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 immediately follows the episode titled "Manchild in the Streets."

Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson hesitated briefly at the front door of his partner's home. Taking a deep breath, he knocked three times and called out, "Starsky!"

There was no response this late afternoon. Hutch began to worry, wondering if the last few days had been too much for his usually optimistic, resilient partner to take. The loss of one of his oldest friends to the quick bullet of a bigoted cop was devastating in its own right, but on top of major losses in just the last year, the death of Jackson Walters had to be crushing the detective.

Hutch didn't want to use his key, or even try the doorknob. He wanted to be sure Starsky was ready for company. He knocked again. As he waited, he began recounting David Starsky's personal losses.

First, there was Joe Durniak from back home; was like a father to Starsk for a while after his father's death. Then Terry, one of the great loves of his life - that damned asshole Prudholm! John Blaine's murder - yet another father figure dead. Shit. Then Rosey, another great love of his life, chooses to go with her father rather than stay here with Starsk. Hell, there was even me, almost dying of the plague. Now, Jackson. Dammit! How does he keep going? He's a stronger man than I. Just where does he get the strength…

Hutch's reverie was interrupted by Starsky opening the door. "It was unlocked. Why didn't ya come in?" the darker, smaller man said without expression.

The blond detective sighed to himself. Starsky was unusually subdued, so Hutch knew his worry and concern were justified and not a result of his merely being overprotective of his friend. He watched as Starsky shuffled his way to the sofa.

Hutch's worry increased sharply when he realized that Starsky wasn't even listening to his records or the radio. Music, he knew from years with the man, was therapeutic for Starsky; he turned to it when he was down or blue. The absolute silence in his friend's apartment really spooked him.

"Hey, buddy," Hutch ventured. Starsky, now sprawled out on the couch, ignored him.

Hutch unceremoniously picked up Starsky's blue jean-clad legs and made them hang over the side of the couch. He fell into the vacated space. "Wanna talk about it?" he asked tentatively as he rubbed the smaller man's thigh a couple of times.

Starsky didn't look at his partner. He only seemed interested in the ceiling. That, and drumming his left fingers on his stomach and pulling at his dark, unruly, curly hair with his right ones.

"So, if you don't want to talk about it, at least get ready. We promised we'd be at the Walters' by…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what we promised," Starsky growled angrily. "You can blame me for being late. Or go on without me." He swallowed and coughed. "Yeah, that's it - go on without me. You and everybody else would be better off." His tone now was flooded with bitter resignation.

Oh, God, Hutch thought, have we been reading each other's mind? Hutch felt on the verge of panic. Jackson's death could be more than Starsky could bear, could be the proverbial straw. He had to pull his friend and partner back from the edge of the abyss of depression. But what to say?

Suddenly, it came to him. "Starsk, just listen to me." No response, not even an indication he had heard Hutch. "Jackson's death is a great loss for you, I know, especially considering the circumstances. And so were Durniak's and John's deaths."

Like a cat warning an potential enemy, Starsky hissed, "Fuck you!" He dealt his partner a withering glare and crossed his arms over his chest.

Hutch tut-tutted him and wagged an index finger at the tightly wound man who looked ready to pounce. "I said for you to listen. Hear me out." He paused. After a few heartbeats, he plunged in again. "And so was Terry's death. Plus, Rosey left you. All within a year. I don't think - no, I know I could not have held up under all that…that…pain and grief the way you have. I would have lost it months ago." For a brief instant, Hutch almost hated Starsky for his strength. Quickly he realized it wasn't hate, though; it was envy.

Without warning, Starsky pounced. He was off the couch like a shot, roaming the room like a caged lion. "Goddamn it, Hutch, you almost died!" he screamed. "I came so close to losing you, too!" His arms gestured wildly for emphasis. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he tried not to cry.

Hutch was speechless at the angry agony Starsky was expressing. He had more to say in hopes of helping his best friend, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he stared into the dark blueness of Starsky's anguished soul.

Soon, Starsky sank to his knees and sighed heavily. In a barely audible whisper, he said flatly, "Why does everyone I love die? What have I done wrong? What am I being punished for? Or are they being punished for loving me? My father…" He sat back on his heels and covered his eyes with his hands, fingers into the curly hair. "Go away, Hutch, before I kill you, too."

Hutch felt his heart stop at the profound sadness and loneliness in his beloved friend's voice. Eyes now brimming with tears, he left the sofa and knelt in front of Starsky. He seized Starsky's upper arms in his big hands. "Look at me," he commanded quietly.

No response.

"Look at me, dammit!" This time, he demanded it.

Starsky was powerless when Hutch was this way. He bent to the blond man's will; he dropped his hands onto his lap and looked into the light blueness of Hutch's compassionate soul.

"You will not kill me. When I die, it will probably be at the hands of the bad guys, the scum we are always trying to get off the street, just like Joe and Jackson and John and Terry. The bad guys killed them, not you. You gave them unconditional love, and you gave them justice when you nailed the dregs posing as humans that killed them." He thought he could see the dark blueness lighten up just a bit. Quietly and forcefully, so there would be no doubt that he meant it, he said, "I will not leave you, partner. Ever."

Starsky shook off Hutch's grasp and grabbed him, pulling him close in a tight bear hug. Hutch could feel Starsky's body quake with silent sobs. He finally let his own tears flow.

After a few minutes, Starsky broke contact. "Enough of this feelin' sorry for myself. Damn, I hate these soapy scenes! I'll go get ready." He jumped easily to his feet and headed briskly for the bathroom.

Hutch smiled, pleased to see the jaunty walk Starsky had and amazed once again that Starsky's emotions could turn on a dime. "Hurry up, will you? I hate to be late, and I will blame you if we are."

Starsky stopped and turned at the bathroom threshold. "Hey, Hutch."

"Yeah, what?"

"Love you, too, partner." He flashed a toothy grin and quickly slid into the bathroom and closed the door. The throw pillow Hutch had tossed hit the door harmlessly.

"Love you, too, Starsk," he said softly. He walked into the neat kitchen to throw some water on his face. He had a feeling they would talk more later, after the wake.

The grief was palpable in the red-and-white car that carried the two detectives and their young companion. The grief seemed to smother Starsky and the teenaged boy, to take their breath away, to plunge their hearts into dark, damp holes. The boy had just lost his father to a racist policeman. David Starsky had lost one of his best friends, whom he had known for almost twenty years.

They drove silently to the funeral home. Ken Hutchinson was feeling frustrated. He could think of no words of comfort for them. Anything he could say now would be cliché. He so desperately wanted to make them feel better, to ease their emotional pain. He knew he had gotten just so far with Starsky earlier; the dark blue anguish still shrouded him.

The dark-haired man pulled into a parking space about a half-block from the funeral home. He let the car idle for a few seconds before turning off the engine. He sighed, running his hands through his mop of unruly curls. "Let's go, I guess." He looked over at the teenager and gave him a closed-lip smile as he patted him on the knee.

"Guess so." The partners barely heard the soft reply.

Both car doors opened simultaneously. The two men stepped out. The fifteen-year-old, who had been sitting between them, didn't move. He simply stared at his hands that were folded in his lap. Both men bent over to look back into the car.

"Ju…I mean, Jackson, you comin' or not?" asked the curly-headed man gently in his Brooklyn accent. He let his midnight blue eyes look to his blond partner's sky-blue ones. The blond shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head slightly.

"Starsky, I'm not sure I can do this. I thought I could, you know, pay 'respect to love,' like you said, but this is…is just too…" The teenager fought back tears.

"Hutch…" Starsky said softly with just a trace of a question to it and a toss of his head toward the funeral parlor. The big blond man nodded. He quietly closed the passenger side door and headed for the nearby building, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his tan sport coat. After walking a few yards, he looked back over his shoulder; Starsky had already gotten back into the car.

The boy didn't move, didn't even look at Starsky. The man sat there, without speaking, with his arm around the boy's hunched shoulders. Starsky couldn't speak, anyway. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down again a dozen times before he finally controlled it.

"Junior," he finally began, choosing to look out over the hood of his car. He sighed, exasperated with himself for not calling the boy by his given name, as was his choice since his father died. "No, I mean Jackson," he corrected himself. "I understand what you're goin' through."

Jackson snorted his disbelief and contempt for Starsky's try at empathy.

Starsky swallowed hard. This ain't gonna be easy - for either one of us, he thought. "Did your father ever tell you how we met? How we became friends?"

"Naw. I thought y'all had always known each other."

Starsky laughed through his nose. He looked briefly at the boy before returning his gaze to the front of the car. "I grew up in New York City. My mother sent me out here when I was fourteen to live with my aunt and uncle. I was too much for her to handle. I was almost too much for my aunt and uncle, too. Geez, I was wild. Boostin' cars, shoplifting, learnin' all sorts of criminal-type activities in my spare time. I was failin' in school, too." Starsky paused as he could feel Jackson's eyes now on him.

"Well, one beautiful spring day, me and a few of the guys I hung out with saw another group of guys playin' basketball. We decided to challenge these guys to a game. Oh, we were good, all right, so we challenged them and we placed our bets. None of us had much money on us, but we bet what cash we had, our jackets, and even our shoes." The dark-haired man grinned at the memory.

"Their side had one too many people, so this guy, who was a few years older'n me, sat out the game. We played hard and tough, you know, throwin' elbows, trippin' the other guys, all sorts of unsportsman-like conduct. Naturally, we won.

"We teased the home team without mercy as they forked over their money, shoes, and jackets. Boy, we really rubbed their noses in it. Then this older guy who had gone to sit out the game on the sidelines came up. He came right up to me and said, 'How about a little one-on-one?'

"It was obvious this guy was older. He had to be slower. And, I thought, why would this guy sit out if he was so good? So I said, 'OK, but what's in it for me?'

"Without blinkin' an eye or missin' a beat, he said, 'You win, you get the fiver I got and my watch. I win, my buddies here get their money and things back, and I get you.'"

Starsky stopped and turned his eyes to Jackson. The boy was staring at him now. "You mean you were a gang member, a hustler?" he asked in disbelief.

The man laughed out loud this time. "Yeah, I was in a gang. Hustler? I guess so, at least in one sense of the word. Workin' undercover, I guess I still am."

Jackson shook his head and looked away as he tried to digest this new piece of information about a man he trusted and respected. And loved, he reluctantly admitted to himself. Somehow, he felt betrayed.

Starsky could sense some conflict within the teenager. He took a deep breath and continued with his story.

"Anyways, I agreed to the wager. I mean, he sure had a nice watch. I remember it so well. A Timex. And though he was taller'n me, I figured I had him on speed and playin' dirty.

"Boy, was I wrong. He anticipated every move I made. My speed meant nothin' at all. He countered every single dirty trick I had. And he wiped the court up with me, too. I could tell my gang buddies were really pissed at me. And I was pissed at myself. If I didn't get kicked out of the gang altogether, I figured the least they would do was cream me good. What made matters worse, I had no idea what that guy meant by 'getting me.'

"So, here I am, this tough street kid, sweatin' out what my gang and this stranger would do to me. I was so scared. I just knew my mother would be gettin' a call that her elder son had been beaten to a pulp and who knows what else. But I acted tough and defiant. I wanted everybody around to know that Dave Starsky wudn't goin' down easy.

"Before I knew it, my gang had returned everything they'd won and left, but not before makin' a few threats on me. The older guy's buddies left, too. Then we were alone on that concrete court.

"Right away, I jumped in his face and said in my toughest New York accent, 'Try anything with me, boy, and I'll tear you limb from limb!'

"Then, as gentle as a summer shower, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'I ain't gonna try anything with you, boy. I see somethin' in you, and I'm gonna get you outta that gang.'

"And he did. It took almost two years for me to straighten out completely. Well, Hutch would say I ain't completely straightened out yet. But with your dad's help and belief in me, along with a neighbor who was a cop, I became the man my father would have wanted me to become." Starsky fell silent and let his head fall forward. He worked hard to choke back the tears that were so close to escaping.

Jackson, spellbound, stared at the man sitting so close to him. After several minutes had passed, the boy spoke. "Starsky, how did your daddy die?"

Starsky sighed shakily. He gulped before replying, "My father was a cop. He was comin' home after work one night when some organized-crime types gunned him down in the street just a few blocks from home. I was thirteen." He couldn't suppress a little sob.

Jackson let his tears come. "Oh, man, Starsky, I'm so sorry!" he gasped out between sobs. "You do understand!" He twisted at the waist so he could hug the man next to him.

Starsky gave up trying to blockade his tears. He mirrored Jackson's movement. The two people clung to each other in their misery, weeping openly, both giving and getting support and sympathy.

It was fifteen minutes later before both felt ready to attend the wake. Detective Sergeant David Starsky got out of the car first and adjusted his coat as Jackson Walters, Jr. slid out of the car on the passenger side. Starsky bounded up to the sidewalk and placed a protective arm around Jackson's shoulders. Jackson put his arm around Starsky's waist. "Let's go," the teenager said. "They're waitin' for us."

Starsky gave him a wide, lopsided smile. When they got to the door of the funeral home, Jackson stopped and pulled away from Starsky. He looked at the boy questioningly.

Jackson Walters squared his shoulders and unflinchingly looked Starsky in the eyes. "Starsky, I love you, man."

"And I love you, too." Feeling so close to and proud of Jackson and feeling himself to be fortunate, he hugged him again. He's a man now, the cop thought. He opened the door and the two men entered together to pay respect to love.