Please note: This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit, and is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch.
This story takes place in July 1969 - before they were partners.

"Well, at least one thing good has come out of this man-on-the-moon stunt," stated Officer Joshua Carlson as he turned the patrol car into the convenience store lot.

"Yeah? What's that?" asked his partner, a lanky blond with the requisite sky-blue eyes.

"It's keepin' the criminal element of our fine city glued to their TV sets." He laughed lightly and needlessly slicked back his heavily shellacked black hair. "You want anything, Ken?"

Officer Ken Hutchinson pulled a dollar bill from his midnight blue uniform shirt pocket. He handed it to his partner of a year. "Couple of orange juices, Josh. Thanks."

Carlson shook his head. "One of these days, Ken my boy, you're going to ask for a soda and that'll give me a stroke." He grinned at the man who was fifteen years his junior. "Be right back."

Hutchinson watched his fit but short partner enter the convenience store. Already halfway through the shift, and no calls. Josh must be right. Two men on the moon. That's mind-blowing. He had viewed the historic event with his best friend, David Starsky - a fellow uniformed officer out of Metro Division - and their dates. He chuckled when he recalled the unbridled excitement Starsky had displayed when he saw Neil Armstrong set foot on the lunar surface. They had stayed up late, not wanting to miss a moment of the action of the first lunar stroll. Now, sitting in the squad car, Hutchinson marveled at his lack of tiredness. He was wondering what could possibly top the moonwalk when he heard terrified screams and gunshots coming from within the convenience store.

Without conscious thought, Hutchinson unhooked the small leather loop around the hammer of his service revolver while grabbing the radio's microphone. "Dispatch, this is Bravo 24. Shots fired, uh, Wu-Wilson's Market, uh, 2-1-3-8 Pullman. Send backup and ambulance! Out!" On my way, Josh! he thought as he flung open the patrol car's door. In his haste to move his feet as fast as his racing heart, he slipped on sand but managed not to fall. Before he could recover, he heard another gunshot and felt something hot pluck at his hair.

He chose to regain his balance and think while he crouched behind the safety of the heavy car door. He fought the urge to go charging in, knowing he'd probably be a dead man before he could enter the store. Nevertheless, he reluctantly waited for backup to arrive. "Where the hell are you?" he seethed through tight lips.

"Hey, pig! Your fellow pig is dyin' in here. If you don't come on in and join the party, I'll finish the stupid fucker off!"

Hutchinson cringed at the promise in the Bronx-accented voice. All his training told him to stay put and wait for reinforcements, but part of him told him he should act now since his partner's life was directly in jeopardy.

"Okay, pig, you won't come out and play, so I guess I gotta do this. I'm gonna shoot him in the leg now, pig!" A nervous, deranged laugh floated out of the store, followed closely by another roaring gunshot.

Hutchinson used his left hand to wipe the sweat from his tanned face. The gunshot had made his mind up for him. "Okay, I'm coming in. Please, don't harm anyone else," he shouted, trying to keep the fear he felt out of his voice. He took several calming breaths and snorted when they did nothing to settle him. He filled his cheeks with air. They deflated when he stood upright. He headed for the store entrance, his arms stretched out above him and his gun still in his right hand. As he crossed the threshold, he scoped out the store rapidly. To his left, a thin teenaged girl with unwashed, stringy dishwater-brown hair cowered behind the counter. An elderly white woman with bluish-white hair was on the floor to his right, near a chest of frozen treats. Between her and the freezer was a little black girl with wide, dark eyes and a dollar bill clutched in her hand. Josh was on the floor between him and the robber.

A compact Latino with tightly curly hair and crazed brown eyes, the robber instantly became incensed at seeing the tall, blond cop carrying his weapon. He began jumping around and waving his own pistol frenetically. "What's wrong with you, chump? Put the piece down, NOW, or your piggy here buys it!" He kept on shouting, only varying his words slightly.

Why hasn't he shot me? "I can't do that, sir," Hutchinson said loudly enough to be heard over the robber's ranting. The authority in his voice caused the man to slow his speech and body movement a bit. Hutchinson captured and held the frightened eyes with his. "Now, just put your gun down. You don't want to make this any worse for yourself than it already is." In his peripheral vision, he checked his partner. Carlson was on his back. Hutchinson could see a pool of blood at his partner's head and another creeping out from under his thigh. Keep your cool, Hutchinson; this isn't the first time you've been in a tight situation. He swallowed imaginary grit while he waited for a reaction from the shooter. Like hell it is - your partner's never been shot before!

He decided his bleeding partner couldn't wait. Negotiate! Personalize it! "My name's Ken, and my partner there is Josh. What's your name, sir?" He tried not to let the miniscule victory he felt show as he saw the robber waver in doubt. Damn - he's only about twenty. Then disappointment washed over him when he saw the doubt replaced with anger.

"Fuck you, cop! I know what you're tryin' to do. And Alberto ain't fallin' for it!" The Chicano pointed the .38 at Hutchinson's chest. "I think you're gonna die first, you fool chump."

Though he had been on the force for a year and a half, Hutchinson had never knowingly been this close to death. He felt his skeleton turn to sticks of pliant dough. His arms threatened to slump, but he willed them to stay, afraid of lowering them even a millimeter. Sweat poured from his armpits and streamed down his spine. "You don't want to kill a cop, Alberto. That's an automatic walk to the electric chair."

"You worthless pigs've gotta catch me first!" Alberto sucked hard on his lower lip and hissed.

Well, that tact won't work, Hutchinson thought. And where the hell is backup? "You don't really want to kill anybody, do you, Alberto?" he asked the agitated man in his best soothing, logical tone. "Nothing good would come of that. Now, put the gun down, and I'll help you." A touch of relief sneaked into his heart when he heard sirens in the distance.

"If I gotta go to prison, I might as well die, fool pig." Alberto pulled the hammer back on his pistol and closed one eye to zero his aim on Hutchinson's heart.

The big blond, half-expecting to be frozen, found himself contracting and flexing his muscles to move to the left. Within the same moment, Carlson moaned loud enough for both men to hear him.

Alberto showed his amateur colors as he let the sound distract him. He moved the gun swiftly and targeted the downed cop's head.

Hutchinson barely stopped his lunge and instead lowered both arms when he saw the robber's movements. His heart and lungs seemed to go into suspended animation and the rest of the world into slow motion as he watched Alberto's trigger finger and hand begin their contractions. On practiced acquired instinct, he steadied his right hand with his left, then aimed his revolver and squeezed its trigger in one quick, fluid motion.

The Chicano fired reflexively but the shot went wild, narrowly missing the old woman on a ricochet. He didn't have time to look surprised before fragments of his brain and skull splattered the rack of chips and nuts behind him. He didn't hear the terror-filled screams of the females in the store, or the sirens that now were in the parking lot.

Hutchinson stood there, pale and dazed and suspended in shooting stance, not hearing the sirens or screams either, or the calls from his fellow officers. All he could sense was the heat from the barrel of his revolver and the body dead by his actions.

It took Russell Day, the patrol sergeant for the 15th precinct's tour that day, almost a minute to wheedle and muscle Hutchinson out of his trance. Oh Christ, the thick-chested, thin-hipped black man thought in dismay, this is his first kill and his first wounded partner. "That's it, son, everything's going to be okay," he reassured the white cop who finally holstered his weapon and knelt by his partner's head.

"Josh? Josh? You okay?" Hutchinson asked the motionless man. There was no indication that the fallen officer had heard him. Hutchinson pushed Officer Evans away from his first-aid activities on Carlson's head wound. He hunched over until his upper chest rested lightly on Josh's head. He squeezed Josh's arm and whispered, "You're going to be okay, Josh. I'll watch after Corrine and the kids until you come home."

Sergeant Day waved Evans off when the young officer tried to move Hutchinson. When the paramedics arrived a minute later, Day was the one to get Hutchinson out of the way. As he walked the shocked cop out of the store, he noticed that those pained blue eyes couldn't pull away from the dead man.

*****

The next few hours were enveloped in coppery vagueness for Hutchinson - an opaque mist he would never see through. A few days later, Sergeant Dwayne Koslowski in Internal Affairs would tell him that he had seemed a little quiet, but otherwise normal. That he had answered Day's questions at the crime scene with seasoned professionalism. That he had allowed Mike Barrett, Evans's partner, to drive him to the hospital in his and Carlson's black-and-white. That he had waited with Barrett, and eventually Day, several other officers, and Corrine Carlson until Josh was out of the operating room. That he had laughed happily and hugged Corrine tightly at the news that Josh would be all right but would probably have to ride a desk for the rest of his career. That he had recounted his story to Koslowski in almost minute detail. That the IA officer had assured him this would go down as a righteous shoot.

He remembered little until he was home, alone, and confronted the fact that he had killed another human being, less than twenty-four hours after another human being walked on the moon.

*****

Dave Starsky wasn't the only exhausted cop that evening in Metro Division. A tense, hours-long hostage situation at Myrtle's Massage & Tattoo on Kensington had meant overtime for most of the day shift's uniformed officers. The irate customer had finally released his "masseuse" by 6 p.m. when she promised on her dead mother's grave that she wouldn't call him or any other man "pencil dick" ever again. The dark, wavy-haired cop and his partner, Steve Lansing, drew the job of pacifying the owner, Myrtle Harris, and escorting her to the stationhouse.

"Sorry, Myrtle, but we gotta book ya for runnin' a whorehouse," Starsky said with a hint of regret as he, the woman, and Lansing entered the large building. Starsky appreciated her business acumen, and hated to see this happen. They all knew no judge would let her off with a fine on this latest charge.

"Well, young man," she began in her West Texas drawl, "I been thinkin' about makin' a career change anyhow. I'm gettin' too old for such a wild life. And people are gettin' mighty crazy. Whaddya 'spect? There're men on the moon, for gosh sakes! Next thang ya know, the little green men from Mars'll come visitin' us." She exhaled forcefully through her beakish nose.

Lansing and Starsky exchanged silent chortles over the head of the five-feet-tall woman. Starsky let his sight travel down her back to stop at her formidable tush. Astounded at its immense size and protruding shape, he mouthed to his partner, "A bowl of soup wouldn't fall off that." Lansing shot the junior partner a scolding look before he hid his grin behind a hand.

They were passing a huddle of plainclothes officers when Starsky heard one of them say, "No, Carlson only took two, not three, rounds - one to the head and one to the leg."

Starsky's heart shuddered. The only Carlson in the department was his best friend's partner. If he got shot, then maybe… "Hey, Steve, you mind gettin' things goin' without me?"

Lansing looked down at Myrtle, then back up at his partner. The latter exuded worry from every pore. "Naw, I don't mind. I don't think Myrtle'll give me any trouble, now will you, darlin'?" The tall, auburn-haired officer smiled sweetly at the old woman.

Starsky could hear her speak as the two walked away. "I don't suppose so. Y'all been treatin' me good. Oh, been meanin' to ask - what kinda name is Star-sky?" He grinned at her mispronunciation of the last syllable of his name. Then he turned to the gathering of officers and his grin faded.

"…head off. I heard it was a mess," Starsky heard.

"What happened?" The uniformed cop forced his way into the close circle by spinning Corman, a long-time detective with bland features that worked well for him in undercover assignments, halfway out. "Carlson got shot? What about Hutch?" he demanded.

"Jesus Christ, Starsky," growled Corman harshly, "you are one bossy son of a bitch." He straightened his jacket.

Starsky rolled his dark blue eyes. "Lookit, I asked a simple question. Just answer it, and I'll get outta your hair. Okay?"

Jim Anderton, a beardless Abraham Lincoln lookalike also known as Pappy because of his 35 years on the force and his infinite wisdom, treated the young cop to a glare that instructed him to quiet down. When Starsky calmed down some, Pappy patiently explained the events that had occurred at Wilson's Market, emphasizing that Hutchinson was unhurt and had saved his partner's life. He watched with satisfaction as the volatile Starsky seemed to defuse.

"Yeah, guess Hutchinson's a hero now," chimed in Corman. "Made his first kill of some asshole, popped his cherry," he said, laughing at his joke and the thought of the holier-than-thou blond cop having to face himself.

Starsky flew into a rage. He turned beet-red and clinched his teeth. He crunched Corman's suit jacket lapels in his fists and lashed out in his Brooklyn accent, "Killing a man, even one that has it comin', ain't no laughin' matter, ever, you jerk-off." Their fellow officers, too taken aback at first, had done nothing, but were now trying to separate the two men. "And it certainly ain't nothin' like sex or losin' your virginity. Well, maybe it is for you." Their comrades finally succeeded in pulling them apart, two of them maintaining restraint of the uniform. But that only served to sharpen Starsky's tongue. "It's heartless bastards like you that give cops a bad rep." He tried to add emphasis with his arms, but the best he could do was struggle against the four hands holding him back. "If somebody looked in a dictionary to find out what 'pig' meant in slang, they'd find your picture, Corman."

At that remark, Corman turned crimson and came after Starsky. Pappy anticipated the move, stopping the detective from connecting with a right cross. "That's enough, both of you. Now, straighten up or I'll put both of you in the tank." The feuding officers' complexions started the journey back to normal and their breathing slowed. "All right then," continued Pappy. "I realize tempers are a bit high, because one of our own got hurt today and it coulda been much worse. Don't know about you two, or any of the rest of you, but it just reminds me that we're in this together."

The plainclothes officers muttered their agreement and herded Corman away from Starsky. Pappy lingered behind, keeping the younger man at his side by holding his forearm. Quietly and gently, he said, "Look, Starsky, you got a mouth on you, and I'm sure I'm not the first one to tell you this. Save it for the streets, man, but not in here."

This time, Starsky reddened from guilt and shame. He hung his head, shuffled his feet, and mumbled, "Yeah, I know, Pap. It's just that -"

"I know, son," Anderton interrupted. He released his hold and patted Starsky's upper arm several times. He smiled absolution before rejoining the other detectives.

Several heartbeats later, Starsky called out, "Hey, Corman!"

The man exhibited his annoyance by sighing with great exaggeration and resting his hands on his hips. "What now, Starsky?"

The uniform hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. "Hey, sorry, okay? I was worried about Hutch. We were at the Academy together, ya know?"

The apology ticked Corman off even more, but he knew he couldn't show it, that he had to accept it. "Yeah, Starsky, I know," he lied.

Starsky nodded. He headed for booking to find Steve. He hoped he could sweet-talk the senior officer into letting him leave now. He figured Steve would be amenable once he knew the situation.

*****

Starsky figured right. He was in such a hurry to get to Hutchinson's apartment that he didn't change out of his blues at the station. His best friend, who he kidded about being a social worker masquerading as a cop, had been blooded this day and would be taking it hard.

He parked his red Mustang on the street opposite the small duplex Hutchinson lived in. He knew Hutch was home; his junk heap of a Fairlane was there, and the flicker of a TV screen shown through the partially closed blinds on his half of the building. He sighed as he waited for traffic to clear so he could cross.

Moments later, at the door, Starsky heard music. He identified the song - it was a cut off Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, one of Hutch's favorite albums. He knocked and called out, "Hutch, it's me, Starsky." After a long pause, he heard a muffled, "It's open."

The dark-haired man inhaled deeply and held it until he was inside. He found Hutchinson slumped in the papa-san chair, holding a bullet between his thumb and forefinger and studying it closely, as if he were trying to memorize it. He had taken his shirt and gunbelt off, but still wore the bloodstained T-shirt and uniform pants. His expression was dull and flat. Except for his troubled, mournful eyes that didn't stray from their examination of the bullet.

Starsky quickly checked out the TV, the only source of light in the room. Playing was a re-run of Laugh-In. He turned his attention back to his friend. He didn't wait for an invitation before he sprawled out on the love seat across from the chair. "Long day." He adjusted his gunbelt slightly while he waited. When nothing came, he said, "Big day. A coupla men on the silvery moon, a trick holdin' his treat hostage." He paused. Still no acknowledgement or change from his friend. "Josh gettin' shot," he said tentatively but making it clear he expected a response. He dug in his heels to wait.

Two more tracks played before Hutchinson spoke. When he did, the words came out garbed in self-loathing and failure. "I killed a man, a human being, today, Starsky. I couldn't get him to give it up. I pulled the truh-truh-trigger" - the word itself seemed to strangle him - "and blew his brains out. With a bullet just like this."

Starsky had to close his eyes to the suffering his friend showed so openly now. After a few moments, he leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. "He was about to kill you and your partner, buddy. He's the bad guy, not you. He didn't give you a choice. You did what ya had to do." He watched the panoply of negative emotions that swirled over Hutch's face. Oh crap, he's takin' this harder than I thought. "Your job is to protect and serve. You did that today. So tell me - how dya feel?"

Hutchinson rolled his golden head from side to side as he said, "Empty. Lost. Worthless. Worse than shitty. Sub-fucking-human."

Starsky closed his eyes again, though this time to remembrances best left forgotten. "Yeah, I know how you feel," he said with deep sympathy and understanding.

As fast as lightning, Hutchinson was out of his chair and into Starsky's face, forcing him to sit back. Hutchinson followed, leaning over until he was nose-to-nose with his friend, so close that Starsky could smell the agony in his sweat. "How the hell could you know how I feel, huh?" Hutchinson managed to thunder through clenched teeth. He began jabbing Starsky's chest with the bullet on each word. "You ever kill somebody who stood only a few feet away from you? Watch their brains turn into … scrambled eggs? Because of you? Huh? Knowing that a second before, you were just as close to death as he was? Huh? Well?"

Finally Hutchinson noticed that the indigo eyes had filled with tears and ghostly shadows. He tasted the sad, wretched memories on his friend's breath. He backed away and plopped down on the floor at Starsky's feet. "Oh God, Starsk, I'm so … I forgot all about … overseas." He placed a hand on his friend's knee while his eyes begged for forgiveness.

Starsky quickly swiped the salty water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Smiling and sniffing, he said, "Don't worry about it, Hutch. It's already forgotten, 'kay?" Unconsciously, he rubbed his chest where the bullet had poked him. Forgotten your outburst, buddy, but not the jungle and some of the choices I had to make and try to live with. "Feel better?"

An eyebrow lifted as Hutchinson canted his head to one side. He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, I think I do. A little, anyway. How long, Starsk?"

Starsky hunched his shoulders. "I don't know, pal. That's up to you, I guess. When it gets tough, you know, thinkin' about it, I'll be there." He grinned widely to dispatch the maudlin atmosphere. "Hey, I'm thirsty. You got any beer in the fridge?"

"Of course. Bottles this time. I decided Vanessa's alimony check would be a couple of dollars short this month."

"Only six more months, Hutch!" Starsky ruffled his friend's regulation-cut blond hair. "Then you can afford to live in a better place than this dump. Now, how 'bout those brews? And take off that damn T-shirt, will ya? You got me thinkin' it's your blood."

*****

The radio was on, the TV continued its silent flicker, and they were deep into their third beers when Starsky sat forward to ask the question that had been bothering him since his arrival. Hutch's mood had varied from self-pity to anger to surliness to giddiness. Now that they were fairly buzzed but not drunk and Hutch seemed to be on an even keel, Starsky thought this would be a good time to get a truthful answer.

"You know, Hutch, we been talkin' about takin' the detective's exam and becomin' partners, right?"

"Yeah. What, you backin' out?"

"No, no, not me. But you know how we wanna be at Metro," he continued shyly. And you know how, uh, busy Metro is. Big violent crime area and all."

Hutchinson huffed. "Spit it out, Starsky."

Starsky looked away from the eager, curious face momentarily. "Lookit, buddy, workin' Metro as undercover detectives really increases our chances on having to use our weapons." He hesitated a few heartbeats. Shit, this is hard. "But I gotta know if I can count on you out there. That you'll cover my back. That I can … trust you."

"Of course you can. I'll be there. Count on it." Hutchinson spoke with certainty and affection.

The darker man wasn't satisfied yet. He grabbed and held his friend's eyes with his. "Hutch, you gotta know how tough it is for me to ask you this. But I gotta do this. Would you - could you - shoot and maybe kill another person if either one of us was in danger?"

Without hesitation, Hutchinson answered firmly and unequivocally, "Yes."

Starsky's eyes and smile lit up the room. "I knew it all along, buddy! Hey, tomorrow night, how about a movie? My treat."

Keeping his own smile to himself for the time being, Hutchinson stated seriously, "On one condition."

"Yeah? And that would be…?"

"The movie can't be Butch Cassidy."

"Aw, Hutch, I haven't memorized the dialogue yet!" he whined.

"Starsky, you've seen the damn thing three times already!" Hutch exclaimed with mock irritation.

"But Hutch -"

"All right, already! I'll go, but no more after this. I mean it." He pointed his finger to signal his resolve.

"Sure, buddy." Like it's not your favorite movie right now, too.

*****

Starsky stayed to watch the late news before he left. Soon after that, Hutchinson was ready for bed. He laid face down diagonally across the double bed. Thanks to his best friend, he began the process of making peace with the fellow human being he had killed, with himself for taking another's life, with his choice of a career that made something so horrible so necessary.