just won’t work as well. I haven’t seen you do them for days now. You really need to get down to this, buddy, or—”

“Or what? You won’t let me have any candy? For god’s sake, Hutch, who do you think you are? My mom?”

Hutch clamped his jaw tightly shut and headed to the kitchen. Stay calm. He doesn’t mean it, he’s just frustrated. He had developed this litany a few days earlier, and now used it whenever Starsky lost his temper with him, chanting it silently like a meditation exercise, willing it to calm his heart rate and lower his blood pressure. No one could get to him like Starsky, no one’s voice had that edge that could get right through his defenses and shatter his hard-won equilibrium.

Dinner was in the oven and almost done before either man spoke again. Hutch had learned from bitter experience over the past weeks that it was best to let Starsky alone until he was ready.

“So,” Starsky cleared his throat, and tried again. “So, you going into Metro tomorrow?”

“Dobey’s asked me to go in for a couple of hours, yeah. Wants me to run through some of the case with him.” There was no need for Starsky to ask which case Hutch meant. Since the shooting, there had only been one case for Hutch. While Starsky had still been in the hospital, his partner had been working on nothing else in between visits. Now he was home, Starsky couldn’t exactly recall having seen Hutch doing anything on the case.

“How far’ve you got with it?”

Hutch tilted an eyebrow at him as he lifted the casserole out of the oven and stood it off to one side while he reached for the plates. Starsky had hardly shown any interest in the progress of Gunther’s prosecution, and Hutch was reluctant to discuss it in case it upset his partner. Maybe he is beginning to feel a little better now if he’s getting interested.

“I mean, have you nearly done?”

“No.” Hutch was still cautious. He wasn’t sure Starsky was ready to hear the details yet, even if he was ready to give them, which he wasn’t. In fact, Hutch sometimes wondered if he would ever be able to talk to Starsky about what had happened. Even this brief mention made the blood turn heavy in his veins, and his breathing quicken. He had told no-one, but on two occasions so far he had experienced flashbacks to Starsky’s shooting, so vivid they left him terrified, only able to calm down once he had managed to check on his partner again, listen to him breathe, hear him speak. He didn’t want another one, right in front of Starsky, who, after all, had more than enough to deal with. So he was deliberately vague as he continued. “Seems like the more I do, the more I find. I’m not gonna let Gunther walk because of some mistake in the paperwork, buddy, so I’m being real thorough with this one.”

“I haven’t seen you doing much on it.” The comment sounded faintly accusatory.

“Yeah, well, that’s because I’ve got other things to do when you’re around,” Hutch replied, lightly. He really did not want to get into this now.

“So, when are you working on it then? Or are you gonna hafta tell Dobey you’ve not made much progress?” Definitely a hostile tone now.

“I’m getting on with it when you’re asleep,” countered Hutch. “You ready to eat?” Some deity must have been on his side that night, as Starsky allowed the subject to drop. But that in itself was another worry for Hutch. His pre-Gunther partner would never have been that easily misled. Hutch reminded himself that convalescents inevitably tended to be self-absorbed until they had recovered, and pushed his unease into the back of his mind. The only trouble was, with everything else that was getting shoved in there these days, the back of his mind was rapidly running out of space and seemed to be planning a takeover of the rest.

~oOo~

Starsky’s progress, although steady, was slow, and if anything his temper grew even more uncertain. Everything Hutch did was wrong, his help, though still needed, bitterly resented. He had begun to wonder if he was making things worse by being there. Perhaps Starsky really would be better with a visiting nurse? He wouldn’t need one for much longer. But as soon as he mentioned it, Starsky had blown up in his face like a firecracker on speed, accusing Hutch of wanting to abandon him, so that was the end of that idea. But there were whole days when Hutch hardly dared open his mouth, even to deal with essentials, for fear of having his head bitten off. His partner came home from his regular treatments exhausted and irritable, snapping at Hutch for everything and nothing, and being simultaneously demanding and resentful of his continuing dependence.

“Where the hell have ya been? I’m starvin’, and there’s not a single thing here I’d even consider eating. You’d better have gotten some real food in there somewhere.”

Hutch was still struggling through the door, laden with bags, while his partner grouched from his seat in front of the TV. Gritting his teeth, Hutch tried to forget the crowded store, full of people with shopping carts piled high, that he had been forced to negotiate his way round, trying to find all of the long list of items Starsky had insisted he should buy. It was the start of the Labor Day weekend, the temperature was in the nineties, and Hutch was nearly at the end of his tether. Starsky’s couch had never been the most comfortable of places for him to sleep, even just for the occasional night. Sleeping on it regularly was giving him a backache that no longer wore off as the day went on. The heat was getting him down too. His Scandinavian genes were not designed for California summers, and even years of living out here hadn’t fully acclimatized him.

“You get that salami I wanted?”

“It’s in one of the bags.”

“Great. I’ll have a sandwich, with all the fixings.”

“Starsky, I’ve got all this stuff to unpack, and some of it needs to be put away now before it melts. If I find you the salami, maybe you could get your own lunch if that you’re that hungry?”

“Oh sure, if it’s too much trouble, I’ll just do it all myself.”

Hutch almost gave in, but remembering yesterday’s regular appointment with the doctor, managed to refrain from offering to make the sandwich. He went with Starsky to every doctor’s appointment as a matter of course; it wasn’t even discussed between them. Hutch found he could remember what was being said to his partner much better than Starsky, even now that his partner was using less medication. In fact, Starsky seemed to have developed an almost willful deafness when it came to his meds, relying on Hutch to produce the right pills at the right times. It just made sense for Hutch to be there too. After a general physical exam, the results of which had been encouraging, the doctor had moved on to review the results of Starsky’s physiotherapy. Again, she had been very pleased, and asked about how active Starsky was around the house now. On hearing that her patient felt too tired after his sessions to do much other than crash on the couch, she had frowned.

“You know, Dave, there comes a time where you have to stop thinking like an invalid, and I think you’ve reached that point now. Your body stopped being an invalid a few weeks ago.”

Starsky began to say something, but the doctor carried on.

“I know you don’t think so, but that’s part of the problem. Sure, you still have a way to go before you’ll be able to be completely independent again, but it’s time you started to do more for yourself. If you stay in the invalid mindset, it could slow your recovery right down.” She smiled at Hutch, sitting listening to every word. “I’m sure Ken here could do with a break now and then, anyway. Seems to me he’s still doing everything for you, and you don’t need that any more, Dave. You need to make a start. Nothing too energetic at first, of course, but getting your own breakfast, maybe, a little light housework. That kind of thing. Once you begin, I think you’ll be surprised how much better you might feel for it.”

Starsky had grumbled the whole way home. “What the hell does she know, anyway. She has no fucking idea how tired I get doing that damn physiotherapy. It hurts like hell, and then she expects me to come home and do the cooking and cleaning, for god’s sake. Well, I’m not gonna do it.”

Despite himself, Hutch had to struggle to suppress a grin that was threatening the corners of his mouth. At that moment, he felt a strong surge of empathy with Starsky’s mother, who must surely have heard that exact tone many times when his partner was a kid. “Starsk, she’s only suggesting you try toasting a bit of bread and making coffee in the mornings, not cooking a gourmet meal. I think you could manage that.”

“Yeah, well you should try being in my shoes, then you wouldn’t say that. Easy for you, Hutchinson. You don’t hurt every time you move.”

The words ripped through his gentle amusement like a rapier through silk and his gut clenched as the familiar guilt took up residence again. Some days he could almost believe it was fading, then something happened, a word, a look, even a sound, and it was back in full force, its teeth deep in his soul. He was beginning to accept that it would be with him for ever. It should have been me. It should have been me. Dear God, why couldn’t you have let it be me?

But he still had his job to do. Not the job that, until recently, had paid his rent, but his self-appointed job, to help Starsky get well; to make sure he got well. So he simply carried on putting away the groceries, watching as Starsky made his sandwich with the maximum amount of fuss and mess, and equally silently cleared up after him. He forgot to eat anything himself.

~oOo~

By the time the next doctor’s appointment came around, Starsky was getting his own breakfast and lunch. He was also intimating, none-too politely, that he no longer needed Hutch to stay, and would in fact appreciate having his apartment back. This was pretty much the first thing he said as he walked into the doctor’s office.

“I don’t need a babysitter any more, doc. I’m doin’ like you said, getting my meals and everything.”

“That’s great to hear, Dave. Let’s just check you over and see how you’re doing, okay? Ken, maybe you’d like to go get some coffee? We should be done with the examination in about fifteen minutes, so why don’t you come back then?”

Hutch was a little surprised. He had always stayed for the whole appointment before, but he caught a look in Dr. Harding’s eye that was asking him not to kick up a fuss. He looked across at his partner to see if he was happy with it, but Starsky didn’t look at him.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “I could use a coffee anyway.”

As she reached for the blood pressure cuff to begin the routine tests, Dr. Harding said casually, “So, Dave, how are you really? Are you still in much pain?” The questions continued throughout the battery of tests, only ending when Hutch walked back in through the door.

Dr. Harding waited for Starsky to finish buttoning up his shirt and sit back down before she spoke.

“You’re making really good progress, now, Dave. All the test results are improving, and I can see that you’re getting stronger and able to do more.”

“So it’s okay for me to be on my own, then, doc?”

“No, Dave, not just yet.” She smiled at him, apparently oblivious to the irritation Starsky clearly felt. “You’re doing really well, but we have to be careful about setbacks. If you overdo things, you could put yourself back by several weeks. If Ken doesn’t mind, I think it best he stays with you for a while longer.”

“How much longer?” Starsky voice was harsh.

“There are no hard and fast rules about this, Dave, you should know that by now. It might just be a few more weeks, it might take a little longer. Let’s see how you’re doing at your next appointment, okay? In the meantime, I think it’s time we had a look at changing your pain medication. We need to reduce the doses a little anyway, and I think you might benefit from a completely different one.”

Starsky’s attention wandered as the doctor continued to explain about the new drug, its benefits and its potential side effects. Dimly he heard some mention of “increased irritability”, and “in rare cases, some personality changes, reversible when the dose is stopped”, but the words slipped off the cocoon of his self-absorption.

He didn’t really understand himself why he kept pushing Hutch to move back out. His partner was the only person he could have accepted help from to the extent he had needed it since the shooting, yet buried deep, deeper than he had ever cared to explore, he was becoming aware that something was stirring. He didn’t know what it was, but it was making him very uneasy. And an uneasy Starsky was not a happy Starsky, even under the best of circumstances.

~oOo~

Starsky hardly spoke a word the rest of the day. When they got back from seeing Dr. Harding, he went straight to the TV and turned it on, and proceeded to sit staring at the screen for the next five hours. He was, however, barely aware of what was being shown for most of that time. Instead, the same thoughts scuttered round and round in his head. She keeps saying I’m gettin’ better, but she hasn’t once come right out and said I’ll get back to how I was. What if this is as good as it gets? Can’t walk without a cane, can’t even drive, for fuck’s sake, can’t be left on my own for more’n a coupla hours at a time, can’t have a beer—can’t do anything that makes life worth living. What’s the fucking point? And Hutch keeps acting like it’s only a matter of time before we’re back on the streets together. What if I never recover enough? I just can’t see it. Christ, I get tired just walking up the stairs to this place, can’t see I’d ever be able to chase some punk. Why can’t he accept it and just get on with his life? I don’t need him to be a martyr. I never asked him to move in with me. God, what am I gonna do if this really is as good as I’ll ever be?

Round and round in his head, until he thought he would scream. Finally, he could take no more of it. He pushed himself forcefully off the couch, with more vigor than he had shown since the shooting, and ignoring Hutch entirely, grabbed the new meds, swallowed two and went to bed. The drugs knocked him out almost as quickly as he had hoped.

~oOo~

Hutch paced silently up and down, feeling like some kind of zoo specimen. Apart from the trip to the doctor’s he hadn’t been out all day. He had been too worried about Starsky’s black mood to leave him alone, and now he needed to stay close in case of side-effects from the new meds. Dr. Harding had reeled off a long list when he came back to collect his partner, repeating what she had already told Starsky. The list included possible breathing difficulties, so he had to be within earshot, at least this first time Starsky took them. She had also said some people suffered from personality changes, although this was rare. He snorted softly. Just at the moment, perhaps a personality change would be a good thing. He had thought, that day at the hospital when the doctors finally decided Starsky was going to pull through, that nothing his partner ever did would irritate him again. How wrong could I be? God knows, I’m grateful he didn’t die, so grateful, but when is he gonna get back to being Starsky? It’s like living with an alien, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. I love him, but I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

As the stark reality of his thought registered in his tired mind, he slumped in dismay on the couch, rubbing at his face as if he could scrub away the contents of his mind. How could even think such a thing? Starsky’s life was so precious to him, more precious than his own, as he had realized a long time ago. So how could he possibly even contemplate not being able to continue helping Starsky, now when his partner really needed help?

He sat there for a long time, feeling the ache in his back from too many nights on a couch too small for his long body, and an ache in his heart from grief and disillusionment. But he could no longer hide from the truth.

The constant barrage of criticism and complaint was wearing him down. Almost as hard to live with was the cold silence which was the only alternative Starsky had to offer these days. However hard Hutch tried, it was impossible to ignore. What made it worse, though, far worse, was that he knew he deserved it. He had survived unscathed, and his partner had nearly died—had died. Add to that the emotional trauma he had tried to suppress, the nightmares that still disturbed his sleep almost every night and the lack of time to see to his own body’s needs for proper food and exercise, and he could feel himself beginning to unravel. Hardest of all to maintain was the iron control that he had to exert over his own emotions. He couldn’t inflict his problems on Starsky. There was no-one he could talk to about how he was feeling, no-one who could help him cope with his own fears and guilt, with the panic attacks, with the worry over their future—or if they even had a joint future, which was a whole big worry all by itself.

But he still needs me. I can’t let him down again. But from everything he says, every time he opens his mouth, I’m worried I’m just making it harder for him.

~oOo~

Present

After ten days on the new meds, it was clear that Starsky was not doing any better on the mood front. He alternated between railing at Hutch, and ignoring him totally, and Hutch’s isolation was reaching intolerable levels. He was not a man used to constant company, in fact neither of them was, and he tried his best to give them both some space, within the confines of looking after Starsky and giving him the help he still needed. But it didn’t seem to help.

Until now, he thought he had managed to keep everything together. But this evening—this evening, Hutch felt that the partnership, the friendship—everything—might just be blown to pieces.

Numbly, he started the car and pulled away. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what had just happened. It hurt too much. Instead, he just drove. Not home. It held too many memories.

Making for PCH, he pointed the car north and kept going, until finally exhaustion overcame him as the sun rose high enough to light up the ocean on his left. He knew he should find a motel, get a room, but it all seemed like too much effort. Instead, he took the next exit and after another thirty minutes’ driving found a place overlooking the sea where he could pull in. Leaving the car, he walked along the path for a while until he found a secluded area, and finally flopped onto the grass, propping his back up against a rock and closing his eyes.

Immediately, last night’s confrontation began to replay in his head. It had been a relatively normal day, in this abnormal world they now lived in, with Hutch doing a grocery run and then preparing a meal that they would both be willing to eat. Starsky had hardly spoken to him all day, although he had been talkative enough to Huggy when the barkeep stopped in for a while mid-afternoon.

Once the meal was over, Hutch had cleared up and then laid out the evening’s medications and reminded his partner that he still had his exercises to do.

Without warning, Starsky had turned on him. It had begun as the usual crap, that Hutch knew was just Starsky venting his frustration. But this time, it went much further. It was like watching a geyser erupt, as stuff Starsky must have been brooding about for years erupted into the atmosphere. Starsky made no effort to contain his vitriol, and what he said struck Hutch so hard that he felt physically sick.

All he could do was stand and listen while his partner let rip about everything Hutch had ever done to offend him, from non-stop beefing about his car, through long-forgotten practical jokes, issues from cases Hutch hadn’t even remembered, to Kira and finally to the shooting.

“Some kinda partner you’ve been, huh, pal?” demanded Starsky, still standing, his face flushed with anger. “I took three bullets, and you? You were just fine, weren’t you, buddy boy! Not a scratch on you. You really watched my back well, didn’t you? And then what happened? Oh yeah, I remember. I spend weeks in the hospital, and months afterwards, crippled and hurting every time I even breathe, and you—you get a fucking medal for going after Gunther! Well, I’ve had it. Get outta here! Just get out and don’t bother coming back, you hear me? I don’t need you, and I don’t wanna see your face here again. I mean it. I’ve had it, buddy.”

Hutch shook as he remembered those last words. Everything Starsky had said, about how Hutch had not had a scratch on him from the shooting, only ripped further apart the wounds that he had carried inside himself since that May afternoon. It should have been him hit, him dying, not Starsky. His sense of guilt had all but overwhelmed him, and now he knew that Starsky blamed him too.

The guilt that had wracked him for months, that he had tried to suppress for both their sakes, could no longer be contained. Starsky’s anger had released it like the contents of a pressure cooker, and it spat upwards in a loud, angry surge, coating him in a thick, dark miasma.

Thrown off balance, not only by Starsky’s anger but by his own accumulated exhaustion, by his guilt, by his barely-contained distress, only one thing seemed obvious to him now. He wasn’t helping Starsky any by his presence; quite the reverse.

That was why he had left last night. How could he argue with the truth? He had let his partner and best friend down. Starsky didn’t want him there, and who could blame him? Probably the mere sight of Hutch, whole and unharmed by the bullets that had ravaged him, only made it harder for Starsky to live through the long, long days of recovery. The best thing he could do for Starsky—the only thing—was to go right away and let him finish his recovery in peace. God, the thought of that hurt, but he knew it was no more than he deserved.

~oOo~

Starsky woke to see the sun streaming in through the window. Groggily, he blinked, trying to think why it felt wrong. The sun’s so high—what time is it? Must be mid-morning. My pills… He could feel the pain in his body, telling him he was overdue the next dose of painkillers. Lying still, he frowned slightly. Hutch always made sure he took his meds on time. Where the fuck was he?

“Hutch!”

Silence.

“Damn you, Hutch, what the hell do you think you’re playing at! I’m hurting here! Call yourself a goddamned nurse… where are my meds?”

Still nothing. An uneasy feeling began to crawl into Starsky’s gut, worming in between the pain that still dominated his attention. When another yell produced only more silence, he swore again and began to struggle to his feet. Who needs a fucking nursemaid anyway. I always knew he’d never go the distance. Reaching the kitchen, he could see the pill bottle sitting on the table. He was halfway to the sink to get some water to swallow them with when a picture flashed across his mind so clearly, for a moment he thought it was real. Hutch’s face, suddenly old and drawn, gray with an agony so profound it had etched itself through the pale eyes and onto the skin. The vision was accompanied by the sound of a voice, filled with hatred, yelling, and Starsky remembered what had happened last night. This was no sleep-blurred vision. This was real. He barely made it to a chair before his legs gave out.

His mind raced, wanting to believe it was only a dream, but forced to accept the reality of his sole presence in the apartment. It was the first time he had woken up alone since the shooting, he realized. His brain was spinning and swooping, one moment furious with Hutch and everything around him, the other desperately needing his partner to come back.

What the hell is the matter with me? I feel like shit, and I’ve been behaving like shit—and I still wanna shout and scream and hurl stuff…

The pill bottle on the table in front of him caught his attention again, and he reached out a hand for it, thinking that perhaps if he could get the pain under control he would be able to think more clearly. But, out of nowhere, he heard a voice in his head “…best medication for his condition at the moment, but there may be some side effects. A lot of patients who take this drug do find it affects their moods, and makes them more emotionally volatile…”

Before he could think it through, Starsky picked up the bottle and hurled it, with all his steadily returning strength, at the wall. The bottle shattered and pills rolled everywhere, but he ignored them.

Hutch’ll be back. He was there when the doc prescribed those pills. He wouldn’t leave me alone for long. I’ll just go back to bed for a while, and he’ll be here when I wake up. He could feel something pressing at his mind, urging that he pay it attention, but he blocked it out. Everything was just too much to cope with. Bed was where he needed to be, and that was where he was going.

When Starsky woke, hours later, he felt a moment of disorientation. It wasn’t quite dark, but he was hurting and hungry. Cautiously pushing himself upright in the bed, he called out, “Hutch?”

As his voice fell into the emptiness around him, he remembered his earlier awakening. A cold panic began to gnaw around the edges of his pain, threatening to swamp it. He’d been so sure Hutch would be back by now. He must have slept through the whole day. Since he had been out of the hospital, Hutch had never left him alone for this long.

His mind still fogged with sleep and the throbbing from his healing injuries, it took an effort to get out of bed, but he made it and headed for the kitchen. Resentment still muttered around the edges of his thoughts, and he focused on finding something to eat. The refrigerator was full of easy to prepare snacks, many of Starsky’s favorite foods sitting on the shelves next to Hutch’s preferences. As he scanned the laden shelves, his awareness skittered uneasily away from the feelings stirring within him, the remembrance of Hutch doing all the grocery shopping, looking after him…

Resolutely, he clamped down again on his thoughts. He could not cope with this, and refused to give houseroom in his head to whatever this was. Grabbing the nearest thing, he ate without really tasting, and then staggered slowly to the bathroom. Tylenol wouldn’t do much for the pain, but at least it might take enough of an edge off to help him get some more sleep. Oblivion seemed the only reasonable goal at the moment.

The next day passed in a similar way, although with less sleep and more staring at the TV, but toward evening Starsky began to feel as though a cloud was slowly clearing from his mind. Pain was still tugging at him, insufficiently dampened by the Tylenol, but he realized he could think again, really think. He felt strong enough to try and face what had happened two evenings ago—and what he had done. Suddenly, a pain shot through his mind, ten times fiercer than anything inflicted on his body by bullets. God—it wasn’t a dream—did I really—oh shitshitshit. What the hell have I done? He heard again every word he had thrown at Hutch, and shrank into himself as the torrent of abuse and accusations thundered through his apartment again in his imagination.

How long he sat like that, he never knew. Eventually, when the sky outside was completely dark, he sat up and tried to think what to do. He knew, now he was thinking straight again, that Hutch would not be coming back anytime soon—if ever. How could he, after what Starsky had hurled at him? If he wanted to see Hutch again—and he did, god, how he did; already his partner’s absence was tunneling into his consciousness like animals undermining the foundations of a house—then he would have to go after him, find him. But first, he was going to have to do something about the pain. Tylenol might just get him through the hours if all he was planning was a hard day on the couch watching garbage on the TV, but he would need something stronger. First thing in the morning, he was going to pay his doctor a visit. In the meantime—the shrill sound of the phone startled him, and for one brief moment hope flared in him and he grabbed the receiver. “Hutch?”

“Hey, m’man. You missing Hutchie already?”

“Huggy, what d’ya mean? How did you know Hutch ain’t here?” Starsky’s voice was more filled with life than Huggy could recall hearing since the shooting, but it was not a happy sound.

“Our blond brother called yesterday, but I wasn’t around. Left a message with one of my new waitresses, and the dumb chick only just remembered to give it to me. Said you were feeling better and didn’t need so much help any more, so he was heading off for a while. Wanted that I should call you, check that you were okay.”

The silence on the other end of the line worried Huggy even more than the message had. “Starsky? Are you all right? You need the Bear to come round?”

“Hug, I—yeah. Can you come now? And can you find out if Hutch said anything about where he was calling from?”

“Sure thing. I’m on my way.”

When Huggy arrived, he was horrified by the change in his friend since his last visit. The man looked gaunt and anguished, almost as bad as when he had first woken up in the hospital, even though he was moving around. Putting aside all his colorful language for once, he sat Starsky down at the table in the kitchen and began to make coffee.

“What happened, Starsky? Why isn’t Hutch here? How long has he been gone?”

Starsky told him, in an emotionless tone that might have fooled someone who didn’t know him well. To Huggy, the pain was palpable. As Starsky finished, Huggy set coffee and a plate of sandwiches in front of him and took a sip of his own coffee before speaking.

“Starsky, Hutch knew those pills were making you irritable. He’s even laughed about it with me a coupla times. You’re getting better and the doc’s reducing the medication, so maybe he’s just taken off for a day or two of R and R, you know what I mean? You don’t need to worry, m’man. He’ll be back soon.”

Starsky refused to look at him, but he had been shaking his head even before Huggy had finished. “No, Hug,” he said, in a voice so low the other had to strain to hear him. “You don’t know—I didn’t tell you what I said.”

“C’mon, bro, there ain’t nothin’ that bad you coulda said to drive Hutchie away.” Huggy tried to be upbeat, but the look on Starsky’s face was worrying him.

“Huggy, you don’t know shit about what I said,” Starsky shot back, with such violence that Huggy flinched and nearly spilt his coffee. “I’ve got to find him—tell him I didn’t mean any of it.”

“And just how’re you gonna do that? You ain’t in no fit state to go lookin’ for anything, man.”

“I know. I’m gonna see the doc first thing tomorrow, see if I can get something that won’t mess with my head. Then I can start looking.”

Huggy looked at him doubtfully. “Hey man, you think you’ll get an appointment that soon? Seems to me your doc’s card’ll be pretty full up just after the weekend, ya dig?”

“She’ll see me,” said Starsky, grimly.

~oOo~

Starsky’s sleep that night was fitful. It was haunted by images of his partner receding from him like the tide inexorably going out to the tug of the moon. When he finally surfaced at dawn, he felt like he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours, but his mind was clear. He was on the doorstep of his doctor’s office before it opened, and ousted her first appointment of the day by sheer insistence and bullying. Dr. Harding was not amused, but as he tensely pointed out to her, the drugs that she had prescribed had caused the problem that now brought him here.

“Dave, I’m sorry that you’ve had to suffer some side effects, but I did explain to you both at the time that this might be an issue. I really don’t—”

“Doc, I haven’t come here to yell at you about it,” Starsky said wearily. He felt he had done enough yelling for two people’s lifetimes recently. “I just want you to give me something I can take to help with the pain that won’t fuck up my mind any more. Surely you can do that?”

Dr. Harding looked at him compassionately. She had not been happy when he had practically forced his way into her office, screwing up her appointment schedule for the whole day and upsetting her secretary, but Dave Starsky had been a miracle patient in many ways, and she was not yet cynical enough in her work to be unmoved. The man had gone through so much, and now at last seemed on the way to a full recovery. There was no reason not to do as he asked, and the side effects he had described did seem excessive.

“Yes, Dave, there is something else I can prescribe for you. But I think you should know you can’t necessarily blame all your irritability and mood swings on the drugs you’ve been taking. Some of it may well be just the natural effect of coming close to death, and having such a long recovery time. Many people who have near-death experiences, or who are badly incapacitated as a result of illness or injury, do become significantly depressed, you know, and one of the symptoms of that can be outbreaks of temper or—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that too,” he snapped. “But that I can cope with if I have to. What I’ve been feeling hasn’t been outbreaks of temper; it’s been more like freaking explosions. Look, I don’t have time for this now, and I don’t suppose you have, either. Just give me the scrip and I’ll be outta here.”

He filled the prescription on his way home, and took the first dose as soon as he got in. There was no doubt that he needed something stronger than Tylenol if he was going to keep moving and be able to look for where his partner might have gone. Huggy had already checked out Hutch’s apartment, and reported back that there was no sign that Hutch had been there in days. The mail was still lying uncollected and, more ominously, several of his plants were drooping for lack of water.

The next step was to contact the station. Hutch hadn’t been going in to the precinct regularly since Starsky came out of the hospital, and now his mind was clearer Starsky was a little surprised by just how much time off his partner had seemed able to swing. Dobey accommodated them more than most captains would when one of them was injured, he knew, but still…? Picking up the phone, he got through to Dobey with no trouble.

“Starsky? That you, son? How’re you doing?” The Captain’s huge voice boomed through the receiver. “I hope you’re calling to tell me you don’t need Hutch any more and he can get back to work. I need him, even if he won’t be much use to me until you’re here too.”

“Not exactly, Cap. Uh, when were you expecting Hutch back?”

“Hah! I’d appreciate knowing that, too. But he just marched in here demanding unpaid leave when his vacation time ran out, and said he couldn’t give me any idea of how long he’d be gone. Said it depended on you. You know what he’s like, Starsky. When I told him I’d have to have some idea, he just told me he’d resign if that made it easier. Sometimes, I wonder how either of you boys still have a job, but—”

“Wait a minute, Cap,” Starsky’s hand tightened around the receiver and a gnawing chill started in his gut. “What d’ya mean ‘unpaid leave’? Hutch is still working on the Gunther case; he said you’d okayed him doing it here since it was mostly paperwork and it didn’t matter where it was done.”

“No, son, that’s not right. Sure, he worked on the case, but that was when you were still in the hospital. Didn’t do much else, then, but visit you and then come back here and work all the hours he could. He got the case sewn up so tight there’s no way Gunther’s going to walk. But I was worried about him then. I tell you, Starsky, the man was a mess. I don’t think he was sleeping more than a few hours a night, and it didn’t look like that was doing him much good either. I thank God every day that’s behind us now and you’re getting well again. He’s been off the squad since not long after you came home. I think it took him two-three weeks to finish up, and then he handed it all over to the D.A.’s office. What made you think he’s still been working on it? When would he have the time, with everything else he’s been doing?”

Like looking after me, thought Starsky, bitterly. He hadn’t questioned Hutch when he’d said that about working at home. Hutch had simply said he managed to find enough time to get the paperwork done while Starsky was sleeping, and he hadn’t felt well enough at first, or cared enough later, to see that this wasn’t true. You lied to me, Hutch. Why? Why didn’t you want me to know you weren’t working? Unpaid leave? But—and it crashed in on him that that was why Hutch had pretended still to be working. He hadn’t wanted Starsky to know that he was no longer receiving a paycheck.

Somehow, Starsky managed to finish the call, his mind still whirling. If Hutch wasn’t getting paid, how in hell was he managing to pay the rent on his apartment? And what about all the grocery bills? Starsky realized, now he thought about it, that he hadn’t seemed to pay for anything in the past few months. He had his medical disability, but Hutch did the shopping; Hutch paid. Uncomfortably, Starsky remembered all the prescriptions Hutch had filled for him, too, and the house bills that he never even bothered to open, just shoving them at his partner to deal with. Those damn drugs screwed me up as much as the bullets did. I can’t believe I’ve let this go so long without even thinking about it.

He forced himself to concentrate. Wallowing in self-recrimination was not going to help him do what he needed to do, which was to find Hutch before he vanished forever. Starsky had no illusions about his partner’s ability to disappear without trace if he really wanted to. The man was a cop, and a good one. He knew as well as any criminal the ways to get around without leaving a trail. Now the mood-affecting drugs were clearing out of his system, Starsky was chilled by the thought of Hutch’s reaction to his words. Hutch shouldered grief and guilt too easily, and it was hard to persuade him to let go. He would have felt bad enough about the shooting, and then to have his partner blame him as he must have been blaming himself…

Starsky was terrified of what Hutch might do if he didn’t find him soon. He would never normally have given the risk of suicide a second thought in connection with his partner; but he couldn’t forget the look on Hutch’s face as he left the apartment, Starsky’s cruel words still bouncing off the walls. Hutch was not close to his family, so it was unlikely he’d go back to Duluth for emotional support. So where the hell would he go? The obvious place to start was Hutch’s apartment. If he hadn’t been there yet, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go, even if it was for one last time. Reaching for the phone, he called for a cab.

An hour later, it was clear to him that Hutch had still not been back to his place yet. Okay. He can’t have gone far, not yet. He didn’t plan for this, didn’t even come home and pick up his things. I know he left my place with just his jacket, and nothing’s gone from here. Bet he just took off and he’s somewhere not too far off, brooding. If he really means to take off permanently, he wouldn’t do it without stopping by his apartment to pick up some things—especially since he’s had no pay, so he can’t exactly afford to just buy a loada new stuff.

The thought brought a kind of relief. He would have trailed Hutch to the ends of the earth if he had to, but some instinct was telling him this was not what was needed. He simply had to stay put at Hutch’s apartment. If there was no external evidence of his presence, Hutch would not be scared off. There was no reason, after what had happened just before he left, for Hutch to expect to see his partner there. Once Hutch was inside, they could talk. They could sort everything out. They had to.

~oOo~

Hutch wearily pulled his car over into a space in front of Venice Place. He turned off the engine and slumped against the steering wheel, exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this tired—probably just before Starsky finally woke from the coma. He had been tired since then, bone tired, but that day in the hospital was the last time he had felt this echoing emptiness inside himself, as if a bell that normally hummed with his partner’s life and vigor had been muffled forever.

No, don’t go there, just don’t think about Starsky. It’s over; he never wants to see you again. You just make it worse for him, harder for him to get better, to get over it. Every time he sees you, it just brings back so much shit; so many times I’ve hurt him or let him down. Quit stalling and get yourself up those stairs, Hutchinson, get a bag packed and get out. Don’t care where. Doesn’t matter. Just do it.

The past few days he had spent mostly staring at the ocean. He couldn’t afford even a cheap motel, so just parked his car up where it was out of sight of the highway and tried to sleep in it. It played hell with his back, but what did that matter with all the other pain he was feeling? Toward the end of the second day he realized with a kind of numb surprise that he was going to have to eat something. He managed to buy some snacks from a small store where they eyed him cautiously the whole time but otherwise left him alone. Guess I must look about as much of a mess as I feel. That was all he ate, though, and now, when he should have been ravenous, the very thought of food made him want to throw up.

It took almost more effort than he could summon to haul himself out of the car and up the stairs to his apartment. Maybe I could stay here tonight, sleep in a proper bed for one more night, before I decide what to do. The thought was intensely appealing, and there was no reason why not. No one would be looking for him after all. It wasn’t like anyone would have missed him. Starsky had made it abundantly plain that his presence was no longer required, and Dobey wouldn’t be expecting to hear from him again for a while yet. He wasn’t a fugitive—except from himself, and even he didn’t know where he was running to. He almost snorted at this bizarre thought as he unlocked the door. Pausing for a moment, he looked around. Everything looked the same as before, when he still had a life here, in this city, with his partner. Clamping tightly down on such thoughts, he slammed the door shut behind him and headed for the bathroom. What he needed more than anything else was a shower, some clean clothes and sleep. Then he could grab what he needed and get out of here, start trying to work out what to do with the rest of his life.

“Hutch?”

His heart almost punched through his chest wall at the sound of the voice from behind him. It sounded like—no way, he must be imagining it. But it came again, his name, spoken in the way only one person could say it, lilting along his veins, whispering through his mind. I shouldn’t have come back. I really am losing it. Starsky never wants to see me again, why the hell should he be here, waiting for me? Get a grip, Hutchinson.

The sound came a third time, and now he had to turn round. His partner was standing there, pale but looking indefinably more like himself than he had since the shooting. Hutch’s shattered consciousness took in this much before shock and exhaustion won out and his legs began to tremble.

“S-Starsk? What’re you doing here?” He took a staggering step towards the couch, reaching for it but not quite making it. Instead, he felt himself sink to one knee, his body unable to make up its mind whether to dump him on the floor or leave him some dignity. In a daze, he felt the familiar hands on his arm, urging him upwards. Obeying an inner prompting, he managed to lever himself back onto his feet, instinctively careful not to put too much weight on his convalescing partner. He found himself seated on the couch, Starsky next to him, turned inwards to look at him.

“God, Hutch, you look like shit.” The familiar voice was balm to his ears, but exhaustion made him struggle to understand the words being spoken. “Look, you need to clean up and get some sleep, but before you do any of that I’ve gotta tell you how sorry I am about what I said. I’ve got more to say—a lot more—but you don’t look to be in any shape to hear it now. But you hafta know I didn’t mean what I said, Hutch, I swear I didn’t. Just promise me you’ll stay here until we’ve had a chance to talk, please. I’ve been waiting for you to come back, and I’m not letting you go now. Just promise.”

Hutch heard it all through a haze of exhaustion so strong that trying to make any kind of response was like fighting back the tide. At that moment, he would have agreed to anything just to be allowed to wash and sleep. Without making eye contact, he nodded, then pushed himself to his feet. On second thought, washing could wait. All he wanted to do now was to lie down for a long time, maybe forever, and sleep. Anything else was just too much to deal with. He made it to the bed, and slumped down on top of the covers. He was asleep before his hair had finished settling around his face.

~oOo~

Starsky stayed where he was on the couch, a mixture of relief and despair making it hard to think straight. Relief, because he had guessed right. Hutch had come back to his apartment. Despair, because his partner looked dreadful, worse than Starsky could ever remember seeing him. Hutch had suffered his share of physical pain before, but this was different. This was emotional agony, and Starsky was the one who was responsible for it.

Starsky had never been a man to deceive himself about his own actions and their consequences. He went through life with an inner equilibrium that many envied, but he was clear-eyed about his responsibilities too. He recognized that what he had said to Hutch was triggered largely by the medication he had been taking, but he acknowledged to himself now that there was a part of him that had resented the constant need for help, the smothering sensation of being looked after, and this part had stopped him making any effort to control himself. Without it, he might still have lashed out at Hutch, but there would have been some limit. After all, he had managed to be welcoming to Huggy and other visitors; it was Hutch who took the brunt of his ill temper. He had to put this right, if he could, and he had to do it soon.

He shifted uncomfortably where he sat, not sure what to do now. Hutch looked as if he could sleep twelve hours through, but what if he didn’t? Would he remember his promise to stay? Starsky couldn’t be sure, but he was tired, too, and really needed some sleep. He hadn’t dared take any meds while waiting at Venice Place for Hutch to come back. The ensuing drowsiness might have made him sleep too deeply, and miss his partner. As a result, what sleep he had managed to get had been fitful at best, and now his body was telling him very clearly it needed rest. Finally, he locked the apartment door from the inside and removed the key. Silently, careful not to disturb him, he searched Hutch’s pockets until he found his set of keys, and then he hid both in the kitchen. He was sure he wouldn’t sleep through the noise of Hutch trying to find his keys. At last he allowed himself to lie down on the couch. Sleep eluded him at first, and he lay worrying about what he was going to say to Hutch. How could he mend what he himself had broken? Finally, though, the quietness of the apartment seeped into his mind, and the knowledge that Hutch was close helped calm him into sleep.

~oOo~

When Starsky woke, hours had passed. It was late evening, and for a moment he couldn’t think where he was. He half turned, and the sight of the back of Hutch’s couch inches from his nose made everything flood back. He felt the usual stiffness that came when he had been in one position for too long, but ignored it in his hurry to see if Hutch was still there. Surely he would have heard him if he had left?

Heaving himself up and to the bedroom, he sighed with relief to see the blond head still on the pillow. It looked as if Hutch had hardly moved. Starsky felt wide awake now, and after visiting the bathroom he put some coffee on and sat down to try and plan what he was going to do when Hutch finally woke. Bleakly, he had to admit that there wasn’t much he could do, except apologize, and somehow he wasn’t sure that an apology would be enough. He had hurt Hutch in the worst possible way, in the most vulnerable part of him; hurt him in the way that only a close friend can hurt someone. Hutch was a private man, and Starsky had long known that he was one of the very few people Hutch had ever let get close to him. Starsky felt sick every time he thought how he had betrayed that friendship.

He sat there for another couple of hours, nursing more coffee and letting his mind wander back through the years he had known Hutch. What had made him rake up all that stuff from the past? Why had he been so angry? There was so much more good stuff than bad in their shared past. Why had he only dredged up the bad?

Staring into space, he let his mind drift, nudging it gently back over the months since the shooting. Anger was the dominant emotion; okay, but why? Why had he been so angry all the time? The anger was real, sure, but had he also been using it to hide from something else? But hide from what…?

Fear. God, the answer was so obvious. Why hadn’t he realized? He was scared, scared of never getting over his injuries, scared that maybe he wouldn’t have a job. Above all, scared that he would no longer have Hutch. If he couldn’t work again, their partnership would be finished. Hutch would have to team up with someone else, and Starsky would become just another pal he saw on the rare occasions he wasn’t working. So I guess I was pushing him away before he left me, although I never wanted him to leave. So that just made me madder. But I still don’t know how I’m gonna fix it.

At last, with a mix of dread and relief, he heard Hutch stirring. Without looking at his partner, Hutch made his way to the bathroom, clutching a bundle of clothing, and spent a long time in there, showering and shaving. He was dressed when he came out, and holding a wash bag. Still averting his gaze, he went back to the bedroom, and by the time Starsky made it to the doorway he had a suitcase out on the bed and was steadily folding clothes and piling them in.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice sounded uncertain, and Hutch flinched slightly, but gave no other sign that he head heard anything. “Hutch, please. Stop that and sit down. I need to talk to you.”

Hutch stopped what he was doing, but still didn’t lift his eyes from the suitcase. “There’s nothing to say. Everything you said was true. Just let me finish packing, and I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

“Hutch, please, listen. You must know I didn’t mean what I said. It was those damned drugs, and my bad temper. I saw the doc a couple of days ago, and I’m off those pills now. You remember, she warned us about mood swings? Looks like mine just swung one way, huh? But I didn’t mean what I said.”

Still no response, but Starsky could see Hutch’s hands clenched tightly into fists and his heart ached. “Please, buddy, you have to believe me. I know I can’t blame it all on the pills, but I was angry and hurting and hated being so dependent still and you were there. It’s only because I felt safe with you that I could be angry with you. The pills just made it so much worse. God, Hutch, I don’t know how to say sorry for what I said to you. I don’t even know where it all came from. I swear I haven’t been holding grudges for any of that stuff!”

“You don’t need to apologize, Starsky.” Hutch’s voice didn’t sound like him at all. It was quiet and level, with no inflection at all. It made Starsky think of a flat-lining heart monitor—no fluctuations, no life. “I know the meds were affecting your temper, but they couldn’t make you say what you hadn’t been thinking. Anyway, everything you said was true. I have let you down, time after time, played stupid jokes, said things that hurt you, and then let you get shot and nearly killed.” His gaze hooked Starsky’s for a moment, then was gone. The wintry smile that briefly crossed his face made Starsky shiver. “You may find it hard to believe, after all I’ve done, but I do care about you, Starsk. So the best thing I can do for you now is to go. You were right. You don’t really need much help anymore, and before long you’ll be able to get back to work. It’ll probably take a while before you can go back on the streets, but that’s good. It’ll give you time to get used to a new partner, someone who’ll watch your back properly.”

Starsky felt sick. He didn’t know what to say, how to get through to this stranger standing in front of him.

Stepping forward, he grabbed Hutch by the arm and spun him round, heedless of the discomfort in his own chest. “Hutch, stop this! I’ve told ya I didn’t mean what I said. Don’t punish me like this. You can’t just walk out on me! I won’t let you! I can’t do this without you, and if you think I’m partnering with anyone but you if I ever get back to fucking work, you must be crazier than I was!”

“Starsk, you nearly died because I didn’t do my job properly. You’d be better with anyone but me.”

“No way.” Starsky pulled Hutch out of the bedroom and shoved him onto the couch, sitting next to him. “You stay right there and listen to me.” He fixed Hutch with the glare he used on street punks, and saw with some satisfaction his friend notice and sit up a little straighter. “Okay. The morning after you left, I stopped taking those damned pills. I went to see the doc a coupla days ago, and I told her what had happened—not any detail,” he added quickly at the stricken look on Hutch’s face, “just that I had to have something else, that I was never touching those things again. Seems I had a real bad reaction to them, Hutch. Not many people get quite as grouchy as I did. I was like a coiled spring the whole time I was on them, and it just got worse and worse the longer it went on. I couldn’t think straight, or I’d have come off them sooner.”

Hutch was still rigid beside him, but attuned as he was to his partner’s body language, Starsky knew he was listening hard.

“Hutch, you know I don’t blame you for the shooting.” Starsky was watching Hutch like a snake, unblinking gaze fixed firmly on him, anxious to catch every slight change of expression. Even so, he barely caught the flinch Hutch reined in even before it had truly begun. Leaning forward, he grabbed Hutch’s shoulder, knowing that touch would be more effective than words if he was going to get through to him. “How could you have done anything to stop it, huh? You didn’t know they were there any more than I did. It was just my bad luck that they were on my side of the car. That’s all it was—bad luck. And Gunther’s lousy plot, of course.” He tried flicking a grin at Hutch, hoping to ease the atmosphere, but it made no difference. Hutch was looking at him, at least, but it was not the look of a man who was being convinced by the arguments he was hearing.

Starsky gave Hutch’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Hutch, I know you’d blame yourself for the invention of gunpowder if you thought you could get away with it, but none of this was your fault. Please, you have to listen to me and stop blaming yourself. What’s happened has been really shitty, and I made it a whole lot worse, but I need you, Hutch. I need my partner, my friend. If you go, that will be the worst thing you could do to me. Do you understand that? Without you here, how do you expect me to go on?”

Hutch muttered something.

“Whaddya say?”

“You can manage just fine, now.”

“Uh, huh.” Starsky shook his head. “Who else’ll nag me about what I eat, make sure I get to all my appointments, bully me into doing those boring exercises? Huh? Who else is gonna pay all my bills, buy all my groceries and put his life on hold for me?”

He saw a glimmer of something warm in the depths of the cold blue eyes that had flicked his way briefly before looking down again. Relieved, he tightened his grip on Hutch’s shoulder. “Yeah, buddy, Dobey told me about the unpaid leave. What the hell did you think you were doing? Why didn’t ya tell me?”

“That was my choice, Starsky. Dobey had no business to tell you.”

“Well, I think it was my business too.” Letting go of his partner, he thrust both hands through his hair, not even noticing the lack of the pain he had grown accustomed to. “I’m wondering what else’s been going on that you haven’t told me about.” The slightly panicked look in Hutch’s face told him he had scored a bull’s-eye.

“Look, I’ve been doing a whole lotta thinking, sitting here waiting for you to wake up, and there’s one really important thing I need to tell ya now.” He got up and stood with his back to Hutch. Why was it so hard to say this? Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to continue. “I was scared. I think, deep down, I’ve been scared ever since I woke up in the hospital; and realized just how bad it really was.” Having finally said the words out loud, it was as if the huge black cloud that had enveloped him for months, obscuring his vision, was dissolving into thin air around him. He turned slowly. He could see beyond his own perimeter, and there, as always, was his touchstone. Hutch’s face had softened, and the blue was back in his eyes as he took in what his partner had just said.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

The question was voiced so softly, Starsky had to strain to hear. Moving closer, he shrugged, a corner of his mouth twisting up in a reluctant smile. “Guess I’ve only just realized what was going on. Being angry was easier than admitting to being scared, especially with those meds.”

“Yeah. But that doesn’t alter the fact that everything you said is true, Starsk. And I know I’ve been driving you mad, treating you like you were my patient. I figure it’s just better if—”

“Hutch, without what you’ve been doing for me, I’d probably still be in the hospital, maybe still be in a wheelchair. You had to bully me into doing my exercises, and taking the meds—everything, because I wouldn’t have done any of that stuff otherwise, or not all the time. Don’t apologize for that!”

“Yeah, well, you’re getting so much better now, you don’t really need me anymore.”

“Hutch, I’m trying to tell you I’ll always need you. You can’t run out on me now!”

“Starsk—”

“Listen, Hutch.” Starsky sat back down on the couch, his thigh brushing his partner’s. “It’s time we did some real talking, you and me. Everyone’s wanted to know how I’m feeling, how I’m doing. But you—who have you been able to talk to? Doesn’t sound to me like you’ve talked to anyone, and you need to. What happened was bad, and it’s eating you up or you’d never have reacted like you did to me being such a shit. I know you, Hutchinson. You’ve been letting me get away with murder because you feel guilty. That’s gonna stop now. You are gonna stop feeling guilty, and I’m gonna behave more like a human being. If I don’t, you shout at me, just like you used to. And I’ll shout back if I need to. Deal?” He smiled at Hutch, a full smile this time. “I should warn you, though; I get the easy end of this deal. I’m off those meds now, so being my usual sunny, charming self’ll just come naturally. You’re the one that’s gonna have to put in some work. But don’t worry, pal. I’ll be right here to keep reminding you.”

Hutch pulled away, jumped to his feet and paced over to the greenhouse, staring blindly at the plants there, absently noticing that someone—Starsky?—must have watered them recently. The pain he had carried deep inside him for so long seemed less now, eased by his partner’s words, but could it be this easy? How could he forget the truth of the accusations Starsky had flung at him? Before he could immerse himself further in the morass of his guilt, he heard Starsky speak again.

“Listen, pal. I know it’s not going to be so easy to forget what I said to you. But you need to remember all the dumb stunts I’ve played on you too. Just because I nearly died from those bullets, doesn’t make me into some of kind of martyr, you know? It’s not a crime to goof around with your best friend, even if sometimes we nearly crossed the line. And I mean “we”, Hutch. We both did it. The difference is, I don’t have to keep thinking “but what if he’d died?” You do—or did. Well, I didn’t die, and I ain’t planning on dying just yet either, so you can forget all that stuff now, okay?” His eyes softened as he gazed at his partner’s rigid back. “The past few months have been hell for both of us, I know that, now I can think clearly. But I’m getting better every day, and I think it’s time you started to do the same. Let it all go, babe. We’re still here, still together, and it’s gonna stay that way.”

With relief, he watched as Hutch’s shoulders relaxed, dropping from their hunched position. A moment later, his partner had turned to face him. His expression was no longer guarded, and the depth of the emotion that shone from his eyes almost overwhelmed Starsky. Without conscious thought, he stepped closer, and then closer still, reaching out gently to clasp Hutch’s arms. Another step, and he was kissing Hutch—kissing Hutch!—and it seemed the only right thing in the world to be doing. A tiny, panic-stricken voice in his head yammered what the fuck am I doing? I’m kissing a man, but it only managed one repeat before it was drowned forever by a louder thought, this is right, I should have done this years ago, god, this is so good, this is Hutch.

When he could finally think again, his arms around Hutch, himself wrapped in Hutch’s embrace, it was as if the drugs he had been swallowing for so long had taken something else with them when they cleared out of his system; some inhibition he hadn’t even been aware he was exercising. He was complete in a way he had never felt before. He had come home.