Reminders

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2001

Ouch! 15 (2003)

Hutch pulled up in front of the suburban home and idled the car as he sat and looked at the house. He chewed on his lip, twisting his fingers on the steering wheel. As much as his instincts had screamed for him to get there and announce what he was going to do, his sense of self-preservation had been shouting almost as loudly for him not to. It was masochism – no, worse than that. It was deliberately revisiting the worst hell he'd ever been in. That was why Starsky had been chosen in the first place instead of him, but now Starsky was missing, and if Hutch wasn't willing to do this...

     He got out of the car before he could think about what he was doing and hurried up to the door of the house with long strides. His hand was trembling as it pushed the doorbell, but he'd have been more surprised if it hadn't been.

     "Just a minute," came a pleasant female voice, and a moment later the lock rattled and the door opened to reveal the lovely Edith Dobey. Her welcoming smile didn't completely hide her surprise. "Ken! It's good to see you. What brings you here?"

     Hutch pulled his mouth into a smile that felt sickly and fake. "Edith, hi, it's good to see you, too. I was, uh, wondering if I could talk to your husband."

     "Of course," she said warmly, opening the door wider. "Would you like to come in?"

     "Uh, actually, I think I'll just wait out here if that's okay." His hands were shoved into his back pockets to keep them still and he hunched his shoulders against her welcome. If he let himself get carried away, his resolution might falter altogether.

     And then he thought of his partner the last time Starsky had disappeared and had finally been found, battered and bruised and sobbing in Hutch's arms after his captivity and torture at the hands of Simon Marcus's cult. Hutch straightened unconsciously. No, no matter what the price, he had to go.

     Edith was nodding, her expression more understanding than he'd have expected. "I'll get him," was all she gently said, and leaving the door, she disappeared.

     Hutch stepped just inside and restlessly waited, his gut churning like the waves on the shore in a storm. He usually liked to go down to Venice Beach and watch them when they were like that, the sight somehow giving him a sense of peace. There was no peace in him right now, though.

     Approaching steps made him look up to see his boss coming, dressed in paint-spattered overalls. But the look in Harold Dobey's eyes was already the one he usually adopted at the office, all-business, in charge. He knew this wasn't a social call. Even as he opened his mouth to no doubt ask what was going on, Hutch beat him to it.

     "Cap'n, I'm going in."

     A frown immediately settled on his boss's face. Dobey didn't have to ask what Hutch meant. "It's only been a day, Hutch," he automatically soothed.

     "A day of Starsky being undercover with a dangerous crowd and no word from him, sir. That's already twenty-four hours too long."

     "That doesn't mean he's in trouble, you know that," Dobey answered sharply. "Sometimes when you're under, you aren't able to get away long enough to make contact."

     "And sometimes you can't," was Hutch's flat retort.

     "We don't have any indication something's gone wrong. We've had regular patrols in the area and no one's seen or heard anything suspicious."

     "They haven't seen Starsky coming or going, either." As Dobey shifted where he stood, Hutch's voice softened. "Cap'n, something's wrong. I can feel it."

     There wasn't a good argument to that and they both knew it. Dobey's tone also changed, unofficial now, gentler. "Hutch, you can't go in, you know that. That's why Starsky went."

     He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. "I have to."

     "Hutchinson..." Dobey broke off, taking his arm and leading him out onto the front porch, half-pulling the door shut behind him. "Hutch. Starsky had a week to get ready for this. He lost sleep, he used those drops, he had time to collect that fake ladder of tracks. He was ready to play the part. Not to mention..."

     Not to mention that to infiltrate a band of dealers who only accepted addicts into their ranks, Hutch hadn't even been considered to go under. The reason for that decision was only between Dobey, Starsky, and him, but it had gone without saying that Hutch had had too much unwilling, torturous experience with the real thing to sanely consider playing an addict. Ben Forest had seen to that. Even if Starsky would have let him, which he wouldn't have, Hutch wouldn't have been about to volunteer to reawaken those memories.

     And now he wouldn't accept no for an answer.

     "Cap'n, I have to," he said quietly. Unshakably.

     Dobey's gaze lowered. He finally sighed. "At least take a day for some preparation. It won't be enough, but–"

     "There's isn't enough time," Hutch interrupted.

     The captain looked at him sharply. "Hutchinson, you know their requirements – only addicts. They'll take one look at your eyes and your arm and know you're clean. Even if they don't kill you, you won't get in or do Starsky any good that way."

     "I'll work it out, Cap'n, I know the ropes, I can even tell them how it feels, for God's sake. I'll tell 'em I just got off the stuff." His hands were out of his pockets now, steadier for his certainty in what he had to do, and he raised them pleadingly to his boss. "With or without your okay, I'm going in. I have to do this."

     "I think you said that already," Dobey muttered, then ran a hand over his cropped hair as he often did when he was troubled. "All right, but on one condition. If we don't hear from you in twenty-four hours, either, or at the first sign of trouble, we're going in, with or without the evidence."

     Hutch nodded eagerly, willing to agree to anything it took for him to go after his partner.

     "All right. Let me get dressed and I'll meet you down at the station to work out the plan."

     That was longer than he wanted to wait, but some concessions had to be made and Hutch reluctantly nodded again. "I'll meet you there in fifteen," he said briefly, already heading back down to his car. It wasn't much time, but he was not feeling generous.

     He had a suspicion Starsky didn't have long to wait.

     He didn't.

     The closet was dark and stuffy, cluttered with cleaning supplies and all the odds-and-ends that apparently hadn't found room elsewhere. No doubt one of the main supply closets when the warehouse had been operational in its prime, most of the equipment in it was now layered with dust and cobwebs. It didn't appear to have been disturbed for some time, except for the few mops and buckets shoved around near the door where they'd come in briefly to look for him, never making it into the back corner where he sat behind a shelf, his knees drawn up to his chin. No one would find him there any time soon. All that meant, though, was a little longer time to live and a private place to die.

     His shirt was almost completely soaked, stiffened like cardboard with dried blood. Only on his left side, where his arm pressed hard against his ribs, was it still damp, unwary movements causing new seepage. He'd already been there a long time, huddled in that closet, and the hole that went in his front and came out the back continued to leak. Pretty soon, there'd be more blood outside him than inside, although the infection that was already stealing through him would probably do him in before that. Talk about skeletons in the closet. Starsky's mouth turned up in morbid humor at the thought.

     There just hadn't been any warning. He'd been unarmed, of course – all the couriers were. When one of the lead runners, a particularly cruel-looking one named Javier, had found him at one of the nearby phone booths, calling the station to report, he'd taken the phone away, listened silently to the dispatcher identify herself – damning Starsky – and had turned back to the detective with murder in his eyes. Starsky immediately launched a kick, throwing the man enough off-balance that the shot meant for his heart had hit his side instead. It felt like being rammed by a car but hadn't hurt at first, and Starsky was working on enough adrenaline to follow through with a hard left that had dropped Javier where he stood. Unfortunately, the man's body was draped over the gun and between Starsky and the phone, and he wasn't out for the count, still stirring. Starsky had had little choice, glancing down the street before staggering off into an ironically named neighboring building to hide until he could figure out what to do. Only, by the time he reached the closet, he was starting to drip blood, threatening to leave a trail, and the pain had started and his strength had fled. It had been all he could do to crawl into the darkest corner before he'd passed out.

     And there was little to do now except wait for the cavalry to come, or for his life to bleed away, whichever came first.

     Starsky's hand clenched into a fist in frustration. He hated this, hated being helpless, waiting like some dame in distress to be rescued. He was a cop, for Pete's sake! They were the ones who were supposed to do the rescuing. And he'd be damned before he'd just sit and wait to die. Hutch would chew him out till next Tuesday for that one, and making his partner mad was never a good idea.

     But he couldn't even get to his knees, let alone his feet, was unarmed, and was dripping what might as well have been a neon sign pointing to where he was.

     Much like Hutch had been, trying to escape from Forest's men. And that had been only a little worse than Starsky‘s situation when Marcus's men had snatched him, but at least he wasn't trapped now like Hutch after his car had rolled into the canyon. They'd gotten pretty good at racing to each other's last-minute rescue. Maybe that was just part of partnership. Starsky had to admit, he would have been far more relieved than embarrassed to see his partner in the doorway at that moment.

     But Hutch was staying away from this bunch, and with good reason. Starsky wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Which meant he was on his own, with no way out that he could see.

     With a harsh sigh of frustration, Starsky leaned his head back against the wall and allowed himself a few tears of raw pain that there was no one around to hide from.

     "So, you're Taylor."

     The suspicious voice wasn't really asking, but Hutch straightened minutely to meet the hard, green gaze. "Yeah."

     "Sugar says you're on the level, but you haven't been usin' for a while, is that right?"

     "Yeah." Sugar had said pretty much whatever Huggy Bear had told him to say, and Hutch had worked hard with the barkeep/informant to make the story sound plausible.

     "You know our rules – nobody but users. Keeps everyone honest, you know?"

And on a leash, Hutch silently added.

     The man, one of the leaders, Hutch surmised, crossed in front of him, his hard stare never wavering from Hutch. "So why would you want into our little group when you just got clean, huh?"

     Hutch licked his lips, the nervousness no act. "I need the money."

     "For what?"

     The man's voice grew harder with every sentence. He wasn't going for it. Hutch let his eyes dart nervously around the room, to the others who stood ready to dispose of him if his answers didn't prove satisfactory, more than one hand tucked into a vest or jacket, no doubt cradling a gun.

     "Huh?" the man prompted impatiently.

     Hutch glanced up at him defiantly. "For my kid."

     The man stopped pacing, frowning at him. "Your kid?"

     "Yeah, my kid. My old lady walked and I gotta feed the kid." Huggy had come up with that one, too, one of the few excuses that perhaps would wash. Hutch's voice grew deliberately shakier. "I really need the money and Sugar said you were lookin' for help. I– I know the business, I know the product." The words stuck in his throat and he had to force them out. "I'll d-do anything."

     A gleam entered the green eyes at that, one that made Hutch's stomach shiver in pure panic. "Anything?"

     He almost wasn't able to make himself nod.

     The man stared at him a few seconds longer, then nodded to one of the men behind him. A hand snaked into the inside of his coat, and Hutch tensed. But it didn't come out with a gun. Held in the dirty fingers was a heroin kit.

     Hutch would have preferred a gun.

     He was shaking now, fine tremors he could never have faked, as he watched the courier unfold the kit, revealing the familiar bag of white powder, a syringe, a spoon, matches, and candle. Hutch tried to gulp, his throat working uselessly against the raw terror. His fingers clenched and unclenched uselessly. He couldn't go through this again. Not without losing himself for good.

     And yet as the greasy little man opened the bag of heroin, the memory returned of how it felt coursing through his system, like fluid relaxation. Nothing had mattered then, nothing had hurt. Like floating along in paradise.

     Until you crashed, hard.

     The candle was set up and a match scraped against the rough wall, popping into a small flame.

     Hutch's heart seemed to be beating against his rib cage, the impulse to run so strong, he had to fight to stiffen his legs against it. Heaven in a needle; he couldn't help but long for it, and fear it worse than death. He wouldn't be able to shake it this time, didn't even have Starsky to turn to. He'd even be willing to give up his partner for a fix soon.

     He could still say no. Maybe they'd let him go – he could just say it wasn't worth it for him to go back on the stuff in order to get a job. That didn't seem unreasonable. Of course, he'd also be throwing away his chance to find Starsky. It was possible he'd never learn what happened to his partner.

     He didn't say a word, gaze trapped by the motions of the faceless man in front of him.

     The spoon was poised above the bag of powder.

     "Put it away."

     It was the leader, and Hutch barely heard what he said, turning in a daze to him.

     "But, Chess..." the courier protested, still holding the spoon and heroin at ready. A dark bruise on one cheek just made him look more evil.

     "I said, put it away." The cold green eyes had no mercy in them, and Hutch tried to corral his reeling brain into comprehension. "Nobody looks like that at the stuff who hasn't been on it. He's no pig."

     The sudden flush of shame tempered the relief that would otherwise have made Hutch go limp. He had escaped because he looked too hungry to be a cop. It seemed an awfully hollow victory. It was only remembering he still had a chance of finding Starsky that Hutch was able to lift his head in resolve again.

     "Okay, here's your first assignment. Don't blow it and we might consider making this permanent."

     A brown paper-wrapped parcel was shoved at him and he unconsciously accepted it, holding it close.

     "You and Roy," a snap of the fingers and another courier stepped forward, "take this to Jerry's Market, over on Pico. Go around back, ask for 'Mando. Bring back what he gives you, and don't take the scenic route, got it?"

     Hutch nodded.

     "Good. Then we'll talk."

     End of meeting. The room cleared out in seconds, leaving only Hutch and Roy.

     At least his shadow didn't seem as callous as the rest of the group had been. Shaggy, sandy-blond hair hid a good bit of the square face and curious eyes that studied Hutch even as he sized up the man in return.

     "Taylor, huh?" Roy finally asked, his voice deeper than Hutch would have thought.

     "Yeah." For some reason, he stuck his hand out, and was slightly surprised when the taller man took it. "Guess we'd better get going, huh?"

     "Chess doesn't like to wait."

     Five minutes later, they were in Roy's car, a green Torino of all things, although older and considerably less well-maintained than Starsky's pride-and-joy. They drove in silence, Hutch's fingers clenched tightly enough around the package that they were nearly spasming. The most immediate fear and horror had passed, but his stomach was still turned and his mind lurching. It could have been so much worse...but he couldn't shake the shame, as if he'd still been violated. It was time to focus on why he was there – he couldn't think about anything else, not right now.

     He cleared his throat, straightened in the seat. "So, uh, you been working for Chess long?"

     Roy didn't even look up, his voice neutral. "A while."

     "Nice guy."

     A noncommittal shrug. Then before he could think of something else to say, "What's your kid's name?"

     Hutch froze. He'd never gotten that far with his story. "David," he blurted, the first name that came to mind.

     "Boy, huh? I got a girl, myself, Julie. Lives with her mom in Arizona."

     Hutch had to hide his surprise. Not many people in that business had kids, but then Roy didn't seem wholly typical. Although the rings under his eyes and slight jerk of his movements proved he'd met Chess's qualifications for joining the gang.

     Still, it was the best shot he'd gotten, and Hutch wasn't about to waste it. "How old?" he asked with some real interest.

     "Nine. Looks just like her mama."

     "Must be hard, not seeing her."

     A vague grunt. That topic of conversation had apparently gone as far as Roy wanted it to and was closed.

     Hutch chewed the inside of his lip, then tried again. "What happens if somebody...lets Chess down?"

     That earned him a sharp glance. "You aiming on finding out?"

     "Just want to know what to avoid," Hutch said easily with a shake of the head.

     "Avoid letting him down – you'll live longer."

     "Anyone do that before?"

     This time the glance was decidedly suspicious. "Why?"

     Hutch's free hand went up placatingly. "Hey, I'm just figuring out the ropes. I was wondering what kind of a dope would go up against him."

     The mop of blond hair shook. "No hypes, but there was a cop just the other day."

     Fear of a whole different kind spiraled through Hutch. "You're kidding. How'd a cop get in? That's the last thing I need now, man, getting involved with the pigs."

     That actually got a chuckle. "I hear you, but problem's solved. Javier got rid of him."

     Oh, God, this was where the act became excruciating. Hutch's face never changed even as his lungs felt like they'd stopped working. "Gave him a taste of the goods, huh?"

     "Nope, shot him. Narc was tryin' to call in and Javier caught him at it. He managed to knock Javier down and get away, but he didn't get far with a bullet in him."

     "You mean he's still out there somewhere?" Hutch asked with dull incredulity.

     "Naw, he's dead by now. Just haven't found the body yet."

     Every bit of empathy he'd felt for the courier vanished at that smug announcement and Hutch settled back in his seat with a vague answering murmur to try to think. Starsky had been shot. But there was no telling how seriously, and he had been strong enough to not only subdue another dealer, but also to get away. He hadn't called in for help, though, which didn't bode well.

     So where was he?

     Hutch didn't attempt any more conversation after that, impatient to get back to the base the dealers used. If Starsky was hurt and unable to get help, he'd probably hidden himself, and somewhere close by. And every minute would count.

     The trade went flawlessly, no words, only packets exchanged. For the paper-wrapped one, Hutch received a fat envelope, and cracking it out of Roy's line of sight revealed a wad of bills. That, along with the powder residue on his hands from the brown package, gave him enough for a case against Chess and company. He only had one more very important thing left to do.

     They returned to the warehouse to find that Chess was temporarily out. Hutch and Roy ended up waiting in the same room they'd been introduced in, Roy slouched in a chair while Hutch paced.

     "What's the rush?" Roy finally spoke up, eyes lazily tracking Hutch's movements.

     The detective stopped. "Uh, it's my kid. I don't like leaving him all day like this."

     Roy considered that. "Chess probably won't be back for another hour or so – that time enough for you to go home for a little bit?"

     Hutch stopped to glance at him, suddenly hopeful. "Yeah, I think so. I'll be back soon."

     Roy nodded. "I'll cover for ya, go on."

     "Thanks," Hutch answered fervently, and was already out the door.

     Okay, Starsky would never have used one of the phones in the warehouse, even if any of them were working. Which meant a payphone. Hutch had seen two of them in the area, one to the left corner of the building they were in, the other behind it. The latter was more out of sight but the former was closer, and so he headed there first.

     The "Out of Order" sign hung prominently on the receiver, but Hutch carefully checked the booth anyway. No sign of a struggle, blood, anything. Keeping an eye on the streets around him and the windows above, he hurried behind the building to the other one.

     The door stood ajar. Hutch dashed in, studying the phone, the wall behind it, the glass panels to both sides. Nothing. Stepping out of the booth, his eyes caught on something on the door and he leaned in for a closer look.

     Blood. A splatter of it, like spray from a gunshot wound.

     There was more on the sidewalk, finer drops this time. None heading away in any direction that he could see, though.

     Jaw clenched, Hutch stood in front of the booth painted in what he knew was his partner's blood, and glanced down the street both ways. Which way would a wounded man go? Where had Starsky gone to seek refuge?

     There were several buildings around him, in various stages of use and repair. The two closest both appeared run-down and likely candidates, and Hutch's gaze roamed their faces to find any clue his partner had been there. Hutch finally chose one and headed for the building on the right labeled Geneva Spice Company, when the faded lettering above the door on the other caught his eye.

     Corman's Tomato Cannery.

     Tomatoes? Could Starsky's warped sense of humor and logic have been working enough to make him choose that one, their inside joke about the Torino? Hutch took one last glance around, then changed his direction toward the cannery.

     The old door was broken, clearly used often by the homeless and others seeking shelter. Hutch got inside without difficulty. He stopped for a moment to glance over the large, silent machines that took up the middle of the large former factory, then his eyes went to the maze of hallways and doors that lined the inside of the building like a ring around the packing area. With a deep breath, Hutch headed for the nearest door.

     If Starsky was anywhere in there – if Starsky was anywhere, period – Hutch wasn't about to give up on him now.

     How could you be cold and hot at the same time? It wasn't like a rising and falling fever, by turns overheated and chilly. This felt like he was burning up inside and yet shivering from the cool air on the outside.

     "'S not my idea of fun," Starsky muttered, remembering belatedly he wasn't supposed to talk or make any sound at the risk of being found. Remembering why was harder – the rational reasons seem to slip out of his grasp like water. Sometimes he couldn't even figure out where he was, or why it was so dark, until he moved and it felt like someone had twisted a knife into him, a scream stifling in his chest. The pain washed everything briefly away, even the haze, allowing him to think for a few moments before it all evaporated again. There wasn't much to think about, though, except that he was in real trouble there. Being found, by anyone, was becoming less and less the main cause to fear.

     Still, it was with pure instinct that he shrank back as far into his corner as he could when the closet door scraped open and faint light spilled into the room. Not illuminating him, but he could see some of the broom and mop handles silhouetted against the brightness, like a wall between him and those pursuing him.

     "Starsky?"

     The voice was low, cautious, insistent – worried sick. And even to his muddled mind, blessedly familiar.

     He had to gulp to make his throat work, and already the door had started to swing shut when he answered with a desperate croak.

     "Hutch?"

     The door swung open so hard that it smacked the outer wall, and a tall, slender figure stepped in to block most of the meager light. "Starsky? Where are you?"

     "'M here," he offered with a cough, and groaned.

     There was a hollow thwock of wooden handles knocked to the ground as Hutch hurried closer, shoving supplies out of his way as he went. And then the shadows of his form resolved into blond hair and blue eyes, haggard, as they found him the same moment he found them.

     "Starsk! What the...?" Another moment and Hutch was kneeling next to him, one hand against the side of Starsky's face, the other already seeking where he was hurt.

     Starsky didn't realize how scared he'd been until his relief scattered the fear, leaving him feeling oddly weightless. "Didn't think you'd...find me," he managed with some part of a grin.

     "What, and leave me with that stupid car?" Hutch answered absently. He'd pried Starsky's legs away from his chest and was gently probing the wound. "How does this–?"

     It felt like someone had poured acid into the wound, obliterating agony for a moment. Starsky choked, his throat closing off, and his hand clutched at Hutch, ending up with his partner's fingers in a crushing grasp. Even that he didn't realize until the pain abated to merely horrific, and Hutch's frantic apologies started getting through.

     "...sorry, I'm sorry, take it easy..."

     He held on selfishly for one more moment, trying to catch his breath back. "'S okay," he breathed. "Jus'...don't do that."

     "Got it." Hutch's fingers were cool on his forehead, and he didn't know if that was his partner's fear or his own fever that made it feel so. He didn't protest when Hutch leaned him forward a few inches. "Bullet went right through, huh?"

     "Yeah."

     "We've gotta get you out of here."

     "No kiddin'," Starsky concurred in a whisper. "How'd you...find me?"

     Hutch was busy doing something but Starsky didn't bother to open his eyes to figure out what. He could just feel his partner's hands gently working, occasionally reaching up to cup a hand against his cheek whenever Starsky tensed. Even Hutch's voice was gentle. "One of the couriers told me a cop had been made while trying to report in and got himself shot. Didn't take much to figure out which phone booth and where to start looking for you." He raised his eyebrows wryly. "Tomatoes, Starsk?"

     But Starsky had caught on something he said earlier. "Courier?" he asked muzzily. There was something that bothered him about that but his mind wasn't agile enough to grab it.

     "Yeah, one of Chess's men."

     "You...arrest 'em?"

     Hutch paused, translating that. "It wasn't an interrogation, Starsk. I followed you under."

     The alarm bells rang louder. That was the last group Hutch should have been infiltrating. Starsky forced his eyes open. "Shoulda...sent someone else," he said urgently.

     "Who else would I trust to figure out the way your cockeyed mind works and find you, huh?" There was a smile in Hutch's voice, even as he leaned Starsky forward again.

     Starsky labored at the words, trying to blink away the edge of fuzziness around his vision. "Coulda . . .wanted you t'...shoot up...prove yourself."

     A beat, then, "They did."

     For a moment, Starsky forgot all about the closet, the gunshot wound, his own troubles, staring hard at his partner. Never, ever would he have wanted Hutch to have to go through that again. And, God help him, certainly not for him. "Tell me you didn't," he whispered.

     Hutch had stopped moving, too, but wasn't meeting Starsky's eyes easily. "I didn't. I didn't have to. Chess said he could tell by looking at me that I'd used before."

     Starsky wasn't as relieved as he should have been, not too out of it to catch the flush in his partner's face, the evasiveness in his voice. "Ah, Hutch," he sighed. "That ain't true...'n' you know it."

     Hutch shook his head once, dismissive, all motion again, although his careful touch hadn't changed. "Doesn't matter right now. What's important is we have to get you out of here." And he pulled gently to apply pressure to the makeshift bandage he'd put into place.

     The pain stole Starsky's breath again, and this time it was Hutch who slipped his fingers into his partner's to give him something to squeeze.

     "Okay?" he queried worriedly.

     "'M okay," Starsky managed. "But 'm not gonna...get far."

     "I'll help. There's no way I'm leaving you here."

     Starsky closed his hand around a handful of material. "Look...you know where I am...now, go call...for help. I'll wait."

     Hutch shook his head. "Uh-uh. You're still bleeding, and they could find you here any minute. Either we both go or neither, you know that."

     But Starsky was already shaking his head, desperate to make his partner understand. "No, lissen to me...can't go – it hurts. Got better chance...on your own t' get help. I'll...wait for ya here, promise."

     Hutch was starting to look haunted, torn between common sense and the instincts bred in years of partnership. "You'll wait for me."

     Starsky sagged a little, knowing he'd won. "Promise," he sighed in agreement.

     "If you die on me here, Starsk, so help me, I'm gonna take your whole train set to the dump."

     Starsky's mouth turned up. "I don't go down so easy," he whispered.

     Hutch was shrugging out of his jacket and he pulled it over Starsky's shoulders, one hand lingering on the brunet's shoulders as he gave Starsky a long look. It was their silent good-bye, given whenever they weren't sure they'd meet again. Except Starsky did plan to be around for this one. He managed to broaden his grin, nodding weakly toward the closet door.

     "Hurry back."

     A sharp nod, and Hutch was gone, his warmth lingering in his jacket and his unspoken promise.

     There were things still unsettled between them, particularly the willingness of his foolish blond partner to rush headlong into insanity for Starsky's sake, but they could wait. For now, Hutch was going for help and would be back soon. And until then, Starsky huddled into the jacket to wait for his partner.

     Instead of returning to the main door, Hutch continued to scout further down the hallway, rounding the corner and trying all the doors until he discovered another exit, this one at the side of the building. It was that door he first peered out of, then, seeing no one, slipped through to creep to the corner of the building.

     The view there told a different story. Several men, moving in pairs, were spreading out down that street. To his trained eye, it was obvious they were armed, but he didn't need that clue to know he was looking at Chess's men.

     With a curse, Hutch ducked down as Roy also came into view, talking briefly with someone before they set out together. Toward the cannery. Swell. Even if they weren't looking for him, they were bound to find Starsky soon if they did any more of an intensive search than last time.

     Hutch moved several steps away from the building to make it look like he'd come up alongside it rather than from inside, took a deep breath, and ran out into the street.

     As a diversion, it worked beautifully. Shouts rang out, and Roy and his friend immediately turned away from the building to chase him, followed by several others.

     That was the only snag. He'd gotten them away from Starsky, but he wouldn't do his partner much good if they caught him instead. Nor did Hutch think it would be a long captivity.

     Hutch slipped into the rhythm of a runner, the long-familiar drive he'd learned back in his high school track days. Wrestling, track, swimming – a lot of coaches had wanted him for his long legs and competitive sense. Back then, it had been testing himself, seeing how far he could go, exhilarated with each step further he could push his body.

     Had he ever been that innocent? Now he was trying to outrun drug couriers. Drugs he knew far too intimately. How the mighty had fallen.

     Hutch shot from the street into the alley beside Chess's headquarters building, the others in hot pursuit but not gaining. He still had the advantage: they were all hypes, bodies wasted and used up, while he...

     What was he?

     Running for Starsky's life, that was what. A bigger prize, a greater compulsion – need – than any he'd ever experienced in high school or college. If a man was measured by his friends, Hutch had come up in the world since those carefree days.

     He burst out from the alley, into the street on the other side. But this one was busier than the back street he'd just left, and his headlong rush took him right in front of an oncoming car.

     It swerved. He tried to.

     The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the ground and the worried driver was leaning over him.

     "Hey, Mister, you okay? I'm sorry, but you ran out right in front of me. I didn't have a chance to stop."

     Was he okay? No – a quick catalogue discovered that his shoulder hurt with an intense throb Hutch recognized with a groan. He'd dislocated his shoulder once before and they said it would be more vulnerable to a second dislocation after that, but he'd hoped not to test the doctor's warning.

     And then he remembered he had bigger worries.

     One glance showed him Roy and the others had stopped in the mouth of the alley, hovering uncertainly as they watched the scene twenty feet from them. Hutch immediately turned to the driver, urgency in his voice as he grabbed the man's arm.

     "Help me up. I need to get to a phone. I'm a cop, and my partner's in trouble."

     They met a lot of skeptics in their job, people who demanded to see their badges and studied them carefully before allowing, grudgingly, that they were who they said they were. But most law-abiding citizens were awed by the simple idea that a policeman wanted to talk to them, and were willing to help however they could. This man thankfully seemed to be one of the latter, his eyes widening as he reached out to help Hutch up.

     "Sure, Officer. I'll take you to a phone right away."

     A sideways glance showed the alley now stood empty. With cars passing by regularly and people on the sidewalk, it was just too public a place for any sort of confrontation.

     He'd won.

     Well, provided he beat both Chess's men and death itself to Starsky first. With a stifled moan, Hutch lowered himself into the offered seat and waited for the driver to go around and get in.

     "Could you hurry, please?" he asked the driver. "It's a matter of life and death." And promises to keep.

     Starsky knew he was hallucinating. Hutch kept appearing in the doorway, all smiles and concerned looks, only to fade into the blackness as he came closer. It was getting depressingly old.

     He wished he'd at least asked Hutch to help him lie down while he waited. His head felt too light and threatened to float away, leaving his heavy, slumped body behind. Hutch's bandage had stopped the bleeding but made him feel like he was tied down, and every shift to attempt to get more comfortable hammered new nails of pain into his side. He could barely breathe from it, and finally just concentrated on dragging in and forcing out air, watching the apparition-Hutchs through glassy eyes.

     The closet door opened with a more satisfying thunk than he'd expected, and a considerably more ragged version of his partner appeared. Its clothes were torn, and one arm hung wrong, clasped to its side. His hallucinations seemed to be breaking down – what did that bode?

     "Starsk? Starsky?" Even the voice was rougher, almost pained. Starsky made a face. Well, if the fake-Hutch wanted to talk to him, it wasn't like he had anything better to do, right?

     "Yeah?" he answered, his voice barely a whisper now. It would be a short conversation.

     More cleaning implements shoved out of the way, some of them ones Hutch had returned to their place the last time. And then his partner was crouching in front of him. Up close, he wasn't so rough, after all, eyes deep and worried and tender, and smelling of sweat and the same brand of aftershave he'd worn since Starsky had known him. His hand a little unsteady and just worn and warm enough as it settled on his curls for a moment, then slid lower to check his pulse.

     Maybe this was the real thing?

     Starsky slowly blinked. "Hi," he managed.

     "Hi, yourself," Hutch answered with a faint smile.

Real, Starsky decided gratefully. But then, "Arm?" he asked voicelessly.

     Hutch glanced at his useless limb and shrugged with his good shoulder, even that making him flinch, his face white even in the dim light. "It'll be okay," he promised. "So will you – ambulance and back-up is on the way."

     Starsky's eyes dropped shut. Thank God. He'd been starting to think he'd have to break a promise to his partner for the first time ever. Who really was there beside him this time. Starsky let the breathing go for a moment while he focused on moving his hand to where Hutch's rested on his neck. Hutch met him partway, the cooler, drier fingers wrapping around his.

     They didn't have to say another word until help burst onto the scene.

     They both did a lot of sleeping over the next few days.

     A dislocated shoulder didn't require a hospital stay, but it was either that or Hutch requesting a cot for the nighttimes, and so they put him and Starsky in a double. The only difference was that Starsky was sleeping round-the-clock, bouncing back from an infection, high fever, and blood loss, while Hutch's shoulder merely ached while he spent most of the day sitting in the one chair in the room, reading and keeping a partial eye on his partner.

     Starsky had woken briefly a few times already, enough aware that Hutch was fairly sure he knew where he was and that he wasn't alone and that he'd be fine. There certainly wasn't any tension in the brunet's limp sprawl, sleeping the sleep of the deeply exhausted. It was a good downtime for them both.

     Dobey had come by to say that Chess had been arrested, along with most of his couriers, but Hutch had wanted to hear as little about it as possible. He hadn't told his boss about the near miss with the heroin, and didn't intend to. It still made Hutch ill to think about how near he'd come to landing in that nightmare again. But it had been for Starsky, and he would've faced the same risk again. And if the unthinkable had happened again, it still wouldn't have been his fault, and Starsky would still have nursed and babied him through it once more. It was a good reminder.

     What he wished he could have forgotten was what Chess had seen in his eyes.

     "Hey, Blondie."

     The voice was still scratchy but affectionate, and Hutch was already smiling as he looked up to meet his partner's only slightly drugged gaze. He gingerly leaned forward. "Hey, partner, it's about time you woke up."

     Starsky's face scrunched up. "Long time?"

     "Long enough," Hutch allowed. Actually, it hadn't been so bad once he knew Starsky was going to be fine. Even the bullet had miraculously skated around Starsky's ribs to come out the other side, avoiding his abdomen and far more serious complications altogether. The doctors said it was just one of those things. Yeah, things like miracles, Hutch had thought.

     Still, he'd been longing for the kind of conversation he only had with Starsky, the kind you shared with someone who knew what you were thinking. Even now, those dark blue eyes were looking at him far more shrewdly than they should have been, just woken. They grew serious. "I wish ya hadn't had to go in, Hutch," he finally murmured.

Hadn't had to. Hutch caught the wording. Starsky knew as well as Hutch that he hadn't had much choice. He lifted his good shoulder the one inch or so that he could without pulling his other one. "So do I, but it turned out okay. I found you."

     "Tell me...you're not beatin' yourself up over it." Starsky's voice was already losing strength, but he could be stubborn when he wanted to, his gaze not budging from his partner.

     Hutch sighed. "Starsk..."

     "If it wasn't your fault then...wasn't now. Right?"

     He eased forward until he could rest his slinged arm on the edge of the bed, until he was in Starsky's space, up close. "Listen to me. I'm not sorry for what I did. I'd do it again in a second. Don't expect me to be okay with everything that happened – I'm not. I don't know if I'll ever be. But I can live with it. You can analyze me until you're blue in the face when you're back on your feet, but I don't want you to worry about me now. I'm okay."

     "Lousy...liar."

     "Oh, for Pete's sake." What did his partner want from him, anyway?

     "Hutch," Starsky whispered patiently, and Hutch shut up just to keep him from having to talk louder. "Don't know anyone...who'da done what you did for me. That was you...not the rest."

     Starsky didn't even know what had happened. Hutch was already shaking his head, but his partner skewered him with a look.

     "Hey...you gonna take...the word of the guy who shot me...over mine?"

     Hutch gave an involuntary, shaky laugh. It almost sounded like Starsky knew what was on his mind. "You're a little biased, partner," he protested.

     "Yeah...I know ya."

     That shut Hutch up. It was true, wasn't it? If he needed any more proof that Starsky knew him inside-out, it was in the fact that he'd hit exactly on what was eating Hutch. Starsky had been with him through all of the withdrawal originally, and every day since. Didn't that mean more than some drug dealer's comment?

     Hutch pressed his eyes shut briefly. Not that it didn't still hurt to remember. But in this case, his past "experience" had saved him from a repeat and possibly saved his partner's life. How could he honestly feel guilty over that?

     Okay, so it was something to think about, possibly even an answer. Sometimes his partner saw things so simply. Saw him so simply. Clearly. Hutch counted on that for all the times he got lost. He just hadn't expected an answer that easy from his still semi-conscious partner.

     Hutch swallowed and wove his fingers through Starsky's loose ones. He smiled in understanding, then nodded at the brunet.

     "Starsk, shut up and go to sleep."

     "Bossy," Starsky grumbled, but was already dozing off, a grin touching his face. He knew Hutch had turned a corner.

     A corner to where, Hutch had no idea. It meant moving on to the next unknown, and some of it wasn't bound to be good. But, he pressed his palm against Starsky's, he didn't have to face it alone, did he?

     It was an invaluable reminder. With that kind of company, Hutch was ready for it all.