Title: Decision

Author: Kaye Austen Michaels

First posted: Completed May 2002, first posted July 5, 2002 at Love of Me and Thee

Notes: Special thanks go to Karen-Leigh for her beta-editing skills and to Ellis Murdock, whose support and excellent medical editing helped me craft this story to my satisfaction. Both of you ladies deserve roses and chocolates!

Monday, April 7, 1980

Ken Hutchinson pulled the letter jacket tighter around his chest and twisted in the seat of the car to lean against the driver's side door. He traced three fingertips along the bottom curve of the steering wheel and softly hummed.

Starsky's apartment. Hutch stared at his second home with the intensity of a stakeout watch, and shook his head. The small apartment had been his first home until two months ago. Moving Out Day. Hutch closed his eyes and the fingers on the steering wheel dropped as the hand formed a fist. Starsky had sufficiently recovered to live on his own for at least four months before Hutch started noticing the subtle signals of a man wanting to exert his independence and spread his wings, almost like a child wanting the parent to know that it was okay for him to take a few steps outside the nest, and asking for a blessing on the departure.

Hutch had taken all of one afternoon to pack his belongings for the return to Venice and the apartment he had kept throughout Starsky's recovery as silent yet tangible proof that all would once again be normal in their lives. Starsky had offered to ride along, help Hutch unpack, but the blond had refused with a semi-sweet smile. If the parent had to give up the nest to the child, the break must be clean and swift. Anyway, the analogy didn't fit. For all his childish wonder and exuberance, Starsky the adult had never needed the supervision of a parent-figure, and Hutch was grateful to whatever Power of Goodness had granted his curly-haired partner the ability to flex his self-sufficiency once more.

For two months Hutch had watched Starsky stretch and preen himself in the warmth of normalcy. Their friendship and closeness had not suffered through the 'separation'. Hutch was the first person Starsky called after a grueling P.T. session, the first line of defense against midnight flashbacks, a hotline for advice while Starsky debated his future options, and the first to know when Starsky decided to try for reinstatement.

Hutch opened his eyes. Tomorrow was the big day. Or, rather, today, after ten months and three weeks of struggle, pain, recovery, perseverance, despair, and joy…. Today Starsky would learn if his dream of carrying a badge as an active duty cop had its roots in reality, and Hutch had the power of deity, the opportunity to tip the scales, and the human inability to face either the choices or their consequences.

He opened his eyes, straightened jerkily as pain sliced through his last barrier of defense, and cursed, banging a fist against the door. He had four hours of Starsky's guaranteed safety left to him and he would make good use of them. Scratching thoughtfully at his mustache, Hutch exited the car and fiddled in his pocket for his spare key. He didn't want to waste time or create useless noise hunting around for the key Starsky hid outside the apartment. Since Starsky's homecoming from the hospital, his hiding place for the key had become increasingly cloak-and-dagger, much to the fond amusement of Hutch, who knew that Starsky played the game for his sake rather than out of fear or insecurity.

He didn't spare a thought at the carelessness of sneaking into his partner's darkened apartment. He stood in the entranceway, door softly snicking shut behind him, and breathed in the familiar aroma of a Starsky-lived-in room. This…this was home, in all its connotations. The warmth that suffused Hutch danced along his nerve endings, bathed his face in welcome flush, and sped his pulse. I, the weary traveler, am home. Greet me with open arms, my beloved. The words of a novel from another time, another place brought a smile to Hutch's lips. He could see Starsky rolling his eyes and heard the no-nonsense Brooklyn voice muttering some snide nonsense about Readers Digest and its impact on a mushball already given to fits of sentimentality at the weirdest times.

Hutch didn't attempt to swallow the chuckle that bubbled up from his gut, healthy and vigorous and graduating to laughter. The laughter choked as he remembered all the shared jokes and hilarity that reigned in this apartment without the shadow of danger, injury, or death. He felt the shadow creeping behind him, clothed in chill, whispering a litany of horrific possibilities, and showing him the various tragic endings to the novel of their lives and their partnership. He shivered. Then he commanded himself to think rationally and follow through with his purpose for 'invading' his partner's home at this outrageous hour. Without another thought of shadows and chills, Hutch seized the large rattan chair and hoisted it into Starsky's bedroom.

Starsky slept, as usual, in a full bid for suffocation, face buried in the pillow and covers draped halfway over his head like an odd hood. Hutch frowned. Some things had changed, though. Just a year ago, Starsky would have been standing in the open doorway of his room, awake, rumple-haired and mouthing a few choice words in a laughing voice, before Hutch had the rattan chair three inches off the living room floor. Starsky's edge had dulled. No constant threat to keep it sharpened. He'd long ago shed the jungle wisdom for the instincts of street warfare, and now…now he'd become a civilian.

Hutch sank down in the newly positioned rattan chair and leaned over, resting his arms on his knees. Still Starsky slept undisturbed and unaware of an audience. Hutch vividly remembered the day six months ago, when Starsky had dropped the first hint about street work in some distant, glorious future. Hutch had listened with rigid calm and joined in constructing the airy sandcastle, but he'd fled the confines of the apartment that afternoon on some made-up errand and gunned his latest Ford nonstop for Memorial. Starsky's primary physician had taken time out of his busy trauma schedule without a murmur of protest and listened to Hutch's nearly incoherent babble of concerns.

But while Hutch expected reassurances and to be told that he was turning an anthill into Everest, the doctor had nodded solemnly and cleared his throat with a repetition that spoke of difficult words to come.

Now it was no longer "early in the game." Hutch let his head droop further still and gasped harshly against the serpentine brick wall springing into existence around his heart.

Hutch sensed the falling sensation before his knees registered the carpet. He knee-walked as stealthily as possible toward the bed and paused just inches shy of his goal, hand extended, cradling the air in an imitation of caressing Starsky's bristly cheek. "I can't do this, partner," he whispered. "I left your home so you could feel strong. Now I have to stand by and watch you on the front lines again…when something's just not right? And you with your endless supply of courage and that alpine pain threshold…you just can't see it. But I'm not you."

He sat back on his heels and listened to the rhythmic breathing, the beautiful music of his partner's slumber. How many nights had he crept in here from his makeshift bed in the living room to listen to the sounds of Paradise? Steady respiration, slight snuffling, and the smacking of lips that signaled Starsky's impending turn in the sheets in search of a more comfortable sleeping position. He'd memorized the soundtrack of his partner's sleep and would gladly have substituted a tape of it for the Chopin and Gounod collection in his cassette deck.

Hutch smiled. "What's 'Ave Maria' compared to the sound of you scratching behind your ear like a napping cat? Ah, Starsk."

The soulful whisper did nothing to rouse the sleeping man.

Hutch backed up and rose unsteadily to resume his vigil in the chair. He shed the letter jacket--a symbol he had no need for at present--and haphazardly dropped it to the floor. Hutch marveled at Starsky's deep repose. When he conceived the idea for this impromptu visit, he'd half believed he would find Starsky awake and pacing the apartment, wired with excitement and battling residual stress with physical exertion. At least his other fear hadn't proven fact. The nagging dread that he'd find his partner attempting to forget the import of Monday in the temporary comfort of feminine arms was groundless on this critical night, and Hutch breathed a word of thanks, feeling instantly selfish.

The chill swept into the room and under other circumstances Hutch would have laughed at himself for imagining the stuff of low-budget horror films, but tonight the cold seeped into his chest and threatened to choke him. The chill brought with it the echo of voices, the reminder of a conversation that had plagued his entire weekend.

Three hats. Hutch stroked his brow with thumb and forefinger and pounded his left hand rhythmically but softly against the side of the chair. He could have pretended not to understand Dobey, but he knew what the captain meant. Three hats: partner, policeman, lover…make that would-be-lover….

What was the difference between the hat of lover and friend? He'd been partner, policeman, and friend for years. Had that been an easy weight to carry? Of course not. He didn't love Starsky any more than he did before he discovered, gradually and almost subconsciously, that Starsky's mere presence could fulfill his every need: physical, emotional, mental. He hadn't experienced a hormonal epiphany in which he'd been drowned in sudden desire for Starsky's body. In fact, if he ever did whisper his feelings in Starsky's vicinity, he'd probably have a devil of a time explaining that it wasn't really Starsky's "famous" package that lit the fire. Starsky could have three cocks or a nub; it didn't matter. Whatever he had that Hutch could use to bring his partner sexual joy and fulfillment, was where the turn-on resided. From there, physical desire had blossomed and now he knew the intensity of infatuation to go with the love and care that had been deep and abiding for years.

Put simply, he'd fallen in love first with the miracle that was Starsky.

He'd been wooed by the man whose hand curled around his for the first time after a coma and cardiac arrest, the aching patient who lowered himself to the physical therapy room's floor and held a sobbing young boy attempting to relearn the basics of walking after a nearly paralytic car accident. Hutch smiled. Starsky had received a good tongue-lashing from his therapy coordinator after the boy's departure, and Starsky had silenced the massive man with one look, one tilted eyebrow, even though he required assistance standing. He wouldn't allow the coordinator to help, either. Oh, no. Hutch's smile broadened into a full-fledged grin as he remembered the murderous look on Starsky's face when the beefy hand attempted to take his. Starsky had grabbed the hand Hutch offered instead. "Only one man on this planet helps me off the floor," Starsky had told the therapist through an icy, dangerous smile. "Just one. You got that?"

The cold in the room robbed his breath and clenched his fingers involuntarily. Hutch leapt from the chair and dashed into the living room to make sure the door had actually closed. Shaking his head at the secured door, Hutch returned to the bedroom and retrieved his jacket from the floor. He wrapped himself in the garment and settled back in the chair. Starsky had turned in his sleep and now the expanse of his back greeted Hutch. Even in the darkness, Hutch could pinpoint the scars with precision. Hutch shut his eyes against the silent, persuasive argument.

Just yesterday Starsky had stripped him of the plausible deniability Dobey had offered.

Hutch ground his teeth and dug his fingernails into his knees, flashing a look at the muscular back and trying to ignore the scars. Starsky hadn't even looked at him when he'd pronounced their certain victory. So sure that Hutch wanted precisely what he did, so assured of Hutch's faith in his abilities as a cop. So sure, so blessed with that Starsky-clean-conscience he enjoyed after having made a crucial decision. Starsky was as fastidious with his conscience as he was with the interior of his car. Hutch knew his own resembled Venice Place after a week of double shifts.

Starsky produced a slight snore and rolled over on his other side, and the soft innocence of his face sealed off Hutch's windpipe momentarily. Gasping, Hutch vacated the chair in full retreat. He made it as far as the second outside step. Each section of muscle seemed to give way domino fashion until he was curled against the side of the building and trying to burrow his face clear through his knees. Words spoken by a larger than life persona in the raw honesty of overwhelming grief emptied his mind of any competing thought:

Man's gotta be true to his nature.

"WHAT THE HELL!"

Hutch winced and stumbled to his feet. That was no cosmic echo of his burning question but a groggy, bellowing Starsky, who judging from the timbre of the shout had banged his shin against one misplaced rattan chair. Hutch counted slowly and had reached four when the door behind him flung all the way open.

"Hutchinson, this is not the night for a stupid practical joke. You're gonna owe me big time for this one, buddy boy."

Hutch swiveled an inch at a time. "Hi, there."

"Get your ass in here so I can box ya upside the ears without causing a scene."

Hutch followed him meekly. Once inside though, Starsky made a beeline for the bathroom. Hutch thought about making a hasty escape. No wonder Starsky was riled. Not only had he been assaulted by a piece of furniture in the middle of the night, but his victimization also interrupted a trek to the john. And Hutch couldn't even take refuge in offering Starsky the unsullied truth, a tactic that usually plucked his fair-skinned hide out of whatever fire he'd ignited.

Starsky returned to the living room and yawned at Hutch, who still stood in the foyer. "All right, now tell me just what the hell possessed you to re-arrange my furniture at," Starsky consulted his watch, "five-thirty a.m. the morning of my reinstatement hearing, hm?"

Hutch smiled, and he could tell by Starsky's change in expression that he'd chosen the butter-smooth, Hutchinson charm-school-smile as Starsky referred to it. Uh-oh. Wrong selection for the moment. Hutch switched to solemnity. "I arrived about 3 a.m. actually."

Hands on his hips, clad only in his bikini briefs, Starsky relinquished the glare for a concerned frown in seconds. "So, this wasn't a practical joke."

No easy shortcut around Starsky's agile brain. Hutch settled for a shrug and headshake.

The hint of a smile lifted Starsky's upper lip. "Watching me sleep again?"

Hutch felt three-feet tall and stuck under a 1940s heat lamp. "You—you k-knew I—"

Starsky's smile reached its zenith. "'Course I knew. I'm surprised I didn't know tonight. Must've been all that pasta I crammed down about eleven. Good ole comfort food. Ever notice how Italians never have trouble sleeping?"

Hutch blinked and clutched at his jaw, irrationally testing his mouth's functionality. "Starsky, why didn't you say something if you—"

Starsky shrugged eloquently. When silence held the upper hand, Starsky passed by Hutch with a brief clasp of his shoulder before vanishing into the kitchen. His voice climbed a notch in volume as he rummaged through cabinets. "I know you. If I'd made a fuss, you'd have quit. It seemed to be something you needed. I understand. Think I didn't watch you sleep plenty of times after one of the rough patches, just to reassure myself you weren't still stuck under a car or…?"

"Yeah," Hutch said, requiring no further explanation. He walked into the kitchen where he found Starsky preparing coffee. "Starsk?"

Starsky didn't turn around or pause in his activities. "Hutch, realistically we're not getting another minute of sleep before we're due at the station, so we're gonna need a pick-me-up."

Hutch fiddled with a scrap of paper and a pen on the counter. "That's not true. If I head home, you could grab a couple more hours shut-eye."

Starsky glanced over his shoulder. "Nuh-uh. You look like you've been awake all night; I'm not letting you out of my sight until we get the business end of today past us."

Hutch purposefully stared at the fridge and found he couldn't maintain that much visual distance from his partner, shifting his gaze instead to his partner's shoulders. "Aren't you cold?"

Starsky looked down and laughed. "Nope. You?"

Hutch stared at him and settled for shaking his head, a study in nonchalance, doing his best not to let on that the full view of scar tissue was singeing sympathetic lines of fire across his own chest and back.

Starsky left the coffee busily percolating and moved to an inner rock beat as he watered the plants in the windowsill above the sink.

Hutch threw his hands in the air and sought a position of safety on the sofa. He was treading a combination quicksand and mine field. Starsky was a genius at common-sense math, and this equation had few variables. Not too many reasons for Hutch to be embarrassed about his partner traipsing around in what amounted to a synthetic fig leaf…not when Hutch had learned to administer a catheter, for God's sake, to save Starsky repetitive indignity. He couldn't afford to admit what the sight of Starsky's battle wounds did to him on this particular night.

He'd composed his scattered thoughts by the time Starsky dropped down on the sofa with two steaming mugs in hand. "So why don't you take a stab at telling me why you showed up at my place to watch me snore?"

Hutch was grateful for the coffee to sip while he framed a reply, but the temporary distraction didn't help him produce anything beyond a vague, "Big day today."

"Right."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Um-hm. Hutch, it'll be o-o-kay. Told you, we got this one in the bag. Between the two of us, and the way I come across on paper…we're gonna knock the committee for a loop. Took me almost a year to work up to this, buddy, something's got to come from all that effort, right?"

Hutch sighed and nodded, staring at inky liquid in his mug. Can't reach out this time. Got to go this one alone. He could at least ask a valid question. Shifting on the sofa to face the man at his side, Hutch rested a mug-warmed hand on Starsky's shoulder. "Have you thought…made any back-up plans that you haven't told me about? You haven't talked about anything concrete since you decided to try for full-duty."

"Hutch."

Hutch dropped his hand quickly, as though burned, and looked away. "Starsk, these are by and large bureaucratic pencil-pushers we're dealing with here, with a few high-ranking law enforcement officials thrown in for good measure. You can't predict what'll come out of a scenario like that one."

"Hey! Hey, relax! I'm not gonna sound the retreat 'til I have to. You know me: plan B comes off the top of my head only when I know plan A ain't flying."

Hutch set his mug on the coffee table and crossed over to the bookshelves. His back to Starsky, he fingered the volumes and was powerless against the slump of his shoulders that gave away his anxiety. He trembled as supportive hands gripped his upper arms. "What's going on here, Hutch? I've seen men walk into a VC-infested rice paddy less tense than you are right now. I'm telling you, we're gonna make it. Our chances are good. Lot of stuff in this world depends on having the will to reach for it, y'know? I got that will, babe."

Hutch decided the rice paddy battle was currently fully engaged in his gut. He twisted out of Starsky's grasp and sprawled on the sofa. "Why don't you get some sleep? I'll sack out here. We don't need to go in there looking like we were both awake through an entire stakeout."

The tilt of Starsky's head indicated his dissatisfaction with Hutch's suggestion. Hutch sighed, exaggerating the weariness for effect. "What can I say, Starsk, your coffee puts me to sleep. Always did know you were doing something wrong."

Starsky flashed his teeth briefly in a reluctant grin. "Smart ass. All right, I'll sleep if you will."

"Deal."

"You want I should—" Starsky gestured in the direction where extra linens were to be found, but Hutch yawned and shook his head, waving his own hand toward Starsky's bedroom.

"Nah. I'm comfy. Go grab some Zs."

Starsky smiled again and turned toward his room. He paused in the doorway and pivoted slowly. The expression on his face, three parts abject trust and one part something deeper and infinitely more touching, left Hutch dizzy. "You're the tops, buddy. You know that, don't you?"

Hutch opened his mouth, failed at producing more than a croak, and answered with a smile pathetic in its inability to express what he wanted. Starsky saluted him, winking, and disappeared into the bedroom.

Hutch's eyes remained open until the sun made its presence known through the tiny window in Starsky's door.

>>>>>>>

Hutch found Starsky pacing the greenhouse. He'd lingered over changing into suitable clothing, any excuse to step out of the spotlight of Starsky's concern. Starsky glanced away from teasing a fern and the wide-eyed discomfort brought Hutch up short.

"What?"

Starsky wagged a dismissing hand. "Nothing. Look good, Blondie. How 'bout me?" He held the lapels of his suit coat theatrically and initiated a ridiculous soft-shoe step. Hutch smiled.

Starsky's suit was brand new, the latest in fashion, and another reminder of how much this meeting meant to him. Through a constricting throat, Hutch managed a taunting laugh. "You look like the bad boy of the State Department, but I think you'll be a big hit at the hearing, pal."

"Huggy's tailor friend assured me this was the last answer in 'mature, self-assured fashion dignity'."

Hutch gave in to a genuine bark of laughter. "And if you believe a tailor who even knows Huggy, I have a lake property in Death Valley I'd like to sell you."

"You ain't into real estate, remember?" Starsky shot back, straight-faced. He pushed by Hutch and rattled his car keys. "Come on! This is one time I do not want to be late."

In the hallway Hutch turned from locking the door to find Starsky staring at his blazer, slight frown creasing his brow. "Did you…." Starsky smiled shakily. "Never mind. Not the day to start seein' omens everywhere. Get a move on, slow-butt."

>>>>>>

Hutch shut the door firmly and almost surrendered to the urge to lean his forehead against the welcome solidity, but a sudden voice behind him electrically charged his entire body.

"Tough crowd, huh? Thought they were gonna make me prove my mother's legitimacy for Chris'sake."

Hutch was too shaken to worry about diplomacy or preserving his partner's feelings. He nodded lamely. "They make the Spanish Inquisition look like a Fraternity Rush committee."

"If you two will kindly move out of the way, I'll take my turn at giving 'em hell," Dobey growled, and both detectives jumped away from the door. Dressed to the nines, Dobey removed his hat and fixed Hutch with a meaningful look before he opened the door.

As the door slam echoed in the empty hall, Starsky rubbed Hutch's shoulder. "Why's he giving you the evil eye?"

Hutch shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he thinks I need a hair cut."

"Hate to break it to you, partner, but he's been thinking that for over a year. Old news."

Hutch's entire body had frozen at one word in the nervous joke. Starsky's fingers dug into his shoulder, reacting to the change in Hutch's posture. "Hutch, the worst is over so relax, okay?"

Hutch crossed the hallway and sat down in one of the folding chairs hauled out for meetings such as these. Starsky fidgeted and finally announced a craving for candy. Knowing his antsy partner needed a break from the waiting, Hutch smiled. "Yeah, go ahead. They'll probably give Dobey equal time, so you've got a while."

Starsky grinned. "Get you anything…assuming I can scrounge a tofu lollypop outta the machine?"

Hutch snorted. "Good luck, smart mouth. You find one of those, I'll eat Jose's Fiesta Enchiladas for a week."

"No kidding? I knew you loved me, but I had no idea." Starsky raised his eyebrows and Hutch held his answering smirk until Starsky's back was turned. The smirk crystallized and Hutch shuddered, wishing there was something in the empty hall that could take his mind off the inevitable.

Hutch had miscalculated the duration of Dobey's interview. Perhaps five minutes after Starsky disappeared behind the closing elevator door, the captain emerged from the meeting room and slapped the hat back on his head with an uncomfortable cough.

Hutch looked away until Dobey's weight offended the chair beside him. "They need some time to discuss the situation and then they'll want to see Starsky again."

"Again? Aw, come on, Captain, hasn't he been through a sufficient ringer for their sadistic tastes?"

"Can it, Hutch. They're making the decision today. When they call Starsky in there this time, it'll be to lay out his options." Dobey pulled on his tie, adjusted it, and finally loosened it before removing his hat yet again to utilize it as a fan. Hutch stared at the floor. "They told me what you said in there—"

"Don't!" Hutch interrupted sharply. Dobey gaped at him, incredulous no doubt at the tone Hutch usually reserved for IA mouthpieces and crooked politicians.

"Hutch, what I said on Friday—"

"Don't!" Hutch shouted. He fled the chair and stood in the middle of the hall with his back to the captain. "I've made my choices, Captain, and I'll live with them. I do

not want to talk about them. Not with you; not with anybody."

Dobey's intake of breath was both sad and sympathetic. He'd always been a man who could express volumes without his usual bluster if he chose. "You're a good man, Hutchinson. Never doubted that."

"I'm a lost cause," Hutch said with more venom than he intended and stalked down the hall in search of the men's room on this floor he was unused to visiting.

He found the restroom as lifeless as the hall and thanked his lucky stars for the privacy. Bending over the sink, he turned on the water and scooped a handful of the frigid liquid to splash his face. The reenactment of a memory he would never banish and the circumstances surrounding it made him briefly satisfied with the answers he gave in the meeting room. Then his eyes cleared and focused on his reflection and he found he couldn't breathe. Camel leather blazer, dark button-up shirt….

Chilled to the marrow, Hutch pushed back from the sink and sat down hard on the bathroom floor. Eyes closed and stinging, he breathed in and out with deliberation, steadying his nerves.

The door opened and Hutch jerked upright, lifting his eyes to meet Dobey's concerned face. "They've called him in, Hutch."

"Already!"

"Yes. Didn't even finish his candy bar." Dobey waved the half-eaten candy in the air for emphasis.

"Damn! I'd wanted—Oh, hell, what could I have said anyway. Thanks, Cap. I'll be out—in a--a minute."

"I'd put a move on, Hutch. They seem to be speeding the process," Dobey said over his shoulder and left.

Hutch groaned and forced himself to his feet. He regarded the man in the mirror with deadly calm. "Quit cowering. Get out there and be ready to face him. You owe him that much."

He rounded the corner just as the conference room's door opened. Starsky walked out alone and didn't even glance in the direction of the folded chairs. He stared into space, fists rubbing absently against each other, and though Hutch could only see his partner's profile, he recognized the symptoms of numb shock. Starsky lifted his head and looked down the length of the hall, searching, Hutch knew, for one face.

The shocked midnight gaze connected with his and pierced his soul. Hutch registered the searing pain in his head and welcomed the darkness that enveloped him.

>>>>>>

Light. Pulling on him. Tugging. Pleading. Artificial light. The smell of alcohol, harsh cleansers, and latex. Hospital. Oh, God, Starsky!! Not again. Not…he's supposed to be safe, dammit….

"Hutch? I see those baby blues. Come on, come back around for me."

"Mr. Starsky, if you don't stay out of the way, I'll have to insist that you leave."

"He's waking up, Doc."

"Yes, thank you, I see that. Now if you'll let me tend to my patient…."

"Detective Hutchinson? Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"When is the last time you had food or liquids?"

"Um…half a cup of coffee this morning…nothing else since S-Saturday morning."

"What!" Starsky shouted. "Wassamatter with you, Hutch? I'm gonna—"

"Be out of this examining room if you don't make like a hole in the wall," the doctor finished, and the tone of her voice brooked no argument.

Hutch blinked and tossed his head back and forth until he felt the fogginess dissipate. He looked up into the brown eyes of a woman his own age. She smiled. "I'm Dr. Redfield. If my patients cooperate and get well, they can call me MC."

"Unusual name," Hutch mumbled, lips feeling plastic and unwieldy.

"Well, the letters stand for two words in my mother's native language that don't readily translate into English," Dr. Redfield answered, smiling.

"Careful, Doc," Starsky warned from his corner. "He tends to flirt with pretty female physicians."

"I knew there were perks to this profession," Dr. Redfield said. Her face turned serious. "Detective, I don't know what caused you to abstain from basic nutrients, but I'd strongly advise against a repeat. Your vitals are good and you're lucid. We're giving you IV fluids and we're still waiting on your blood work, but after a couple hours observation, I see no reason why I can't release you into the care of Clara-Barton-on-steroids over there."

"Hey!"

Hutch cleared his throat and decided his vocal chords could stand the exercise. "I'm thinking you and Starsky shouldn't be left in an unsupervised room with each other."

"Definite clash of wills," MC bent low and whispered her agreement. "But as soon as I let him back in your breathing space, I've a feeling that'll clear up immediately."

Hutch turned his head and MC looked over her shoulder at the sound of a curious Starsky inching forward from his exile, both ears visibly perked. Freezing in place as MC's stare speared him, Starsky offered her a view of his flawless teeth along with a tiny huff of naughty boy laughter. Hutch's chest ached for the irrepressible youth in banker's clothing and he squeezed his eyes painfully shut against the morning's events.

He opened his eyes a moment later and found MC and Starsky vying for access. MC removed her stethoscope and looked at it with a temptation to use it as a strangulation device plainly displayed in her striking features. Starsky wisely stepped back.

"Heh heh. Sorry…."

"Mr. Starsky, if I might have five minutes alone with my patient. Five. You can even time me. Just wait outside, please."

"But—"

"Five and counting. Do you want me to make it ten?"

Starsky's eyes grew impossibly wide and he shed his charming, placatory smile on his way out of the room. Hutch whistled. "Oh, man. You're on his hit list now."

MC laughed. "Yes, I've resigned myself to being an enemy. Now, Detective, you gave your partner quite a scare this morning. When I first fielded your case, he promptly lectured me—and quite effectively, too—on your family history of heart disease."

Hutch frowned and twisted for a more comfortable position, his long limbs grateful that they had transferred him at some point from exam table onto one of the ER observation beds. "My paternal grandfather had his first heart attack at fifty. My uncle died of a massive heart attack at forty-one. But I've always drawn my health-related genes from my mother's side of the family. Hearty Scandinavian stock."

"It seems Mr. Starsky has memorized your entire family's medical history."

Hutch couldn't restrain a fond smile. "Down to my aunt Carmen's dermatitis from lye soap. Yeah, he can recite it chapter and verse." Hutch took note of the doctor's visible concern. Ice water mingled with his blood. "Why? Is there—"

"No, no immediate worries on that front. As I said, we've given you a thorough work-up. Your EKG is flawless." Dr. Redfield grinned. "You're, as you say, in excellent condition."

Hutch laughed in the wave of relief crashing over him. "That a come-on, Doctor?"

MC held up her left hand and showed off an impressive gold band. "'Fraid not, handsome."

Hutch lifted the arm with the IV and decided against bothering, using his left hand instead to push two pesky locks of hair off his forehead. "Win some, lose some," he teased. Smile fading, he took a deep breath and continued, voice gruff. "So, why the private chat? Obviously some reason you wanted to get Starsky out of the way?"

Dr. Redfield nodded and draped the stethoscope around her neck, her hands seeking refuge in her lab coat's pockets. "Detective Hutchinson, I recognize the look of chronic pain, and you're a poster child. Now, when I quizzed your partner, he couldn't pinpoint any recent complaints about physical discomfort—"

"It's not physical," Hutch said.

"I see. Have you made a habit of refusing yourself vital necessities like food?"

"No. That was just this weekend."

"When is the last time you slept a reasonable amount?"

Hutch looked away from her intense eyes. "Thursday night. T-that's not true. I haven't really slept more than a few hours any given night for the last couple months."

"That disturbs me, naturally. Do you have any idea what's causing this sleep problem?"

"Yes."

"Have you thought of talking to someone about your…concerns, this non-physical pain?"

Hutch shook his head with a vehemence that startled him.

Dr. Redfield laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "Don't worry. I'm a medical doctor. I'm not here to deliver judgment on how you handle your emotional life. I certainly see no reason to order a psych consult, but loss of appetite, changes in sleep pattern…these can be the early warning signs of depression, and if this trend

continues--"

"I'm not depressed." I'm trapped. There's a difference.

"Just keep in mind that there's no stigma associated with finding a good sounding board."

"Right. Thanks."

She scribbled some notes on Hutch's chart and tucked it under her arm. "You've seen enough of my face for the time being. I'll give your partner center stage since he's been waiting outside like a good boy."

Hutch smiled. "Under protest."

She gave his shoulder one final pat. "No kidding." She paused at the foot of the bed and wagged an ominous finger at him. "You just take better care of yourself, Detective. If you end up in here again because you're neglecting your body, you'll see the MC who went through Apache tribal rites of passage that put the Police Academy physical fitness tests to shame."

Hutch grinned and looked sufficiently threatened at the same time. "I hear you."

"Good."

Hutch closed his eyes and braced himself for Starsky's entrance. He heard the louder than usual footfalls, a product of the dress shoes Starsky wore on the rarest of occasions, but refused to open his eyes until he felt insistent fingertips tracing a path along his upper arm.

"I don't know which to do first: take you out to a huge dinner or bawl you out for being a numbskull."

Hutch wanted desperately to respond, to laugh, or to make a flippant remark that would break through the wall between them. He could only reach over and grip Starsky's hand. "Are you…how…are you okay?"

"Me? I'm not the one in a hospital bed. I think we've got our lines mixed up."

Hutch couldn't match the easy smile Starsky wore, and he pulled his hand away, shoving it quickly under the blanket with an uncomfortable cough that spoke of guilt and breached propriety. Eyes focused not on Starsky's face, but just slightly above his head, Hutch said softly, "Let's get this out of the way. I need to know now…before I leave here. Is it over?" Our partnership, our friendship, everything….

"Is what—" Starsky returned his newly freed hand to the task of brushing Hutch's arm just beneath the thin hospital gown's excuse for a sleeve. "Hutch, it's just like I told you last night. You can relax, partner. I'm back in."

That bit of news forced the patient to focus directly on Starsky, whose grin had taken on a life of its own and seared Hutch with pleasure-pain. "You're—you're back. You—Are you saying you've been reinstated?"

"Full-time, active duty. There, Hutch. Simple words you should be able to force through all that worry you been carrying around."

Hutch tilted his head back so he could observe the IV, and some abstract part of his mind focused on the descent of fluid through the tiny tubing. Steady, predictable, a mechanism designed to heal and never be swayed by sticky emotional dilemmas. He swallowed against tightness in his throat. "I don't get it. You were so confident all weekend, but this morning you looked so—so shocked. I assumed— I—"

Starsky tugged on the gown's sleeve until he'd won Hutch's attention back from the hospital equipment. "I had my doubts, Hutch, but I knew what the waiting was doing to you and I couldn't—after I blabbed all that stuff O'Connor said, I couldn't let on that I wasn't confident or…we both know you'd've taken it as lack of faith in you, partner. This morning, after that first interview, I guess I thought my fate was sealed, y'know? Couldn't believe that I'd got everything handed back to me…that all the work really paid off and the home team won for a change."

Once again Hutch rolled his head a fraction on the pillow so he could see the IV, irrationally glad that he wasn't hooked up to a heart monitor. Every instinct in his body said a machine would be screaming the sudden death of half his heart as he silently affirmed the second decision he'd made before walking into the police station just hours earlier. "Buddy, I guess some things are just meant to be."

Clearing his throat, Starsky laughed, a nervous, worried sound foreign to him. "Yeah, you sound as enthusiastic as a guy bound for a root canal. Wish you'd pay more attention to me than that damn IV."

The slightest hint of insecurity in his partner had always been a siren call for the nurturer in Hutch, and he couldn't resist now. As he shifted, he bent his arm at the elbow to reach up and encircle Starsky's wrist, fingertips scratching the pulse point. "Just shocked, partner, like you said. Seemed there were a lot of obstacles in the path. I always believed in you, but you never know what—what other people'll do…."

Starsky looked at the hand grasping his wrist and then his gaze swept around the room, lingering on the cracked door and the small observation window that offered a partial view of the corridor. Obviously satisfied with his reconnaissance, he faced Hutch with a warm but unfamiliar smile, and bent down as if preparing to whisper in his partner's ear. Hutch's eyes bulged and his temple throbbed as he realized that Starsky's lips weren't headed for the side of his face, but homing in on a much more provocative target.

"Starsky—what!?"

The sharpness of the incoherent question surprised even Hutch. For Starsky, it was visibly electric. His face paused its descent; his upper body flinched as if responding to a blow. Blinking rapidly, he opened his mouth several times before words emerged. "I was—I was going to kiss you. I'm getting the impression that's not a good idea."

Hutch shook his head, robbed of speech.

"Wrong place, wrong time?" Starsky's eyes were back on the door and the window. As silence greeted his question, Starsky straightened fully and broke free of Hutch's loose hold. "Wrong idea totally?" The words were a cross between a bark and whisper.

Hutch nodded, and had to choke on an entire paragraph of expletive as Starsky's mid-Spring tan diminished from the neck up. "Ah, damn. Damn. Hutch, I— Jesus. I can tell across a crowded bar when a girl I don't even know wants to get next to me, and here I couldn't even— Shit, I don't know what to say—I—"

"Shh. You don't have to say anything. It's okay."

Starsky looked away, mouth hardening, mask of impenetrability slipping down over his profile. "It's any-damn-thing but okay, Hutch, but I…. You, uh, want me to make myself scarce for a while?" The implication was that he should be sent away as punishment, but Starsky's tone was as harsh and confident as when interrogating a repeat offender.

Hutch frowned; the misery in his expression increased when Starsky stepped back rather than allow Hutch's questing hand to make contact with his wrist again. "I don't want you to leave because of—of that, but…since they're keeping me for a couple hours, I could use some sleep. And would you…I don't wanta put those clothes back on. Grab me something else to wear before you break me out of this place?"

Starsky flashed a smile reminiscent of times past. "Should just let you walk outta here with no pants and no gun, but hey, I don't think Memorial's ready for that show. You're gonna be interested in food when I get back?"

"Sure thing. I have to listen to MC. I've got a sneaking suspicion the good doc's related to some savvy Shaman who could easily sic a vision quest or sweat lodge on me to keep me in line."

Starsky's laughter sounded almost genuine. Only the embarrassed flickering of his stare, which never quite rested fully on Hutch's face, told the tale. "All right. I'll let you get some sleep, but I'll be here long before they toss you out."

"Thanks, Starsk." Fight for me, dammit, Hutch's eyes pleaded, in spite of himself. Walk away and forget you ever touched me, his blank expression communicated forcefully.

Starsky turned and left the room, his pace quickening perceptibly as he neared the door.

Not a minute later, a young tech entered the room with a perky smile and announced her intention to take vitals. After gathering her data, she made notes on a chart and beamed at the patient. "You're doing just fine, Mr. Hutchinson. Enviable blood pressure and a fabulous resting heart rate."

Hutch frowned. "That's easily explained. I'm a cold-hearted bastard."

The tech's smile vanished and she mouthed a few uncertain, generalized platitudes before she hastened from the room.

The dependable drip of the IV mocked him as his eyes drifted shut.

>>>>>>

Hutch woke to the sound of humming in a voice he'd recognize in a wind tunnel. He couldn't place the title or words of the song, but the tune called to mind nightclubs and swaying disco balls. Just as Hutch began the process of rolling over to talk to his partner, the door opened and MC appeared, stethoscope swinging half-out of her lab coat's pocket.

"A fellow Bee Gees fan?" she asked Starsky, who hadn't been able to cease the humming before her entry. "If I Can't Have You was always one of my faves."

Hutch maneuvered in the bed just in time to see a vividly flushed Starsky shrug and shake his head. "It was on the radio on my way back over here. Stuck in my head."

"Something has to fill all that space," Hutch teased, voice croaky from sleep.

Starsky seemed to recognize that the playful barb was intended as a helpful distraction, because he grinned and wagged a loosely balled fist. "No one asked you, Briar Rose. Go back to sleep."

"Actually," MC said in a tone that suggested a teacher moderating an argument between schoolchildren, "Briar Rose can go home and sleep in his own bed, if he wishes. His blood work is satisfactory—except for the telltale signs of someone who hasn't eaten or hydrated himself for two days He's got my clearance to hit the bricks."

"Now that is music to my ears." Hutch smiled. "No offense, MC."

Dr. Redfield grinned. "None taken. I'd rush your departure, if I were you. Ruby, one of our trauma nurses, snagged a glimpse of you through the window and has been making noises about immediate adoption. She was an Army Nurse in 'Nam, and I'm telling you, she knows how to get what she wants."

Starsky burst into rumbling laughter and Hutch knew the blatant alarm he felt was showing all over his face. Alarm quickly gave way to gratitude and he could have kissed MC for triggering the youthful amusement in his partner. "Sounds like I'd better make a speedy get away. Clothes, Starsk?"

"Yeah. Over there on the counter," he gestured behind him at the supply station in the corner of the small room. His attention focused on the extended arm, Hutch noticed for the first time that Starsky had shed his business suit in favor of an old pair of jeans, as always short on material up top and generous at the ankles, and a soft blue button-up shirt.

Hutch was abandoned to the care of a nurse—not Ruby, deity of choice be praised—who dealt with IV-removal and took a final set of vitals for the discharge paperwork. Finally left to his own devices, he made quick work of losing the hospital gown and found the outfit folded on the counter consisted of a pair of charcoal slacks and a beige cotton pull-over, the result of an uncharacteristic fit of consumerism in which Hutch had re-vamped his wardrobe, and not at bargain-basement prices.

Shirt in his hands, Hutch whirled at the sound of the door scraping against the floor, and exhaled as a dark curly head peeked in the room. "You 'bout ready? How long does it take a guy to put on a lousy pair of pants and a shirt? If you're as infatuated with that counter as you were with that IV, we'll never get outta here."

Hutch felt the heat climb in his cheeks and he cracked the shirt at Starsky like a towel-whip. "Don't be an ass. Go find someone else to bug for a little while longer, and I'll be out in a minute."

"Hurry it up, Blondie; I'm starved."

Hutch gathered his old clothing, scowling with distaste at each garment, and crammed them into one of the handy plastic bags marked 'personal'. He cast one last look around the room and clenched the bag in desperate fists. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd witnessed an abortion.

He stopped at the nearest nurse's station and handed over the bag. "See that this gets picked up in the next charity clothing drive, please."

He watched the nursing assistant fail to resist a peek into the bag. A gasp of surprise and she glanced up, narrowing her eyes. "But, sir, these are perfectly—"

"They're no good to me," Hutch interrupted firmly, turning on heel and stalking away before she could launch another protest.

After a final word with Dr. Redfield, the prerequisite signature on the medical orders, and a sharp lookout for anyone who might resemble a former Army nurse, Hutch joined Starsky in the waiting area and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

"Point me in the direction of that blessed Tomato," Hutch pleaded, eyeing the emergency room surroundings with singular disfavor. His stare lighted momentarily on a man hacking into a bloody handkerchief and he barely suppressed a shudder.

Starsky's hand clasped his shoulder. "You must be ready to leave. Except for scaring the shit out of me, it's not so bad, partner. Your little starvation diet bought you a day off tomorrow. Dobey was kinda alarmed—not to mention the committee!—when you dropped down in the hallway and wouldn't come round."

Hutch found something of immediate interest on the tops of his shoes. "I'm sorry. It was a dumb stunt; won't happen again."

"S'okay. Just hoping you'll decide you can tell me what's been keeping you off three squares a day. 'Specially when you've had your girlish figure back for a while now."

The nudge of Starsky's knuckles against his abdomen brought Hutch's eyes up in a flash. "That your way of telling me I was fat for a while?" he retorted, smiling.

Starsky rewarded the smile with one of his own, and only Hutch, had he not been distracted by the hand now patting his stomach, could have told that the grin drooped at the corners. Starsky seized Hutch's elbow and maneuvered him, half pushing and half pulling, toward the double doors. "Come on; got to feed you. What'll it be? Your choice."

They walked into the overwhelming heat of Memorial's sun-drenched patient pick-up parking lot. While Starsky rolled up his sleeves, Hutch shivered. The proximity of the ambulance bay and the memories associated with it mocked the failure of his first plan and reminded him of the necessity of his second.

A slight punch to his arm jarred his thoughts and Hutch shrugged. "I don't care, Starsk. I want away from here and something to eat. In that order." Take me anywhere I don't have to make the choices I have today.

"Yeah, it'd have to be. I'm not even thinking about what they might serve in the cafeteria here. All right, I have an idea. You'll love it."

"Starsky, my stomach is probably in no shape to handle pyrotechnics."

Starsky laughed and slapped his partner on the back. "Guess we'll have to take a rain-check on Sal's Edible Fireworks. Ah, well, they're busy on Mondays. Hutch, relax. I know what you need."

He didn't realize his expression had changed until Starsky grabbed his arm again and practically dragged him through the parking lot, mumbling something about providing Hutch with somewhere to sit before he fell on his face. Once at the Torino, Hutch wasn't even allowed to open his own car door. He snapped out of his funk just as Starsky prepared to bodily lift his legs into the car. "Hey! Easy on the limbs; I need them."

Starsky abandoned his task and stormed around to the driver's side. He slammed the door behind him and met Hutch's wide eyes with a stern frown as he slapped his shades on. "I swear, Hutch, if you hadn't just passed all their blood work and tests, I'd—I'd drag your carcass back in there and tell 'em to keep you until they fixed you for real."

Hutch could only offer an appreciative snort before his eyes closed, his body lulled by the sun's warmth and the motion of the Torino as it pulled into Monday mid-afternoon traffic.

>>>>>>

The Torino's abrupt braking and Starsky's equally vehement curse hurled out his open window brought Hutch around from the light snooze. He watched a rust-trap, floral-and-peace-sign-tattooed VW van back the rest of the way out of the parking space and shoot down the road. Starsky sighed, issued a complaint against all half-stoned kids in hippy-mobiles, and defiantly pulled into the parking spot he'd been aiming for, rather than taking advantage of the empty spot left by the van. Hutch was alert now, twisting in the seat for a better view of their destination. An unassuming, quaint storefront greeted him, hand-painted vines sprawling across the windows, green-and-white awning gleaming in the sun beneath a simple wooden sign.

"What—Starsky, what the hell are we doing here?"

"It's a restaurant, Hutch. Most of the time, people come here to eat—which I'm hoping you'll do, unless you've totally forgot how."

"The Garden? You want us to eat at The Garden?"

"MC said your first meal should be nutritious and light. Fruits and veggies, low on the fat content. I figured this was a good place for you to get rabbit food, and I remember how you practically slobbered all over the menu when we came here before."

"Yes, but—Starsky, you hate this place."

Starsky removed his shades and crammed them partway under the sun visor before he shifted and shrugged. "I don't hate the place; I just didn't like getting lectured by a self-righteous twit of a waitress Molly's age on my eating habits. No, make that my eating ideology. Wha'did she call me?"

Hutch couldn't fight the smile that threatened laughter. "If I remember correctly, she labeled you an 'annihilator of fellow mammalian flesh'."

Starsky grimaced and eyed the culinary establishment with less enthusiasm as the memory spun vivid between them in the car. "Right. Just for ordering a damn burger. It's not like I asked her to bring me the short-order cook on toast."

Hutch gave in to the laughter pressing against the inside of his chest. "What did you expect in a vegan restaurant, Starsk? These people have definite beliefs about their food choices."

"I expected a certain blond idiot to tell me we were in a meatless joint, that's what I expected."

"Yeah? Most people actually glance at the menu before they order. I thought—"

Starsky threw his hands in the air, his gesture one of denying culpability. "Hey, when I know what I'm in the mood for, that's what I want. And I wanted a double-decker, cheese-smothered, bacon-topped special with every condiment known to mankind. Figures you'd take me to the one place I'd get crucified by a sixteen-year-old for trying to get what I wanted. Place didn't look like one of those fad cafés. Just upscale. Thought I'd get a fancy burger."

Hutch's laughter quieted. He remembered the day clearly, but was surprised that after all that had happened in the intervening year since the events, Starsky could still call to mind that embarrassing moment in a vegan restaurant they'd never visited since. He knew why the moment was indelibly printed in his own mind: during the last few months, he'd recalled it—and various other examples of when he'd taken advantage of Starsky's good humor to pull a less than friendly practical joke—with perfect hindsight and regret. Still, Starsky had latched onto it as a keeper in the memory bank, too. Why?

"So why are we here, then?"

Starsky had already opened the car door and had one leg out, but he turned around at the question, face incredulous. "Have you lost an eardrum lately? I just told you. Light and balanced meal, the doc said, so here we are. 'Sides; every place deserves a second chance."

Hutch chose that moment to exit the car, as good an excuse as any to derail the conversation and its potentially dangerous tangents. His mind wasn't so easily knocked off course. A myriad of images assaulted him like a specially spliced home movie detailing each time Starsky had been so generous with second chances—with everyone, everything….

I'm on my third or fourth now, partner, how many you got left?

Following humorous menu consultation, Starsky found a spicy rice dish with chili peppers and black beans that tempted his palate and Hutch settled for The Garden's Hot and Cold platter: remarkable crudités accompanied by a serving of the cooked version of each veggie and a plate of various non-dairy hot and cold dipping sauces. He fed his need for protein with quinoa seasoned with fresh pineapple and coconut. Starsky watched him dive into the array of little bowls and shook his head.

"At least I can pretend I'm eating Mexican. How you can sit there and make a meal off that is beyond me."

"Pure nutrients, Starsky. I might as well be swallowing a potent multi-vitamin, but this tastes a lot better." Hutch popped a piece of raw broccoli into his mouth and grinned, making a satisfied "mmmm" sound as he chewed.

Starsky extended a hand and dropped it immediately. "You have that green speckled stuff all over your chin."

Hutch grabbed his napkin and dabbed thoroughly. "Rosemary olive oil vinaigrette. The best in California. This place could make a fortune off its dipping sauces and dressings alone."

Starsky consumed a forkful of the five-alarm rice and, after a moment's silence, leaned across the table to whisper, "You wouldn't ever—I dunno—convert to this veganism, wouldya?"

Hutch laughed and stirred a dab of honey into his steamed, off-the-cob corn. "No. Come on, you know I—" he leaned closer to Starsky and lowered his voice— "I like a good, juicy steak as much as the next guy."

Starsky's sigh of relief vied with the background music for dominant volume.

"Speaking of which," Hutch waved a spoonful of curried carrots at his dining companion to attract his undivided attention, "you oughta let me take you out tonight for the largest, juiciest one you can find."

Starsky promptly inhaled his bite of rice and coughed violently. To add insult to injury, a young woman wearing The Garden's dress uniform and a nameplate introducing her as Incandescent stopped by the table and surveyed Starsky with concern. "Is everything okay, sir?"

Hutch had half his face conveniently behind a napkin, covering his amusement at Starsky's thoroughly freaked response. Backing up in his chair, Starsky almost raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. "You're—you're still working here?"

"I'm an assistant manager now, sir. Have you been here before? We truly appreciate our repeat diners here at The Garden."

The "repeat diner" turned a painful shade of red and mumbled a few words. Incandescent left them to their entrées and Starsky wiped at his face with his napkin. "God save the planet if she's allowed to be assistant manager of anything."

"She must be older than sixteen," Hutch mused. He peered at the disappearing contents of Starsky's plate. "Glad you didn't ask for a beef-burrito to go with your Spanish rice."

"That's fine. Make fun of me all you want, Hutchinson. I'm not the one turning food choices into some kinda religion."

"Which is a slight departure from your ancestry," Hutch pointed out, smiling benevolently.

Starsky grinned. "Point taken. Ma always has caught flack from neighborhood busybodies for not enforcing the dietary laws in our house. Aunt Hannah even accused her of turning Nicky and me into rebels, letting us eat whatever we wanted."

"You rebel, you," Hutch said mildly, eyes teasing.

"More ways than you know, buddy boy," Starsky responded, equally mild, eyes stern and unyielding.

It was Hutch's turn to swallow wrong, and he downed half of his ice water before he could produce more than a gurgle. "Before you got the Vegan Poster Child's attention, I was talking about taking you out for a celebratory steak tonight."

The flash died from Starsky's eyes and he looked down at his nearly empty plate. "Celebratory, huh?"

Hutch sat back in his chair and commanded his voice to remain neutral, unwavering, pleasant. "Sure. The successful return of Detective Starsky is a worthy cause—"

Starsky laughed shortly, setting his fork down and reaching for his soda. He trailed fingertip lines in the condensation on the glass before he brought the drink up for a long, steadying sip. "Thanks, partner, but no celebration tonight. Doc Redfield made it abundantly clear that you need to catch up in the sleep department—"

"Starsky, that's ridiculous. I'm sure I'll get a normal night's sleep and—" Yeah, right, did Judas sleep normally…before he hung himself from a tree limb?

"Dobey and Edith have invited us both over for dinner tomorrow evening."

Dobey. Now there was a man Hutch wanted a few choice words with. He schooled his face into pleased surprise. "That's nice, buddy, but it doesn't mean we can't have a celebration of our own." At Starsky's silent, expressionless response, Hutch stiffened and felt a current of uneasiness shoot through him. "What?"

Starsky snagged eye contact and refused to give way. "I don't feel like celebrating, Hutch. Not about today. Something's really wrong about today—with us—and I don't think there should be any celebrating that."

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

They left the restaurant with the strains of Nick Lowe following them into the smoggy afternoon. Hutch paused halfway out the door and blocked the exit for a full minute as he let the lyrics infiltrate past his defenses. Cruel to be kind. Someone set the Hutchinson Manifesto to music. Go figure…as Starsky would say. Oh, God. Starsk, I'm trying to say I love you. Can't you hear me? Starsky's voice mocked him inside his own head: funny damn way of showing it, Hutchinson.

The drive to Venice Place could have taken place in an airtight vacuum. Starsky stopped behind Hutch's car on the street and killed the engine. Hutch lifted his head and stared out the window. Time to force himself up the steps into a world he no longer considered home. He'd never known the emptiness that could exist when one's dwelling place ceased to be a home. He'd known the loss of safety and haven when he'd moved from the canal house after a build-up of unpleasant memories, but that feeling faded into oblivion when compared with this one. Even after Vanessa's death, he'd managed to feel at home again. Time, cleaning, and happy memories had erased the throbbing pain associated with her murder.

Still viewing the outside entrance to Venice Place as the beginning of a tattered rope bridge across a thousand-foot chasm, Hutch said wearily, "Thanks for the lunch. Guess it's time for me to get some rest."

"I'm gonna see to it," Starsky said, yanking the keys from the ignition.

Hutch studied the stern profile of the man beside him. "Starsky, I'm sure you have better things to do than watch me sleep—"

Starsky clenched the keys in a fist and opened the car door. Only when his back was turned to Hutch did his shoulders relax. "Like you had nothing better to do than watch me sleep at three friggin' a.m. this morning. Don't deny me this, Hutch. I'm not saying you need a keeper, but I didn't like leaving you alone at the hospital today and I damn sure don't want to leave you alone now."

"That means—that means a lot, but I'm fine. Really. I could spare Dobey some personnel problems and work tomorrow—"

The relaxed shoulders curved inward, but Starsky's voice remained strong and assured. "Make this about my need, then. But you're gonna have to say you don't want me in your apartment or I'm coming up. That's final."

Hutch whispered a word of agreement and vacated the car with the quickness of avoiding a nasty burn. He listened to the sound of Starsky following him, memorizing each sneaker's step, each rattle of the keys in Starsky's fist, the creak of the stairs behind him. Noises so familiar his brain seemed to want an explanation for making the effort to pay special attention.

Once inside, Hutch didn't pause on his way to his bed. He heard Starsky stop and settle on the couch, but he couldn't say anything to him. Fully clothed, he stretched out on the bed and embraced sleep as a savior.

>>>>>>

The shifting warmth of the twilight waning sun broke through Hutch's slumber and he rolled over onto his side. He registered weight on his calf as he moved and the unexpected sensation opened his eyes. Starsky sat with one leg on the foot of the bed, one dangling over the side, his hand resting on Hutch's leg and a nearly full bottle of golden liquid cradled against his crotch.

"Starshk," Hutch slurred, striving for alertness, "what the hell you doin' wi'at—you don't drink hard stuff anymore. And since when did you ever drink Scotch except for a toothache?"

Starsky frowned down at the bottle and shrugged. "Not now either, worst luck. It was all you had in the cabinet. Couple swallows was all I could handle, dammit."

"Why?"

Starsky's frown transformed into a pathetic surface smile. "Dutch courage; why else? Don't have enough of my own after this afternoon. But I guess I'll have to do this without the benefit of anesthesia. Jus' tell me, Hutch. What is it about me don't you want?"

Hutch blinked through the remaining fog and tried to push back for a propped position against the headboard. Starsky's grasp on his calf worked against him. Finally, he stilled. "Starsky, what—"

"Yeah; that's what you said earlier. One thing in this world scares me more'n anything that could happen to me. Something happening to us. Not talking about on the streets. You gotta know I'da never—I wouldn't've pulled a stunt like that if I didn't think you'd go for it hundred percent."

"Starsk—"

"And I wasn't wrong, so don't tell me I was. You think you're Mr. Broad-minded, but you don't act like that unless—"

"Act like what?"

"A man you've known ten years--a man you've never seen look at anything but a skirt—suddenly wants to swap spit with you and you just act like he suggested you go see a movie you're not interested in. No way. Not you. Not unless the idea of it ain't what's holding you back. What…is it something about me? Or you can't handle the tendency?"

Hutch yanked his leg free of Starsky's hold and practically fell off the other side of the bed in his haste to put distance between him and his partner. He shook his head as he heard Starsky plodding resolutely behind him into the living room. Ridiculous—he must have been high on something himself to think he could fool Starsky. A person would have a better chance keeping Houdini tied up in dental floss.

"You can pace the whole apartment, but we're not changing the subject 'less you throw me out. And I dare you to try."

Hutch whirled at the belligerent tone and smashed right into a Starsky who stood rooted to his spot. The impact knocked both of them to the floor and Hutch found disentangling their lower limbs more effort than worthwhile. He breathed deeply. "Starsky, I need a damn atlas to follow this conversation."

"What's to follow? You told me yourself. I got tendencies. Or, as you said it then, we have certain tendencies. I know you thought you were lecturing me through the back door about tolerance, but you had a point. You never knew it, but you made me sit and think about it. And it took me a couple years to make peace with it."

"What are you saying? You've decided you're homosexual after a lifetime of being straight? That's what you think your feelings for me are all about?"

Starsky glared at him. "Hey, I can face the truth; can you? I flirted with you—hell, if I'm honest, I came on to you back before you'd ever done anything but be in the same room with me. If my dick could get hard for a man I barely knew at the time, I sure as hell ain't a perfectly straight line. That says more about me than I could handle for a long time."

Hutch felt his chest tighten. Where's your equal partnership, Hutchinson? He's being honest; time to dole out your own admissions. Can't hold up your end of the bargain this time, can you…coward. "Thanks, pal; this has to be one of your most romantic propositions. I'm your means of fulfilling your gay destiny. Great."

The fury in Starsky's face only increased. "Be an ass about this if you're determined to. You know what I'm trying to say. No, I didn't decide I need a man to be happy. I haven't gone cock-crazy. I'm just tired of the bullshit. Believe me, it's something I had to make peace with before I could say this to you. I have a lot to lose. There isn't one person in my family, Ma included, who won't pretend I'm dead when it gets back to them exactly what you mean to me. And I'm not denying you to them just to keep their approval either."

Hutch pushed back on the floor, but he only made it to his knees before Starsky's strong hands gripped his forearms. He didn't fight the touch. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I know sometimes people who seem to have their head together about something—like you did after John died—might be miles from it down inside where it matters. And if that's what's keeping us apart, I have to know about it."

Hutch stared into the dark blue gaze searching his and laughed harshly. He pulled his arms away from his partner's tenacious hold and folded them across his chest. "Starsky, I quit caring a long time ago if I'm gay, straight, or anything in between. Somehow other things became much more important."

Starsky's hard swallow was so easily observed at close range that Hutch felt a sympathetic pull on his own Adam's apple. "Then it is something about me. Tell me how to fix it. Anything. I'll buy different clothes, dye my hair, change my religion…. Jesus, Hutch, the way I feel about you, I'd wear a dress in the privacy of our apartments if that'd make the difference."

Hutch couldn't fight the humor in the image. He rocked back on his heels and burst into laughter that subsided eventually in a snort and moisture pooling beneath his lashes. "Liar," he accused, wiping his eyes. "You wouldn't wear a dress under a direct edict from God."

Starsky looked outraged for half-a-second, but a conceding smile won the day. "Yeah, okay, but it's the thought that counts, right? I mean it, Hutch. What've I gotta do?"

Hutch leaned forward and cradled the rugged face staring at him with such a potent mixture of vigor and desperation. "You're beyond improvement, buddy. I wouldn't want you to change even your shoelaces for me or anybody else. Now, why don't you go home and do something more constructive than babysitting me? We both need to take a few steps back from today."

Heaving a soul-weary sigh, Starsky backed away from the large hands lingering on his face. His palms flew up in a defiant gesture when Hutch extended a hand out of common courtesy as they rose from the floor.

"You okay to drive?" Hutch asked as Starsky hunted in his pocket for his keys.

"On two swallows of Scotch? I could navigate the canyons blindfolded." He spun the keys by a lone finger in a zany imitation of twirling a basketball and adopted a devil-may-care grin. "Just might do that, too."

"Starsky—"

But Starsky didn't slow down until he reached the door. He shot out a fist and pounded abruptly on the football poster. "Already put my pride on the floor one more time for you today than I would have for any woman on the planet, Hutchinson. Don't think I can't see straight through you, partner. You're not saying why you're cutting out my heart with a hack-saw, but you haven't said once that you don't want me."

With the door's slam still ringing in his ears a few minutes later, Hutch felt both knees buckle and he knew if he didn't move, he'd kiss the floor. Idiotically, he'd been standing rigid, knees locked, since Starsky's departure. He rushed forward, flung open the door, and screamed into the now empty hallway, "I love you, David Starsky!"

Across the hall, a door cracked open, and the face of the other apartment's tenant appeared. Hutch met his eyes unwaveringly and finally growled, "What are you looking at?" The face vanished behind the quickly closing door, but Hutch took small comfort in the triumph.

>>>>>>

Captain Harold Dobey performed an impressive juggling feat to end up with the tray of cereal, donuts, and bacon situated properly on his desk rather than smeared down his shirt and collected on the floor. Hutch didn't budge from his chair during the entire performance he'd inadvertently caused, and he remained silent as Dobey glared at him from behind the desk. The battle of wills lasted only a moment; Dobey wagged the coffee-stirrer at him.

"You're known to be more of a morning person than your partner, Hutchinson, but this is extreme even for you. What has you in my office at six-thirty in the morning? On your day off! You should be home resting. I had a full run-down from Starsky at the ER yesterday and—"

"Captain, I need to be home sleeping about as much as you need a new diet."

The ploy worked. Dobey could only sputter into his coffee. He pointed a plump fist at his door and snarled, "That nameplate on the door? It does still say Captain, right? As in, Captain of Detectives?"

Hutch's sphinx-like stare had been known to take the wind out of the sails of more blustery men than Dobey, and the expression carried the honors on this occasion too. The captain set down the styrofoam coffee cup and pushed back from the desk. "You must have one hell of a point to make to get my attention like that, Hutch. What's bothering you?"

"What the hell happened yesterday?"

"Don't ask me nonsensical questions before I've had breakfast, Detective! What do you mean, what happened?"

Hutch waved two impatient hands. "With the committee? With Starsky's being cleared for street duty."

Dobey crunched on a piece of bacon. "You're not happy with the outcome, are you?"

"I'm thrilled. I'm ecstatic. I repeat, what the hell happened?"

"Hutch—"

"Don't give me that. You're Captain of Detectives, so give me a straight answer as my captain."

Spooning absently through the cereal, Dobey adjusted his tie with his other hand, a sure-fire sign of non-physical discomfort, and slowly looked away from Hutch. "I'm putting my ass on the line for telling you this, Hutchinson, but you're not going to leave me alone until I do and I have twenty things that need to be done before eight a.m.. Starsky's reinstatement was pretty much a foregone conclusion before he walked in that room."

"Wha—at!?" Hutch had to clamp down on the shout for the sake of the other red-eye workers already congregating in the squad room.

Dobey folded his hands on the desk. "The BCPD has had a lot—and I mean a lot!—of bad press lately. I'm sure you've noticed. In one precinct we almost had a riot last week because of a police brutality charge. In another section of the Department, several female officers are screaming discrimination based on their marital status, and their case looks solid. Total mishandling by administration. Just last month one of the Vice boys was caught in bed with two seventeen-year-old hookers. Right now the whole damn PD's looking like it ought to join Barnum and Bailey's and take to the road."

"What does that have to do with Starsky?"

"Think, Hutch, even if it is early. It's no secret that Starsky is widely considered a hero. So are you, for that matter. Your partnership has usually—usually!—been the source of the kind of publicity this Department needs. And it needs it in the worst way right now. That reinstatement board had more pressure heaped on it from the top than a damn presidential nominating committee. Unless Starsky walked in there with a visible limp, a broken arm, an irregular heart beat, and high blood pressure, he was going to be cleared."

Hutch shot forward and leaned over the desk, gripping the edge with the veins in his hand leaping to the surface. "That's—that's ludicrous! They're playing with human lives here—just so they can have two media playboys? Is that what they want us to be? They're opening the door for one hell of a lawsuit if—if something—" he couldn't verbalize the thought. Suddenly winded, he took three steps back and slumped down in the chair.

"Desperate times…" Dobey said softly, not bothering to finish the cliché. "They've covered the bases. They put him through a grueling interview, read the medical reports. Starsky will have to sign more paperwork than for a house loan before he hits the streets with you on Monday."

"Why? Why didn't you tell me that nothing I'd say in there would—would mean a damn? Why'd you let me go in there thinking I—" Hutch gave up the fight and cradled his forehead in his palm.

Dobey's sigh was reminiscent of a seventy-year-old. "I didn't know. I didn't know the way the wind was blowing until yesterday afternoon. Hutch, you obviously have concerns; why don't you lay them out for me? I've read Starsky's medical reports and on paper, he looks damn good, but I know that no report knows your partner better than you do."

Hutch stared a hole in the file cabinet. "You said yourself, you know what I told the committee."

"I also know what you didn't say. Why don't you tell me now? How about if I take my captain's hat off for a minute? Off the record, as the journalists say."

Hutch turned his eyes and looked into a warm brown gaze that spoke of love, concern, and understanding. He knew in that one moment, that one flash of recognition between them, that he was speaking to the one true father he'd ever had. "He's not ready."

"Are you sure he's the one who isn't ready?"

Hutch fled the chair and pulled up short at the water cooler. He hastily drew a cup full and drained it, crumpling the cup and leaning forward on the cooler, his back to the captain. "It'll be rough to watch him out there—vulnerable again. Yes, dammit, I admit it. Part of me is scared shitless of that. But you want the truth? The hard truth I've come up against this weekend? There's nothing I want to do more than be a cop—be a cop with Starsky—in our district again. You know I got sick and tired of this job last year. You watched it happen. I know it sounds crazy, but that—that person died when Starsky woke up and lived. I want a chance to relive the last few years…and do an even better job of it this time."

"But—"

Hutch whirled around and flung the crumpled cup in the vicinity of his chair rather than the trashcan. "But he's not ready, dammit. I don't know. Something's—something's just missing. I can tell. I was pretty much in denial about it until you lectured me on Friday."

"You're right, though, Hutch. Starsky would never risk your life—"

"No; of course not. He believes he's ready. He's prepared to go full-throttle."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

Hutch frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Are you kidding? I'd have a better chance relocating the Golden Gate Bridge than getting him to admit he doesn't know his own capabilities—"

"Well, my hands are tied. Is there anything else you could do to persuade him to slow down and wait on the street work?"

"No!" Hutch shouted at the voice echoing the halls in his mind.

"Hutch?!"

"Tell me one thing, Captain," Hutch said in a softer tone. "Ignoring the reports, his interview…all of it. Based on what I said in there—say, two years ago, would he have been cleared?"

Dobey cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. "What good will—"

"Tell me!"

"No. Almost certainly not."

"Thanks," Hutch said in a harsh whisper, throwing a hand in the air. Eloquent self-condemnation, the gesture was clearly not lost on Dobey, who rose to his feet as Hutch opened the door.

"Shut the door, Hutch."

"I think we're done—"

"Shut it!"

Hutch slammed the door and pivoted, drawing strength from the solidity of the wood.

"Still off the record, here? For what it's worth, I've never cared about Edith one mite more than you care for Starsky. Don't think I don't know it. I'm counting on you to figure out what's best for both of you before Monday morning."

>>>>>>

Hutch curled up on the floor behind the couch and rested his forehead on his knees. He'd tried banishing the oppressive quiet in the apartment with music on the stereo, but the voices in his head drowned out even the loudest songs.

The radio station announced a Zeppelin marathon and Hutch pulled his knees up tighter against his chest as Robert Plant's demanding voice crashed in on his mental war.

1973. Starsky's new favorite song--a goofy song by Zeppelin standards--pleading for love to remain, for endings not to come, for anger to die…. Powerful words and insistent music blasting from the Torino's stereo system in perfect harmony with the roar of the motor….

Starsky, arm draped over Hutch's shoulder following the particularly successful interruption of a 2-11 in progress, voice keening in a not-so-bad approximation of Plant's, begging some elusive someone "not to go."

Hutch released his vise grip on his legs and clamped his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth. He succeeded in muting the stereo, but he couldn't drown the song in his head or the vision of Starsky's face.

Pounding on the door slowly penetrated the barrier of Hutch's hands. He uncovered his ears and lifted his head weakly from his knees. Gone were the days of the key above the door, so he trusted his privacy and thanked his lucky stars that he'd locked himself inside his personal hell.

"You're not saying why you're cutting out my heart with a hack-saw, but you haven't said once that you don't want me."

The sound of a key rattling in the lock brought Hutch's head back up with a snap that traveled down his neck and spread across his shoulders in a searing pain. Starsky! Here to pick him up for dinner with the Dobeys.

"Hutch? What're you doing on the floor in your—"

"Not going," Hutch hurriedly interrupted, looking away from the beautiful sight of Starsky in dark jeans and a nice dress shirt that made his hair darker and his eyes bluer.

"What you mean, you're not—"

"You're not ready. Just not ready…and if you're not, I'm not—"

"Of course; I'm ready! You're the one in your underwear, for crying out loud. Hutch? Remember the Dobeys invited us over tonight?"

"Not going!" Hutch shouted and began to shiver.

"Come on, Hutch, let's get you off this floor and find you some clothes. You don't wanna disappoint Edith, d'you? Even Huggy'll be there with his new girlfriend. Hey, Minnie's coming too and she's bringing a date. Don't you wanna watch me tease Minnie about her date all night?"

Hutch batted at the hands that reached for him. "Not going!"

"Oka-a-y. You're not going. Are you—you don't smell drunk…. What's going on here, Hutch?"

"Can't wear three hats. Every damn day. Or maybe I can, but I don't want to. Or maybe I want to, but I don't think it's right. Only, what I did yesterday wasn't right, but it doesn't matter 'cause it didn't matter anyway…."

"Partner, you stay right there while I make a phone call and then you're going to pull yourself together and tell me what's wrong. Got that? Go ahead and be gearing yourself up for it."

Hutch noticed with one portion of his brain that Starsky's scent and presence departed. He felt chilled all over and was ashamed that his first instinct was to shout his partner's name. Then he heard the sounds of dialing and within a moment, his best friend's voice.

"Cap'n? It's Starsky. Look, I'm sorry to pull out on you like this, but Hutch isn't feeling so good. We won't be able to make it for dinner….No, no I don't think so. Probably just one of those things going round. I'm gonna stay with him. Yes, I know he was fine today…. What? Oh, he's got music on. It's…uh…it's his cure for nausea.…. Yeah, thanks. And hey, tell Edith we'll make it up to her, 'kay? Good deal. Bye."

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, you don't have to go-o-o, oh, oh, oh, oh…." Hutch crooned, though D'yer Mak'er had already given way to Black Dog on the radio.

"Now that's gotta be a first: Ken Hutchinson doing a Zeppelin cover."

"I still love you so-o…I can't let you go…I lo-ove you….oooh, baby, I love you, I--!!"

Hutch felt his partner's breath draw closer to his face as Starsky's hands rested on his shoulders. "Listen, Hutch, if you don't stop singing that song, these jeans are gonna start hurting any minute, and I need to be thinking with the head on my shoulders right now."

"Don't think I have one," Hutch muttered.

"What, a head?"

"Oh, I got one of those," Hutch warbled, grinning. "Wanna see?" His fingers danced along the elastic band of his jockey shorts. The rebellious fingers were immediately grabbed and moved to safer territory.

"Dear God, what've I done to deserve this? Hutch, do you think you can stand up so I can help you to the couch?"

"Don't need help," Hutch protested, and clambered to his feet, pushing an unprepared Starsky back on his rear end. "Don't ever need help. I'm Hutch. I can do everything, decide everything, make everything right. Right? Hah!" Hutch swerved and felt strong arms wrap around his chest. "Man, you got off that floor pretty quick, Starsk. Guess your agility isn't what's missing."

"Hutch, did you eat today? Anything?"

"Nope. I'm on a special diet." Hutch laughed as though he'd told the world's funniest joke.

"Sure you are. And you haven't been drinking?"

"Nope. Clean living, that's the ticket. Longer life, better sex… wanna find out?"

"Great. You're just having a minor nervous breakdown on me, right?"

"Who, me? Nah." Hutch felt himself being shoved downward and welcomed the softness of cushions against his body. "Just don't wanta think anymore. Been thinkin' too much."

"You, think too much? Never happen," Starsky said dryly.

"Where you going?" Hutch hated the alarm in his voice.

"To get a blanket—you're cold as ice."

"Why don't you warm me up?"

"If you think for one second I'm taking advantage of you in your current state of mind, you're loonier than you sound."

Hutch scrambled to the end of the couch and leaned over the edge, reaching out with both arms. "Yeah, take advantage of me. That sounds good."

"Tempting offer, Hutch, but no."

After the lapse of a few minutes, Hutch felt thoroughly abandoned and curled back into a ball on the couch. He whimpered with delight when he was pulled into a firm embrace and warm cloth draped over his body. He buried his face in the folds of the royal blue dress shirt and sniffed. "God, I love the way you smell. You smell like good sex—right before it's about to happen."

"Shh, Hutch, just close your eyes and rest, and for Chris'sake, if you have any mercy, don't talk anymore."

Wrapped securely in the blanket, held within the comforting circle of Starsky's arms, Hutch surrendered his need to think, to decide, to protect. Warmth and darkness descended on him and he murmured one last sentence before his eyes closed.

>>>>>>

His first waking sensation was the overpowering aroma of food making his mouth water. He rolled over in his cocoon of blanket and watched Starsky carry a tray over from the kitchen.

"Thought you might be waking up soon. Looks like I have perfect timing."

"What's that?" Hutch asked, pointing at what was obviously a meal meant for him.

"Sounds like you might be back with me, partner."

"Never left," Hutch said with a trace of annoyance, sitting up and practically swaddling himself in the blanket as Starsky sat beside him and deposited the tray on the coffee table.

"O-oh, I beg to differ, big guy." Starsky began arranging the items on the tray for better access. "But if it was just a temporary thing, we can manage."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hutch insisted, though his failure to question his partial nudity and blanket gave lie to his words.

Starsky's eyes were gentle, his touch on Hutch's arm light. "Hutch, for a little while there you made Skyler look like Walter Cronkite. Now, chow down; I'm sure you'll feel better after you have some food in your stomach. Don't make me call MC."

Hutch glanced at the tray. "What is all this?"

Starsky sighed. "Has your problem—whatever it is—affected your eyes? It's a bowl of tomato soup, a turkey sandwich with all your favorite healthy toppings, and a glass of fruit juice."

"No, I mean why are you feeding me—aren't we supposed to be at the Dobeys' for dinner?"

Starsky draped a napkin over Hutch's lap in a reverse replica of a moment years back in the house of a drug lord, and handed his confused partner a soupspoon. "Hutch, believe me, Edith couldn't have handled your favorite topic of conversation a few hours ago."

Hutch flushed. "I'm not sure I want to know." He dipped the spoon into the soup and ventured a sip. "Umm, good. What about you?"

"I ate while you were snoozing. Just dig in and enjoy."

Hutch made quick work of the soup and had devoured half of the sandwich when Starsky leaned back casually against the sofa arm and said, "Don't you think it's about time we re-open the lines of communication?"

"Didn't know they were closed," Hutch mouthed through a swallow of sandwich, suddenly grateful for some reason that Starsky had turned off the radio during his nap.

"Come off it, partner. I'm supposed to just watch you break into pieces?"

"I'm not your partner!" Hutch snapped, dropping the remainder of his sandwich and hardly noticing that he'd missed the tray and the coffee table. "Partners don't betray each other, something I'm developing a true knack for."

"This is doing wonders for my confusion," Starsky said calmly. He reached down to gather the sandwich remains and carted them over to the kitchen. Hutch took advantage of Starsky's turned back to grab his car keys from the coffee table and beat a hasty retreat with some thought of reaching his car unseen and speeding off to God knows where.

Halfway down the hall, he felt strong arms wrap around him from behind and begin a backward dragging tug. He resisted. "Let me go!"

"In your blanket and underwear? I don't think so, partner. We're gonna have this discussion right now and we'll have it right here in this hall if you don't stop fighting me."

The other apartment's door opened and two faces peeked out. Hutch recognized them as the tenant and his live-in girlfriend. His knees weakened at the thought of what picture he and Starsky must present, one half-naked and the other practically coating his back. Starsky just lifted a hand and waved. "Hi, there."

The door slammed shut.

Hutch groaned. "Guess I don't have to worry about a closet as far as they're concerned."

Starsky laughed, sounding idiotically pleased. "You coming back inside with me now?"

Hutch shrugged off Starsky's hold and nodded. "Yeah."

"Now," Starsky said as Hutch sat down heavily on the couch, "you want to try explaining why you tell me you love me right before you pass out in my arms, and then you wake up telling me we're not partners?"

"I told them everything," Hutch answered, glancing up and then quickly back down again as he chose to stare at his knees rather than face Starsky, who stood a comfortable three feet away, looking down on him with a tender smile. "All the hidden risks, the long-term impact of your working the streets again, the between-the-lines stuff that didn't show up on your physical examination reports. I told it all." He risked a peek at Starsky's reaction.

Starsky's smile didn't waver. "Right, okay, and now tell me where the big bad betrayal is in all that?"

Hutch jumped to his feet and flung his arms out to the sides, looming over Starsky at his full height. "Are we having the same conversation? I told them the truth. Based on what I said in there, you shouldn't have been cleared."

Starsky nodded. He clutched Hutch's arms and brought them down to rest at his sides. "Hutch, I wouldn't have wanted you to lie. Did you think I would? Want ya to stand there and fabricate a buncha bull just so I could get what I want? Where would that leave you if something went wrong? If you knew they only cleared me because you whitewashed my condition? You'd wreck yourself with guilt."

"But they cleared you anyway!" Hutch stormed.

"Yeah; that's their call, not yours."

"Don't you wonder why they cleared you—despite what I said?"

"Not really. I figure, combination of two things. Your faith in me to be a good cop despite a change in circumstances got across to 'em, and my work in our district—my destiny, if you wanna call it that—isn't done. That's what matters. Anything beyond that? Not important."

Hutch stared into those honest eyes and the next words on his lips froze unspoken. He could see Starsky's soul in those eyes, the deepest part of his best friend lay open to his interpretation, and he heard the silent plea: Don't make me analyze this. Don't make me doubt myself. Telling his partner about the political machinations behind the scene was unthinkable when faced with that need to cling to victory. "Starsky, don't you understand—I was pulling against—"

Fingers on his lips silenced him. "Don't. No matter what you say, I'm not lettin' you turn this into a crime you've committed. Answer two questions for me. They asked me in there if my recovery period had made me re-evaluate my partnership with you. Asked if I still wanted you to be my partner. They ask you that too?"

Hutch nodded and willed the fingers to remain in place.

"And what'd you say?"

Hutch mourned the departure of the fingers, however necessary for him to speak. "I told you. I told them the truth all the way down the line. I told them you're the only partner I've ever had or will ever want."

Starsky's smile should have been accompanied by trumpets and percussion. "And how exactly do you define want?"

Hutch quickly re-discovered his fallibility. Starsky's unique come-on voice, well-defined masculine hands stroking Hutch's forearms, hypnotic eyes removing any cloth barrier to his overheated skin, all combined to shatter Hutch's weighty decision into irreparable shards. He grabbed those devilish hands and pulled them forward until Starsky's arms rested over his shoulders, hands curving behind Hutch's neck. Starsky opened his mouth, tilted his face to the side, clearly interpreting Hutch's intention, and produced a choked, excited sound from the pit of his throat. Besides setting a brush fire in the vicinity of his groin, Starsky's audible need filled Hutch's heart with wonder even before their lips connected. He hovered less than an inch over the mouth waiting for him until Starsky released another tiny cry of want. His lips came down hard, turning gentle at impact, and he attacked Starsky's body with his arms, hauling him close and crushing him tight as Starsky wrested control of their mouths.

"What now?" Hutch gasped when capable of rational thought, bottom lip seemingly unable to detach itself from Starsky's top one. Starsky chuckled and leaned back in Hutch's unrelenting embrace.

"Now I should really get outta here before we're both on autopilot."

"Get outta here? What the hell are you talking about?"

Starsky massaged the tip of Hutch's nose with his pinky finger. "God knows, I usually let my basic instincts take over from here on out, but not this time. After the last couple days, we need to walk before we run. I know you, Hutchinson: roller coasters aren't good for your sanity."

"At least come to bed with me."

"Hutch—"

"We're not adolescents! I need you close tonight. Just hold me; don't you have that much control?"

Starsky snorted. "Hardly, and you ain't God's gift to chastity either, gorgeous, but I'll do my damndest. Jeez, this would've been so much easier if I'd just pounced on you a few months back when you were still living with me and throwing out a fluorescent hormone trail."

Hutch laughed and cradled the back of Starsky's head in his palm. He hugged him close and whispered, "Why didn't you?"

"Blame it on my upbringing. Ma, Aunt Rose, Al…all of 'em raised me with the notion that I gotta be self-sufficient, able to take care of myself, be my own man, before I offer myself to anyone else. While you were living with me as my caregiver, I—I couldn't approach you that way. Me being able to live on my own again, that was step one in the right direction. Getting my livelihood back, that was step two."

Hutch took his turn at pulling back. "That's—Starsky, you can't look at us that way. We've always taken care of each other. Don't you think there'll be times in the future we'll have to serve as 'caregiver'? Hopefully for something minor like a scrape, bruise, or stomach 'flu, but still…."

"That's fine. I was just having a hard time starting our new relationship that way."

Hutch forcefully turned him around and pushed him toward the sleeping alcove. "Come on, I'm ready to have you in my arms yesterday."

"All right already!" Starsky laughed. "You always this pushy for your loving, hotshot?"

"In the immortal words of Bachman-Turner Overdrive, you ain't seen nothin' yet!"

Starsky glanced back over his shoulder, his face pleasantly surprised. "You like BTO? I never knew that."

"Yeah, well, your music tastes rubbed off on me."

"Arrggh! Stop, you cruel individual. I can't handle any more suggestive talk out of that pretty mouth of yours—not until I can do something about it."

"Okay, I'll make a deal with you. I'll shut up if you let me undress you."

"You drive a hard bargain."

>>>>>>

"Hutch, you still awake?"

"Ummm…sure."

"I've been thinking."

"With which head this time?" Hutch's question resulted in a jab to his ribs.

"So you do remember some of what went on!"

"I was in la-la-land; I wasn't dead. What's on your mind?"

"Every signal I read said you were hot for me. Even yesterday in the hospital after you first came round. But when I made a pass at you, you turned into an iceberg. Now, I wouldn't be a detective if I didn't think there was some connection between that and me telling you I'd been cleared for full-duty. Am I on target?"

"Bull's eye," Hutch affirmed, increasing the pressure of his hands rubbing up and down Starsky's shoulder and back.

"Wanna explain that one to me?"

"Not really, but you have a right to know. Short version? I'd decided yesterday before the meeting even took place that…that if you were going to be working the streets again, I—I had to—to keep my agendas pure. Objectivity. That was the only way I could be vigilant enough. Couldn't risk the confusion of being a lover and a partner at work."

"And what changed your mind?"

"Couldn't stomach hurting you in order to feel righteous about my motives when we're on the job. That 'cutting my heart out with a hack-saw' comment was pretty damned effective."

Starsky squirmed uncomfortably in Hutch's arms and turned his face against his strong shoulder. "Sorry. Always have been a double or nothing kinda guy."

"Tell me about it," Hutch laughed softly.

"So, lemme get this straight. You had it figured this way? Either I'd get denied, figure out you were to blame, and hate you, or I'd get cleared and you'd have to sweep all your feelings for me under some kinda rug for good?"

"In a word, yes."

"Hutchinson, you're a piece of work, you know that? No wonder you can't sleep worth crap and your appetite's blasted. I don't get it. I really don't." Starsky rose up on one elbow and stared down into his partner's now troubled face. "You can be the most stubborn jerk about having insignificant things go your way, but when it comes to having what you really need in your life, you put yourself in these situations you can't win for losing."

"Nobody ever said I wasn't a complicated bastard," Hutch murmured. He flinched at the change in Starsky's expression, which for a brief moment showed him ready to launch into a stream of invective. Then the cloud passed and Starsky's eyes were soft and embracing, the smile one he'd offered to a recovering addict clinging to a fence.

"Hutch, do you want me off the job? I meant it when I said I'd do anything. Say the word and I'll put my badge away for good."

Hutch sucked in his breath and coughed. "Starsky, I know you're sincere, and I love you for it, but your reactions yesterday showed how much you want to be a cop. You said you didn't want to start a relationship with me while I was your caregiver. Well, I know it's not good to start a romantic relationship with one of the partners having to make that kind of personal life-change for the other. Later, when times get rough, that'll often turn into a weapon…or a big source of regret when those nifty mid-life crises hit. I don't want that between us."

"You're not staying a cop just because I am?"

"No. Honestly, I'm not. I'm staying for me, too."

Starsky lay back down in arms that welcomed him and fell silent. After a kiss on Hutch's shoulder, he said, "You want the truth, Hutch? I know I can't do this long-term. I'm not out for that. I'm not blind to the stuff that those med reports don't spell out point blank. Who knows? I might not wanna push this beyond two or three more years before I decide I'd rather do something else. I just feel I got a little bit left in me and I want to do some good with it."

"I know. I know, love. Believe me, I understand. It may be a toilet bowl like you said once upon a time, but it's our toilet bowl. And I'm not going to rob you of that opportunity. I've learned my lesson since yesterday."

Starsky squirmed again, but the discomfort this time was of a different nature, Hutch could tell, and he grinned in the semi-darkness. "Should've let me take those bikinis off you like I wanted. Getting to be cramped quarters, huh?"

"Yeah, yeah," Starsky snarled. "It's been months since I had any, all right? Y'happy? I'm about to burst from all this cuddling and intimate one-on-one discussion here. Been feeling your breath in my hair for twenty solid minutes. Got any idea what that'll do to a guy who's sex-starved?"

"Hey, I'm in the same boat with you. Let's try for a less provocative position—"

"Whoa, Hutch, watch that hand—what are you--!! Ah, AH, oh, I lo-ove you…um, good…oh yeah."

Hutch laughed. "Feeling much better now, I bet. Amazing what I can do without even direct skin contact. You ready for what you're getting yourself into, Starsk?"

"Can I borrow some underwear?"

"Nope."

"No?"

"This is as good an excuse as any to have you naked in my arms like I wanted."

"Why, you lousy, underhanded, devious son-of-a—"

"All's fair in love and—Star-SKY!!…."

"Yeah, now who's got the moves? You ready for what you're getting yourself into, Hutch?"

A primal yowl in the darkness answered the question.

>>>>>>

Hutch woke with his arms empty and his nose filled with the scent of fresh breakfast food. He twisted in the covers and decided that remaining in a Starskyless-bed was pointless. Eschewing the need for underwear or a robe, he plodded nude toward the kitchen and found his lover wearing nothing but one of his old T-shirts.

"Oh, now this I could get used to," Hutch approved, hugging Starsky from behind and groping one-handed beneath the shirt as Starsky buttered toast.

"What, me wearing your clothes? Done that before, Blondie."

"Yeah, but not this blatantly, if you know what I mean."

"If I didn't, that large part of you trying to dig a tunnel up the back of the shirt would spell it out. Now pull back your drill so we can eat. You're already late for work and I have my last appointment with the occupational therapist this morning. Get to spring the good news on her."

"Good news?" Hutch asked, genuinely confused.

Starsky turned and touched his lips to Hutch's. What started out gentle turned fierce, and the clatter of the plate of toast falling to the floor as Starsky spun Hutch around and pushed him against and partially onto the counter joined the sounds of two men vying for the last say in the kiss. Giving no sign of having suffered lung-damage in the shooting, Starsky won yet again, and Hutch drew away, chest heaving.

Starsky smiled. "Don't try to best me in the kissing department, lover boy. Just admit defeat and reap the benefits." He looked down at the floor. "Good thing the eggs are already on the table, 'cause I don't have time to fix anything else."

"Good news, you said?"

"You and me working again. Our favorite toilet bowl."

And just as quickly as fire had burned out of control in Hutch's heart and extremities, the chill of Monday morning was back as realization struck. I still haven't done a damn thing about him not being…ready.

"Come by the station after your appointment and we'll grab lunch together," Hutch said, praying his voice didn't shake. Starsky gave him a sideways stare but eventually grinned and saluted.

"Sure thing; we can pop in and annoy the cap'n. Dobey needs to get acclimated before he has to deal with a full-time dose of me." Starsky's laugh swung between harmless and charmingly evil, but Hutch couldn't enjoy the effect. The captain's stern voice and caring eyes laid siege to his conscience and Hutch fell before the Judgment Seat in his own mind.

"For what it's worth, I've never cared about Edith one mite more than you care for Starsky…. I'm counting on you to figure out what's best for both of you before Monday morning."

Hutch pulled Starsky into a nearly violent embrace and pressed his face, eyes moist and lips open and needy, against his startled partner's neck.

THE END…but a sequel is on its way!!

THE Decision SOUNDTRACK:

(Songs used respectfully but without permission; for entertainment purposes only—no copyright infringement intended)

If I Can't Have You

The Bee Gees

1977

Don't know why I'm surviving every lonely day.

When there's got to be no chance for me…

My life would end and it just don't matter how I cry

My tears of love a waste of time… if I turn away

Am I strong enough to see it through?

Go crazy is what I will do.

If I can't have you, I don't want nobody, baby

If I can't have you, ah hah hah ah!

If I can't have you, I don't want nobody, baby

If I can't have you, ah hah hah ah!

Can't let go and it doesn't matter how I try.

I gave it all so easily to you my love…

To dreams that never will come true…

Am I strong enough to see it through?

Go crazy is what I will do.

If I can't have you, I don't want nobody, baby….

>>>>>>>

Cruel to Be Kind

Nick Lowe

1979

Oh I can't take another heartache

Though you say you're my friend

I'm at my wits end

You say your love is bona fide

But that don't coincide

With the things that you're doing

And when I ask you to be nice

You say you gotta be

Cruel to be kind, in the right measure

Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign

Cruel to be kind, means that I love you

Baby you gotta be cruel to be kind

Well I do my best to understand, dear

But you still mystify,

and I wanna know why

I pick myself up off the ground

And have you knock me back down

Again and again

And when I ask you to explain

You say you gotta be

Cruel to be kind, in the right measure

Cruel to be kind, it's a very good sign

Cruel to be kind, means that I love you

Baby you gotta be cruel to be kind

>>>>>>>

D'yer Mak'er

Led Zeppelin

1973

Oh oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
Baby please don't go.

Ay ay ay ay ay ay
All those tears I cry ay ay ay ay ay
All those tears I cry ay ay ay ay ay
Baby please don't go.

*CHORUS

When I read the letter you wrote, it made me mad mad mad
When I read the news that it brought me, it made me sad sad sad.
But I still love you so, I can't let you go
I love you- ooh baby I love you.

Oh oh oh oh oh oh
Every breath I take oh oh oh oh oh
Every move I make oh oh oh oh oh
Baby please don't go.

Ay ay ay ay ay ay
You hurt me to my soul ay ay ay ay ay
You hurt me to my soul ay ay ay ay ay
Darling please don't go.

CHORUS

Oh oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
You don't have to go oh oh oh oh oh
(Baby please don't go)

>>>>>>>

Other songs mentioned:

Led Zeppelin

Bachman-Turner Overdrive

1974

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