Starsky didn't expect it to be this hard.

The hard part was watching Terri slip through his fingers at the hospital, hearing her last breath, feeling her heart beat its last time.

Telling her goodbye.

God, he was so thankful he had the chance to tell her goodbye. How much she meant.

At least she left him knowing how much he loved her.

The hard part had been standing here in this very spot a year ago, knowing they would lower her body into the ground and he would never physically see her again in his lifetime.

So why was this hard?

Why was a year later just as hard?

It shouldn't be, should it?

She was gone, he had grieved, missed her, (still did), returned to work, even had days when he (sorry, Terri) didn't think of her at all.

This was a cold, impersonal cemetery he was standing in. Nothing of Terri here, really. Just her name on a headstone. Whatever was left of Terry was in his heart, not in the ground.

"You okay, Starsk?"

Starsky looked around.

He had come alone, but here was Hutch, walking up to him and putting an arm around his shoulders and saying, "I thought I'd find you here."

Starsky swiped at his eyes. He knew it was okay to cry at a cemetery. There were other people here visiting other graves, and some of them were crying too, yet somehow he had wanted it to be a little more private. He was just glad Hutch showed up when he did. It would make things a little easier.

"It's been a year," Starsky whispered, and he couldn't see Terri's name on the pinkish marble headstone for the tears in his eyes.

Her family let him choose the stone, and at first he didn't want to (God, how sick is it, picking out a headstone for her like you would a diamond ring?) (Gee, let's see, she always liked pink. How about pink?)

But now it didn't seem so sick. The pink stone stood out from the others, like she had stood out to him.

"I thought this would be easy," Starsky said with his head down. "So shook up I forgot to bring flowers."

Hutch stood with an easy, comforting arm around him.

"I remember with Gillian, Starsk. When it first happens, you're numb, you just focus on getting through. Now the shock has worn off and you're left with the bare realization that she's just not going to be here anymore. Won't see her at her house, won't see her in her car, she won't call you on the phone to say bring over a pizza. It's real to you now. That's why it hurts after a year. And it'll still hurt. But it'll get better with time."

"Hope, so," Starsky sniffed.

"Hey," Hutch said nudging his partner's side, then walking over to a rosebush full of blushing pink roses. "I think Terri would like these." He picked a couple of the roses off, whistling through his teeth when a thorn pricked his thumb, but smiling anyway.

"Don't let the groundskeeper catch you doin' that," Starsky smiled.

Hutch handed Starsky one of the flowers and they both knelt to place a fresh rose at the base of the headstone.

"Love you, Terri," Starsky whispered, his voice a quivering sigh. "I'll always love you."

Starsky bowed his head, and the cloudburst he had been holding in all day finally broke through.

Hutch put an arm around him again and pulled him close. "It's okay, buddy. Let it out."

People strolled by and a few looked, but Hutch didn't care.
 
 

"Take a picture" his glare said, and it was enough to make one particular man give him the finger while getting into his white Camaro.

"Take your time," Hutch told Starsky gently. "We'll go whenever you're ready."

They left in their separate cars, Starsky going home because he didn't feel up to working today, and Hutch going to the station to finish up some reports that Starsky was working on.

Hutch had noticed that the closer it got to the anniversary of Terri's death, the more distracted and quiet Starsky became.

Hutch didn't mind taking up the slack. Starsky had done it for him when Gillian died. Hadn't asked him if he'd wanted help (Because he'd have said no). He just went to the station after their regular working hours and on weekends and finished whatever reports Hutch had been working on so they'd be turned in on time.

Hutch pulled his tan Ford into the parking garage and got out, too pre-occupied to notice the white Camaro pulling in beside his car.

"Hey, queer!"

Hutch didn't notice who the statement was directed at, he merely turned to see who had shouted, and that's when the brick hit his face and three men descended on him in a flurry of punches and kicks, giving him no time to reach for his gun. Along with the relentless beating, not only with their fists and feet, but with bottles, rocks, and bricks, he heard their snarling, spitting voices-------

"Keep it in the closet!"

"Faggot!"

"Queer!"

"Cocksucker!"

----------and wondered what he had done to deserve such violence and hatred. Why someone he didn't even know, who didn't know him, would suddenly pulverize him as if he were less than a human being. Why? Simply because they saw him in a private moment consoling his best friend?

Starsky suspected something was wrong the next morning when he pulled alongside Hutch's curb to pick him up and saw that his car was gone.

He went upstairs to check the apartment but found no sign of him, and no note.

"Where the hell are you, Hutch"" he asked as he came back down the stairs and walked quickly to his car. "Where the hell are you?"

Starsky careened the Torino into the precinct parking lot and jumped out, running to Hutch's car and looking inside, a wave of relief watching over him.

Good.

His car was here, so he had to be up in Dobey's office.

Didn't he?

Starsky moved through the squad room, his head swiveling to catch sight of his partner's blond head. But there was no blond head here.

"Anybody seen Hutch?" he asked quickly as he walked toward Dobey's office.

A grumble of negative answers and Starsky stepped inside his superior's office.

"Where's Hutch?"

Dobey was on the phone.

"How the hell should I know? I'm not his babysitter. It's your job to keep tabs on him when you're on duty."

"And apparently when I'm off," Starsky said as he turned around and opened the door again. "He wasn't at his place and his car's down in the garage."

Dobey was obviously very harried this morning. What Starsky had just told him had barely registered.

"Well, keep looking," the captain grumbled hurriedly. "He'll turn up somewhere."

"Have you seen him, Hug?"

Huggy leaned over the pool table to take a shot.

"Nope. But you know I can put a couple my officers on the case."

Starsky had to smile. "Couple officers, huh? And just who would they be--"

The door banging open made Huggy and Starsky raise their heads to see Hutch trudging in, stumbling, eyes wild and glassy, bleeding from a dozen places on his face, blood in his tousled hair, white shirt bloodstained and unbuttoned, one shirttail out, one in, his belt unbuckled and black pants unzipped.

"Oh my God," Starsky breathed softly, and rushed over to him.

The patrons stopped what they were doing to stare.

Hutch's dazed eyes tried to stay on Starsky as he sank toward the floor.

"Starsk," he murmured in a faraway voice on the way down.

Starsky caught him and eased him to the floor.

"I'll call an ambulance," Huggy said as he hurried behind the bar for a phone.

Starsky pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the largest gash at his temple.

"They let me go," Hutch mumbled as he reached up for Starsky's arm. "I thought they were gonna kill me, but they let me go."

"Hey, easy boy."

"Where are we?"

"At Huggy's. What happened?"

Hutch's hand dropped to the floor.

"Three guys. White Camaro. Followed me from the cemetery." He sniffed through the blood in his nose. "Fuckin' beat me up, didn't they?"

Starsky dabbed at the blood dripping from his mashed mouth.

Hutch groaned. "Fuckin' threw a brick in my face."

Starsky stroked his hair and found it sticky with blood and sweat. "Took me to some . . . some bar . . . I don't know where . . . threw me through the window. . . a gay bar? I don't know where. People in the bar . . . they brought me here." He started to sob. "Starsky, I don't know where."

"Sshh. Take it easy. Don't worry about that right now. We'll get you to the hospital."

Huggy joined them, crouching beside Starsky to help block the crowd's view of Hutch.

Hutch reached for Huggy and found his sleeve. "Sorry about the floor, Hug. They threw fuckin' bottles at me. I guess . . . some of them cut me . . . and the bar window . . . sorry about the blood."

"Hey, don't fret about that, Hutch."

Hutch's right hand fumbled for his zipper, his belt, but then stopped as it was too weak and uncoordinated to finish.

"Here," Huggy said as he closed, zipped, and buckled.

"Hutch," Starsky asked carefully as he and Huggy exchanged a look over him. "Did they . . . you know . . . "

"Nnnnn," he murmured. "No. Just wouldn't let-----wouldn't let me zip 'em back up. Playin' around." Tried to raise his head. "Just let me up. I'm okay."

"Stay down," Starsky told him as he gently pushed Hutch back to the floor. "You're not goin' anywhere."

But Hutch didn't have to be told twice. His head dropped back as he passed out, but Huggy's hand caught it before it hit the floor.

"Who the hell," Huggy grumbled as he started buttoning Hutch's shirt too. He stopped when he saw something written on Hutch's stomach in black marker. "What the--"

The words read: NO FAG COPS.

Starsky looked at Huggy. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna wash it the fuck off."

"No, don't. Bad as I hate leavin' that on there, we need it for pictures."

Dobey met with Starsky in the corridor just outside Hutch's hospital room.

"Well?" Starsky asked. "What about the car?"

"Starsky, do you know how many white Camaros there are? We need a license plate number."

"Hutch didn't see it."

"Don't give me that."

Starsky took a breath, and then exhaled.

"We need a description of the men," Dobey added. "We can get those guys easy. One, two, three. Just like that."

"He can't remember what they look like."

"He says he can't remember what they look like."

"Cap, they let him go. He saw them, can identify them, and they let him go. Now that tells me they threatened to kill him if he told."

"Starsky, your partner is a detective. A sergeant. And he's bungling his own--"

Starsky had lost patience. The anniversary of Terri's death, and Hutch's attack, was getting the best of him. And he didn't care.

"Well, let somebody beat the daylights out of you, hit you with bricks, throw bottles at you, degrade you, threaten to kill you if you said anything, and see how brave YOU are!"

Dobey stared at his detective.

Not because he was angry.

He'd seen that before.

But because he was crying.

Starsky pulled a Polaroid of the message on Hutch's stomach from his hip pocket and handed it to him, a little calmer now that he had vented some of his frustration. "He said they followed him from the cemetery. We were there for Terri. I guess they saw . . . or wanted to see . . . somethin' they didn't like or understand. But man, why should they CARE? Me and Hutch are like brothers. So fuckin' what if he wants to give me a hug in broad daylight? They called him every name in the book, wrote that on his stomach, and beat him half to death, and he didn't do anything to them. I mean . . . he didn't do ANYTHING!"

Dobey frowned at the photo, then looked at Starsky.

"They want to make a social statement?" Starsky asked peevishly, his eyes jumping with color. "I'll make a social statement when I get my hands on 'em. 'Lay a hand on my partner and you pay for it.'"

Starsky saw that Hutch lay peaked and solemn against his hospital pillow, and suddenly realized he must have heard his exchange with Dobey in the hall.

"Hey, Hutch."

Hutch was still, except for one hand that absently turned the hospital identification band on his wrist.

"Hey, Starsk."

Starsky didn't like it when Hutch wasn't looking at him. He couldn't read him as well without seeing his eyes. Especially since his face was covered with cuts, bruises, and bandages.

"Hutch, I know you're scared. But buddy, we can get those guys. All you have to do is give me their license plate number and descriptions. I know you saw them."

Hutch's eyes were on the bed railing. "I don't care," he said softly. "It's over. I just want it to go away."

"It won't, Hutch. Not until you do somethin' about it. Hey . . . " Starsky adjusted the sheet around his chest a little. "You sure they didn't . . . do more than what you said? Because if they did . . . "

"I'm sure," he answered quietly. "It's. . .not that I'm afraid for myself. They uh. . ."

Starsky waited.

"What, Hutch?"

Hutch shook his head. "Nothing. I just . . . I know what it's like now."

"Know what?"

Hutch still didn't look at him. "I know what it's like for them."

"What, victims? Well, yeah, when you go through somethin' like--"

"No, I mean . . . hell, I don't know what I mean. I guess I mean I know what it's like being beaten up for . . . for being myself? For loving? That's an empty feeling, Starsk. It makes me feel cold inside. Because, you know? At the cemetery? We looked at each other . . . me and brickman. And I knew what he was thinking. I had my arm across your shoulder, and he was thinking 'Queers'. But still? I didn't take my arm down. And I paid for it. So I guess that's what I mean. I know what it's like now."

Starsky nodded. "So why won't you give me their license plate number and descriptions? They need to be in jail for what they did. We can't let 'em get away with it."

Starsky saw Hutch's throat move as he swallowed a sob.

"Hutch, what is it?"

Hutch finally looked at him. "They said they'd get my 'boyfriend' too if I told."

"Boyfriend?" Starsky ventured, trying to lighten Hutch's mood. "You got somebody on the side I don't know about?"

But it didn't work. Hutch's eyes were full of worry and doubt.

"I can't let them hurt you," Hutch whispered. "I'd turn around and walk off . . . pretend I never knew you . . . before I'd let that happen."

Starsky's heart sank. Hutch wasn't acting like a cop. He was acting like a victim.

"Hutch," he said laying a hand across his forehead. "I know you want to protect me, but you're confused. We've got the badge and gun. We've got control. We've got the law on our side. You're shook up because your attack had nothin' to do with us bein' cops. It wasn't about a case. It wasn't about revenge. It wasn't some two-bit hood tryin' to settle the score. It happened to Kenneth Hutchinson the person, not the cop. A hate crime. It happened because of who you are and who they think you are. And because somebody made our business their business. But you're still a cop, still my partner, still my friend, and they won't hurt me."

"DON'T SAY THAT!"

Hutch's sudden anger startled Starsky.

Hutch tried to raise his head from the pillow but only fell back from the exertion and exhaustion.

"If they want you," he finished in a quieter, weaker voice, "they'll get you. I learned that from Forrest, Bellamy, Humphries, Marcos . . . "

"Hutch, you're right. Somebody could walk in here right now and blow us away. But we've always accepted the risk, we take every precaution we can, and we keep doing our job. Because we believe in it. It's worth it. Am I right?"

"I don't know anymore, Starsk. It used to be. The job . . . it takes a lot from us. I'm just . . . "

Starsky smoothed his hair. "You're just tired, Hutch. Sick. Sore. And tired. And worried about me. Just rest, huh? Give me the descriptions and the plate number and let me do my thing. You'll feel better once they're behind bars. Just give me what I need."

Hutch looked at him for a long time. He couldn't remember the last time he was this scared or confused. But it was times like this that he knew he could put his full trust in his co-pilot, and somehow he would bring the plane safely in.

So Hutch found himself opening his mouth and telling Starsky what he needed to know.

The day seemed to drag by. Hutch was left with his thoughts, and they were so despairing to him (people think they can do whatever they want to you when they think they're right and you're wrong) (what if they hate you and beat you because you have blond hair and blue eyes?) (hate crimes) (centuries old) (Christians to the lions) (blacks to the lynching tree) (Jews to the ovens) (gays to the violence) that he wanted to sleep just to get away from them, but was unable to do even that until Dobey posted an officer outside his door. And then he fell heavily and gratefully into a nap while Huggy was telling him about a new waitress he'd hired.

Sometime later Hutch opened his eyes to find a nurse carrying in the largest bouquet of bright pink carnations he'd ever seen.

It was absolutely huge and beautiful. Dozens--maybe hundreds--of the happy flowers, bursting, overtaking the greenery and the wide-based vase they were seemingly stuffed into.

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" the nurse smiled as she set them on his dresser.

"Who . . ."

She handed him the card and left.

He opened it and read the message: Get Well Soon, Straight---------------Friends From Frenchie's Bar.

Hutch smiled, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

His friends at Frenchie's Bar.

(His attackers had carried him from the Camaro because he couldn't walk or move, had carried him over to the large window, had swung him back and forth for momentum, then pitched him, and he went crashing through)

(The men in the bar, dressed from scanty to conservative, some with mascara and eye shadow and some without, some wearing gaudy jewelry and some not, rushed over to the bloodied figure who'd crashed through the window and landed on the floor, moved him out of the glass, picked shards from his face, slid a mink stole under his head, used a silk scarf to apply pressure to a gash in his temple, doctored his cuts and bruises, clucked sympathetically and tried to talk to him to find out who he was and who had hurt him)

(He told them what happened, from the cemetery to the police parking garage, rambling from start to finish, fading in and out)

(He'd refused an ambulance)

(But told them to be careful, that there were nuts out there that would hurt them without blinking an eye)

(The owner of the bar, Frenchie, a plump man in a white chef's hat, had smiled sadly and said they already knew that)

("What do you want us to do, mon ami?" Frenchie had asked him)

("I want you to take me home")

(They wouldn't take him home. They said he needed to be with someone if he were going to be stubborn and refuse medical attention)

(They tried calling Starsky for him but got no answer)

("I'll go to Huggy's," he'd told them. "Just get me a cab")

(But they didn't get him a cab. They helped him to one of their own cars and drove him across town to Huggy's, all the while urging him to get to an emergency room, stuffing a roll of money into his shirt pocket as his attackers had robbed him too, along with some of their phone numbers if he needed a sympathetic ear))

(He didn't want help to the door, even though he could barely pick up his feet to walk)

Friends From Frenchie's Bar.

Starsky came to Hutch's hospital room to take him home, and found that he was dressed and packed, but in the adjoining bathroom standing at the sink.

"Hutch? You sick?"

Water was running in the basin and he was lathering up a white washcloth with a bar of soap.

Hutch glanced over his shoulder a bit self-consciously, then put a foot out behind him to close the door in his face.

"Sorry, Starsk," his voice came muffled from the other side of the door. "Be out in a sec."

Starsky opened the door and saw his partner standing with his shirt unbuttoned and washing his stomach with the soapy cloth.

"Hutch?"

Hutch looked at him in the mirror.

"It just won't come off."

Starsky had seen his bare, clear stomach during his hospital stay.

"Hutch, it's not there."

"Well, I know you can't see it, but there's a trace. I must have washed it a dozen times, but still--"

"Hutch, it's gone. Those words are on the inside of you. Not the outside."

Hutch rinsed the cloth out and wiped the soap from his stomach. "I don't know why it should even bother me. I'm not a 'fag cop'. It shouldn't mean a thing to me."

"'Cause nobody likes labels, Hutch. Whether they're accurate or inaccurate. Nobody likes 'em."

"So then. How do I get the words out of me?"

Starsky knew Hutch already knew the answer to that, and he knew Hutch wanted him to say it anyway.

"Talk to the department shrink. He'll help. You were attacked and humiliated, Hutch. Wasn't a mugging. Wasn't a random act. It was personal."

Hutch drained the water and buttoned his shirt. "Okay, Doctor Freud. If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do."

Starsky calmly watched Hutch as he left the bathroom and picked up his small bag of belongings, but what he really wanted to do was heave the bed through the wall for the scarlet letter those lowlifes had left on, and in, his partner.

The story--"Policeman Victim of Gay-Bashing"-- was in the paper. Everything except his name (since he was plainclothes and undercover). But the news was all over the precinct, and there were mixed reactions from fellow officers.

Some gave him the cold shoulder. Strange looks. Whispers behind his back:

"He gay?"

"Does it matter?"

"They thought he was."

"That's why it happened."

"Mistaken identity."

"You never know."

While others were sympathetic and outraged, wanting to serve their own style of justice.

"White, black, gay, straight. What's the difference? A hate crime is a hate crime."

"Minorities have had it for years."

"Now they get you even if they THINK you're in a certain group?"

"Don't worry. Starsky'll find 'em. And if he don't, we will."

"You didn't deserve that, Hutch."

"Who the hell does?"

"So, what are we saying? We stop violence with more violence?"

"Hutch didn't start it."

Starsky thought Hutch was handling the reactions fairly well--mostly ignoring the looks they'd get in the hallway, or looking the other way when someone made a provocative remark. Until he noticed that Hutch would do anything to avoid showering in the precinct locker room, and avoided the men's room altogether, would even go as far as using one down the street at a service station or a restaurant when necessary.

"I thought you were gonna talk to the shrink?" Starsky said as he caught Hutch's arm in the hallway after coming from the men's room himself.

Hutch pulled his arm away from Starsky's hand with noticeable suddenness.

"Just don't, okay?"

"Don't what?"

Hutch glanced around, then down. "Just keep your distance."

Starsky's eyes flashed as he looked around the empty hallway. "What is the matter with you?"

Hutch walked away.

Starsky took his arm again. "Come back here and talk to me."

Hutch spun, shaking free of his partner's arm again. "Okay, I'll talk to you. How about I don't want the same thing happening to you?"

"How about those guys can take a flyin' leap off a bridge? You cannot let them win, Hutch. It's their problem."

Hutch just looked at him. "They made it mine. And I will not allow it to be yours."

"So . . . " Starsk ran a frustrated hand through his hair and his voice raised in volume. "So you just don't reach out anymore, right? You just bow to people's whims? That's not like you."

Hutch took a deep breath and started to launch into a tirade, but then he just deflated with a sigh. "Oh man, Starsk, I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"I do. You're scared, and you're gonna see the shrink. Right now."

Starsky took his arm and moved him down the hall, and this time Hutch didn't pull away.

"You're not comin' back to work until he says you can," Starsky told him. "Dobey told you to take a few days, but no, you had to come back and play bodyguard to me. You forget I can take care of myself?"

Hutch was too self-absorbed at the moment to be either hurt or amused.

Starsky found the white Camaro parked outside Dennis-the brickman-Harper's house.

Sometimes running down a lowlife was just too easy. Run the license plate number through a computer, match the descriptions with the mug books, you get a name and address, and bingo, you're pulling up to the guy's house because the dunce was just so sure he had terrorized his victim into keeping his mouth shut by threatening to hurt his partner.

You didn't count on that partnership being stronger than any fear, silence, or threat, did you, smart criminal?

Starsky reached for the mike to call for backup, and that's when someone tapped on the roof of his car.

"I been lookin' for you," Dennis Harper said as he reached into his back pocket.

Not giving him time to say or do anything else, Starsky slammed the car door against his upper thighs and sent him onto his back in the street.

"No, boyfriend," he growled as he jumped onto the man and started punching, "I been lookin' for you."

Frenchie's Bar was bouncing with reggae music, and the aroma of Cajun food was in the air when Starsky and Hutch walked in.

"Sounds good," Hutch commented.

"Smells good," Starsky added.

The men in the bar smiled and waved at them, some calling out a hello, but most just stopping their conversations to see what Hutch was going to say or do.

The owner, Frenchie, a plump Frenchman in a chef's hat, came over to Hutch and shook his hand.

"How are you, Officer Hutchinson?"

"Better than the last time you saw me." Hutch winked. "Wanted to see what your place looked like from a vertical position."

Frenchie laughed. "We got the window replaced, mon ami. Did you notice my new sign?"

He pointed to a sign next to the replaced window which read: Absolutely No Window Bashing Allowed.

Hutch smiled. "I wanted to thank you." He raised his voice to the entire bar. "All of you. For helping me out the other night. And for the flowers. And for the money."

The men raised their glasses to him.

"Some of us have been there, Straight," one of them said showing a scar on his throat.

The bar fell a little somber, and then Frenchie picked up the mood again by saying to his new patrons, "You're welcome to stay and have lunch."

Starsky sat down on a stool. "Got a menu?"

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