Redux

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2000

Compadres 23 (2003)

Starsky whistled as he pulled into the one parking spot left in front of Venice Place.  Good.  They deserved some breaks after the long week he and his partner had just finished, and godsend parking places were only the initial drop in the bucket.  The weekend had finally arrived, and while Hutch was perfectly content to spend their first evening off having a quiet night at home, Starsky had other plans.  It was his job, after all, to make sure his partner didn't get too boring.

     He climbed out of the Torino, doing a brief shuffle as he hurried to the door.  Sure, that was what they needed, a little dancing, girls. . .

     A man hurried out of the apartment building door, nearly knocking into Starsky before rushing on without a word.  Starsky's good mood dimmed just as suddenly.  That was what they'd been facing all week, people who didn't care, who didn't have time for someone else in trouble – apathy.  Several years on the job had taught him to almost expect it, but still it bothered him.  That just wasn't the way it was supposed to be.  Starsky climbed the stairs to Hutch's apartment in more subdued thought.

     The apartment door was ajar.

     That in itself wasn't really a cause for concern; Hutch did that sometimes when he wanted to catch old Mrs. Johnson, his neighbor, to ask a question, or when he was expecting a guest.  He didn't often do it for Starsky, not with his partner both having his own key to the place and knowing about Hutch's spare on the lintel.  But he did do it.

     So what was making the skin on the back of Starsky's neck shiver?

     He drew his gun, stepping to one side of the door as he cautiously swung it inward with one hand.

     No broken or upturned furniture greeted his eyes, not even an askew lamp.  The place would have looked reassuringly normal if not for the body that was sprawled behind the sofa, only feet away from where Starsky stood in the doorway.

     That was his first shocked realization.  The second was the reason for his partner being on the floor: the sweatshirt sleeve that was shoved up to above his elbow, the tourniquet that ringed his arm just below the cuff, the empty hypodermic that had rolled a few inches away from one splayed hand.  The unmistakable paraphernalia that littered the table beside the sofa, completing the image of an OD'd junkie.

Dear God.

     It was tempting to freeze, shocked by the emotional overload.  The world certainly seemed to have paused around him, his heart stuck between two beats.  Neither his mind nor his soul were accepting what his eyes were telling him.  The possibility of Hutch being dead was unendurable.  The possibility he'd died with a needle in his arm was far worse.

     But raw  terror for his friend was a far stronger motivating force than even police training.  Starsky wrenched his gaze away from the slack figure of his partner, knowing what to do far more clearly than how to feel.  A two-second sweep of the apartment proved no obvious assailant lingered; Starsky didn't have time to check every closet, but his instincts told him no one else was there.

     And fairly screamed the reminder that his unconscious partner was.  Shoving his gun into its holster, Starsky dashed back into the living room and fell to his knees by his partner's side, not wasting time in looking for what his shaking fingers were so terrified they wouldn't find.

     One beat.  Starsky's heart started up again in short-lived joy.  The second beat wasn't so quick to come, followed by a slow third.  Hutch. . .  His chest clenched so tight he could barely breathe.  Starsky felt the cool skin, peeled back an eyelid to peer into pinpoint pupils, bent close to listen to a breath that barely brushed his skin.  And then he lunged for the phone on the coffee table.

     "This is Detective David Starsky, ninth precinct.  I need an ambulance immediately at 1027 1/2 Ocean, officer down, probable drug OD."  He only waited long enough for confirmation and repeat of the address before he dropped the phone back into its cradle and vaulted the sofa to return to his partner's side.

     The limping beat was even slower, barely pressing against his fingers.

     Starsky groaned aloud, the only hint of the cry building inside him.  "Don't give up on me, Hutch," he growled, grabbing the blanket folded neatly on one end of the sofa and snapping it open over the prone body.  And elevation helped when blood flow was inadequate, didn't it?  Praying he was doing the right thing, Starsky piled up the cushions from the other end of the couch and pulled his partner's legs up onto them.  Then, after a moment's hesitation, he tore the rubber tourniquet off and heaved it across the room.  The hypodermic would have followed if not for the possibility they'd need it for treating Hutch.  Not that Starsky had any doubts what was slowing his partner's heart into silence.

     He paused, chest heaving in near hyperventilation.  He's not . . . I don't believe it.  There was no way Hutch was a junkie . . . was there?  Signs Starsky had missed?  A workload that had become too crushing, or a temptation too great to fight?

No.

     No, he didn't believe that.  Not because he knew his partner, although that was enough by itself, but because there was no way Starsky wouldn't have known.  He knew it as surely as he'd known back in that alley, no matter what the evidence.  Which, combined with the neat little scene he'd found, meant. . .

     Set-up.  A damnably professional one, with all the trimmings.

     With sudden realization, Starsky shot to his feet and ran into the bathroom.  The ceramic lid of the toilet tank nearly fell as he yanked it aside.  Empty.  Same with under the sink and inside the medicine cabinet.  The bedroom was next, and Starsky wrecked the neat order of Hutch's dresser drawers as he pawed through them.  Nothing.  He fell to his knees to peer under the bed, then straightened to pull up the mattress edge.

     And there it sat, the half-used bag of white powder, waiting to be found by someone more objective than he.  Funny, its presence almost seemed anti-climactic.  Of course, anything did with his dying partner sprawled on the floor behind him.

     They're not gonna win, Hutch.  The whos or whys weren't important at the moment; Starsky simply stuffed the bag into his pocket without hesitation and returned to the living room, grabbing the fallen tourniquet as he went and sweeping the remaining paraphernalia into his other jacket pocket, leaving only the hypodermic beside the hand that was now a dead-white color.  With blue-tinged nails.

     Hutch's chest no longer rose visibly, his breath merely a stir of air.  He was crashing fast, slipping away right before Starsky's eyes.  Starsky knelt beside him, clasped his wrist.

     And then his heartbeat stuttered to a stop even as Starsky frantically tried to hold on to it.

Hutch, Hutch. . .

     Starsky's brain went numb, stuck in its mindless plea.  Only his hands seemed to know what to do next, tracing immediately the notch in the ribcage and nesting in the right spot, then beginning to compress and release, fifteen times in quick succession.

     Stop to check for breath.  It was still there, even though Starsky's ear nearly touched his partner's lips before he could feel it.

     Another fifteen compressions, then another respiration check.

     No faint sigh brushed his skin.  Hutch's lips were turning blue, and Starsky would have begun to sob if he'd had the air to do it.  But he had to share now, and there was none to spare.

     He bent over, tilting the blond head back, giving two quick breaths, then returning to compressions.  His own air intake was only soggy, jagged gasps, his vision too blurred to see anything but the black sweatshirt and the white skin and golden hair.

     Two more breaths.

     Fifteen more compressions.

     Starsky was already exhausted, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't have even if he had to go the rest of his life.  The rest of Hutch's life was at stake.

     The jarring of footsteps on the floorboard on which he knelt registered before the sounds did, or the firm hands moving him to one side as a pair of paramedics flanked Hutch in his place.  Help had arrived.

     Starsky sank back on his haunches, too confused to understand anything for the moment beyond that fact.  Memory played back the earlier unregistered sound of the arriving siren, the clatter of booted feet on the stairs.  He'd had far more important things to pay attention to.

     The paramedics were fast, efficient, as much under control as Starsky wasn't.  He managed to answer the few questions put to him, then watched silently, choked, as they worked, consulting with the hospital, breathing for Hutch with a mask and bag.  One looked at the blond's arm, then picked up the hypodermic, giving the other paramedic a significant look.  Starsky's hot protest died before he could utter it as they went back to work without a word.  The explanations could wait until later, even for the uniforms and detective just arriving on scene.  Starsky didn't even look to see who it was, and no one bothered him.  Partners were a sacred thing.

     A fragile thing.

Oh, Hutch. . .

     When they finally put him on a stretcher and wheeled him out the door, Hutch still looked no better than when Starsky had first found him.  Starsky dazedly followed behind the stretcher cortege.  Strange how life could change in fifteen minutes.  He'd come up the stairs thinking about a relaxing weekend and was going down engaged in the fight of his life.  Hutch's life.  Whatever.

     He didn't even notice as they reached the street and climbed into the ambulance.

     On the streets, heroin OD was as familiar a face of death as a bullet or an assault.  Starsky knew even fewer who had survived it than who had survived a gun or a knife.  And although he'd read up on the drug after Hutch's Forest-induced brush with the stuff, treatment and prognosis protocols were beyond him.

     By the time he'd filled out Hutch's paperwork, the doctor had arrived to inform him it was indeed a heroin OD, little news that that was.  She'd also run through the basic treatment, the regular administration of Narcan to counter the OD's effects and the assisted respiration until the body could handle breathing on its own.  The little added details that Hutch had vomited and seized since his arrival didn't seem to faze the doctor any, although the very thought clenched Starsky's hands around the arms of his chair.  But the prognosis was cautiously optimistic, the doctor encouraging, and little as that was, Starsky took it; hung on to it for dear life, in fact.

     Her denial of his anxious request to see his partner was the first thing to get through his daze, but she'd countered with a gentle explanation of procedure in cases of OD's.  Starsky could have fought it, he knew that; partners had special rights.  But as much as it rankled, he didn't.  Starsky wasn't sure he was ready yet to see his partner so near death again, and they were in this together no matter how much space separated them.

     It was all that seemed to be making sense in his own jumble of doubts and theories and what-ifs.  That, and a quietly continuing litany.  Hutch.  Oh, God, Hutch. . .

     So, he wasn't going anywhere.  There'd be time to be a cop and find the guy who did it . . . later.  After he didn't feel like he was deserting his partner just when Hutch needed him nearby.  That was one of the few needs that easily outweighed revenge or seeking justice.

     Besides, he knew the fallout was coming.

     The doctor finally left.  Starsky sat and rubbed at his grainy eyes for a moment, glancing around the waiting room.  None of the usual crowds were present, of fellow officers who showed up to sit in vigil and back-up of a fallen one of their numbers.  Usually at least the other detectives from the SUD showed up when Starsky was waiting to hear about his partner, but this . . . this was touchy.  Already the repercussions were beginning.  No matter what their colleagues thought, coming to show their support would be awkward, and given the suspicious and controversial circumstances, Starsky really couldn't blame them for their hesitation.  He'd also already talked to Dobey, and the captain was staying at the station to try to manage the consequences at that end.  Starsky was alone except for the fragile blond figure down the hall, breathing through a machine.

     Starsky swallowed.  Well, the privacy would at least help him with what he had to do next.  He stood, his steps steady as he headed into the bathroom.  After checking to make sure he had the restroom to himself, he proceeded to bury the contents of his pockets under several layers of garbage in the trash can.  The white powder he dumped into the toilet, watching with little satisfaction as it whirled out of sight.  It had already done its damage, but Starsky would be damned if he'd let it take anything more from him.  If there was anything left to take.  By the time he stepped out of the restroom, anger had begun to well up to fill the hollowness inside.

     Gabe Bonhomme was waiting for him as Starsky got back to the ER lobby, a sight Starsky already half-expected to see.

     The big SUD detective turned away from the window as he came in, smiling at Starsky even though his eyes stayed sober.

     "Starsky.  How's he doing?"

     The voice was full of the concern of a friend, but Starsky's gaze fell on the notebook in Bonhomme's hand and knew the visit wasn't all unofficial.  "Holding his own.  Doc said it looked good, but they'd have to wait and see."

     "Is it–?"

     Starsky hesitated.  "Junk OD."

     Gabe's eyes darkened.  "How?"

     Starsky moved to a far chair and slowly sat, anything to give him a minute to think.  He already felt bewildered by all the medical talk and fuzzy answers and the utter unreality of what his partner was going through.  Mere conversation was exhausting, let alone having to make sense, but with Bonhomme he'd also have to choose carefully what he said.  Gabe was a friend, but he was a fellow cop, as well, and the situation was cloaked in shades of gray.  While the doctors were busy saving Hutch's life, Starsky was left to defend his partner's career and reputation.

     "Starsky?"  Bonhomme moved closer, settling into the chair opposite him.  "I know the timing's lousy, man, but it's my case and I want to have some good answers for IA.  Can you talk to me?"

     Starsky gave his head a shake to clear it.  "Yeah . . . 'm sorry.  You taking my statement?"

     Gabe nodded.

     This was it.  Taking a deep breath, Starsky flatly recited all the details the trained observer in him had recorded, while shying away from describing the body on the floor more than he had to.  Forgetting it was hard enough.  As for the evidence buried in the men's room trash, Starsky somehow managed to forget to mention it.

     Bonhomme wrote on a minute after Starsky had stopped talking, finally looking up at the brunet, his expression uncharacteristically reluctant.  "I don't like asking this, Starsky, but I have to – why are you so sure Hutch was doped instead of ODing himself?"

     He'd expected the question, but it still stung, and Starsky was well aware he'd probably hear it again and with far more accusation.  "He wouldn't do that," Starsky said tightly, firmly, his spine stiff against the chair back.  He'd never felt more certain of anything than he was of that now.

     "I know that and you know that," Gabe said gently, "but it's not going to be enough to get him off the hook.  What else?"

     Oh, God, this was hard.  Starsky kept his shredded temper from snapping only by remembering who he was talking to.  "There was a needle there, but no other signs of use, and you didn't find a stash, right?"

     At Gabe's nod, Starsky's gut untensed a fraction.  His lie had been worth it then.  He ticked off the other arguments on his fingers, the rest at least true.

     "No other tracks on his arms.  Hutch isn't stupid enough to OD even if he were usin', and I'd have known if he was.  He was behind the sofa when I found him, not exactly a place he'd have picked to shoot up.  And the door was open when I got there."  That last reminded him of something, and Starsky's head snapped up.  "I almost forgot – there was a guy coming out of the building when I got there, seemed to be in a hurry."

     Bonhomme's attention sharpened at that.  "You think you could ID him?"

     "Maybe."  Starsky paused, thinking.  "Yeah, I got a good look at him."

     "Good man, that's a start.  But listen, Starsky," Bonhomme grew serious, "this could still go either way.  There's no sign of forced entry that we can tell, there are no defensive wounds on your partner, no signs of being knocked out or forcibly restrained, and then there's the whole matter of record with that Forest thing a few years back–"

     "That wasn't his fault.  Hutch was the victim," Starsky shot back.  IA had learned about the whole mess over a year after it had happened but, surprisingly, had not acted on it, convinced by Hutch's interim behavior that it had been an isolated incident of which he'd been the victim.  But now. . .

     "I know that, but you have to admit it's still not going to look good."  Gabe's tone was calm, his expression sincere.  "I'm going to do the best I can, Starsky, I just wanted you to know the score."

     Starsky winced.  Yeah, Smack-2, Hutch-0.  And all their colleagues seemed to have bet on the other side.

     Gabe patted his knee once.  "I'll be back when I get off duty, okay?"

     He paused, looking at Starsky, waiting for permission.  To come back as a friend instead of an investigating cop, Starsky realized, and managed a smile as he nodded.  It was the system that was the enemy here, not their friends.  Gabe smiled back before walking out of the room.

     The system, and whoever had been in that Venice apartment before Starsky had gotten there.

     Bonhomme had been right about the defensive wounds, undoubtedly having consulted the front desk before talking to Starsky.  The doctor had told Starsky the same thing, but the brunet hadn't had time to think about what it meant before.  Forest had left clear signs of force and restraint on Hutch; Starsky remembered too vividly the badly bruised and abraded wrists, the ugly assortment of cuts and welts.  There had been little doubt someone had imposed their will on the captive detective then.  Now, the only sign of abuse was a single needlemark in the crook of Hutch's arm.  As much of a nightmarish violation as that one small wound represented, it was not proof of what Starsky felt – knew – for certain.

Just have to wake up and tell your story now, buddy, Starsky thought with a glance at the clock.  Two-twenty a.m.  No wonder he was tired, as if running through the extremes of every emotion possible all in one evening wasn't enough.  Brushing a weary, slightly trembling hand over his face, Starsky curled up on his side on the waiting room sofa, pulling his jacket around his shoulders. 

Wake up soon, Hutch, he silently begged as he gave in to the demand of sleep.  I need ya already.

     "Detective Starsky?"  Something was shaking his shoulder, and Starsky couldn't figure out how his alarm clock had grown arms.  "Detective Starsky, please wake up."

     Starsky blinked at that, giving his eyes a rub before the blurry figure in front of him coalesced into Hutch's doctor.  That woke him the rest of the way and he sat up with an alarmed start.  He'd alternately slept and paced since arriving at the hospital two days before, and each time he'd dozed off, it was with the fear he'd wake up to find Hutch gone.

     But she was smiling, her hand still on his shoulder in a gesture obviously meant to reassure him.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.  I just thought you'd like to know, Detective Hutchinson is awake and we just took him off the ventilator."

     Starsky's eyes widened, and he glanced past her to the clock on the wall but the time made no sense to him, then to a smiling thin figure sitting in a chair nearby.  When had Huggy gotten there?  Starsky looked back at the doctor and repeatedly dumbly, "He's awake?"

     She nodded, smiling.  "He is.  I thought you'd like to see him."

     Starsky almost knocked the doctor backwards as he scrambled to his feet.  "On my way!"

     "But first. . ."  Something in the doctor's tone made him stop and give her a second look.  His first real look, actually, as he finally noticed her circled green eyes, the brown hair that had escaped her bun and trailed down both sides of her face.  She'd been there through most of the previous thirty-six hours, too.  But it was the troubled expression on her face that set off warning bells in his head.

     "What's wrong?" he asked mutedly, barely acknowledging as Huggy came up to stand beside him.

     "Well, there's something else I didn't really want to bring up until we were sure Detective Hutchinson would be all right.  It's hospital policy, I'm afraid, nothing I can do about it."

     "What?" Starsky's voice gained in intensity what it lost in volume, his entire body still.

     She bit her pretty lip.  "It's standard procedure – after emergency treatment and stabilization, any overdoses or apparent attempted suicides are transferred to the psych ward for seventy-two hours of observation and assessment.  The patients are restrained so they can't hurt themselves, but they're taken good care of–"

     "No."

     "Detective, I can understand–"

     Starsky shook his head once hard.  "No way.  Hutch was attacked.  He was the victim.  You put him in the loony bin for three days and he really will go over the edge."  At least his voice sounded calm and rational.  No sign that he was screaming inside or that, if he let himself move, it was quite possible he'd break every chair in that room.

     The doctor straightened.  "I'm very sorry, Detective.  What you say hasn't been proved and we don't want to take chances with anyone's life.  It wouldn't be my ideal, either, but it's not up to me, or to you.  We'll have to move him in about half an hour, but you're welcome to stay with him until then.  He's in room 120."

     "Yeah . . . Thanks," Starsky heard himself say, still in that distant voice, and watched with disinterest as she gave him a sad look and left the room.  He was still staring after her when Huggy poked him in the side, and he finally, slowly, turned to the worried barkeep.

     "Starsky?  You okay?"

     Actually, he was, because suddenly it seemed very simple and clear.  Starsky's jaw unclenched and he gave their informant friend and chief procurer a hard look.

     "Huggy, how soon can you get me a stretcher and a station wagon?"

     Room 120 was near the ICU where its occupant could be kept a moderate eye on, but that Hutch wasn't actually in Intensive Care was doubly reassuring for Starsky.  It meant both that his partner was doing well and that Starsky's plan would be easier to carry out.

     But for the moment, all he cared about was what was inside that room, and, taking a breath, Starsky pushed open the door and went in.

     The nurse caught his eye first, an unexpected extra presence.  She stood next to the bed and held a spoonful of what looked to be crushed ice in her hand, giving Starsky a smile as he entered.

     "Doctor Mirelli said you'd be in soon.  Would you like to take over?"  She offered the spoon.  "The ice helps soothe the irritation from having the trach tube removed."

     "Sure," Starsky said, momentarily hesitant, but matching his voice to her soft one.  He took the spoon and the styrofoam bowl of ice she held out.  "Thanks."

     "He's still pretty out of it, but if you talk to him he might hear you.  Call me if you need anything," she whispered, and left.

     Starsky didn't watch her go.  His eyes were only on the occupant of the bed now, ice momentarily melting, forgotten, in the spoon he held.

     He'd watched Hutch through the ICU window a few times before, but this was his first good look, and it was a surprise.  After Forest's abduction and the withdrawal, Hutch'd had all the appearances of the walking dead, gaunt and sallow and bruised both on the outside and the inside.  Starsky had half-expected to see his partner in similar shape now, especially after the terrible way Hutch had looked in his apartment just two days before.  Instead, the sunken eyes and unnatural paleness of illness were present, but the blond hair shone, the face below it absent of pain or injury, and the lean body lay comfortably stretched out on the bed, free of any medical equipment except for an IV that dripped into his arm – the other one, Starsky noted.  In all, it was a far more encouraging sight than he had hoped for.

     So why was his stomach still tied up in one jumbled knot?

     The ice was beginning to drip down his arm, and Starsky remembered the spoon with a start.  Sliding a little forward, he nudged Hutch's mouth with the half-melted offering.

     "Come on, buddy, open up."

     The pale eyebrows drew together into a frown even as the lips parted to allow the ice in.  That was followed by a slow swallow and a wince at the cold on the scratched throat.

     Starsky mirrored the wince.  Such small steps they were grateful for.  How much they took for granted when all was well. . .

     Another spoonful was offered and accepted, then Starsky paused to give the blond hair a stroke.  "Hutch?  Can you hear me?"

     The frown deepened, one of confusion and effort rather than anxiety.  And then, slowly, Hutch's eyes slid open just enough that Starsky could look inside and know that someone was looking back at him.  The small miracles continued as the bloodless lips turned ever so slightly upward.  Not just looking at him but recognizing him.

     Starsky's grin was ridiculously wide and sloppy and he didn't care, even after the blue eyes could no longer stay open to see it.  "Good boy," he said softly.  Hutch had been to death and back, the doctor had reminded him, and then had fought a hard battle against the flood of depressants in his system.  After that, after Starsky not even being sure he still had a partner, an exchanged look and a tiny smile seemed a monumental achievement.

     It also spoke of a lot more awareness than even the doctor had given Hutch credit for.  Starsky's smile faded.  If he'd still had any doubt about what he was going to do, that faint smile had effectively wiped them out.  There was no way on earth he'd let Hutch go, awake, restrained, and helpless, into a new hell just as Starsky had gotten him out of another one.

     A clatter at the door distracted him, and Starsky tensed as the end of a gurney appeared through the door.  It was followed by the rest of the gurney and the odd sight of a white-uniformed Huggy Bear.

     Starsky's grin returned unwittingly.  "What're you supposed to be?"

     Huggy drew himself up to his full unimpressive height.  "A hospital attendant," he said loftily, chin held high.  "Don't you think they might notice if two street-ready individuals such as yourself and I were seen wheeling our clean-cut patient out of here?"  The glib words were undone by a concerned look at the bed.  "How's our brother?"

     "In and out.  Huggy, how 'bout the station wagon?"

     "Waiting at the garage entrance."

     Starsky's eyebrows went up.  "Do I even want to know how you did that so fast?"

     Huggy's eyes were suddenly everywhere but on him.  "Uh, we'll discuss that later.  You wanna waste time talkin' or make our break before they're on to us?"

     "We're not breakin' him out of jail," Starsky muttered, but the point was taken and he was already in motion.  He'd do what he had to do any way he had to, but slipping out unseen certainly would be the easiest.

     Within a minute, they had the gurney in place next to the bed.  Starsky went around to the IV and gave it a regretful look, but it would be too much trouble to take with them, and he could always see to it Hutch stayed nourished.  The doctor had assured him Hutch was stable and off medication.  Starsky was no nurse, but he'd seen the procedure enough times before and there was a pile of supplies on the counter by one wall.  He carefully slid out the needle and applied gauze and pressure to the site until it stopped bleeding, then taped the gauze in place.  The blanket he tucked around the lean body.

     "You ready?"  Starsky glanced across the bed to Huggy, who only nodded.  With a silent count of three, they heaved together and slid Hutch from the bed to the gurney.  While Huggy grumbled about overweight detectives, Starsky adjusted the blankets again.  The blond head rolled to one side, disturbed, and Starsky borrowed one more precious minute to lay a hand against a cool cheek.

"'S okay, Hutch, I'm taking care of ya."

     That seemed to calm whatever had upset his partner, and Starsky grimly pulled up the sides of the gurney and prepared to roll it out of the room.  It had always been true that he was taking care of his partner, every single day they were on the job, sometimes even when they were off.  But Starsky had never been as aware of the weight of that responsibility before. Hutch was completely dependent on him at that moment, and stealing him out of the hospital, away from the treatment of experts, was an undertaking that nearly overwhelmed Starsky.

     But that responsibility extended past the physical, into the mental and spiritual.  Starsky would never have put his partner in physical danger, and didn't believe he was now.  But he'd risk even less endangering Hutch's heart and soul, his self, by allowing him to be tied down and locked up in the psych ward.  It would be the last straw after what he'd just been through.  Which left little question of the need for Starsky to succeed in what he was attempting.

     He gave Huggy a short nod.  "Let's go."

     Later that day, ensconced in a "safe" apartment Huggy had also procured, Starsky's only memories of the stealthy trip down to the car would be of one familiar nurse's confused look and then slow smile, Huggy's blustery chatter that got them past every question they were asked, and watching Hutch's chest rise and fall as they went.  By the time they reached the car and eased their smuggled patient inside, Starsky was drenched in sweat and never more certain they were doing the right thing.

     Still, the whole trip to the apartment, sitting by Hutch's side and staring at their entwined hands, Starsky couldn't help but worry if doing the right thing would mean it would all turn out all right at the end.

     Then what?

     Starsky paced the short length of the apartment, from the cozy living room to the doorway of the one bedroom.  Inside, Hutch lay on his side in bed, so deeply under that he almost looked lifeless.  Only his improved color and the eased lines of his face saved Starsky from a particularly nasty case of déjà vu.  Even so, he looked like a man who had a ways to go before he was back to normal.  And that was just the physical part.

     And therein lay Starsky's dilemma.  Rarely had duty and friendship so sharply diverged.  The job usually required he look after Hutch, not abandon his vulnerable partner to go off to work.  Not that his job mattered much at the moment, especially after having just pulled the Great Escape and being on the lam from everyone, including doctors and fellow cops.  But this wasn't simply justice, it was clearing Hutch, making sure the blond was truly safe.  And relieving the anger that was burning its way through Starsky.

     One last look into the bedroom, then he went out into the living room again and faced Huggy, who was sitting patiently on the sofa.

     "You sure you can handle this?"

     Huggy gave him an ironic roll of the eyes, and Starsky was sheepishly reminded he was talking to someone with far more street experience than he had.  That wasn't his only worry, though.

     "All right, Huggy, just keep an eye on him, huh?  If he wakes up or something goes wrong, anything, I wanna know about it.  You can reach me through Dispatch, or tell them I'm at Lucy Carlisle's."

     "What happened to you keepin' outta sight?" Huggy drawled.

     "I don't care," Starsky said firmly.  "If he needs me, you call.  I'll deal with the department."  He realized belatedly he was employing one of Hutch's mannerisms, wagging his finger in Huggy's face to underscore his point.  He balled his hand into a fist instead, clenched against his leg.  "I mean it, Hug."  He wouldn't have been willing to leave at all if he hadn't been certain Hutch would sleep through his absence, but still, he felt better with someone he trusted watching over his freshly sprung partner.

     "All right, all right.  He's safe as a baby with me, amigo, you know that."

     "Yeah, I know, I just. . ."  Starsky glanced at the doorway of the other room.  "I hate leavin' him like this," he finished lamely.

     Huggy smiled, but there was no teasing in it.  "Starsky, you heard the lady doctor – he's gonna be fine, just needs some rest.  Now, you gonna go, or wait until he really does wake up lookin' for you?"

     Starsky grimaced.  "I'm goin', I'm goin'.  You'll call?"  He pointed once more at Huggy.

     "Yeah, yeah."  Huggy had the long-suffering tone down pat.

     Starsky was halfway to the door before he turned back again.  "Oh, and try to get some juice or water into him, okay?  Whatever's around."

     "Are you gonna get out of here?"

     Almost at the door, Starsky suddenly stopped.  "Oh, uh, the whole department's gonna be out looking for the Torino.  You got a ride I could–"

     The keys hit him square in the chest.

     He grinned.  "Thanks, Hug.  I'll be back in about an hour."

     Huggy seemed to be ignoring him by the time he stepped out the door.

     It was stupid, Starsky thought the whole trip.  Hutch was fine, and it wasn't like they'd never trusted their lives to Huggy before.  Starsky had left his mending partner once before with the barkeep, after Hutch had gone through the worst of withdrawal and come out exhausted and weak on the other side.  Of course, that had ended with Hutch taking off and almost getting himself shot before Starsky came to the rescue.  But Starsky had stayed then with the blond through the worst of the aftermath, and then again for as long as Hutch needed until he was completely over the drug's effects.

     There had been no withdrawal now, nothing but near-death and the deceptively short hospital stay.  Not enough recovery by a long shot, but Starsky knew his partner would sleep through the next few days and regain his strength.  After that would come the time he'd really need someone, when he realized what had happened.  If anything, the time in between was a gift, both allowing Starsky to find his man and giving Hutch some time to heal, something he'd not had the first time.

     Starsky just hoped it was enough.  No one deserved what his partner had gone through once, let alone twice, and it was bound to hit Hutch hard.

     The house he pulled up in front of was in the quiet suburbs of Bellflower, the kind of house with a little yard and a garden he'd wished for a few times himself.  Officer Lucy Carlisle was living the American dream, with two kids and an adoring husband.  Other times, it might have occurred to Starsky to be jealous, but he was too busy worrying about a partner of his own to care.  That in itself was practically a full-time job, as trouble-prone as the two of them were.

And lucky, Starsky thought with a flashback to Hutch sleeping peacefully, safely, alive back at the apartment.

     The door was answered at the first knock by a young woman with hair as blond as Hutch's pulled back into a ponytail and dark, friendly eyes, a toddler perched on her hip.  One glance at her visitor and her face lit with a smile.

     "Starsky!  Why, what're you doing here?  Come in!"

     Starsky smiled just as warmly at her.  Lucy had been one he'd had an eye on himself until Geoff Carlisle had come along and swept her away, but their platonic flirtation had never stopped.  And she hadn't been in the station to hear the news yet about Hutch, which made her perfect.

     Starsky stepped through the screen door she was holding for him, and closed the front door behind him before turning to face her again.  "Hi, Luce, how's my favorite artist doing?  Listen, I've got a big favor to ask you. . ."

     Two hours later, Starsky once again climbed the unfamiliar steps to the door of their current refuge.  The time had been well spent, with a good sketch completed of the man from Hutch's apartment building, a drawing Lucy had promised to take in with her to Gabe Bonhomme as soon as she went on duty the next morning.  It was a start.  But he'd still been anxious to get back.

     Starsky fumbled with his keys, finding the one that didn't belong and inserting it.  Someday he'd have to ask Huggy where he'd gotten the comfortable little apartment from, tucked anonymously in the sprawling suburbs of L.A.  But for now, Starsky was just glad for the sanctuary.

     The lock turned easily enough but the door only opened an inch before snagging on a chain.

     "Huggy," he hissed through the opening.  Extra security was a good thing and Starsky appreciated the thought, but right now anything that slowed him down was aggravating.

     The chain rattled and finally the door opened to reveal a slightly amused Huggy Bear.  "All you had to do was ring, Starsky," he half-bowed with sarcastic politeness.

     "I didn't want to wake Hutch – he still sleeping?"  Starsky shed his jacket with his gaze firmly fixed on the bedroom doorway.

     "Like the proverbial log.  Woke up long enough to drink some juice, but he didn't seem very with it, if you dig."

     Starsky tried to decide if he was relieved or concerned, finally settling on both.  "Thanks, Hug, I'll stay with him from here," he said distractedly.  Then, "Oh–" he snagged the barkeep's arm as Huggy was about to turn away.  "Do me a favor and ask around, would ya?  See if anybody knows anything about someone with a beef against Hutch or somebody new in town.  Maybe even somebody old – I don't know," Starsky waved a hand, "whatever.  I need someplace to start."

     "Already on it," Huggy vowed, then said seriously, "You look like you could use some rest, Starsky.  Why don't you go crash with your better half and I'll see you tomorrow?"

     Starsky's expression softened.  "I'll work on it."

     "Yeah, you do that.  There's some food in the fridge, too – maybe you can put some of it to good use."

     Starsky snorted.  "Now who's playin' mother hen?"

     Huggy shrugged into a jacket with an aggrieved shake of the head.  "You two need one.  Keep goin' until you fall on your face and then it's, 'Mr. Bear, we require your assistance.'  I should get paid by your department for–"  The good-natured grumble trailed after him out the door as Starsky shut it behind him and, with a smile, put the chain on.

     Food he didn't much care about, but one thing Huggy was right about was that he was tired.  It was all too easy to follow the invisible tug into the bedroom.

     Hutch was much as Starsky had last seen his partner, curled up on his other side now.  Starsky stood in the doorway for a long moment, marveling at the signs of recovery even since he'd been gone, the fading bruises around the eyes and the more comfortable sprawl of the body.

     Hutch stirred in his sleep, frowning for a moment before sleep carried away the complaint.

     Starsky frowned, too, creeping closer to see if anything was wrong.  The pulse was slow and steady under his finger, the skin covering it warm.  Breathing also seemed unimpaired and reassuringly deep and even.  Hutch was still in the hospital gown, and Starsky carefully uncovered the bare right arm to peer at the inside elbow.  Even in the dim light of the living room, the tiny scab was still visible, ugly completely out of proportion to its size.  He gently pulled the gauze off the other arm, but the IV mark seemed inconsequential by comparison.

     Deliberately, Starsky explored on, easing down one loose arm of the gown to expose Hutch's chest, and winced at the discovery of his partner's discomfort.  The bruises spread across the front of the ribcage in a smear of shadows, roughly outlining where Starsky's hands had been.  It shouldn't have been a surprise; Starsky knew too well CPR was hard on the body and usually resulted in bruised or even broken ribs for the victim.  It was a small trade-off for staying alive, but also one more injury to overcome.

     Gently, he did the gown back up again and pulled the covers to Hutch's shoulder.  It felt so unfair.  Sometimes he couldn't believe how lucky the two of them were to be doing something they loved, and to be doing it together.  Other times it just seemed like the whole world was against them, and the bitterness of all they'd endured nearly choked Starsky.  Fighting a weary sigh, he laid a hand lightly on the blond hair and wished with all his heart he could undo the previous forty-eight hours.

     Sleepy azure eyes opened without warning, catching him off guard.  Blinking once at him, they roamed the dim, unfamiliar room before returning, bewildered, to his face.  "Where are we?" Hutch finally murmured, voice raspy.

     Not afraid, just confused, Starsky marveled even as he grinned.  He hoped his bone-weariness didn't show.  "Someplace safe.  You're fine, partner, you just need to get some more rest, then I'll fill ya in."

     Hutch was trying to read him, eyes sharpening as they studied him but too tired to focus too hard.  He blinked slowly.  "Safe?" he whispered.

     He would catch on that, Starsky thought with affectionate exasperation.  "Safe, for both of us.  I'm stayin' here with you.  I want you to sleep now, Hutch – everything's okay, trust me."

     Another blink, this one twice as long as the first.  "You, too . . . look terrible."

     That made Starsky smile again.  "You should talk.  Don't worry, I'm next in line."  His palm brushed lightly against the blond hair.  "Go to sleep, Hutch."

     The next time Hutch's eyes closed, they didn't reopen.

     Maybe it was the reassuring performance for his partner, or maybe it was the lifting of a layer of worry, but Starsky's fatigue suddenly seemed no longer surmountable.  Dragging himself to his feet, he managed the two steps to the neighboring bed and plopped down on its edge, pulling off gun, shoes, and clothing with clumsy movements.  The bare minimum shed for comfort, Starsky shoved aside the covers and crawled under them, staring at his sleeping partner for all of two seconds before sleep took him away.

     One of the deficits of going to sleep in the late afternoon was that one tended to wake at strange hours.  Like the middle of the night, it seemed to Starsky as he shuddered out of a particularly nasty dream.  He rubbed sleep out of his eyes to stare at the bedside clock.  Well, just before dawn, anyway.  It would do.  He had no wish to revisit his nightmares just then, anyway.  Starsky crawled out of bed and headed for the shower.

     It was only two hours later, two long hours of pacing the small apartment, "borrowing" a neighbor's paper to read, perusing every book title on the one bookshelf, and getting a groggy partner up long enough to see to necessities, that Starsky finally counted the last few seconds to his self-determined deadline and pounced on the phone.

     The first call was to Huggy, and netted no news except for the weird rumor that Frank Poindexter had been sighted with Elvis at a local motel.  Seeing as the singer had just recently died and drug trafficker Poindexter some time before that, falling to his death before Starsky's eyes, that hardly seemed a threat.  Starsky signed off with Huggy's promise to keep his ears open.

     The next call was a lot tougher, and Starsky sat fiddling with his mug of coffee a long moment before reaching for the phone again and dialing.

     "Bonhomme."

     "Gabe, it's Starsky."

     "S– Man, where are you?  You know Dobey's got half the force out looking for the two of you?"  After the first second of reaction, his voice had fallen to a discrete hiss and Starsky's shoulders untensed a fraction.  His colleague and friend was giving them the benefit of the doubt.

     "We're someplace safe, but I'm gonna keep Hutch out of sight for a while, Gabe.  It was either that or the psycho ward for attempted suicide."

     He could all but feel Bonhomme's internal battle between duty and instinct.  "How is he?"

"Gettin' better," Starsky said with real relief.  "Sleeping a lot.  He doesn't even know what happened to him yet."

     Gabe swore softly.  "That doesn't help us much."

     Starsky grew subdued.  "I know.  Hey, you get the sketch from Carlisle?"

     "Yeah, even put a name to it already.  You sure this is the guy you saw in Venice?"

     "Yeah, why?"  This wasn't sounding good.

     "Name's Chuck Slocum.  Starsky . . . he was one of Poindexter's people while Poindexter was in business around here."

     The hairs on the back of Starsky's neck were beginning to rise.  Poindexter again, and Starsky was not one to believe in coincidence.  If he hadn't witnessed the man's death himself . . . Okay, so they never had found Poindexter's body, but nobody could survive a fall of hundreds of feet.  Could they?

     "You still there?"

     "Yeah, Gabe, sorry.  Okay, so he worked for Poindexter – who's he with now?" Starsky asked.

     "Don't know.  Hasn't been picked up since then.  You want the last known address, or you want me to run him down?"

     "I'll do it.  Give me known associates, too, huh?"

     Bonhomme recited the information, Starsky copying it down into his notebook.  One of them was very familiar, the first lucky break they'd had.  Finally, a place to start, even if he wasn't so sure he wanted to see where this trail was leading.

     "Thanks, Gabe, I got it.  You get anything else from the scene?"

     "Not a thing.  But we did get one break – the rest of the labwork finally came back on our mutual friend."

     Starsky's heart sped up; he'd assumed when they'd confirmed Hutch's heroin OD that all the rest of the bloodwork was back and normal.

     "Turns out he had some sedative in his blood as well as the stuff we already knew about.  We don't know yet how it got in him – probably wasn't the air since you weren't affected, but could have been in something he ate or touched.  It's not conclusive, but it's a point for the good guys."

     Was it ever.  That also answered a few of Starsky's own questions.  "Nothing dangerous?" he asked, just to make sure.

     "Naw, short-acting stuff.  They probably thought it'd be gone by the time somebody found our friend."  Dead, he didn't need to add.

     "Yeah."  Starsky gathered his thoughts for a moment.  "Okay, I'm going to run down this list you gave me.  You gonna work the forensics end?"

     "Might as well.  I figure I already know what happened, but you know I have to cover all the angles," Gabe said apologetically.

     "I know.  I'm just glad you're on our side."

     "Hey, man, don't think for a second we all aren't.  We just have to prove we're right."

     Starsky's mouth quirked.  "Yeah," he said again.  "Thanks for sticking your neck out anyway."

     "I don't even know where you are, right?  Far as I'm concerned, I'm following up anonymous leads.  Just check in with me every few hours to get the latest."

     "Count on it."  Starsky hung up.

     Ten minutes later, he had a location on Slocum and Huggy was on his way back to the apartment.

     Even in the din of the slum motel, Starsky could hear the steps approaching.  They hesitated at the door, then the knob rattled – there wasn't even a lock to open.  The door swung open, throwing a rectangle of light into the dark room.  Starsky's seat was along the wall, though, still wrapped in darkness and invisible to the new arrival.

     The figure in the doorway was skinny and hunched, a cap pulled down over eyes that glanced furtively once more into the hallway before turning to the room.  Even before the man flipped on the light switch, Starsky recognized the features from, what, only three days before?

     The one light bulb hanging from the ceiling snapped on, and the figure in the doorway froze at the sight of Starsky watching him, gun calmly balanced on one leg.  A second later, he was turning to run.

     "I'm not that slow."

     The hunched shoulders slowly pivoted back toward him, hands already nervously twisting the newspaper they held.  "Who are you?" the newcomer stuttered.

     "You don't know me?  I know you, Chuckie," Starsky answered calmly.  "And you know my partner."

     Slocum's agitation grew a notch.  "I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout."

     "Venice Place apartments – that ring a bell?"

     "Look, if you're a cop, arrest me already."

     Starsky leaned slightly forward.  "Close the door."

     His visitor was beginning to sweat but reluctantly obeyed.

     "Do I look like a cop?"

     "You-you said your partner. . ."

     Starsky cracked a cold smile, the kind Hutch gave people he didn't like.  "Let's say this is an unofficial visit.  You tell me what I want to know and we'll do it the official way.  You don't and – you don't see any badge, do you?"

     Slocum licked his lips.  "What do you wanna know?"

     "Who you're workin' for and where I can find him," Starsky said.

     The man was already shaking his head.  "Hey, you don't know what you're askin'!  That'd be suicide, man."

     Starsky's thumb flicked off the safety.  "Suicide or murder, take your choice, pal.  At least with one of 'em you've got a chance."

     "Oh, man," Slocum groaned, tossing down the newspaper.  "I knew it was a stupid idea when he said it, goin' after a cop.  I told him that."

     "Who?" Starsky asked impatiently.

     The suspect's fingers drummed against his leg, his gaze jumping around the room as if seeking another option, but always returning to Starsky's gun.  Finally, unhappily, he said, "Frank Poindexter."

     Starsky's expression didn't betray his sudden dread.  "Poindexter's dead."

     A short, almost hysterical laugh.  "Yeah?  He looked pretty alive to me when I saw him yesterday."

     "Yesterday?" Starsky's head came up.  "Where?"

     Slocum's hand swept through his unkempt hair.  Up close, Starsky could see the signs of a long-term junkie, probably hurting for his next fix.  Maybe he'd have seen it a few days ago in Venice if he'd been watching for it, he'd just been too preoccupied by thoughts of recreation that seemed outright obsolete now.  Of course, what good would his awareness then have been?  Stopping to talk to Slocum would have just finished what the man had started upstairs.  The thought made Starsky flinch inside.

     "Where?" Starsky repeated with a growl.

     "He's got an 'office' in Culver City, on Overland.  He's goin' by Benjamin now, Frank Benjamin.  But he probably won't be there until tomorrow."

     Starsky nodded, fluidly rising.  Slocum's gaze stayed glued to him as the detective approached him and, digging out his cuffs, snapped them around Slocum's wrists, threading them through the fat water pipe that cut through one corner of the room.  The felon secured, Starsky tapped his cheek lightly with the gun.  "Good boy, Chuckie.  The cops'll be here soon and I want you to tell 'em the same thing you told me.  You do that, and I'll make sure you won't have to worry about Poindexter."

     "The cops?  You mean, you're not a cop?"

     "Not today," Starsky said quietly, sliding his gun back into its holster.  "Today I'm just a partner."

     And he walked out of the room to call Gabe.

     "You found him, didn't you?"

     Starsky sighed; he hadn't figured Gabe would agree to pick up Slocum and give Starsky the location on a Culver City office owned by a Frank Benjamin without asking any questions of his own, but the brunet had still hoped as much.  "Maybe," he finally conceded.

     "Benjamin, is that what Poindexter's going under now?"  Bonhomme had taken the news of Poindexter's survival a lot better than Starsky had, but then, he hadn't watched the man fall off a cliff.

     "Yeah, but, Gabe – he's mine."

     "Fine, you make the bust, but not without back-up.  You forgetting you're short a partner right now?"

     One he was desperately impatient to get back to, and arguing with Gabe was just delaying him.  Starsky's worry sang louder every minute he was away.  "You work solo, too, remember?" Starsky impatiently tried one more tack.

     "Not with your baggage and a winged partner to worry about.  Tell me when you're going, my friend, or so help me, I'm heading over there right now."

     Starsky knew when he was outwitted, and, honestly, the help wasn't completely unwelcome.  "Tomorrow morning, five a.m. Slocum said he wouldn't be there 'til morning and I wanna make sure I'm there first."

     "Fine, I'll meet you there then.  And you tell our friend I said hello."

     Half a minute later, Starsky was roaring back toward his temporary home and his partner.

     Huggy was puttering in the kitchen as Starsky walked in and tossed his jacket onto the sofa.  The chain hadn't been on, and Starsky realized that the same moment he caught Huggy's expression.

     "I'm glad you're here.  I was just about to call you," the black man straightened, frying pan in hand.  He nodded toward the bathroom.  "Blondie's been in there going on an hour now.  Woke up and said he needed a shower – I wasn't arguing with that – but the water's been turned off a long time now.  Every time I yell through the door, all he says is he's okay."

     Starsky frowned at the closed bathroom door.  A shower seemed awfully premature, especially considering that just talking seemed to leave Hutch as wiped as if he'd just moved a houseful of furniture.  But if he was lying to Huggy, that showed at least some degree of autonomy.  He'd probably just run out of steam and wouldn't ask for help with that Hutchinson pride of his.

     "You want I should stay?  I could whip the two of you up some of my World Famous Eggs Flambé."  Huggy waved the pan with a flourish that made Starsky nervous.

     "Uh, no, thanks, Hug, I think I can take it from here."  Starsky's smile must have been less than sincere because Huggy made a face at him, plopping the pan onto the counter.

     "You know what the trouble with you is, Starsky?"  Huggy stopped halfway to the door to look at him.  "You've got no imagination when it comes to food."  With that, he gave the bathroom door a sharp glance and, with a more serious look at Starsky, left.

     Starsky's eyebrows rose.  Well, no one had ever said that to him before.  Hutch would have probably choked to hear it.  And speaking of blond partners. . .

     Starsky crossed to the door and gave it a tap.  "Hutch?  You gonna be in there much longer?"

     Silence.  Not the kind that sent chills up his back, but the kind that left him wondering if he should be worried or annoyed.  He knocked harder.

     "Hutch?  I'm comin' in if you don't answer me."  He'd already tried the doorknob and felt it turn in his hand, unlocked, but he wasn't about to go barging in on a man's privacy without fair warning.  Even if the man in question was his partner and there was little embarrassment left between them.

     "Door's open."

     The utter weariness of those two words cranked up Starsky's worry into overdrive.  Awake and responsive was good, but sounding on the verge of collapse was not.  He turned the knob and carefully stepped inside.

     The small room was chill with cooling moisture, the mirror and one tiny window streaming with condensation.  It didn't seem to matter to Hutch as he sat on the edge of the tub, his back to Starsky.  He wore only a towel around his hips and leaned heavily against the tiled wall, which explained the constant tremors of cold that ran through him, but he didn't seem to notice or care about any of it.  Even about Starsky's arrival.

     "Hey," Starsky said quietly in half-protest.  Something was really wrong here and it wasn't just fatigue.  Absently, he grabbed a second towel off the rack and draped it around the bare shoulders.  "Hutch?  What's goin' on?"

     "Took a shower."

     "I can see that."  Starsky gave the wet mirror another glance.  A long shower, by the looks of it.  The kind someone took when they felt very dirty.  Mindless of the cold dampness that clung to every surface, he swung a leg over the edge of the tub, settling himself on its edge next to Hutch.

     That angle revealed a lot he'd already guessed: the tension lines in the broad forehead, blank blue eyes, and the right arm curled tightly against the body. He’d even known which arm.

     "You remembered," Starsky ventured, not much of a guess.

     "OD?"  Hutch's lips barely moved, his expression not at all.

     Starsky just nodded, even if he had to be just inside Hutch's range of vision.  If the blond needed to turn to look at him, it was fine with him.  Besides, he wasn't sure he trusted his voice.

     The weary blue eyes closed.  "Heroin."

     Of all the street names pushers came up with, the drug's true name seemed the ugliest of all.  Starsky cleared his throat.  "Yeah."

     "You found me?"

     He knew what Hutch was really asking – how many people knew?  "Yeah, but they had to take you in to Marina Mercy.  It was close, buddy."

     Maybe he imagined it, but the eyes seemed to wince tighter shut.  Starsky was beginning to feel cold himself, and he had on jeans and two long-sleeved layers.  With an annoyed grunt at the stubbornness of blonds, he reached out and pulled his particular one away from the cool wall and against his rather warmer shirt.  He could all but see Hutch's aggravation at being coddled, even in the shuttered face, but the the man didn't have the strength to resist and Starsky wasn't above taking advantage of that.  He soon had the thick towel wrapped all the way around the thin, clammy upper body and was rubbing with brisk strokes, careful to avoid the inner elbow.  Then, softly, Starsky laid out the whole story.

     The only reaction any of it elicited was a slow abating of the cold shivers, Hutch soaking up the warmth and, it seemed, support in equal measure.  Starsky had planted his Adidas's against smooth porcelain as the weight leaning against him increased, Hutch no longer even trying to keep himself upright or withdrawn from the brunet.  Exhaustion or surrender, Starsky wondered?  Definitely some of the former; he doubted Hutch would have had the energy to dress and go back to bed even if he'd been in the frame of mind to do so.  But if also the latter, then was it yielding to trust or to his fate?

     Starsky's legs and back were getting tired, and despite Hutch's boneless sag, he doubted the blond was very comfortable either.  "How 'bout we get you back to bed, huh?" Starsky finally asked benignly.

     He didn't really expect an answer and the half-shrug didn't tell him much, but he started to move anyway.  It wasn't easy going, one of them barefoot and half-dressed and the other needing to be extra careful, but Starsky tried to be gentle.  First step was getting to their feet, then scaling the bathtub walls.

     Hutch winced at the lurch, one hand rising vaguely to the spectrum of bruises spread across his chest.

     "Sorry," Starsky muttered, both for the jarring and the reason for the ache, winning him an unusually lucid glare from his partner.

     "Jackass."  The invective lost something with its breathy delivery, but Starsky's mouth quirked in response.  Message received, and he turned his concentration to more or less steadily making it out of the bathroom and into the bedroom only a few yards away.  He was grateful for the lack of audience, even Hug.  Hutch's legs weren't quite working right and they made an unsteady pair, but at least he was trying.  Another thing to be grateful for.

     Finally reaching the bed, he deposited his ungainly load on its edge and, with a firm, "wait here," dashed back into the bathroom for the pajamas laid out neatly on top of the toilet tank.  Huggy's work, no doubt, and they were even Hutch's, dug out of the bag of their stuff Starsky had collected on his first trip.

     Getting the clothes on a heavy-limbed, gangly form was a task Starsky had learned the hard way some time before, but prior knowledge didn't make it much easier.  Still, before long he had Hutch tucked into the bed and warming up.  The blue eyes were glazed over and the right arm was once more curled defensively close, as if the shame ran deep enough to be instinct.

     "I'm tired." The words were only a murmur, Hutch's forehead wrinkling slightly.

     "I noticed," Starsky said, not without humor.  "Get some sleep, partner.  We've got all the time we need to figure things out."  It was true, in a way.  Poindexter would be in the bag the next day, one way or another, but Starsky intended to stay in retreat with Hutch as long as his partner needed it.

     Hutch was already asleep, dropping off from one second to the next in the manner of the unwell.

     Starsky took considerably longer to fall asleep, once he'd cleaned up the bathroom and the kitchen and then finally made it to bed.  His internal clock was ticking down to five the next morning, but that wasn't what kept him awake.  Belatedly, he considered he should have fed Hutch while the blond was up, then decided that venture wouldn't have met with much success.  At least between Huggy and him, they'd kept their patient hydrated, and Starsky could start pushing the soup and soft foods the next day.

     He lay in the dark and stared at the turned-away blond head, the moonlight catching highlights of gold in the almost-dry strands.  Hutch was his partner, and that duty ran bone deep.  More than that, he was Starsky's best friend, a brother far closer than Nicky was now.  But all of those were just labels for someone who was, when it came down to it, unbelievably important to him.  And anything or anyone who threatened that had Starsky's not inconsiderable rage to deal with.

     So why did getting Poindexter suddenly seem so inconsequential?

'Cause you've got what's important right here.  Somewhat worn, but safe now, protected.  Soon to be returning the favor, stronger than ever, if Starsky knew his partner.  But until then, he was Starsky's to fight for.  And that seemed far more meaningful a battle than seeing Poindexter get what he deserved.  It was only for Hutch's sake, Starsky realized with some surprise, to help him leave the ordeal behind and move on, that Starsky cared about catching the creep at all.

     Just when was it that his paradigms had shifted so significantly?

     Maybe when he'd become partners with a klutzy, tough, tenderhearted rube from Duluth who was now snoring softly not five feet from him.

     A suggestion of a smile on his face, Starsky fell asleep.

     He wasn't sure what woke him at first; the apartment was silent and the bedside clock still read only close to one a.m.  His internal alarm had a few hours to go before it roused him to go meet Gabe.

     Then again, there were different kinds of alarms.  Starsky glanced to his right, to Hutch's bed, and nearly started upright at finding it empty until he saw the hunched figure sitting by the window, face turned away.

     Starsky rolled out of bed, rubbing some of the sleep out of his eyes.  He still felt tired, slow, but Hutch wasn't sitting there for the view, and worry about his partner washed away the fuzziness of Starsky's fatigue.

     "Hutch?"  He rounded his partner's abandoned bed to see the figure more clearly.  Slumped on a desk chair, Hutch had his right arm hugged against him once more as he stared out the window.  The moonlight outlined his features, reflecting off eyes deep with pain.

     Starsky made a knowing face.  He'd figured this would come, just hoped it wouldn't be so soon.

     "Hutch?  What're you doin' up?  You still need some rest, partner," he said softly as he took a seat on the nearest edge of the bed.  "You remember something?"

     A dejected shake of the blond head.  The doctor had said he'd probably never remember the actual drugging, but you didn't have to remember to be traumatized.  Starsky had a dozen questions, and was sure his partner did, too, but this didn't seem the time for that.  His voice lowered to a whisper.  "Hutch?  What's goin' on?"

     "I thought it was over with."  Hutch's voice was even softer.  "Forest was dead, IA knew about what happened, I finally started to forget.  And now. . ."

     "Now you were drugged.  Someone broke into your place and tried to kill you with a needle.  I don't blame ya if that bothers you – sure as heck bothers me – but don't make it more than that."

     "More than that?"  Hutch almost laughed, and the sound was worse than his melancholy expression of a moment before.  "Yeah, I guess that's enough, isn't it, almost getting killed in my own living room?  Shouldn't matter what they gave me, should it?"  Starsky watched, dismayed, as the long throat worked for a moment.  Miserable blue eyes turned to him.  "But it does."

     "I know," Starsky said quietly.  "I know."

     "You even got dragged into it."  Hutch's fist was clenched.  "Concealing and destroying evidence, breaking me out of a hospital – that's suicide, Starsky!"

     Starsky was momentarily impressed; he hadn't thought Hutch would remember all that from the evening before.  But obviously that was eating at him, too.  "Watching your life go down the tubes would've been, too.  I have the right to do what you woulda done in my place, Hutch," he chided kindly.

     Hutch just silently shook his head in despair.

     Starsky sidled a little closer, more in his partner's space, and gentled his voice.  "I know it hurts.  But it's up to you how much you let it get to ya.  This isn't like last time, Hutch – it didn't have any power over you this time, didn't mess with your head.  It was just another weapon.  Nothin' we can't handle."

     Hutch stared at him a long moment, face twisted as if deciding whether he was about to break down or break into a grin.  Starsky sure hoped it wasn't the former or he might lose it, too.  "Nothing we can't handle, huh?" Hutch finally echoed in a rough voice.

     "That's right," Starsky answered with a small nod.  He reached out for the leg inches away, not commenting at the tremors he felt running through it.  The fact Hutch was sitting only in a pair of thin pajamas wasn't helping, but none of that really mattered at the moment.  "You know it's not gonna be easy for a while, but it'll get better as you get better and we'll talk about it whenever you want – it'll be okay, Hutch."

     The blue eyes were too bright as they stared at him, but there was a little bit of spirit shining in them.  It made all the difference.  Hutch was a strong person, capable of defeating his demons.  Sometimes he just needed a little reminder of that, and of the fact he wasn't fighting alone.

     "You ready to go back to bed?" Starsky switched gears.  Hutch really did look too worn out to be sitting up in the middle of the night in a cold room.  Starsky stood, extending his hand for his partner's right one.

     Hutch gave a long, deflating sigh.  Then he slowly uncurled his arm to take Starsky's hand, letting himself be pulled upright and guided to bed.

     One tired blond patient tucked in, Starsky felt the tug of sleep return but held off for a minute to perch on the edge of his partner's bed.  "It'll be okay, Hutch," he whispered again.  "Trust me.  It won't go away in a day but it'll go away."

     Hutch was still looking at him but his eyes were glassy, his blinks growing longer and slower.

     "Go to sleep," Starsky coaxed.  "It's okay."

     Hutch's eyes closed.

     A minute more until he was sure it was sleep and not just avoidance, and Starsky quietly rose and climbed back into his bed, asleep before he'd even stretched out.

     It was closer to four-thirty when Starsky pulled up to the address Gabe had provided, surprised to spot Bonhomme's car already parked further up the street.  The address in question, a two-story gray brick building, still stood dark and silent, and pulling his coat up against the drizzle that was just beginning, Starsky hurried over to his colleague's car.

     Gabe must have already been watching him approach, leaning over to open the passenger side door for Starsky as the brunet jogged up.  Starsky gratefully slid inside the dry car.

     "How come you're here already?"

     The Haitian detective's eyebrows rose a fraction.  "You're here, aren't you?"

     Starsky half-grinned at him.  "You've been around my partner too long."

     "Or maybe you're just transparent," Bonhomme parried.  "How is Hutch doing, anyway?"

     Starsky also grew serious.  "He'll be all right," he said carefully.

     "I know that, but it's not easy, especially with his history."  Gabe's voice was solemn but kind, and Starsky was reminded it was a friend he was talking to, not just a fellow detective.

"Yeah," he mumbled, drawing a hand tiredly over his face.  He hadn't slept much the night before.  "It's hittin' him pretty hard.  I wish I could make it easier for him."

     Gabe gave him an incredulous look.  "Are you kidding, man?  First you kidnap him out of the hospital, something Dobey still hasn't stopped yelling about, then you stash him somewhere to give him time to get back on his feet in private, and knowing you, you've been there with him the whole time except for when you're out tracking down the guys who did this to him.  Far as I'm concerned, you've already gone way beyond the call of duty on this one, Starsky."

     Starsky waved off the praise.  "It's not about duty."

     Bonhomme nodded.  "I know it.  That's what's gonna help Hutch the most."

     Starsky was startled speechless a moment, then threw his friend a wry look.  "You know, Gabe, I think there's a frustrated shrink inside ya."

     That drew a laugh from the older man.  "What, with all the practice I get with you two?  Nothing frustrated about me, Starsky.  Besides, you forgetting you've returned the favor a time or twenty?"

     It was true, if only because that was the way cops were.  You tended to get close to anyone you trusted your life to, helped them through their rough spots, shared your own with them.  And, if you were really lucky, you found someone with whom the line between "yours" and "mine" blurred and you never bothered to keep count because helping each other became helping yourself, the need for the other's well-being as intrinsic as your own.

     Which was, Starsky thought wearily, why he was hurting so much even with Hutch alive and the bad guy almost in their hands.  Drawing the collar of his jacket higher up around his neck, he crossed his arms over his chest and sank back into the seat to wait, hoping their quarry would show up soon so he could go home.

     Someone must have been listening.  Even as Gabe turned to him and started saying something about Slocum, Starsky's eyes were drawn to the two-tone sedan turning onto the street and driving smoothly up to the entrance of the building they were watching. Starsky could feel Bonhomme tense in anticipation beside him.  A glance at his watch showed nearly four forty-five.  The early bird got the worm, he thought, the analogy seeming particularly apt in Poindexter's case.

     For it was Poindexter climbing out of the car.  He moved stiffly, one leg not bending, but the face was unmistakable, and Starsky found his amazed disbelief returning.  The man was hard to kill.

Like Hutch, Starsky couldn't help but think darkly, and mirrored Bonhomme's reach for his gun.

     "Ready?" the detective asked him, and Starsky nodded.

     They burst out of the car almost with the precision of partners, each moderately sheltered by their car doors as they leveled their weapons at Poindexter.

     "Freeze!" Bonhomme bellowed.

     Poindexter did, hands rising instead of shutting the car door as he'd been about to do.  Slowly he straightened instead, turning incrementally to face them.

     And then, at the sight of Starsky, he smiled.

     "Well, we meet yet again, Detective.  We do seem to be drawn to one another, eh?"

     "Shut up, Poindexter," Bonhomme ordered.  They were only ten yards away, not far at all if a suspect had mischief in his mind.

     "But Starsky and I are old friends, aren't we, Starsky?  You and your partner – by the way, where is Hutchinson?"

     Starsky's jaw firmed.  Maybe the importance of getting Poindexter had faded with the priority of looking after his partner, but putting this turkey away would still give Starsky an awful lot of satisfaction.  "Somewhere you can't get to him again," he said levelly.

     Poindexter nodded.  "I'd heard he'd survived – lucky man."

     Starsky gritted his teeth.  "Speaking of lucky, how'd you survive the last time we met?"

     The reminder briefly darkened Poindexter's face and he tapped his bad leg.  "Not completely untouched, but I figure I made up for that."  His good humor returned.  "Your partner may still be alive but he might have a little trouble explaining the situation, don't you think?"

     Starsky ignored Gabe's hissing his name, his attention fully on Poindexter as the light dawned.  "It didn't matter if he died or not, you figured you'd destroy him either way," Starsky breathed.

     Poindexter merely shrugged, half-smiling.

     "You lousy–"

     "Starsky," Gabe repeated more insistently, and even as Starsky reflexively turned, he could see Poindexter move out of the corner of his eye.

     "Gabe!" he hollered, already resuming the crouch he'd half-risen from and focusing again on their prisoner, except that Poindexter wasn't under their control anymore.  Diving back into his car and staying low, the sedan roared to life.

     "Get in," Bonhomme said sharply as he got off a useless pair of shots.  Starsky needed no invitation, pulling his door shut behind him just as the sedan would have clipped it as it flew past.

     Bonhomme's old car made Hutch's bucket of bolts look stylish, but she handled well and Gabe was an experienced driver.  Within seconds, they had turned around and were in hot pursuit of the sedan.

     Starsky hurriedly put his seatbelt on, fingers digging into the seat as Bonhomme took a particularly hard turn.  Okay, so this wasn't any wilder than he drove himself, but it was a lot different in the passenger seat.  Maybe Hutch's fussing about his driving had some grounds.

     The sedan in front of them took another screeching turn, and Gabe followed suit.  Starsky was grateful the pre-dawn streets were practically empty because they would have already taken out several cars otherwise.  On the other hand, maybe it would have slowed Poindexter down some.  As it was, a glance at Gabe's speedometer showed they were going nearly ninety.

     A speed that made it awfully easy to lose control.

     One more corner, and this time one of the sedan's tires smoked in protest of the too-fast maneuver and, a second later, burst.  The car began to careen in response, fishtailing wildly for a moment until it suddenly flipped, tumbling off the street and into the unyielding face of a nearby building.

     And exploding into flames.

     Gabe's screeching halt was less instantaneous but a lot safer, and he and Starsky sat, stunned, watching the burning car. No ambulances would be needed there; no one could have survived that inferno.

     Bonhomme finally turned to Starsky.  "Well, I guess he's dead for sure this time."

     That was, Starsky considered, a fitting epitaph to Poindexter's life.

     Dawn was just beginning to break as Starsky returned to the apartment.  No dazzling rays shot over the horizon, not in smog-enveloped L.A., but the sky lightened from gray to violet to a soft blue.  In all, it was looking to be a beautiful day in southern California.

     The first sight that greeted Starsky as he stepped in the door was the top of a blond head visible just over the back of the couch.  He shrugged out of his holster, draping it over the coat rack with his jacket, before circling around to the front of the couch.

     The sight of his partner wrapped in a blanket and frowning at a magazine he was reading made Starsky grin.  "I see ya finally found the living room."

     Refreshingly alert eyes rose to meet his, going soft at the sight of him.  For a minute, things felt heart-stoppingly normal.  "Where've you been?"

     Okay, so the voice was still a little weak and the movements shaded with fatigue, but Starsky was hardly feeling picky.  The question required a little more thought, but Hutch was aware enough to know if he was lying and strong enough not to need protecting anymore.  Starsky's voice fell into neutral.  "Trackin' down Poindexter."

     Hutch's eyes widened.  "Frank Poindexter?  I hate to tell you this, Starsk, but the guy fell off a cliff.  The only place you're gonna find him is six feet under."

     Starsky went the few steps into the kitchen and stuck his head into the refrigerator.  Eggs and bacon, the old standbys, and even some cheese.  At least breakfast would be taken care of.  Pulling out the ingredients, he answered over his shoulder.  "Turns out he pulled a fast one on both of us.  Old Frank was alive and plotting his revenge."

     "Was?" Hutch echoed.  Then, after a pause, "Revenge?  He was the one–?"

     "He ordered it."

     Another bit of silence as Hutch digested that. Starsky paid studious attention to cracking eggs into a pan.

     "You got the second guy?"

     "Locked him up yesterday, partner.  Weasel by the name of Chuck Slocum.  He sang his heart out last night about Poindexter and the whole plan to set you up."

     "And Poindexter's dead."

     Starsky slowly set the next egg down on the counter and moved into the doorway, casually leaning against the jamb.  "He's dead.  Ran his car into the building."

     "You sure?  Looks like he's got more lives than a cat."

     "His car blew up, Hutch.  I'm sure."

     Hutch closed his eyes briefly, his jaw set.  "What now?"

     Starsky came back into the room and sat in the one chair opposite the couch.  Breakfast could wait.  "Now Gabe takes Chuckie's confession and ties it all up in a nice ribbon for IA.  I betcha you'll be cleared by the time the day is out."

     "What about you?  The hospital break?  And destroying evidence?"

     Starsky leaned forward, intent.  "I did what I had to.  Maybe I should have let Gabe clear ya through regular channels, but I couldn't take the chance, Hutch.  That stuff didn't belong there in the first place and I'd have been damned before I'd let ya go down for something I knew you didn't do."

     Hutch was staring at him with a mixed expression.  "If we start bending the law just because we know something–"

     "Would you've done the same thing?"

     That nonplussed his partner. Hutch hesitated, then said quietly, "Probably."

     Starsky got no satisfaction from the admission.  Having someone love you enough to break the law for you – no, not just the law but their personal code of ethics – was a huge burden, and responsibility.  "I'm not sayin' what I did was right, but I'd do it again."  He'd have gone even further if he'd had to, but he didn't say that.  He probably didn't have to.

     "I'm not sure IA'd agree with you, buddy, and you might still have some trouble explaining some of Slocum's confession, you know that."  Hutch straightened determinedly.  "But I'm guessing at that point they'll probably be pretty anxious to put the whole thing to bed.  You’re not gonna get out of explaining the breakout, though."  Amusement shone for the first time in his eyes.  "Do I even want to know how you got me out of there?"

     "Probably not," Starsky gamely answered.  "'Course, Huggy's gonna be your personal physician from now on. . ."  That earned him a suitably appalled look and he broke into a grin.

     It disappeared just as fast as Starsky noticed his partner's hand was absently rubbing at the inside of his elbow.

     Starsky sobered, waiting until he'd caught the blond's gaze before reminding very firmly.  "Just another weapon, partner.  It fights dirty, but it doesn't have anything to do with who you are."

     Hutch's expression grew pained.  "I know that, I just . . . I can't help remembering it was heroin, Starsky.  Once can be a fluke, but twice. . ."

     "Hey," Starsky interrupted.  He could practically feel the tension knotting up the still recovering body in front of him.  "I don't wanna hear that.  Poindexter picked it 'cause he wanted you and everybody else to think that, but no one else is gonna.  Gabe'll make sure of that.  There's no reason you have to.  It's just a drug, Hutch, like the one Bellamy used when he got to me."  The situations were eerily similar, in fact, and the coincidence hadn't escaped him.  Ironically, his poison had had no stigma attached and won him only support and sympathy, while Hutch had to fight public opinion and his own demons at the same time.  It wasn't fair, but then, what was about being attacked and violated in your own home?

     Hutch made a weary sound, shaking his head once.  "I just . . . I hate this!  When's it gonna end?  Every time I think it's behind me. . ."  He shrank a little.  "I'm not gonna beat myself up over this, Starsky, but sometimes I feel like I've got no control over anything – I let my guard down for a second and someone's gonna give me a shove and I'm gonna start falling and not be able to stop myself."

     That was more honest than Starsky was often even with himself, and this was coming from his very private partner.  You only exposed yourself like that to someone you trusted completely, and that trust was Starsky's to keep or lose.  He was extremely aware of what was at stake as he gave Hutch's leg a squeeze and waited for the now-abashed blond to meet his eyes.

     "Hutch, you're one of the strongest people I know.  A lot of others wouldn't've hung on through all this and you did.  But even if you couldn't, you don't have to worry about falling 'cause I'm here to catch you if you do, okay?  Just like you've caught me before."

     Hutch was shaking his head, cheeks flushed.  "Starsk–"

     And this was where his partner would talk himself out of all the progress they'd just made if Starsky would let him.  He knew better than that and gave Hutch's thigh a sudden pat.  "Hey, my mother said you should never try to solve any problems on an empty stomach."

     A wary glance.  "She did, huh?"

     "Yep.  We've got a lot to talk about, but we can do it after breakfast.  I was just gonna make scrambled eggs – you want some?"

     Hutch looked like he was trying not to seem interested, and that was a really promising sign.  "You know how bad eggs are for you?"

     "Yep.  And aren't you the one who's always making omelets?"

     "With all kinds of other healthy stuff in them."

     Starsky stood.  "I add other stuff – how 'bout some salami?  I think I saw some in the refrigerator."

     "You're kidding."  Hutch was beginning to look faintly green.

     Starsky started back toward the kitchen, taking his time and enjoying himself.  "Or, hey, you ever tried it with french fries?  Maybe some ketchup. . ."

     Hutch groaned, a lengthy, melodramatic, wonderfully pained groan.

     "All right, all right, just 'cause I'm feelin' sorry for ya, what about, uh, cheddar and cream cheese and some peppers?"

     Hutch peered at him suspiciously.  "That almost sounds edible."  Definite interest now.  His partner was so transparent.

     "One omelet á la Hutchinson coming up," Starsky promised.  Then, right inside the kitchen door, he leaned out to add, "My mother had one more thing she used to say to us."

     "I'm afraid to ask."

     Starsky gave his partner a warm look, all teasing gone.  "'One day at a time'."  And then he ducked back inside the kitchen to fix breakfast and let Hutch think about that one.

     The phone call came while they were eating, making them both jump in surprise.

     They'd already decided to go back home the next day, contacting Dobey and facing the music with IA.  Starsky knew his partner wasn't looking forward to it, but he also doubted it would be as bad as Hutch seemed to think.  The blond had been the victim in this one and the evidence was adding up to as much.  After Dobey got through yelling, there would only be the loose ends to tie up, and while it wouldn't be fun, they could handle it together.  But this one last day Starsky had claimed as time to relax and for Hutch to regain some more of his strength while they enjoyed the peace and company.

     Starsky hadn't quite counted on the phone, but considering he'd only given Gabe their number there, it was probably important.  Throwing Hutch a rueful look, he reached behind his back to the phone beside the refrigerator.  "Starsky."

     It was Bonhomme, and Hutch's gaze stayed fixed on him while Starsky listened to the Haitian detective's news.  Some of his reaction must have shown because Hutch put his fork down, mouthing an urgent, What?

     "Uh . . . thanks, Gabe," Starsky finally managed at the end, and barely heard the older man's good-bye as he fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle.

     "What's wrong?" Hutch demanded.

     "That was Gabe," Starsky said, then swallowed.  "The body in the car wasn't Poindexter.  He's already been spotted at LAX."

     "They don't have him," Hutch said softly.

     "Uh-uh.  They're guessing he's out of the state by now."

     "He'll be back."

     "And we'll be ready for him," Starsky vowed, gaze locking with his partner's.  He didn't look away until Hutch slowly nodded his agreement.

     Oh, yes, he'd be ready.  No one threatened Starsky's partner and got away with it.  Some things were far too precious for that.

     The anger fell away as quickly as it'd come, stowed until another day, and Starsky turned his full attention back to the meal.  And to the friend who shared it with him, along with everything else.