Elizabeth

   It definitely qualified as the proverbial week from hell. Hutch was exhausted, body and soul. But he was happy. They’d come through it in one piece, again. Euphoria at the miracle of survival elevated his happiness to something approaching bliss. He didn’t want to move any time soon.

   He was flaked out on his back on Starsky’s sofa, toes tucked up against the arm, knees drawn up to ease his aching spine. Too many hours spent sitting in a car with poorly contoured seats that offered inadequate support had left their mark. His head was slightly tipped forward, resting against Starsky’s thigh, pale golden hair spreading across the dark denim. He needed the contact, just to convince his Doubting Thomas of a brain that Starsky was still here, even if it meant a stiff neck next day. He’d originally lain down with his head flat on the sofa but after a few minutes Starsky had reached across and bodily tugged at him until he’d given in and shuffled gracelessly backwards.

   And it offered almost as good an angle for gazing up furtively at Starsky. At least he hoped furtively. Probably not though. Starsky usually knew exactly what he was doing. Hutch tried not to tempt fate by permitting himself too much gazing. Easy enough to close his eyes for a moment.

   It was about ten thirty. The drapes had long since been pulled across the open windows to keep out the dark and he could hear the faint susurration of fabric swishing to and fro in the breeze. No smog for once but still a faint taint of exhaust fumes.

   The TV droned on in the background, old-fashioned voices punctuated by corny music. Starsky was watching a past-its-sell-by-date monster flick with apparently unwavering attention. Hutch had lost track long ago in favor of relaxing, consciously trying to release the tension from each abused muscle, consciously trying to banish the potential events that never quite happened – this time – from his overwrought brain.

   The urge to gaze up at Starsky again threatened to overwhelm him and he gave in to it. He needed its comfort to anchor him in the safe present. The rustle of Starsky’s hand digging through the popcorn, the crunch as he chewed. The sight of his jaws moving, muscles working in his bare throat. The week was over. They were still safe.

   Hutch shifted as imperceptibly as possible in an attempt to improve his angle of view. Instantly the hand abandoned the popcorn and brushed over his hair.

   "You okay?"

   "Yeah." More seemed to be expected. "Back’s aching a little." The almost-lie sufficed. The hand moved down to rest briefly on his shoulder, then dived back into the popcorn. Probably Starsky had elected not to pursue the point: time and experience had taught them both infinite care around each other’s frailties.

   The TV droned on, uninterrupted. And Hutch gazed on, uninterrupted.

   Hutch knew intimately how to deal with fear. Driven by sheer necessity, he had discovered a workable technique and thoroughly schooled himself in it over the last year and a half.

   He’d now had a rest, a few hours to distance himself from the afternoon’s events; and he’d permitted himself to wallow in a certain amount of indulgence. He needed to examine what had brought the fear and be certain that he had banished it. His defences needed constant monitoring for the first indication of weakness.

********

   All that made the first part of the week hell was overwork, pure and simple. Some vile 72-hour stomach bug had wreaked havoc with Metro’s manpower. Everyone able to stay out of the men’s room was putting in all the hours God sent. He and Starsky had been pulling double shifts for days on end, often with a couple of hours extra thrown in on top.

   Each day (or night) followed a variation on a similar pattern. Sitting in Hutch’s slum of a car on a supremely boring stakeout. Another shift back at HQ trying to catch up with the paperwork they had foolhardily shoved to one side the previous week in the hope of finding a "quiet patch". Trying to sort out which cases previously allocated to sick detectives couldn’t wait. Trying to give assistance to a couple of outsiders drafted in from a neighboring precinct – probably more time consuming than it was worth. Trying to field calls from "concerned members of the public" who feared they would soon have no police cover at all and trying to reassure them that their neighborhood was not about to drown in a tsunami of unchecked crime. Trying to get out on the streets to investigate the cases that couldn’t be deferred till more cops recovered. Trying to keep things running when Dobey too succumbed.

   On Thursday evening, a gray and shaky-looking Dobey staggered in from his sickbed. He was uncharacteristically subdued in manner and volume. But there was nothing wrong with his alertness. He observed Hutch struggling not to attract attention as he bent awkwardly to recapture a sheet of paper that had floated from the typewriter to the floor. He noticed the paper-white mask concealing Starsky’s naturally dark skin tone and the caution with which he eased his shoulders into his leather jacket as he prepared to leave for the next dose of stakeout.

   Before they could drag themselves out the door he bellowed, "Starsky, Hutchinson. Hang around a few minutes. I’m running through some reallocations in my office right now." At least he intended to bellow. His diaphragm settled for lower energy goals.

   His brain was still functioning well enough to recognise that it wasn’t prudent to explain that he was rejigging jobs solely because his prize combination of detectives looked ready to drop and sleep on the squadroom floor. Least of all because Starsky looked ready for another "rest" in hospital. And thankfully his brain was functioning well enough to offer a plausible excuse.

   He re-emerged from his office. "Agnello, Davisson. I want you taking over the Squires stakeout as of now. Starsky and Hutchinson will fill you in before they leave." Agnello and his partner were "on loan" and didn’t know the area well. "Starsky, I want you and Hutch out patrolling tomorrow. It’s a waste of our limited resources to have you snoozing the night away in your limo while we have men trying to keep a lid on streets where they’re tourists. Time for you two to earn your pay." And time for you both to manage a decent night’s sleep. Was the excuse too transparent? "Clocking on nine a.m. sharp."

   He fixed his detectives with what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of his usual intimidating glare. Then he barrelled – softly – back into the shelter of his office and slammed the door – not too aggressively. Half-expecting a less considerate entry by Starsky to complain vociferously that he was as able as the next cop to put in days and nights for a week, he held his breath. No explosions. Nothing. He let the breath out quietly. Made the right decision.

   And one applauded by Hutch, though he was careful to keep his approval to himself. He didn’t think that so much as a muscle in his face twitched.

   After briefing the other pair, he drove Starsky home twenty minutes later in complete and unusual silence. Neither had the energy for anything else. Starsky fell asleep in his chair while Hutch was fixing them both a sandwich. He hardly woke up even when Hutch poured him into his bed, put his sandwich in the fridge for the next morning and wrote a note explaining its presence, then quietly locked the door on his way out.

********

   Friday began promisingly. No stakeout, so back to the Torino. Starsky turned up more or less on time, giving every indication that he was positively bouncing with health and joie de vivre once more. Hutch breathed a very silent prayer of thanks that his partner had recovered so quickly from the week’s depletion of his resources: these days, post-Gunther, it always took longer.

   When they arrived at the station, Starsky wandered off to confront the cold drinks machine. Dobey caught Hutch’s attention, raised an eyebrow in minute and silent query, then looked satisfied at Hutch’s slight nod of the head.

   Within minutes, they were back in the Torino and prowling the streets.

   The morning slipped by effortlessly without incident. Before Hutch knew it, it was past midday and Starsky’s turn to buy lunch. To Hutch’s disgust, which he vented vociferously and which met with the usual cavalier treatment from Starsky, he chose a fast food outlet and emerged with a lethal selection of fats and preservatives in dyed cardboard, piled high on a plastic tray. With an air of unsuppressed martyrdom, Hutch chewed on some tasteless variant of a fishburger that had probably no acquaintance with fish.

   He surreptitiously eyed Starsky’s fries and decided they must be healthier. He reached across to help himself just as Starsky passed him a cup of coffee. The result was predictable. The plastic lid flew off and a sizeable glob of watery coffee splurged up before flopping down on Hutch’s denimed thigh.

   "For Chrissake, Starsk!" he yelped, his strangled voice shooting up an octave. "Oh fuck, that was boiling."

   "Aw, sorry, Hutch." Starsky was instantly contrite and in full mother-hen mode. "Is it gonna blister? I’ll race back and get you some ice."

   "Don’t be stupid. It’s not that bad." His voice still sounded tight, Starsky wasn’t sure whether with annoyance or pain, and he was trying to pry the soaking denim away from the skin. Doubtless very pink skin. "I’ll live – though my descendants might not if you’d splashed it any further up."

   Starsky was still fussing. He had a sudden brainwave. Running for ice might have been banned, but what was wrong with the plentiful cubes floating in his Coke? He ripped off the lid, thrust in his hand and deposited the contents on Hutch’s abused thigh.

   Hutch in reflex snatched his leg away from the wet cold. The cubes slid down onto Starsky’s seat covers. Only to be followed by a generous libation of Coke as Starsky, fearing the ice wasn’t adequate first aid, sacrificed a fair percentage of his drink to soothe the heat away.

   Hutch remained unimpressed. He threw back his head, rolled his eyes dramatically and opened his mouth to draw breath.

   Only to look across at Starsky and realise that he was beginning to snicker. It was too infectious to resist and he collapsed back down into his seat.

   "Here, let me rub it better," Starsky snorted helplessly. "Jeez, I don’t think the passenger seat will ever be the same again. I’m gonna charge you for the valeting."

   They were still giggling hysterically – Hutch thought they must both be more punchy than he’d realised from all the overtime – when the car radio growled into life. They both froze.

   "All units, all units, immediate assistance required. . . ." The location given was only a few blocks away. Starsky tossed the remains of lunch onto the back seat and spun the car round while still listening to the rest of the message. ". . . grocery store cash robbery. One officer down, one armed robber down, one robber believed unarmed fleeing the scene on foot in the direction of Painter’s Factory." The old factory was even closer than the store.

   Hutch dealt efficiently with light and siren and radio response, then hung on grimly as the car slewed round the corner. He glanced briefly across at Starsky, who was all too clearly relishing the opportunity to let rip, then began scanning the sidewalks for any trace of the fugitive.

   "Starsk!" He pointed down a narrow alley on the right. He’d just caught a subliminal glimpse of a man charging in. He knew it was a dead end and that it gave access only to the now-derelict office building on the left. Both men left the Torino at a dead run, organising their tactics with their usual lack of verbal communication. Hutch drew his Magnum as he dove into the alley, leaving Starsky to enter the neighboring building by the front door.

   The alley held the usual quota of sour smelling refuse and muck but nowhere much for a man to hide. Even as he raced to the side door, he heard a splintering of wood that announced Starsky was smashing his way through the front entrance. The side door was hanging brokenly off its hinges: probably had been for some time, it didn’t look like new damage. He entered with caution, straining for any tiny sound that would give away where his quarry had run. Nothing.

   "Starsk?"

   "Front stairs."

   He looked about for inspiration. At the far end of the corridor, running parallel with the alley, was another set of stairs. If the thief had turned to the front door, he would surely have run into Starsky. He hadn’t. So he’d probably run for the back stairs. Pausing briefly to check the empty rooms along the corridor, Hutch began bounding up the stairs.

   He felt a wave of frustration. He had no idea where the suspect had disappeared. He was out of contact with Starsky. What should he do? Straight on up the stairs to the roof? Or check out each floor? Reason couldn’t guide him, only his gambling instinct. After the slightest of pauses, he launched himself up the next flight. By the time he was pounding up the eighth flight, he was grateful that he was in good shape these days. Even so, he’d begun to pant. Another landing, then another floor of offices.

   The next flight ended in a small landing with a fixed ladder of rusty metal leading up to a trapdoor to the roof. Hutch cursed softly under his breath. The trapdoor was padlocked. The thief hadn’t come this way. He was spinning round to head back down the stairs when he froze. There were muffled thumps coming from somewhere above. Starsky and the suspect.

   Without hesitation, he shot off the padlock, swarmed up the ladder, shoved the trapdoor open with a clatter, then slid out onto the roof, keeping as low as possible. It took only a heartbeat to locate Starsky: he always seemed to know where he was by a sort of built-in radar, so reliable he hardly ever even thought about its existence.

   He was the full width of the building away, maybe 200 feet, and he was grappling on the floor with the suspect. Hutch assessed the situation quickly. Not possible to fire, no way of being sure of not hitting his partner. But he still yelled out with perfect assurance, "Halt right there or I’ll fire." The suspect either didn’t hear him or was calling his bluff.

   He began to sprint across the roof. He had time to thank God that the building had been empty for only a couple of months: no gaping holes or weak spots.

   He had covered only half the distance when fear clutched hold. Whether panic had given the suspect extra strength or whether Starsky was putting in more effort to end it before it dragged on too long, the fight had suddenly heated up. He saw the pair roll over a few times away from him.

   Towards the edge of the building. The unguarded edge of the building. No rail, just a small lip about 6 inches high.

   He screamed "Starsky" in warning but it was too late.

   Both men plummeted over the side, eerily silent. For a nanosecond he stood frozen by shock. Then he pelted towards the edge. He stopped short twenty feet away, suddenly unable to face whatever was lying several floors below. It took only a few seconds to pull himself together but time behaves oddly in a crisis. It felt like hours. Then he stepped forward. He knelt down as he approached the edge because he didn’t entirely trust his sense of balance at the moment, then inched forward on his knees. Even that was too much. He lowered himself to his belly and crawled. Hardly breathing at all, he inched forward over the lip.

   And stopped breathing altogether. Starsky was lying no more than six feet beneath him, spreadeagled over the suspect. They had landed on a narrow secondary-level roof. Hutch called out softly, "Starsk, speak to me!"

   There was some disorganised movement below, then Starsky replied in a shockingly normal voice, "It’s okay, I was just winded. He broke my fall."

   "Don’t move. I’m coming right down."

   A quick glance along the roof edge revealed a ladder connecting the two levels some yards away. Hutch leapt to his feet, all immobility banished now there was a distinct possibility that the world hadn’t ended. Seconds later he was crouching at Starsky’s side.

   "Where does it hurt? Is your back okay?"

   "Nowhere. And yeah. I’m gonna try and get up, I’m just a little shocky, that’s all. I think my mattress is out cold though."

   "Just take it gently, nothing too sudden."

   Starsky managed to haul himself to his feet, with some strategic assistance from Hutch, who watched him carefully for any sign of pain. He detected no more than the odd wince.

   "Go and sit down by the wall. I’ll deal with him, then I’ll run back down and call an ambulance."

   Hutch first checked that the suspect still had a pulse and was indeed unconscious, then cuffed him as quickly as he could before turning back to his partner. Much as he needed to reassure himself that Starsky was more or less intact, he had been on the streets too many years to risk turning his back on an unrestrained perp, no matter how harmless he looked. He knew Starsky would understand.

   He could feel his own knees turning wobbly with delayed reaction. Sitting down next to Starsky and holding onto him without ever letting go seemed very appealing but he knew he had to get downstairs again.

   "Don’t move," he admonished him again firmly, relieved to hear no wobbles in his voice at least. Discipline was good for something.

   Starsky flashed his lop-sided grin at him: "You’d better not be too long then."

   And that, essentially, was that. After calling for assistance, Hutch ran up the stairs again, then slid slowly down the wall to come to rest next to his partner, shoulders touching. Starsky reached out for his hand, then closed his eyes against the December sun and tipped his face back.

   They said nothing at all.

   Two ambulances turned up, plus a couple of officers to escort the prisoner. The suspect, now woozily conscious, was loaded into one and driven away. He had fared far less well than Starsky and had sustained several possible fractures, certainly a broken thigh. And Starsky was loaded into the other. Hutch hated seeing him carried down from the roof on a stretcher but the paramedics insisted. Best not to take any chances, he thought. Then he sighed as the craziness of the sentiment, given their job, hit home.

   He was about to climb up into the ambulance when Starsky sharply pulled him up short. "Hey, Blintz, ain’t you forgetting something? You ain’t abandoning the Torino here. Won’t be a car left to come back to if you do that in this neighborhood."

   Hutch paused. He had a point. And he didn’t look as if he was in medical danger. He found it almost impossible to refuse Starsky anything anyway, so he rooted in his pocket, extracted his keys, checked with the paramedics where they were taking Starsky, then went to start up the car. "See you there," he called out.

   He watched the ambulance pull away out of sight, then leaned forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. He took a few deep breaths, trying to maintain a veneer of calm while the engine thrummed. Panic was scrabbling with sharply filed nails at the edges of his brain even though the emergency was over. A perfectly normal reaction, he reassured himself. Nothing to worry about. Control’s still holding.

   The radio dragged him back. It was Dobey, eager for more details from Hutch than the bald report that had come through to him. He sounded borderline frantic too, as if he couldn’t quite find it in himself to believe that Starsky was more or less unhurt.

   Hutch, amazed at how coolly professional his own voice sounded, reassured him. Getting to be good concealing things. Dobey promised to meet him at the hospital.

********

   Hutch pulled up with a screech of tyres and whiff of rubber more reminiscent of Starsky’s style, then dashed into ER. He felt a burning need to see Starsky right now. While they had been together on the roof, leaning against the wall and each other in the soothing sun, it had been possible to believe that he had suffered nothing worse than a few bruises. Now that they were separated, he was beginning to doubt his own memory.

   He advanced purposefully on the receptionist, flashing his badge, only to hear his name being called.

   "Hey, Hutch, over here. I’m fine." Starsky, already in a blue hospital gown, was sitting in a wheelchair, being propelled along by an orderly. Hutch smirked: just like Starsky to be so worried about Hutch worrying that he’d hijacked some poor soul from his duties, all to make things easier for his partner. The orderly was now allowed to push the chair back to a cubicle and leave.

   "Haven’t been here long. Just waiting for the doctor to come out and speak to me."

   Hutch nodded absently. He felt as if he wasn’t fully in contact with his surroundings. His knees were going wobbly again. Just shock symptoms. Perfectly normal. He grasped all his self-control and twisted it into a stronger rope so Starsky wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

   "Sit down on the couch before you fall down." So much for escaping detection. He sat. It seemed the easiest thing to do. "I’m fine, really I am. They’ll give me a quick once-over then pack me on my way. Doctors have better things to do than kiss a few bruises better."

   Hutch smiled but he knew it was sickly at best. "Dobey’s on his way."

   "Would’ve thought he had better things to do too. I take it everyone’s over the bug if he has the time to traipse over here." Beneath the growl, Hutch detected a gleam of satisfaction at their captain’s concern. "If the doctor sees him, she’ll probably hospitalise him instead. He didn’t look too hot yesterday."

   Hutch was smiling his agreement when the doctor arrived, a tall red-haired woman in her early thirties, neither attractive nor plain. She looked competent.

   "Detective Starsky," she leaned over to shake his hand, "I’m Doctor Janet McKitterick." She paused, clearly wanting to know who Hutch was.

   "This is my partner, Detective Ken Hutchinson."

   She shook hands with him too, then continued as he didn’t seem about to leave. " Well it sounds like you’ve been extremely fortunate. Under normal circumstances, I’d just prod you about a bit and hopefully send you on your way. But in light of your surgery and the injuries you sustained eighteen months ago, we’re not taking any chances. I want to test you thoroughly before I’m satisfied." A small smile touched her lips. "Besides, my colleagues would never forgive me if I missed a repair needed by the best living advertisement for their skills.

   "So it’s going to be a major prod and poke. You’ll be fully engaged for the next two or three hours, then I feel inclined to keep you in overnight for observation."

   Hutch saw the beginnings of a pout hovering around Starsky’s lips. But he saw beneath it Starsky’s desire to avoid spending any more time in hospitals that wasn’t absolutely necessary. The sterile, characterless rooms with those indescribable odors underlying the liberal antiseptic brought back too vivid memories of weeks of pain after Gunther.

   He took up arms on his friend’s behalf. "Is that really necessary? He didn’t hit his head at least he said he didn’t. I can stay over at his place tonight to keep an eye on him. And if it’s rest he needs, a good night’s sleep’s always so much easier in your own bed." He’d judged that confrontation would get him nowhere but reason might do the trick.

   He willed the doctor to hear the subtext without him having to reveal more. She looked thoughtful suddenly.

   "Okay. As long as the tests don’t turn anything up, I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t go home, Detective Starsky. If you feel up to it, you can even go by the precinct to deal with your reports when we’ve finished with you. But I’d like you to have tomorrow off to recuperate, Detective Starsky." She looked down at him. "You’ll probably feel sore by then anyway."

   "Not as sore as last time. Thanks." He favored her with a blazing smile.

   She left with a promise to send an orderly along shortly to wheel Starsky away for his first battery of tests. Hutch was thinking about kicking up a fuss until he was invited along too but stopped when he caught sight of Starsky’s almost imperceptible shake of the head.

   Captain Dobey arrived soon after. Hutch thought he looked improved from the previous night but still far from full strength. He gave him a brief account of what the doctor had said. Dobey agreed without demur to Starsky taking the next day off and suggested that Hutch should stay home too, in view of the hours they’d put in during the crisis. He agreed it would be good if they could come in later to write up a preliminary report but stressed only if Starsky felt up to it.

   Starsky, predictably, glowered at the implication of weakness. "I’ll be there. I’m just bruised and shook up. It was just a tumble for Chrissake, it isn’t like I dived off Niagara Falls in a barrel."

   Hutch thought better of pointing out that a small fall like that could break your neck just as easily as a more spectacular drop. It had happened to a school friend of his back in Minnesota in a riding accident when he was still in his teens. But further discussion was prevented by the orderly’s arrival.

   As Starsky disappeared, Hutch called out, "I’ll be waiting in the relatives’ room."

   "Yeah, hope you’re going to send the Cap’n back to his office soon. Someone’s gotta keep working."

********

   Hutch and Dobey stood in silence for a moment after his departure, looking at one another wryly.

   "Let’s go find some coffee and the relatives’ room," Dobey suggested finally.

   That didn’t take long: they both knew where everything was from intimate and unwanted familiarity with the department. They sipped in silence until Dobey asked, "What happened, Hutchinson?"

   Hutch thought for a moment. "I haven’t checked it all out yet with Starsky, so some of it’s still guesswork. The suspect had to have gone in the side door, not the front. And he must have started up the back stairs, or Starsky would have seen him. I think he must have cut through the building, don’t know which floor, to the main stairs. Probably he thought he’d double back down them. But when he saw Starsky he headed up to the roof."

   He looked at Dobey and read the unspoken question. "It was just one of those things, Captain. They couldn’t have been wrestling for more than a couple of minutes. The suspect’s a big man, a piece heavier and taller than Starsky. I’m not sure I’d have subdued him any quicker. It was nothing to do with any weakness from his injuries. You know he’s been on the streets for months now with no trouble. Our success rate’s as good as ever." His voice sharpened on his partner’s behalf. "What gives you the right to doubt he’s up to the job?"

   "Hutchinson," said Dobey warningly. "I’m not doubting, I just need to know how one of my officers came to fall off a roof." He sighed. "It’s the accidents you can’t predict that take men away so quick you never even see it coming."

   A pause: "One thing more. You sure you couldn’t have got there quicker, shot the perp maybe? You didn’t hesitate?"

   Hutch opened his mouth to reply furiously, then stopped himself when he heard the real question. His voice soft, he almost whispered. "No, Captain, I’m not blaming myself. Not this time. It really was just an accident."

   Dobey frowned to maintain his gruff image. "Glad to hear you’ve made some progress, son."

   "Ohhh yes, I’ve learnt a lot since Gunther," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the scratched top of the coffee table.

   "And you’ve done well." A moment’s hesitation. "Wasn’t at all sure you could do it, you know – let Starsky go out on the streets again. And still keep letting him go out on the streets after days like today as if nothing had happened." Dobey seemed faintly embarrassed at putting something so personal into words and unsure of what reaction he would provoke.

   Hutch surprised him by looking up from the table and meeting his eye. "And I’ll keep on doing it," he said firmly before dropping his gaze back down to the table. "But I wouldn’t claim it was ‘as if nothing had happened’ . . . ." He trailed off.

   Dobey cleared his throat and struggled to his feet from the sagging chair, which groaned alarmingly. "If I don’t get back soon, Metro’ll fall apart without me. Call by later if you can for the reports but only if Starsky’s not too worn out. If he is, they’ll keep. I trust you to maintain some control over your partner."

********

   Hutch was left alone. The problem with being alone is that it offers an unparalleled opportunity for self-analysis. He leaned his head wearily back against the scuffed fake-leather chesterfield, eyes closed. He knew the captain had a right to the answers he’d asked for. And he knew that he’d answered honestly. He had learnt a great deal in the months since Gunther’s hit. And he would let Starsky go out and do his job in the same way tomorrow – well, the day after tomorrow.

   However, eighteen months ago he had no conception of how painful the learning and readjustment would prove. Some of the pain he’d fully expected: the pain of not knowing initially whether Starsky would even live; the pain of seeing Starsky suffering as he clawed his way slowly back to health.

   When Starsky began the lengthy process of physiotherapy to regain lost mobility and fitness, Hutch’s support had been unwavering. He was always there. He knew instinctively whether Starsky needed bullying when pain and discouragement were overwhelming him or whether he needed sympathy and comfort. He never made an error in reading the right response and he never gave too little or too much. Starsky was adamant that he would return to the streets. It was just that sometimes in the dark hours his belief wobbled. Hutch’s belief in him might have been carved in granite on Mount Sinai.

   He walked every step along the winding mountains and valleys of Starsky’s progress. His own fitness level improved dramatically as he worked out with Starsky, as he ran further in the mornings, cut out the unhealthy foods that had slipped quietly into his diet. He threw out from his closet the pants he’d bought to accommodate his increased weight and resurrected old ones. Thank God I didn’t throw them away! He took indefinite leave of absence from work, with the exception of doing whatever was required on the Gunther case, and lived on family money so that he could push Starsky like a personal trainer towards a goal that seemed ever more attainable.

   Gradually they began to resurrect their old social life, first just short evening visits to The Pits, then meals out, then meals followed by a beer or two stretching into the night. Finally Starsky pronounced himself ready to begin dating again. Hutch dug through his address book and found suitable women to start him off. Nothing too strenuous to begin with: joint dates in restaurants, trips to the movies, evenings spent bowling.

   Hutch could see the shadows of pain and fear being driven away. The times when Starsky erupted with frustration at the slowness of his recovery or feared he would never fully recover grew few and far between, then petered out altogether. After six and a half months the hospital team expressed the opinion that he was ready to be assessed for a desk-job as preparation for returning to his old job. Hutch fixed the appointment with a huge sense of achievement.

********

   One sunny Monday afternoon in early winter they strolled to the park to celebrate. They tossed a frisbee around for a while. Hutch carefully observed how much better Starsky was able to stretch out to the side for a catch. He never ceased watching Starsky’s every move: partly to monitor how well his physical recovery was progressing and identify any problems that might indicate a relapse or that they were overdoing things; partly to try and figure out if he could do anything different to hasten the healing process.

   Watching a little terrier triumphantly race off with it in its mouth caused a few minutes’ hilarity – and also the opportunity for Starsky to flirt with its good-looking lady-owner. Hutch rolled his eyes when he saw her give her telephone number. Everything seemed delightfully normal. And when they both returned to work in the near future, things would be more normal still.

   After playing on for another ten minutes, Starsky called a halt and expressed a desire for ice cream. Hutch walked off smartly to track down a vendor. He returned with two cones and a newspaper, then sat on a bench to read. Starsky flopped down on the grass opposite. Hutch noted automatically the ease with his partner accomplished the maneuver and felt that life was good.

   With the sudden violence of an earthquake, Hutch’s world shattered into jagged shards like knives. If the sun had vanished and fiery clouds had rained down blood, he wouldn’t have noticed. Oblivious, he was transported away to his own circle of hell and was lost to the Monday afternoon he’d been innocently enjoying as if no monsters lurked under the bed. Fear made his breathing shallow, sweat beaded his face. He hadn’t felt such terror since he raced back to the hospital when Starsky was dying.

   He didn’t have to search deeply to find the source of the panic that was throttling him so furiously. He was petrified at the prospect of Starsky returning to work. He couldn’t identify why it had struck now rather than when he made the appointment. He had, however, a good notion as to why it had left him untroubled up till this point.

   In the previous few months he had focused utterly on ensuring by any means he could muster that Starsky achieved what he so ardently desired: a full return to his job. Hutch hadn’t thought much about what that would mean: all that mattered was ploughing on like a tank towards achieving that goal, summoning all his strength to shove aside any obstacles that threatened Starsky’s success. He had permitted nothing to distract him. And in a sense, he hadn’t missed their partnership on the streets. Starsky’s recovery was just as much of a partnership; Hutch hadn’t needed anything more.

   But Starsky’s imminent return to Metro had rudely shifted the beam of Hutch’s tight focus. He knew that the desk-job would be only temporary. Sometime soon, weeks or months, Starsky would fly through his next assessment and be out on the streets once more. And Hutch didn’t think he could handle it. He didn’t think he had the strength to tolerate the risk of losing his partner again.

   He sat there frozen, as if his brain had shut down. He hadn’t a clue what to do. He couldn’t step into the future. Equally, he couldn’t blurt out to Starsky that he wanted him to abandon his dream – his future.

   Eventually, he was dragged back to the park because he was aware of something shaking his knees. He was surprised to find his eyes screwed tight shut. He decided he’d have to open them and face the world. People were still playing happily in the park, walking their dogs, eating sandwiches, kissing, a hundred and one normal activities, regardless of his pain.

   He looked down. Starsky was kneeling in front of him, a hand grasping each of Hutch’s knees. He’d stopped jiggling them and was staring intently into Hutch’s eyes. He looked worried. "Hey, Hutch, come back to me."

   Hutch suspected that he’d been calling his name for some time. Well he certainly couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. The newspaper had dropped unheeded to his lap and there was a revolting gooey mess in the centre where his ice cream had disintegrated. Did I eat any of it? Oh god, what am I going to say to Starsky? He’s not going to let this go.

   "So where’d you go, Blondie? You gonna tell me about it?"

   A long pause ensued. Hutch struggled to gather his wits. A straightforward refusal would not go down well.

   "Hutch?"

   "There’s nothing to tell." Starsky looked unconvinced. Can’t say I blame you, buddy. "I was just thinking . . . how far we’ve come, stuff like that." Hutch aimed at a smile. "No big deal." Keep it vague. Don’t give him anything to latch onto.

   "Yeah, right." Starsky sat down on his heels and rested his chin on top of his hands, which still covered Hutch’s knees.

   "Look, Hutch, we’re going to make it you know. Stop worrying about the assessment. All these months you’ve been glued to my side, never a break. Why don’t you take some time off for yourself? I don’t need babysitting no more, pal. The Independent’s showing one of those god-awful trendy French films – all long silences and meaningful glances in black-and-white artistry. Go and see it. You know it’s not my kind of thing." He watched for Hutch’s reaction but he was holding himself still as stone, as unreadable as unreflecting dark water. "Go on, it’ll do you good for a change."

   Of course, Starsky was right and Hutch knew it. He had to go and find some place quiet to think. He needed to discover how he was going to deal with his paralysing fear and he couldn’t put off the attempt. Maybe not the cinema, but Starsky was offering him just what he needed, time alone.

   He sighed. He folded up the newspaper carefully so that the mess wouldn’t leak. "Yeah, sounds like a good idea. It’s just hitting me that the assessment’s really just a few days away. It seems so strange . . . Come on, let’s walk back and I’ll pick up my car."

   He was hugely relieved that Starsky said not a word on the way home but he did drape an arm round Hutch’s shoulders and keep it there. Hutch felt as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

********

   In the end he drove to the ocean. By the time he arrived, it was early evening and there were few people about. He stretched over to the glove compartment, rooted around through the junk and finally extracted a few sheets of paper. More excavation produced a biro. He tucked them into his jacket pocket. He walked slowly down onto the sand, bent to remove his shoes and socks and began walking steadily.

   It was not difficult to identify what he was afraid of. Any cop knows the streets are dangerous. Eventually luck runs out, even for those who appear to lead charmed lives. Hutch was getting older and that made it so much harder to retain his belief in immortality. He knew now with complete certainty that Starsky wasn’t immortal at all.

   He asked himself if he was afraid of his own death. No, he would deeply regret the pain it would cause Starsky but he wasn’t afraid of dying. Equally, he knew that he wasn’t eager to die. Life around Starsky was way too enjoyable even if it involved a certain cost: he wanted it to continue.

   He drifted to a halt. Forcefully he expelled a breath to clear his lungs, if not his head. He drew out the biro and slim wad of paper. He needed to set out all his options clearly. That would reveal to him how to deal with the fear. He took a death-grip on his belief that he would find a way and held it closely enough to his chest to throttle it.

   He divided the first sheet into three columns with neat freehand lines. Above the left one he wrote carefully "Actions", above the middle he wrote "Potential Consequences", above the right he wrote "Outcome". Pausing, pen hovering above the paper, he elected to start with the worst-case scenario. As he finished each new point, he neatly drew a horizontal line to divide them.

   Hutch sighed morosely. He knew he’d left out some important things. If he refused to go back on the streets with his partner, Starsky might imagine that he didn’t believe Starsky was good enough any more. He couldn’t allow that.

   No, it was really very simple. Scribbling on his sheet of paper had only been a delaying tactic.

   Starsky needed to return to his old job. Hutch had fought so fiercely over the past months to help bring it about – he couldn’t do anything now to jeopardise it. Neither of them wanted another partner. Part of the joy of the job was doing it together, no one else could provide that feeling of rightness.

   And deep down, Hutch knew that neither of them would be as safe with another partner. Both were used to automatic backup from the other, being able to read each other’s intentions without words. In another partnership, each would still instinctively expect that sort of backup in a fast-moving crisis – they’d relied on it for so many years so that it was now part of them. But if didn’t materialise when they expected it, that could all too easily be lethal.

   So it came down to conquering the fear. Writing anally neat lists wasn’t going to give him the key.

   He didn’t dare seek professional help. If he saw a police shrink, that would be the quickest way of ensuring that he didn’t work with Starsky until the problem was resolved – if ever again. He didn’t want that and he knew for a certainty that Starsky wouldn’t want it. Besides, as long as Starsk was desk bound, Hutch wouldn’t be endangering him.

   Nor would seeking help privately be easy. He didn’t want to worry his partner by explaining his problem. Not unless it became unavoidable in order to protect Starsky. And there was no way he could visit a therapist privately without him knowing something was up – they were never really apart.

   So . . . he had to find a way by himself. If he failed, he promised himself that, for Starsky’s safety, he would go for professional help. But only as a last resort.

   He folded the paper neatly and put it in his jacket pocket. He stood up, found he was stiff, stretched and walked down to the water’s edge. It was calm near the shore but when he raised his head, he could see foaming white horses further out. He kept going until the wavelets lapped his bare toes. Eyes closed, he stood immobile.

   His mind was quite blank. It was an uncomfortable feeling, creating a sensation akin to panic.

   He wasn’t sure why it should unnerve him so badly until he remembered a Spanish exam he’d sat, eons ago. He hadn’t thought about it in years. When he’d turned over the paper and scanned it eagerly, he’d been shocked silly to find that he couldn’t make sense of any of the words. He hadn’t been nervous about the exam; he’d confidently expected to find it easy. The letters metamorphosed into black random patterns in serried lines on white paper. It might as well have been Mandarin. He sat there stunned, on the verge of panic and running from the room to throw up. Then he’d taken control of himself, asserted enough discipline to stop himself from bolting, taken a deep breath and turned the paper back over so that it was face down again. He’d looked at the clock. He’d forced himself to sit calmly for five whole minutes, doing nothing but remind himself that he was good at Spanish. Then he’d flipped the paper over and looked a second time at the Spanish text. It now made perfect sense. He’d done extremely well, just as he’d anticipated.

   Cautiously, Hutch looked inside the cupboard where he’d stuffed his panic over Starsky. If he hadn’t imprisoned it effectively, he wouldn’t have been able to function in the traffic while driving. It now tried to come storming out. He slammed the door shut and bolted it for the moment.

   Another door creaked open unexpectedly and a long-buried memory emerged. His first time at the movies, accompanied by his mother and grandmother. He couldn’t remember how old he was – pre-school? It had been a disaster, at least in his mother’s eyes, and for him an emotional experience of searing intensity. He had been promised something pleasurable and had been appalled when it nearly broke his heart.

   In those days moviegoers expected two films for their money. Hutch couldn’t recall what the main feature was. The supporting movie had told a simple story about a young male seal, found by some children on a beach. He was badly injured so they took him home, tended him, bonded with him, grew to love him. A kindly adult let in on their secret explained that he must have been attacked by a larger, older male as they established their territorial boundaries.

   The summer passed by and eventually they realised, with adult guidance, that they could keep their seal as a pet no longer. He was fully restored to health and needed more than the safe bathtub they could offer. After much soul-searching, they took him back to the beach where they had found him so that he could return to his real life. They pushed him down onto the sands in a pram. Who uses a pram anymore? They lifted him out and watched him lumber into the waves, where he swam gracefully away into the sunset. The movie ended in a cloud of happy, emotional music.

   Hutch watched for a horrified moment then screamed at the top of his lungs. He sobbed and sobbed inconsolably. First his mother attempted to soothe him. Then she became angry. Hutch knew that he was embarrassing her by making a scene. Lots of heads were turning.

   His grandmother suggested quietly that they should leave the auditorium. His mother seized him by the elbow and half-dragged him out, hissing "Be quiet, Kenneth. I don’t know why you’re making such a noise but stop it right now. Whatever will people say? You wouldn’t want Mrs Wingate" (a neighbour from their road watching curiously with her daughter) "to think you’re a cry-baby, now would you?"

   Hutch didn’t care. He carried on screaming. His mother fell into tight-lipped silence, trying to subdue him with a basilisk stare. He ignored her.

   Then, in the red velvet foyer, his grandmother knelt down in front of him. "I’m sorry, Kenneth, but we don’t understand. It was a beautiful, happy movie. We thought you’d enjoy it. Please tell me, what made you cry?"

   Hutch looked at her in astonishment. How could people be so dumb? He was so taken aback by his relatives’ stupidity that he forgot to cry. The sobs subsided to painful hiccups. "Don’t you see?"

   "No, Kenneth, I don’t. See what? You’re going to have to tell me. I don’t understand what’s wrong."

   Kenneth loved his grandmother so he tried to explain: it wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand.

   "He went back to the sea . . ." He faltered, unsure how to put his pain into words and feeling more sobs ready to explode as he thought about what he had seen.

   "Yes, darling, but that was good. He was a seal, a wild animal. He couldn’t live in captivity, it wouldn’t have been fair on him. The children were going to miss him terribly but they did the right thing."

   "The right thing!" His voice rose alarmingly and he caught his mother’s furious stare. A deep breath: "Yes, of course they were going to miss him. That’s not the point. He was going to get killed." The adults looked completely mystified and exchanged baffled glances. He realised that they still didn’t understand. "The other seal. . . ."

   "What other seal?" his mother broke in crossly.

   He sighed in exasperation at her slowness. "The big seal, the one that hurt him before the movie began. He’s waiting out there somewhere. The ocean isn’t safe. He’ll find the young seal and fight him again and this time he’ll kill him. The children won’t be able to help him." He lost control completely, imagining the gaping, bloody wounds as the seal gasped his last, pain-filled breaths. His sobs were as piercing as ever.

   His mother was about to reprimand him when his grandmother quelled her with a glance. She folded him in her arms, comforted him, tried to convince him that the young seal was now older and stronger, he’d be able to beat the other one if it attacked him.

   Hutch listened politely, because he loved her. He calmed down sufficiently to eat the ice cream she bought him (his mother disapproved); he returned to his seat and dutifully watched the main feature.

   But he didn’t believe her. The fear he felt for the seal was like a stone on his chest. He knew what the outcome must be.

   It was a long time before his mother took him to the movies again.

********

   Hutch stared into the distance, while the wavelets sucked at the sand beneath his toes. He was glad the seal had swum into view again. Even though it was years since he had last remembered the film, the surge of terrible emotion that had overwhelmed him as a young boy was perfectly preserved.

   It seemed ironic that now, thirty years later, he should be equally tormented by a similar scene in his own life. Sure, Gunther might be behind bars but there were plenty of other big, powerful men who would want to hurt Starsky. And Hutch recognised quite clearly that try as he might, he couldn’t always stop them.

   So, he was back to the fear. Oh fuck, my jeans are wet! He needed to come up with a plan. And it had to be a good plan.

   All those years ago at the movies, he hadn’t really driven out the fear. But he had managed to force it out of sight and sit through the feature as if nothing earth shattering had happened. He’d done it because he loved his grandmother, pure and simple. She was upset because he was upset and he couldn’t bear that.

   And when he’d panicked in the exam, he’d recovered. He’d made the fear go away. He’d done it by self-control and discipline.

   Hutch sighed, knowing that the future was going to cost him. He’d found his answers. His plan had to work because he loved Starsky. He had to provide whatever Starsky needed. He had to forge his discipline together in layers like steel for a sword. In the months before Gunther, feeling tired, old and stale, he’d allowed his discipline and self-control to grow slack. Never again, he swore. The punishing routine of Starsky’s recovery had helped him recover those lost strengths. His task now was to hone them and hone them and hone them again, until they were a seamless part of his soul. He would succeed, because there was no alternative.

   Purposefully he turned round and strode back to his car.

********

   Starsky sailed through his assessment for a desk-job. LAPD was generous. (And Dobey fought like a tiger and schemed like a politician.) Hutch was assigned the same duties. They tended to be mechanical and left him time to construct with precision and love the shields he would need when their street life resumed. He never wasted an opportunity to work on them.

   He believed that Starsky was unaware he had a problem. Of course he knew that Hutch was a little nervous. That was, after all, normal. Starsky still had to pass his final assessment. Even though the doctors were thrilled with the completeness of his recovery and were predicting that he wouldn’t have to wait much longer, something might still go wrong.

   And when all was said and done, Starsky had nearly died. So Hutch thought he was entitled to exhibit some concern, provided he ensured that his overriding emotion on view was keen anticipation. He was surprised that Starsky was being so patient at putting in desk-time. He guessed that age and experience had matured some of the "Want it now, have it now!" attitude. He told Hutch he wanted to be sure he had to take the assessment only once, twice would look bad on his records, and he wouldn’t push the hospital to recommend it too soon against the doctors’ better judgement.

   One day Hutch was surprised when Starsky handed him a well-thumbed paperback. "Take it. You know Pete Fawley in Records? He gave me this when I was in the hospital. Didn’t want it back – said he’d bought himself a new copy."

   Hutch looked non-committal. It was some lurid-covered science-fiction novel. Not something he would choose to read. On the other hand, he could tell Starsky was keen and wasn’t going to be put off easily.

   "Go on, it’s really well written. It won’t hurt you. You’ll enjoy it, despite the cover. Just try it out, you won’t be able to put it down, promise." Starsky’s pleading indigo eyes burned the surface of his skin.

   If he could make Starsky happy by so small a sacrifice, he would. Perhaps not so small – it’s door-stop fat and really small print. He took it.

   Starsky had a date lined up with a secretary from another department that evening, so Hutch settled down with a beer on the couch. He expected to be bored. He wasn’t. Only a few pages in he experienced a sinking feeling. The young hero was stricken by acute fear and had to control it in potentially lethal circumstances. Coincidence, it has to be.

   He shut the book and thought hard, feeling slightly panicked. He longed to dismiss his suspicion but couldn’t. He knew that Starsky could be extraordinarily perceptive, especially where his partner was concerned. And he could be unexpectedly subtle: people tended to misjudge this quality, seeing only the brash surface. Hutch knew far better.

   The book was fat. He idly fanned the pages. Had Starsky given any hints previously? Had Starsky known what had hit Hutch in the park when the panic first struck? He tried to recall exactly what his partner had said.

   While thinking, he absently noticed that there were three or four slivers of paper marking various pages. He investigated them, starting at the back. He couldn’t find anything in the text to show why Starsky (or Fawley?) had inserted them.

   The final one, nearest the front, made him feel light-headed. A section in italics drew his eye. He knew then that his secret wasn’t a secret at all.

   The book dropped to his lap.

   After a while he began reading again. Starsk was sure to ask if he’d read it. He’d probably test him just to check Hutch wasn’t lying. To his surprise, he found it as enjoyable as his partner had promised.

********

   Next morning he sat tensely waiting for Starsky to pick him up. He’d been awake for hours, trapped in a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t face explaining what he’d been going through. But at the same time he detected an unmistakable glow of pleasure in being so thoroughly understood. He recognised that his inability to hide his emotions sprang from the depth of Starsky’s love for him. He was also scared: what if he could conceal nothing from his partner’s acute vision? He needed to keep some secrets, even from Starsky.

   Starsky was late and sounded his horn for Hutch to come straight down. He summoned his discipline, determined not to show how nervous he felt, and skipped lightly down the steps.

   Starsky leaned over to pull up the door catch. Hutch observed with detached approval the smoothness of his stretch. He sat down and slammed the door shut.

   "Morning," Starsky greeted him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

   "Yeah, morning. You’re ten minutes late, you know. I take it you had a good, long evening." Hutch reasoned that if he could deflect his partner long enough, it would be too public back at Metro to discuss the book and its implications.

   Starsky grinned, "Yeah, terrific!" The grin faded a little and took on some frown qualities. "Well, not so terrific."

   "So just okay?"

   "Yeah, just okay. Probably won’t bother to look her up again."

   "Pity. She’s a real stunner."

   "Yeah, just not such stunning company."

   Hutch ground to a halt. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask without prying. If he didn’t get a grip, he’d embarrass himself by demanding a blow-by-blow account of the evening’s sexual marathon, just to fill the time.

   Mercifully Starsky let the silence accumulate for a while, then he began to chatter about work, which required little more than grunts and monosyllables from Hutch in response.

   When Starsky parked the Torino at Metro and switched off the ignition, he thought he’d been let off the hook. He was reaching for the door handle when his partner stopped him dead.

   "So, did you read the book?" The tone was casual but the accompanying gaze was keenly speculative. Starsky had wriggled round sideways in his seat so that he faced Hutch.

   "Jesus, in one evening?" Hutch relented: "Yeah, I made a good start. You were right, it’s good. Wasn’t easy to put it down." He paused for a beat and felt brave. "He’s good on psychology."

   He saw Starsky’s gaze soften and the ghost of a smile.

   Silence fell. Hutch found he didn’t want to move. Starsky put one hand on his shoulder, one on his knee. Hutch could see he was working through how to say something. He sat mesmerised, both scared and eager to hear what it was.

   "Hutch, I’m gonna fix up that appointment today. It’s time for us to get out from behind those desks before we get glued to the furniture permanently. We’re both ready to go back."

   "Starsk, what makes you so certain?" Hutch breathed.

   "I just know, Blondie." He began rubbing the nape of Hutch’s neck. He leaned his head back into it and Starsky responded by rubbing harder. "You trust me, don’t you?" He didn’t wait for an answer. "I’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. It won’t be perfect, nothing ever is. You and me are both old to know that. But it will be ‘me and thee’. I can’t promise you it’ll be just the same as before. We’re both old enough to know that nothing’s ever the same. But it’ll be even better. We’ve both learnt a lot since my accident. We know what’s important, we know what we want. All that stuff before Gunther – Kira, whatever – it’s gone, Hutch. You’re not that person any more. We’ve been through the fire and we’ve come out purified . . ."

   He broke off, looking flushed. The fingers at Hutch’s neck stopped tangling in his hair. "Fuck, I’ve been eating too many of your books while I’ve been laid up."

   "It’s a disease you can catch from ingesting too many turgid SF sagas as well. Herbert would be proud of you," Hutch teased gently.

   "Well, you ready to make the appointment?" His face was quite still but Hutch detected the yearning in those deep blue eyes.

   "Yes, as soon as we get in." There, he’d said it.

   Starsky’s smile blazed brilliantly. "You’ll see, things will be fine."

   It was only when he was safely behind his desk that Hutch realised that the word "fear" had never been mentioned.

PART TWO