Ken Hutchinson sat as still as he possibly could, cursing the pain in his head which had begun to build up, nearly without warning. He reached up and gingerly massaged his forehead, and then a temple, in a vain attempt to lessen the sharp throb behind his eyes.

   The headaches had started appearing a few months ago. At first it had been a completely random occurrence, one here, one there, and no discernible pattern of which to speak. Within a few weeks, however, they had begun to come in twos and threes—a few miserable days where he was unable to ascertain where one ended and another began. After the third such set of less than perfect half-weeks, he’d been unceremoniously escorted to the infirmary by his partner, and, until now, best friend, David Starsky.

   Hutch was mortified. It was difficult enough for him to admit to anything less than perfect health on a good day, and this had certainly been a bad one. The headache had blindsided him between pages two and three of a case report, and the pain had become so intense so quickly, that he’d barely had time to grope for the trash can before he got sick.

   "That’s it, Hutch," Starsky had said, gently pushing his partner’s head down on the desk. "I’ll get rid of the trash can, and we’re goin’ downstairs to see the doc."

   Hutch had fully intended to protest, but as soon as he had opened his eyes, the room had begun to swim in swirling colors and blinding flashes, and he quickly closed them again, and nodded as much as he was able.

********

   "Migraine, Sergeant Hutchinson," the doctor had said. "And an absolutely classic one too."

   "Migraine?" Hutch had repeated, incredulous. "That’s nuts. Why would I all of a sudden start having migraines?" and he’d run his fingers along his mustache nervously, silently adding, "after all this time…"

   "Stress," the doctor replied, briskly. "Lack of sleep, frustration, illness, injury, pressure, burn out…you want me to go on?"

   "Oh come on…"

   "Hutch," Starsky interrupted. "You come on. Think of what we been through the last couple of months. It’s been awful, and neither one of us are dealin’ with it the way we usually do. Between you bein’ sick from that stupid soup, and getting’ shot, and all the shit we’ve been dealin’ with on the streets…a migraine doesn’t seem like that surprising of a thing to me."

   "You sound like you’re glad about this," Hutch accused, glaring at him.

   "I am," Starsky said simply, nearly limp with relief. "I thought it was a brain tumor and you were dyin’ on me." He squeezed Hutch’s shoulder lightly. "This, I can deal with." He narrowed his eyes at the doctor. "You’re sure it’s not a brain tumor, right?"

   "Positive," the doctor answered him. "The x rays are perfectly clear."

   "Okay," Starsky nodded. "So, um, what do we do about this?"

   "We don’t do anything, partner," Hutch cut in sharply. "I’ll deal with it, it’ll be fine."

   The doctor looked up from Hutch’s chart, where he’d been writing some notes for dictation. "Had migraines before, eh, Sergeant?"

   Hutch squirmed uncomfortably, and rubbed his eyes. "Um, a couple…in college, and right after…not for years, though."

   Starsky moved next to his partner and patted his shoulder lightly. "You never told me about that," he said.

   Hutch shrugged his shoulders. "They stopped, there didn’t seem to be a reason to."

   "What, uh…" began the doctor, "What did you do to treat them back then?"

   Hutch smiled sheepishly. "Mostly a dark room and a lot of aspirin."

   "But there are medications that really will help you, Sergeant, and they have certainly existed for years. Didn’t your doctor prescribe--"

   Hutch pushed himself off the examination table and picked up his jacket from the chair where he had tossed it. "I don’t like that stuff," he said firmly. "It makes me feel weird. Fuzzy."

   "Be that as it may," the doctor said, rising, "the fact is that your headaches seem to be occurring in clusters now. You’re experiencing the visual disturbances, and the nausea that we normally associate with these kinds of vascular events. The important thing is that you need to break the cycle, whether the medicines make you feel…‘fuzzy’…or not."

   "Okay," Hutch sighed. "Just… okay." He held up his hands hoping to forestall further discussion.

   "I don’t think it would hurt to look into the stressors that might be causing the headaches either," he added. "If some of the pressures are dealt with…well, you might find out that the headaches begin to abate, at least to some degree."

   "Whatever," he’d said brusquely, striding from the room, his footsteps nearly in sync with the pounding in his head, as Starsky trailed behind him pensively.

********

   So here he was, six weeks later. The medicine remained untouched in the bathroom cabinet, and it was a crummy Thursday night, nearly the end of another crummy week, and he was getting another crummy headache. He pushed his fingers against his forehead wearily, and cringed as he heard a car door slam out on the street. Starsky. It had to be.

   "Hey, Hutch," Starsky yelled, letting himself in the door. "I got Chinese, you hungry?"

   Hutch stood up as quickly as the throbbing in his head and neck would allow, and pasted on what he hoped would pass as a welcoming smile. "Hey," he said, with a wave. "Chinese, huh? Sounds great." He moved toward the kitchen. "I’ll see if I can dig up some forks."

   Starsky set the take out bags on the end table next to the couch. He moved closer to Hutch, and frowned at him in concern. "You’ve got another headache," he said, matter of factly.

   "No I don’t."

   "Yes you do," he insisted. "Because your face always gets this weird kind of rosy color and I can…Come on," he urged. "Sit down."

   "Starsky, cool it, I’m fine," Hutch said, feeling his face flush with irritation and embarrassment.

   "No you’re not. You need to lie down, and I’ll get your pills, and a cold cloth, we’ll—"

   "Starsky, stop it," Hutch said, as forcefully as his head would allow.

   "Hutch, come on, it’s only gonna get worse if you don’t…"

   "Starsky, stop it now," Hutch said, as a flash of anger washed over his body, followed immediately by a heave of nausea that refused to be denied. "Shit…" he murmured, lurching unsteadily to the bathroom. He tried to push the door shut behind him, felt the resistance of his partner’s body against the structure, and had no time to do anything about it as he blindly moved toward the toilet.

   Starsky’s cool hands, one on his forehead, one against the back of his head, dimly registered in his consciousness. He knew he should feel mortified, but somehow didn’t, and when the siege was finally over, straightened up slowly, leaning up against the sink as a wave of chills racked his sweat soaked body.

   Starsky backed him toward the bathtub, sitting him down on the edge of it. He draped a towel wordlessly around Hutch’s shaking shoulders, and ran a washcloth under warm water in the sink. Wringing it out, he soothed Hutch’s burning face with the damp cloth, and Hutch closed his eyes and allowed his partner to complete the ministration.

   "Bad one," Starsky observed, his voice as quiet as possible.

   Hutch shrugged his shoulders in mute acquiescence as Starsky reached up into the cabinet over the sink, pushing aside neat rows of vitamins and allergy medications until he found the small bottle he was looking for. Before Hutch knew what was happening, he was swallowing two of the detestable tablets, choking them down with the glass of cool water that Starsky held to his lips. He felt himself being tugged to his bed, and sank down gratefully, wanting only to bury his heavy head in the cool pillows and let sleep overtake the pain.

   "Okay for a minute?" Starsky asked him gently.

   "Mm," passed for an affirmative reply, and Hutch heard Starsky moving about the room, closing curtains, shutters, and covering up anything that might give off an offending streak of light, including the digital numbers on the alarm clock beside his bed.

   "You wanna get changed?"

   "Nnn…" Hutch was careful to move nothing, including his lips, for fear of anything that might exacerbate the pain.

   "Okay." Starsky eased him down and covered him lightly with a blanket from the end of the bed. "Close your eyes," he said, running a hand across Hutch’s forehead. "You’ll feel better."

   Starsky moved out to the kitchen and grabbed a fork, then picked up the Chinese take-out bag. He selected a book from Hutch’s bookcase and headed to the greenhouse, where he ate, and read, and tried to relax. It was unsettling to see his partner like this, even if he was pretty sure he understood the reasons. This whole bit with the headaches was so incredibly different from their usual bouts with physical infirmity—usually, he thought, it’s one of us getting hurt on the job, or seeing the other one through a bout with the flu, or a hangover or something, but this…

   The headaches were quite real, Starsky was well aware of that. He had gotten pretty good at predicting their arrival too, he realized, although it always seemed to him that Hutch was taken by surprise when one hit—a fact which Starsky found odd. He was also aware that to his partner the headaches represented some kind of failure to cope, which was just stupid, and Starsky shook his head thinking that there were days when the very complex Ken Hutchinson was a psychologist’s dream.

   Although he’d looked forward to dinner, the food was tasteless, and the book boring, so he soon abandoned them, and went to check on Hutch. He looked down at the troubled blond, the nearly palpable tension dripping from his reclining frame even in quasi-slumber. "How you doing?" he asked quietly.

   "I’m fine," Hutch said coldly. "Go home."

   "You’re not fine, and no," Starsky replied. "You want a cold cloth or something?"

   "I don’t want anything," Hutch’s voice was peevish. "Except to be left alone. Go home," he repeated.

   Starsky shook his head, not angry in the least, because he knew that on days like today, Hutch was his own worst enemy. "Okay," he said, although he had absolutely no intention of leaving. "Call me when you get up?"

   "Fine," Hutch said shortly.

   Starsky moved back toward the greenhouse, wondering just what in the hell it was going to take to get through to his partner. He settled down and finished his dinner, even managing to get involved in the book so that two hours had passed without his being aware. He yawned and stretched, standing awkwardly, and went to check on his partner.

   Hutch lay mostly as he had left him, although he’d turned from his back to one side. His breathing was deep and even, and the furrow between his brows had gentled some in sleep.

   "I don’t know what to do for you, Hutch," Starsky thought, looking down at him. "I don’t know how to take it away, or how to make it better. I wish I could." He reached down and pulled the blanket up a little higher on Hutch’s lanky frame, then sank down to the floor, back resting gratefully against the side of the bed. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, thinking to rest, and to keep watch, and banish the demons from this place for just one night.

********

   As the gray light of dawn began to filter through the window, Starsky awoke, back still straight against the side of the bed, immediately cataloguing the soreness in his back from sleeping sitting up on the floor. His sleepy half consciousness registered fingers working lightly through his hair, and he realized that Hutch had draped his hand over the side of the bed. The deliberate movements told him that his partner was finally awake. Starsky yawned and rubbed his eyes, shifting slightly so he was facing the bed.

   "Still here, huh?" Hutch asked, his voice shy and gentle.

   "Too tired to drive home," he answered. "How’s the head?"

   "Seems to be attached," Hutch answered in a sleep-scratchy voice. "Unfortunately."

   "Pain any better at all?"

   "Yeah, actually, it is," Hutch admitted, "Down to a dull throb now, so…"

   "Okay."

   "Starsk?" Hutch ventured, his fingers stilling.

   "Yeah?"

   "I’m sorry."

   "For what?" Starsky asked, although he already knew.

   "Snapping at you. I know you were trying to help."

   Starsky reached up and patted him on the arm. "It’s okay, Blintz," he assured the blond, forgiveness and affection flowing through his voice like honey. He allowed himself a small smile. "You sure are cranky, though."

   Hutch chuckled softly. "I know. And I take it out on you because…because…"

   "Because you can," Starsky said firmly. "It’s okay."

   Hutch pulled his hand back from Starsky’s head, and draped the arm across his own eyes. "I don’t know why all of a sudden I’m like this," he tried to explain. "Why everything is so different the last couple of months…it’s work, I mean, mostly, it’s not you, just…"

   "I do understand," Starsky assured him, "because it’s the same for me. After we went through all that with Lionel and Allison and all, things don’t fall into place the way they used to, do they?"

   "No they don’t," Hutch agreed. "But you don’t ever…"

   "I just deal with it in a different way is all," Starsky said, rubbing his eyes. "When a bunch of things happen the way they have over the last few months…I wonder…well, I guess I wonder what’s wrong with the world. I think that you, on the other hand, wonder what’s wrong with you."

   Hutch nodded again, as if it suddenly made perfect sense. "That’s a pretty good assessment," he acknowledged. "But I’ve been doing that all my life. I don’t know how to not do it."

   "You know what, Bronco?"

   "What?"

   "There’s nothin’ wrong with you."

   "You sure about that?"

   "More than sure," Starsky affirmed. He sighed. "But I guess what I still don’t understand…is why that makes you angry with me."

   "I’m not angry with you…I’m…" Hutch hesitated.

   "You’re what?" his partner pressed.

   "I’m angry with me. Because I can’t seem to cope sometimes, and it’s just…" Hutch ran a hand across his tousled hair. "Then I take it out on you because sometimes I…I’m not sure where I end…and you…begin, and I…"

   "Okay…" Starsky soothed, smoothing back damp blond hair from the still flushed forehead. "Okay…" He sighed, wondering exactly what it was that made Hutch so angry at all.

   "I’m angry because…" Hutch closed his eyes, speaking in a dull monotone. "Nothing’s the way it used to be, you know? Like, all of our passion for the job, our ideals, they’ve all…" His eyes slitted open, and his gaze shifted to Starsky. "We don’t make a difference anymore, we don’t change anything, we keep plugging along, day after day, year after year, and the bad guys keep coming…and…" his voice, now laced with emotion, was softer, "the good guys keep turning bad."

   Starsky nodded, understanding. "Do you think we ever did?" he asked.

   "Did what?"

   "Made a difference?"

   "I don’t know anymore," Hutch answered. "I just don’t…"

   "I think," Starsky said, sighing heavily. "I think we’re making as much difference as we always have. We don’t win the big battles, Hutch, but honestly, I don’t think we ever did. No one could." He grinned down at his partner. "I think we were egotistical enough, years ago, to believe we were, maybe."

   Hutch nodded slightly. "Maybe."

   "I just think that maybe…" Starsky mused, "maybe…we’re growing up. Finally."

   A slight smile tugged at the corner of Hutch’s mustache. "You?" he asked. "Never."

   "Thank God," Starsky laughed. He rose from the floor and stretched stiffly. "So what do you think, huh? You want me to call you in sick today?"

   Hutch sat up slowly, testing the reaction of his head to the movement. "No, I…" he flexed his neck. "I think I’m okay. Between the pills and the um…" he smiled quickly, "…the pep talk…I feel pretty good."

   "I’ll make us some coffee," Starsky offered. "While you get ready. Oh shit," he said, "Isn’t today the day they start painting the squad room?"

   "Yeah, you’re right," Hutch groaned. "God, all that mess… we’d better think of something good to do to make the day go faster, huh?" Suddenly he grinned. "Got it!" He moved to the closet and pulled down two ping pong paddles and a ball from the top shelf.

   "You’re on," Starsky nodded approvingly. "Um…winner buys…winner buys…"

   "Three course meal, restaurant of choice," Hutch suggested. "How’s that sound?"

   "Terrific," Starsky agreed.

   "Hey, Starsk?" Hutch moved toward him.

   "Hm?" Starsky answered, already planning some choice table tennis moves, his mouth watering for the steak and lobster he planned to hold his partner to.

   Hutch pulled him into a quick but fierce hug. "Thank you. You’re always…just…" he squeezed tighter. "Thanks," he whispered.

   Starsky returned the hug. "You’re welcome." Pushing Hutch away he looked into his eyes seriously. "Hey, you know what?"

   "What?"

   "While we’re playin’," he reached out and pulled one of the ping pong paddles from Hutch’s hand. "We can do song lyrics, okay?"

   Hutch grinned widely, flashing the brilliant smile that Starsky had not seen in quite some time. "You want to add ‘Name That Tune’ in there, fine," he said, "and since I’m the one with the musical proclivities, there’s this terrific Indian Japanese Indonesian Organic restaurant that just opened up in Century City, we could…"

   Starsky swatted him on the arm with the ping pong paddle. "In your dreams, Blintz," he said, moving from the room with a laugh.

   "Yup," Starsky thought, strutting happily toward the kitchen, "We’re all right now, everything’s gonna be great."

THE END