Self-Destruct

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2003

Published: Compadres 31 (2008, Neon Rainbow Press)

He was getting too old for this.

            Hutch's heart pounded in his ear, the air feeling thin as he gasped after it. He'd have hotly denied it if Starsky would have accused him so, but he was having a hard time keeping up. His partner was nearly half a block in front of him now, dashing after their pickpocket suspect and showing no signs of slowing. But they weren't exactly fresh out of the Academy anymore, while the felons remained just as young and the foot chases just seemed to get faster. How on earth did Starsky do it?

            Then again, Starsky's energy had seemed limitless of late. He accepted new cases on their behalf when Hutch would have gladly turned in for the day, dove into the work with a boundlessness neither of them had had for years, and drove even more than usual like a runaway horse. It wore Hutch out just watching him. It would have worried him, too, if there hadn't been more immediate concerns.

            The suspect, far ahead of Hutch now, took a sudden turn, straight out into the middle of noonday traffic. Hutch fumbled a curse around his panting breaths as he watched the teen recklessly dodge a Pinto in the first lane, only to be nearly hit by an Olds in the second. The kid would get himself killed that way. Hutch slowed his steps, knowing they'd soon have either an injured or escaped subject, and there was no need to hurry for either.

            Until Starsky unexpectedly swerved out into the road to follow.

            Real fear plunged into Hutch's stomach and he cursed again, this time more heatedly and pointedly. Two fools were in the road now, weaving between cars moving fast enough to very easily kill a person. Both were among those he'd sworn to protect, but one was also someone he cared about, the jackass. Hutch took off with the new energy of adrenalin, feet slapping the pavement so hard, it jarred his teeth.

            The suspect was halfway across, three lanes one way cleared and already diving across the median into oncoming traffic. Starsky had skirted two cars and rolled across the hood of a third, an only somewhat controlled action. Hutch's mouth dried as he saw, even from fifty feet away, the wince on his partner's face as he landed hard on one foot. No doubt his bad right ankle, but it barely even slowed him in his pursuit. Hutch groaned as Starsky vaulted the median, ready to tackle the felon in a leap that would take them both into the middle of the far three lanes.

            He was still too distant and could only watch, flinching and furious and frightened, as the catch was made. Starsky wobbled a little on his hurt leg, but he still managed to grab the teen's waist and pull him down to the asphalt, in the very center of the traffic lane, just in front of the wheels of a small delivery truck.

            The two men's mad sprint across the street had given the other cars some warning, though, and they had stopped just short of the grappling pair, already honking impatiently. They didn't have to wait long. Starsky had forty pounds and years of experience on the skinny pickpocket, and soon had him cuffed and hauled to his feet.

Hutch had reached the edge of the sidewalk adjacent to them and stood silently, hands jerking as he fought the urge to either motion Starsky to stay there or to wade in and help him, or quite possibly wring his neck. Instead, he leaned over, propping his hands on his thighs and trying to catch his heaving breath as he kept his head lifted, watching his partner. It was a good excuse to hide his trembling hands. Starsky was now calmly waiting for each lane of traffic to let him cross back to Hutch, towing the teen behind him, but that wasn't helping Hutch's frantic heart much.

            Starsky stepped up onto the sidewalk, limping slightly but barely panting. His triumphant grin faded as he caught sight of Hutch's face, and he frowned, eyes questioning.

Hutch gave him a sharp shake of the head. Not in front of the suspect. It was both a matter of duty and dignity. Instead, he took the kid's other arm, and the three of them headed back toward the distant Torino.

            He could practically feel his partner's exhilaration at the chase and successful collar, as well as his puzzlement over Hutch's not being equally pleased. Hutch couldn't even trust himself to speak, leaving the suspect to fill the silence with his prattle about his innocence. Starsky didn't get it. He hadn't for weeks.

            As a one-time incident, Hutch could have shrugged off the recklessness as Starsky's over-enthusiasm getting carried away. He'd had a few moments like that of his own. But this was starting to become part of a pattern he didn't want to see.

            It had started small: a careless cuffing, the slightly more reckless driving, sloppy shooting at the range. The changes had first appeared shortly after Terry's funeral and hadn't surprised Hutch much; Starsky had taken his fiancée's death hard. Some emotional swings and detours were to be expected. He'd covered easily for his partner's lapses.

            But then they'd grown to where even Hutch was having trouble making excuses for his friend. Starsky all-but-forcing a confrontation with a bar full of hostile motorcyclists, rescued only through Hutch's pacifying intervention. Jumping from one building's roof to the next while on another foot pursuit, a distance he just barely cleared. Rushing an armed robbery suspect with a hostage for a daring and stupid save that had earned him a commendation from the Department, and Hutch's cold anger. Their work was about taking risks, but courting them unnecessarily had never been their style. Whatever Starsky was trying to prove, it wasn't worth his life. Nothing was.

            Except, every time Hutch had dressed him down, taking him aside and chewing him out for doing something dangerous, all he'd received in return was a baffled look and finally an angry shrug-off. Starsky didn't know. He had seemed as mad at Hutch's accusation as Hutch was at the brunet's recklessness. Anger was a good way to hide how upset you were, but so was living dangerously. Except, sooner or later, Starsky's newest defense mechanism was going to get him killed.

            Hutch's livid aftershocks had mostly abated by the time they reached the car. Starsky jammed the kid into the Torino's back seat, then, giving Hutch one more hard look over the top of the car, climbed into the driver's seat. Feeling unutterably weary from more than just the long run, Hutch sighed and got in on the opposite side. If Starsky didn't realize what he was doing, it was pointless being mad at him, right?

            But how were you supposed to react when someone was unwittingly jeopardizing your best friend's life? And that someone was your best friend?

            "What d'you say after we drop this turkey off, we go get a banana split?"

            Hutch mentally weighed the options of dropping his head into his hands in resignation or dressing his partner down yet again. If the two of them had been alone…

            "Who you callin' a turkey?" came the indignant response from the back seat.

            "Shut up. I wasn't talkin' to you," Starsky said flatly.

            "Hey, I still got rights. You almost killed me, runnin' me out into traffic like that!"

            Hutch silently shook his head.

            "I ran you out into the street?" Starsky was picking up steam, looking back over his shoulder more than he was looking where he was driving. "You were the idiot who ran out into traffic."

            "What does that make the fool who followed him?" Hutch muttered under his breath.

            Starsky gave him a nasty look but was still addressing their prisoner. "Listen, you keep your mouth shut, or I'm gonna add a few charges to the long list."

            "You can't do that!" the kid yelped.

            Starsky was turning red. "Watch me!"

            What had started as typical banter had turned dark and loaded, Hutch realized, the very story of those past few weeks. He turned around in his seat and pinned the kid with a glare. "I'd listen to him if I were you," he said very quietly and very intently.

            The teen wisely shut up, managing to look sullen and fearful at once.

            Satisfied with that party, Hutch turned back and cast a glance at his partner. "He's just a kid," he said under his voice.

            "A kid who nearly got me killed," Starsky growled back. At least he was paying attention to the road now.

            Hutch watched him run a light that was so close to red, it might have been orange. "Nobody forced you to follow him into traffic," he answered.

            "You expected me to just let him go?" The incredulity in Starsky's voice would have been comical in different circumstances. "He stole that guy's wallet!"

            "And dropped it after the first block. It wasn't worth almost getting yourself killed over."

            "I agree with you, Officer," piped up the thin voice from the back seat.

            They turned in tandem as if they'd rehearsed it, ordering in one voice, "Shut up!"

            Starsky's hands were curled tightly around the steering wheel, a sign Hutch recognized that he was near his boiling point. Over a teenage pickpocket? He didn't understand, but he knew better than to disregard what he saw. He made himself calm down. "Let's just get him back to the station in one piece, okay?"

            "No promises," Starsky muttered, but a little color crept back into his knuckles as he eased his grip, his shoulders slowly losing their angry hunch.

            Something was really, really wrong here. He'd been deluding himself about all the symptoms, Hutch realized, explaining them away, worried but figuring things would go back to normal. But they hadn't, they were getting worse. True, he shouldn't have said anything in a prisoner's earshot, but that didn't explain Starsky's visible fury, or that he'd been prepared to take the kid apart if pushed just a little bit further. Where was the easygoing guy who tended to take life in stride far more effortlessly than Hutch did, and who blew off putdowns with sheer presence and an occasional well-placed wisecrack?

            Buried with Terry? No, Hutch refused to believe that. Besides, this wasn't depression, it was something bright and fierce. And it was time he got to the bottom of it, Hutch firmly decided. Before either Starsky or some hapless person in his way got hurt.

            They dropped off their suspect at the station, and Hutch couldn't help notice the teen had seemed relieved to be going into lock-up. He gave a sigh of release himself and followed his partner up the stairs. Neither of them made any comment about Starsky's now-heavy limp, although Hutch stayed a surreptitious step behind, just in case the ankle gave out altogether.

            Dobey was standing by the filing cabinets and raised an eyebrow as they came into the squadroom. "What happened to you?" he asked Starsky.

            "Foot chase. Guess I stepped on it wrong." A quick glare was shot Hutch's way to make sure he stayed silent. Because Starsky knew he'd gone too far, or because he thought Hutch was being too picky? That was an interesting question.

"Get out of here and get that ankle taken care of." Dobey had never been one to mince words, already back to reading the file in his hand.

            Starsky turned without a word and walked out.

            Hutch stood there for a second, then gave Dobey a hopeful grin as he pointed after his partner. "I'll just, uh, go along and make sure he…"

            Dobey sighed, waving at him without looking up. He doubtless knew better by now than to bother arguing. "Go."

            Hutch didn't need to be told twice.

            Despite the limp, his partner had moved fast and was nearly down the stairs before Hutch caught up with him. "I'll give you a ride to the hospital."

            "I'm not goin' to the hospital."

            "I think that's what Dobey had in mind."

            "Dobey has in mind that we're working the next two days and he doesn't want me laid up."

            That was unnecessarily bitter, Hutch thought; their boss had gone through hell and high water with them a few times already. Starsky seemed to have two settings that week, euphoric and surly. If Hutch hadn't known better, he'd have sworn his partner had become manic-depressive overnight. "Fine, then I'll drive you home."

            "Over my dead body."

            Even a partner's patience had its limits. "Don't tempt me."

            Starsky threw a glare at him. "It's just my bad ankle—it'll be fine. Quit fussin' like a mother sheep."

            Sheep? That was one of the reasons he loved his partner: he never knew what would come out of Starsky's mouth next. "Are you calling me a ewe?" Hutch asked whimsically.

            That earned him the first recognizable response of the day, a bewildered, "Huh?"

            "Never mind. I'm driving or you're going to the hospital, your choice."

            Starsky complained bitterly all the way down to the car, but thankfully he still recognized Hutch's limits, too, and grudgingly handed over the keys when they reached the Torino.

            The trip home had been a silent, simmering stew.

            And now, Hutch figured, it was ready to boil over.

            He'd all but shoved Starsky onto the couch when they arrived with a curt, "Wait there," and had gone into the kitchen for an ice pack. No ice, he was peeved to find. Someone hadn't filled the ice tray, and he vaguely remembered having ice in their beers the night they'd sat on Starsky's kitchen floor and toasted Terry's life with a farewell game of Monopoly. All right, so he could have filled the tray, too, and Starsky had been a little preoccupied. Hutch rooted around in the freezer and came up with two TV dinners, a pint of old ice cream, a bag of frozen baby carrots, and some frozen-solid steaks. Why wasn't life ever easy?

            Starsky hadn't sat idle while Hutch had been gone, despite his very clear instructions, and was now standing and fiddling with the TV.

            "Don't you listen anymore?" Hutch asked testily, pointing at the sofa with clear intent.

            "D'you say something?" Starsky responded pleasantly.

            Hutch didn't bother trying to figure out if he felt relieved or annoyed at yet another change of mood, just settled for looking stern, not lowering his finger until Starsky heaved a great put-upon sigh and sat.

            He settled onto the coffee table across from his partner, dropping the bag of carrots next to him, and gently lifted the injured right foot so the calf rested on his leg. The blue Adidas was already loose, but Hutch unlaced it as far as it would go and then carefully slid it off, watching Starsky's face for reaction as he did so. It tightened for a moment, then went slack with relief.

            As swollen as the ankle was, Hutch didn't wonder. It probably had hurt like the blazes to have the tight shoe on. It was a chronically weak ankle, going out occasionally when Starsky stepped on it wrong—or rolled off a car onto it—but with rest and ice and elevation, it was usually back to normal within a day or two.

            Hutch tried not to wince as he manipulated the ankle gently, making sure it hadn't been seriously injured. He could hear Starsky's breath catch, but there was no complaint. His anger softened a little more. His partner was still hurting in far more serious ways than a twisted ankle. What had happened to his own resolve to be patient and understanding while Starsky struggled to work through his grief? Gone out the window at the first sign it would be needed, that's what.

            But you couldn't be patient in the face of danger. The memory of Starsky dashing recklessly through traffic tightened Hutch's mouth and restored his resolve and fading ire. At this rate, Starsky would be dead by the time he was back on his feet. Love wasn't always about patience.

            So, time to speak up then. Non-confrontational, gentle prying to see if he could get Starsky to open up a little. Preferably without exploding.

            "Don't you think what you did today was a little dangerous?" Hutch asked conversationally. The carrots were a little lumpier than he liked, but they'd have to do. He started molding the bag very lightly around the swollen ankle.

            "Bein' a cop's dangerous," Starsky answered back in the same light vein, although his hand had bunched the nearest sofa pillow.

            Hutch barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Not being able to avoid a dangerous situation isn't the same as throwing yourself headfirst into one, Starsky."

            "It was my ankle, not my head, dummy."

            If he heard that smug tone one more time… "Would you be serious for a minute?" Hutch snapped. His hand must have jerked, too, because Starsky sucked in a breath and lost his color. "Sorry," Hutch said, immediately contrite. He was starting to catch his partner's changing moods.

            "'S okay. Look…I got carried away, okay? I'm sorry I worried ya. I just wanted to get that guy."

            The carrots were as much in place as he could get them without applying pressure. Hutch eased the sock-covered foot onto the pillow he'd placed next to him on the coffee table for that purpose. Then he gave the man across from him his undivided attention.

Starsky sounded sincerely remorseful, his expression chastened. Hutch wanted to believe him so badly, he felt half-persuaded already. But…Starsky had apologized more than once after some outrageous behavior those last few weeks, and Hutch was starting to realize the brunet was sorry for scaring his partner, not for being reckless. Even after all the penitence, he was becoming more impetuous, not less. And what was worse, or at least more puzzling, Starsky didn't even seem to see anything wrong with that.

            Maybe it was time to make him see it. By the time Starsky figured it out on his own, it could be too late.

            "I'm worried about you," Hutch said simply and completely honestly.

            Starsky looked taken aback. "It's not that bad. I'll be up on it tomorr—"

            Hutch shook his head. "I'm not talking about your ankle. I'm talking about you. Starsky, it was a miracle you didn't get yourself run over today. Two months ago it wouldn't have occurred to you to run out into traffic after the guy like that, but today you didn't even hesitate."

            "I told you, I got carried away. I'm—"

            "It's not just today. Can't you see this has been going on for a while now? Ever since Terry died."

            It was the wrong thing to say and he would have known that if he'd given it some thought. Starsky's expression toughened, his stance, usually relaxed around Hutch, went as stiff as if he were on the street, needing to watch his back. "Leave her outta this," he said roughly. If his foot hadn't been weighed down with carrots, he probably would have stood and stalked away.

            Hutch wasn't above taking advantage of that. He calmed his voice, but now that he'd started, he wanted to see it through. "I'm just saying you've been different, Starsk. I see you taking chances—dangerous chances—and I'm worried one of these days you're gonna push your luck too hard. I don't want to be left alone to pick up the pieces, partner."

            There it was, cards on the table. There were a lot of things you could ignore, but your partner's honest concern was not one of them, and Hutch was counting on that.

            Starsky grimaced. Here it comes, Hutch thought, either a reciprocating openness or a deafening explosion.

            He wasn't expecting a third option.

            "Leave it alone, huh?" Starsky's bravado was suddenly gone, his voice soft and almost pleading. "I can't do this right now, Hutch."

            That was the one answer he wasn't prepared to respond to.

            So Starsky knew something was wrong, too, but was as confused by it as Hutch. How could he argue with that?

            Hutch stared at Starsky a long minute, considering. Finally, he took a long, deep breath and propped his hands on his thighs. "Okay," he gave in. It was the only thing right now that would get the desperate look out of his partner's eyes, and that was what mattered most at that moment. Hutch pushed himself up and lifted his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender. "Okay," he repeated. His hands dropped and he leaned forward. "But if you think I'm going to watch you kill yourself, you'd better get yourself another partner."

            Starsky smiled very weakly. "I don't want another partner." He was trying to say it flippantly, but there was a whole different kind of desperation in his eyes now.

            "Okay," Hutch said more softly. At least they'd gotten that much clear. Starsky wasn't refusing his help, and trusted and accepted Hutch would do what he needed to. Not that Starsky's denial would have stopped him from doing so, but it made him feel unexpectedly relieved. Things were at least okay between them, and that had always been the foundation they worked from.

            "You wanna get some pizza?"

            The hesitant offer made him smile. It was an olive branch; Starsky had been going home alone more often than not those days, still not always up for company. It'd been so long since they'd shared a pizza, the greasy food almost sounded good. "Sure," Hutch agreed, smiling. His shoulders already felt looser. "Ah," he quickly held a finger up as Starsky made a move to rise. "I'll call."

            A suspicious look. "You're not gonna order something healthy, are you?"

            "I was thinking goat cheese and mushrooms," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the phone.

            The bag of carrots he'd so carefully molded into place on the injured foot went sailing by his head, landing wetly on the rug by the kitchen doorway.

            Hutch couldn't help it; he laughed.

            But the knot inside remained.

            Starsky was trying to be on good behavior, Hutch had to give him that. Four days had gone by since he'd tried to talk some sense into his partner, and apparently the message had gotten through because Starsky was driving more carefully, deferring to Hutch's opinion on the next steps in their investigation, and generally keeping himself in check. His little talks with Starsky in the past had rarely been that successful.

            Well, superficially good behavior, anyway.

            That was the problem, one Hutch sensed more than saw. Starsky had dealt with the symptoms, not their cause. He was restraining himself, being more careful around Hutch, and while the blond appreciated his friend's attempts, he hated to see the effort they took. Starsky hadn't returned to the way he was; he was trying to be good for Hutch's sake, and hadn't one of the great benefits of their partnership always been that they could be themselves with each other? This deliberately eased-up Starsky was as alien to Hutch as the one who'd been so bound to run himself into the ground.

            Was the fault his, trying to make Starsky into something he wasn't? The self-destructive Starsky hadn't been any happier, though, and surely that kind of manic behavior couldn't be healthy, especially if it got him hurt or killed. No, Hutch was sure he’d been right to say something. It just hadn't been the right thing, or enough. Or maybe all Starsky did need was time. The trouble was, Hutch didn't know which was true, and if his partner did need help, how would he know when or what? They'd always dealt with each other based on instinct and honestly wanting what was best for the other, but none of that was clear anymore.

            And then Starsky took the decision right out of his hands.

            The day had been a long, boring one of calling the sanitation company, grocery stores, painters, and several factories, trying to piece together whether different strings of victims had any commonalities that could point to a rapist and a robber they were looking for, presumably different guys. You never knew. All the routine calls had landed them a lot of nothing, though, unless you counted a bunch of antsy victims who wanted answers. It was the kind of paperwork-oriented day that sapped their strength and made both of them wonder why they'd wanted to become cops.

            Starsky had looked particularly washed out when Hutch had dropped him at his apartment, and his recommendation that his partner turn in early had been met by a vague wave. He doubted it would be heeded—even serious injury or full-blown flu was hard-pressed to get Starsky to bed early—but Hutch had tried. Watching his sag-shouldered friend climb the steps as if they were a mountain hadn't eased his worries, either, and he was gnawing on his lip as he drove away.

            But neither Starsky nor his job was his whole life, contrary to how it often seemed, and a date was awaiting him. Putting aside all accumulated worries, Hutch went home only long enough to change, ready for a fun night out.

Nora the librarian—Starsky would have just loved that one—had to work early the next morning, and so it was just after 11:00 when Hutch got back to his apartment. As he climbed the stairs, his tie loose around his neck, he whistled the tune that'd been playing in the background at the restaurant. The evening had been just what he'd needed, a chance to have a conversation that had nothing to do with criminal activity and to enjoy some light-hearted company. He often had that on the job with Starsky but not lately, and he missed the battery recharging. It probably would have done Starsky good to go out, too, but so soon after Terry, Hutch couldn't blame him for not being ready. He'd just have to be the comic relief of the pair for a while.

Hutch ran through options as he unlocked the door. Maybe he could take Starsky to that new drive-in they'd opened on Figueroa, the one where the waitresses roller-skated your orders to the car. Starsky would get a kick out of that. Or there was the Humphrey Bogart movie marathon playing at that old theatre near Huggy's. Hutch had heard one of the other detectives mention it, and while he himself preferred art-house movies, Bogart and John Wayne were his partner's favorite actors.

The phone was ringing as he stepped inside, and Hutch suppressed a sigh. Well, so much for his night off. No doubt that was Dobey with a new case for them, or Starsky with a fresh angle to consider on one of their current ones. If Hutch was really lucky, it was just a bored partner, tired of the Creature Feature and wondering what Hutch was doing. Maybe hearing about his date would cheer up his friend. Then again, considering Starsky was newly single again, maybe not.

Hutch picked up the phone with an attempt at curiosity. "Hello?"

"Hutch. It's Huggy."

That was another possibility, their favorite snitch with a middle-of-the-night tip. No power on earth would be dragging Hutch out that night to track it down, but it wouldn't hurt to hear it out. "Hug, what's up?"

"It's your better half, not looking much better right now."

Hutch would have gotten impatient at the barkeep's typically obtuse information, except it was starting to register how serious Huggy sounded. "Starsky?" he asked uneasily. "What's going on?"

"One and the same. He showed up a while ago on my doorstep, looking like something the cat wouldn't even touch. Far as I can tell, he's been walkin' around these parts all night by himself, and you know, around here, that's askin' for trouble, especially for someone of the Caucasian persuasion. Even I know better than that, and my skin's the right color. He got himself a little roughed up. He's lucky it wasn't worse."

It was like a bomb that had been waiting to explode had finally done so, and instead of devastation, it left Hutch numb. "Is he okay?"

"Nothing broken far as I can tell, but he won't talk to me or let me touch 'im. I think he's holding out for his pushover partner."

Weary numbness. No, not numbness, because he could feel something. It was just a slow leak of sadness and inevitability. Hutch hadn't even put Terry's loss behind him yet, and here was Starsky slowly slipping after her.

But pushover? No longer. "I'll be right there, Huggy. Tell him to…just tell him to hang on."

Good advice for both of them.

Hutch restrained himself from using the mars light on the way. There had been a few such calls in the middle of the night when he'd torn across town with lights and siren, frantic to reach his partner. There was the same edgy worry now, but Huggy had said Starsky didn't seem to be in immediate danger and…Hutch needed time to think. To try to figure out what to say, or do, because he had no ideas left. If Starsky wanted to kill himself, whether by running out into traffic or wandering through unsafe areas at night, Hutch would ultimately be unable to stop him. There was no way he could play babysitter 24/7, and there were many ways to self-destruct, some of them quiet and "safe" and all but invisible.

But he couldn't not try, or pretend he didn't care. Not when one of those he cared about most in the world was at stake.

Huggy met him at the door with an unusual lack of exuberance. It was the concerned side that had years before lifted him above mere informant and made him a friend. "He's in the kitchen. That's as far as I could get him. Everything I got's in the bathroom…and don't touch the bureau or the coffee table drawers, y'dig?"

Hutch raised an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"Out. All night. Don't think I want t'be here when you ask Curly what he was doin' wanderin' the worst part of the city after the lights go out—I never could stand the sight of blood."

"You're a good man, Huggy," Hutch said with a small smile.

"Yeah, well, don't let it get around. Man's got a reputation he has t'keep." With a tip of his hat, Huggy stepped out the door, then leaned back to add, "Oh, the bed's got clean sheets. I don't think either of you are goin' anywhere tonight." He shut the door behind him.

Hutch took a deep breath, then crossed the candy-colored living room to the kitchen beyond.

Starsky was slumped over the kitchen table, dried blood on the hand his head rested on. Hutch's heart took another leap, suddenly frightened he was worse off than Huggy had realized or admitted. Two quick strides took him next to the still figure, and he crouched down beside Starsky, lifting up a hesitant hand.

"Starsky?"

A jolt ran through his partner as if he'd been shocked, head jerking up partway until he grabbed it with a groan.

"Let me see," Hutch softly ordered, peeling the hand away and lifting Starsky's chin with slow, persuasive movements. He tried not to flinch at the sight. Starsky's left cheek and the upper curve of his eye socket were badly scraped, as if he'd rubbed against something rough, while the right eye was blackening and sure to be an impressive shiner. His knuckles were bruised and torn, Hutch also silently noted. Defensive wounds; at least Starsky hadn't gone down without a fight.

But the eyes that weren't quite meeting his were dispirited, not the eyes of the tenacious New Yorker he knew and loved.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he asked mildly as his heart slowed; at least Starsky wasn't dying on him. He continued his exam, and checking the mop of curls revealed a crusted lump on the back of Starsky's skull. Concerned, Hutch checked the blue eyes a little more critically, looking for some sign of concussion and finding none. Feeling only slightly mollified, he carefully examined Starsky's other hand, then stood to ease the jacket off him to take a look at his ribs.

"I didn't see 'em…one hit me from behind. Wanted my money."

"Did they get it?"

"Didn't have my wallet on me."

Hutch didn't ask what he was doing walking around without his wallet and, presumably, his badge, miles from his home. He already had some idea and wasn't ready for confirmation. "Where was this?"

A slight shrug that made Starsky wince. "Alley. Don't know where."

"An alley." Hutch gave him an exasperated look before peering under the shirt he'd finally managed to coax up. Just as he'd thought: bruises were already coming up along the ribs and his abdomen. Hutch shook his head. "You didn't have any money, so they beat you up."

"I think I also called 'em a coupla names." The admission was clearly chagrined.

"You called them names?" Hutch repeated incredulously. "You didn't leave any bodies behind I'm going to have to report to Dobey, did you?" Because he didn't know how else Starsky had gotten out of there.

A vague shrug. He could tell when his partner felt guilty about something, though, and Starsky hadn't colored at that, so it was probably one of the few things Hutch didn't have to worry about.

"So let me get this straight. You were walking around in a part of town where even the uniforms wear vests, at night, alone, without your badge or your gun, and when a gang tried to rip you off, you called them names. Am I getting all of this?" He didn't think he could possibly sound as incensed as he felt.

No answer. If possible, Starsky drooped even more disconsolately than before.

Hutch clenched his jaw, then deliberately relaxed it and made himself change direction. "Where does it hurt?" he asked with unreal calm.

"I'm okay, Hutch." If Starsky's voice got any flatter, it would have been a machine's.

"You're about as far from okay as I've seen you, buddy, and that includes that time you got shot, so I'm asking you one more time: where does it hurt?"

"Head. Ribs. Knee." He sounded embarrassed again.

Knee—Hutch hadn't checked that. There was no need for undressing; the jeans were torn considerably at both knees, blood soaking the denim on the left. Hutch worked loose the strands from the wound as painlessly as he could, then examined the abraded limb. Another contact wound, maybe from the knee being dragged across a hard surface. The anger was rising in him with each injury, and he didn't know whom he felt it more toward, Starsky's attackers or Starsky himself.

            Hutch sat back on his haunches and took a good look at the battered man in front of him, his own emotions churning inside of him. They had to be a regular whirlpool in Starsky. No wonder he'd been on frantic overdrive.

            "Do you need to go to the hospital? Anything feel torn up inside?"

            A silent shake of the head.

Hutch would accept that for now, trusting Starsky could tell the difference because there wasn't a lot else he trusted him for at that moment, and that needed fixing more than the oozing cuts and scrapes.

            But Hutch needed to do something about those, too, and it was by far the easier problem, so he pushed himself to his feet and strode off to Huggy's bathroom without a word to get supplies.

            No more than a minute had passed before he returned, but he found Starsky resting head-on-arms on the table again. Which said a lot for his fatigue, considering the pull that had to be on his bruised ribs. Hutch hesitated, watching his friend for a second, wondering what kind of fool he was to love someone so much and hurt for him so deeply when he was also furious with him.

            At least that one he could answer. The kind of fool who knew how lucky he was, and who'd been patched up a few times by the idiot sitting before him. A pair of fools was what they were. Who was he to judge a kindred spirit?

Hutch settled himself silently on the floor at Starsky's feet and, firmly tearing the jeans so he could get access to the scraped knee, got started. Starsky didn't even look up.

            "This is what I was talking about a few days ago, Starsky," he started without preamble, "the recklessness, the stupid things you were doing, and how they were going to get you hurt or dead."

            There was gravel to dig out and then disinfecting, which elicited only a mute shiver from his partner. Finally, Hutch had the knee bandaged to his satisfaction. He transferred himself from the floor to the empty chair beside Starsky's and started in on the hands next, half-buried in dark hair. First one, then the other was cleaned, disinfected, and covered in ointment.

            "I know you don't want to hear it, but this started with Terry, and I think you know it. You love her and you miss her, and it's hard to keep going. So hard, I think you've been trying to stop."

            The head raised, blue eyes darkened and churning. "Don't play shrink with me, Hutch," Starsky snapped.

            Hutch almost smiled. A reaction: thank God. He was starting to think he was talking to a lamppost. Instead, he took advantage of the change of position to smear some ointment on the scratched cheek and forehead.

            "Okay," he agreed willingly, "then you tell me what you were doing tonight."

            "I just went for a walk. I've got a lot on my mind."

            "A walk in the worst part of town." He folded some ice in a clean washcloth and closed Starsky's right hand around it, then maneuvered it up to hold the ice against his black eye. Hutch's smile had disappeared. "Think about it, Starsk. Does that make sense to you?"

            A beat. Then, defiantly, "I was lookin' for a fight, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? That I left my badge at home 'cause I wasn't going out as a cop?"

            Hutch met his gaze and said very gently and earnestly, "I think you went out as someone who's lost the woman he loved and can't live with all the grief inside him. That's what all this lunatic behavior has been about, hasn't it, trying to work some of that grief off? It's not what I want to hear, but I can understand it. But, Starsk, please, find another way to let it out," he pleaded. "I know you don't mean to and you don't see it, but you're killing yourself this way."

            That was every last card, even the ones up his sleeve and the ones he didn't know he had. And if it tore him up that much just to say it, he could just imagine the effect it would have hearing it.

            Because Starsky's face had gone very pale and his visible eye widened. Onto his grief, Hutch had just piled the heavy weights of an unconscious self-destructive drive and Hutch's own pain at watching him rush headlong into the wall before him.

            "I didn't mean…" he whispered.

            "I know." Hutch dropped a hand on his shoulder and sat with him.

            "I just… I miss her so much…"

            "I know, pal."

            A long silence while he watched Starsky stare at the table and then the cabinets behind him, throat occasionally working in a long, hard swallow. Hutch occasionally flexed his hand, doing a rough sort of massage that was intended solely to remind the recipient he wasn't alone.

"It hurts, Hutch," Starsky finally rasped.

            "I know. It will for a while." He offered a small smile. "But it's gotten better, right? When you weren't busy pushing your luck, there were some good moments there."

            A small soundless nod.

            "I think just your realizing this is already going to help get over it." God, he hoped so. Hutch didn't think he was up to many more moments like when he'd come into the kitchen and seen Starsky folded up and motionless like that.

            "I'm tired." Starsky sounded almost too weary to say the words, and his body sagged as if he were ancient.

            "That's one thing I can help you with," Hutch said, immediately standing. He was a lot slower and more careful as he helped Starsky gain his feet, then shuffle into the bazaar Huggy called a bedroom. Starsky didn't seem to notice, or didn't care, about the fringed lampshade and faux fur rug, just flopped onto the bed. The glimpse Hutch had caught of the broad back had shown bruises on all sides, so he piled some of the mound of pillows from the end of the bed both against Starsky's front and back. The ice was a lost cause, and the bump on his head would have to wait, too, because Starsky was already falling asleep before Hutch had even finished pulling his shoes off and covered him with Huggy's lime-green comforter.

            "You help me with a lot of things," Starsky muttered in delayed answer as he tried to make his drubbed body comfortable.

            "And I'll be here for this one, too, partner," Hutch promised as he sat down in the chair conveniently beside the bed.

            There was no answer, fatigue and pain and emotional wear-and-tear combining to pull Starsky deeply under.

            Hutch watched him a long time, looking for signs of discomfort or deeper injury, sorting out his own thoughts and feelings. Then with a slow, satisfied nod, he rose to see if Huggy had anything to read that wasn't X-rated…or in his bureau or coffee table. Hutch had a long night ahead of him, he knew, but if his hopes were realistic, it was nothing compared to what they'd just gotten through.

            It was amazing how the never-ending activity of the ocean could be so soothing to watch. Hutch found himself almost hypnotized by the waves, and it was with a comfortable drowsiness he tore his eyes away to the man sitting next to him.

            "Didn't I say this was just what we needed?"

            "Yeah, you're a regular fortuneteller, Hutch."

            He could hear it, the reluctant enjoyment in his companion's voice, and it made Hutch grin. "A little sun…"

            "And sunburn. You're starting to look like a lobster."

            "…a little breeze…"

            "Blows the sand in your face."

            "…a lot of sand…"

            "All over the blanket. Would you watch it!"

            "…pretty girls…"

            No grumbling answer to that one.

            Hutch cast another glance to his right, grin subsiding into an understanding smile.

            "So, does food come with this all-expense-paid vacation of yours?" Starsky's attempts to sound annoyed at being dragged out to the beach for the day were becoming more and more forced.

            "What's a trip to the beach without food?" Hutch answered cheerfully. He dragged the cooler from his other side to sit between them and dove in. "There's root beer, and…sandwiches—peanut butter and grape jelly for you, turkey for me—"

He pretended not to hear the muttered, "Fitting."

"—some deviled eggs and cookies Edith sent along…" Hutch couldn't help notice Starsky brighten at that. "…and some carrot sticks for snacking."

"You're hopeless," Starsky sighed.

"Completely," Hutch agreed. He had some standards to maintain, even if he'd tried to make the lunch as appealing as possible to his junk-food-guzzling partner.

They sorted out the food and then leaned back in their beach chairs as they ate, watching the restless water in front of them. It was only early spring, still a little chilly for beach weather, not to mention the middle of a weekday so the crowds were thin, but that was the way Hutch liked it. Besides, with Starsky still healing and looking like Frankenstein with his sunglasses off, he hadn't wanted to go someplace crowded or far. Down the street to the beach had seemed perfect, and Starsky didn't know yet about the lobsters Hutch had sitting in a pot at home, waiting for dinner.

Starsky obviously figured Hutch was trying to cheer him up, and there was some element of that, but it was more. It was also a victory celebration, and something healthy to replace some of the grief with.

"Terry liked the beach," Starsky volunteered from next to him.

"Yeah?" Hutch answered, as if he didn't know.

"But I think it made her feel lonely."

"She had you," Hutch said, watching the water again. A few gulls were fishing just ahead of them.

He could sense Starsky nodding next to him, and then they dropped into silence again. There were a lot of kinds of silence, and this one felt good to Hutch.

"You ever think about the sand?" he suddenly asked.

There was a slight pause as Starsky returned to him. "You mean besides what your big clodhoppers kick up on the blanket?"

Hutch smiled again, resting his half-eaten sandwich on his knee. "No, I mean it. One day it's here on the beach, minding its own business, the next it's out in the middle of the ocean, gone just like that."

"It's those Reader's Digests again, isn't it? Sunsets and sand?" Starsky said archly.

Hutch shrugged. "Maybe. Doesn't mean it isn't true."

Several beats. "Not much of a way to live, always wonderin' if the ocean's gonna carry you away."

"Maybe it's not so bad out in the ocean," Hutch offered. "Looks pretty peaceful to me."

Starsky gave him a look. "You know, you're very weird."

He laughed, nearly spilling his bottle of soda. Laughing felt good, too.

"Thanks."

It was offered quietly, but he heard it even over the wash of the ocean and the sound of the people. Hutch didn't say a word, just looked at Starsky with frank fondness and lifted his bottle. Starsky clinked his own against it, and they drank their silent toast.

Not an end to grief or to woes or to obstacles and hard times, or even to Starsky's sometimes feckless behavior. But at the least seeing a way out and looking for healthier alternatives, like braving sand and sunburn instead of dark alleys. And not going it alone.

They sat back to absorb the endless horizon before them, together.