Reggie

   The first set of directions led Hutch to a greasy-spoon all-night diner with the sort of menu that would have thrilled Starsky's cast-iron stomach a couple of years ago. The phone was already ringing when he walked in, and he had to sprint across the room to grab it before the lone waitress - who looked at him like she wanted to call a cop before he flashed his badge at her - did. He was panting so hard when he picked up the phone that he couldn't speak, even to say "hello," but she apparently knew that it was him anyway, and exchanging pleasantries wasn't really the point. He held his breath and listened, not wanting to miss anything that might be important just because his lungs felt like they might implode.

   The details she gave this time were equally as intricate as the first set; half of him was impressed that she was so thorough, half just pissed off that he was being sent through the too-familiar motions of this game, with no guarantee of the outcome. "Wait," he said, finally, when she stopped talking. "Look, before I do anything, I want to know if he's alive. We both know that I'm walking into your trap, and frankly, I don't really give a damn about that. But if I find out that my partner has been dead through all of this, I can promise you one thing, lady - I go down, and

   I'm taking you down with me."

   He worried that he'd pushed too far and she'd leave him hanging, take Starsky and he'd never see him again, alive or dead. He didn't have anything to bargain with, nothing but a bluff hand that wouldn't get him anywhere. He held his breath and then he heard it - so muffled and indistinct that he wasn't really sure, after the line went dead, that he wasn't imagining things.

   "Hutch?"

   It was so slurred that it came out sounding more like "hush," as if spoken by someone with a mouth full of marbles and broken teeth. It was also so indistinct and fleeting that it could have been anyone just playing with his mind - except for the fact that it reminded him of another late-night phone call, another time his partner hadn't been able to say anything into the phone except his name.

   That, and "help."

   The line went dead before he could respond, and he stood there looking at the receiver in his hand with sorrow and accusation for two or three minutes before he finally hung it up. He collapsed onto a vinyl seat and rested his elbows on the slick surface of the counter, covering his eyes with his hands. He wanted to rest, but realized he didn't have time and it didn't really matter what he wanted right now, anyway. He patted all his pockets until he found his notepad and jotted down the new directions he'd been given, hoping that he could find the place; it sounded way the hell out in the middle of nowhere. When he turned around, the waitress was standing behind him, frowning.

   "You really a cop?" she asked, suspiciously. She was a stocky older woman with a worn face and hair the colour of the dishwater in the sink behind her. Hutch nodded. "Somethin' happen to your partner?"

   "Yeah," he said, wearily.

   "When's the last time you ate?"

   He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know."

   "You should have somethin'," she said. "You're not gonna do him any good f'you collapse."

   "I've got to go - "

   "Take this with you." She poured a styrofoam cup of coffee and put a plastic lid on it, then took a donut out of a tray and put them both into his hands. He balanced the two in one hand as he reached for his wallet, but she waved him off. "Go on," she said. "Help your partner."

   The donut was obviously from yesterday's batch, but the sugar rush chased by a jolt of caffeine helped keep his eyes open as he drove out of the city. The road he traveled down became progressively less busy, changing from four lanes to two, and it was fifteen minutes since he'd seen another car when he finally came to the turn off he'd been told to take. From there, he drove another three miles on a dirt road he was sure was taking him to the ends of the earth.

   "And isn't that how far I'm supposed to go, Starsk?" he said to himself. He finally stopped at what looked like a deserted shack.

   First impressions turned out to be accurate, and he groaned when he opened the front door and was greeted by a room that was empty, save for a wooden chair and a ringing telephone. So much for this being the end of the wild goose chase.

   "Yeah?" He listened a moment. "You'll have to pardon me for the impolite greeting," he said, sarcastically. "It's just that it's the middle of the night, I haven't slept in three days, and I'm being jerked around by - " She cut him off, abruptly, and he shut up and listened. "Yes," he said.

   "Yeah. I'll be there. Yeah, you're the boss, and I'll go wherever you want, do whatever you want." He nodded, listening to her give directions for the next leg of the trip. "Yeah, I know where that is. I'll be there."

   The phone cut off, and he hung it up, rubbing his hands over his eyes and through his hair. He thought a moment about calling in to the Station; he was crazy for thinking that he could or even should do this on his own. Chances were, Starsky was already dead and his mind was just playing tricks on him by thinking it had been him on the phone earlier. Chances were, he'd be dead in another couple of hours, too - hardly Butch and Sundance going down in a hail of bullets. Only, that wasn't what this felt like; a simple death would be as easy as picking either one of them off in the line of duty, like Prudholm tried to do, or setting up a neat and tidy ambush in broad daylight, like Gunther. Even Forest's hateful abduction at least had some point to it; this felt more like a game played for the game's sake. He was a piece on the board, and so was Starsky, and someone was manipulating their positions. Roll the dice, and move forward three spaces, then two back. "Don't pass go, don't collect two hundred dollars."

   He looked at the notepad, trying to calculate how long it would take him to get to the next checkpoint. He wished that Merle had been able to give him something else to drive; the light green VW van handled like a three-wheeled shopping cart and was about as inconspicuous as an elephant at a ballet recital - but he was lucky to get anything in trade for the Torino, after it took ten minutes just to get the grumpy mechanic out of bed. Even then, Merle had insisted that he park the Tomato out back, telling him he didn't want the "cheap-ass stripe job" to reflect badly upon his legitimate business. No doubt the Captain and half the department was after him by now; they'd probably found the car and were pumping Merle for information that he didn't have, and it was only a matter of time before an APB went out for this van.

   He thought about calling Huggy to let him know what was going on, but decided against even that. Huggy could be trusted in almost any situation, but if Dobey got to him and convinced him that spilling what he knew might mean the difference between life and death for either him or Starsky, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

   "No," Hutch said to himself, as he walked back to the van and started it up. "It's just you and me, partner. We go down, we go down together. Not like the last time." The motor coughed into life, and he pulled back out onto the dirt road - hoping that the next stop would be the last, no matter what that might mean.

********

   you came along when I needed a savior
   someone to pull me through somehow
   I've been torn apart so many times
   I've been hurt so many times before
   so I'm counting on you now

********

   The house was large, surrounded by a wire fence that seemed to encompass a whole lot of nothing; it might have been a farm at one time, but nobody was working this land, or had for a long time. The sun was coming up by the time he finally stopped the van at the end of the lane, and he just sat there for a while. He felt like he was wrapped up in blankets, thick and tired and sluggish. His reflexes were shot to hell, and the caffeine and sugar rush had turned into a pretty fine headache. He should have a plan - they always had plans, and even when it was one of them playing Lone Ranger to go after the other, there was usually something that could laughingly be referred to as a plan once it was all over - backup, an escape route marked out, some crazy-ass scheme that shouldn't work but did anyway, but felt like just going in and giving up. Or maybe that was the plan. All attempts planning had seem to go by the wayside after Gunther; it was like they both just figured out that there was no way to plan for life. Certainly, this entire exercise in futility reinforced that, if nothing else. The idea that they once were or could ever be white knights was tarnished and nearly gone.

   The thing was, he'd gone back to it because he thought Starsky had wanted to; the thought never occurred to him that maybe Starsky had gone back to it for the same reason - because he thought Hutch wanted to. It wasn't the same as it had been, but the partnership itself was enough to endure a lot of things over. He'd told himself for so long that he couldn't have that kind of partnership with anyone but Starsky that he really believed it was true; up until a few months ago the idea that he could have any other sort of partnership with Starsky had never even crossed his mind. Now, he had so much knowledge inside him that it hadn't led to anything but more questions.

   Nobody came out to greet him or even appeared at any of the windows; the security was either really lax or nonexistent or they knew they had him by the short-hairs so it didn't really matter one way or the other. He sat for another minute before finally opening up the door of the van and walking right up to the front porch of the house. He paused with his hand raised to knock, then realized how ridiculous it was to wait to be invited in to a kidnapper's house. "I'm too tired for this," he said to himself.

   The hinges on the screen door were too loose, and it banged loudly against the wall when he tried the front door. It was unlocked, of course; the interior of this house was furnished, at least, but he couldn't see anyone. There was a set of stairs in front of him, a shabby-looking parlour to the left and probably a kitchen in the back. He held his gun in his hand as he prowled forward, peeking around corners in search of anything or anyone that might lead him to Starsky.

   He made it all the way to the kitchen before the blunt edge of a rifle poked him unceremoniously in the back. "You're not going to need that," a gruff voice said, taking the Magnum from his raised hands. "She's upstairs."

   "Who is?"

   "The tooth fairy," came a sarcastic reply. "The party you came to see. And your friend, too. They been waiting for you."

   Hutch turned around, his hands still raised. This guy looked like what he should have been expecting in a bad guy, but wasn't - your typical thick-necked muscle-bound goon. He was barely as tall as Hutch, but outweighed him by a good fifty pounds of muscle, and the gun in his hands suddenly seemed like overkill, to coin a phrase.

   "You going to need that?" Hutch asked, nodding at the rifle.

   "Depends," Mr. Muscle said. "You planning on being cute?"

   He honestly couldn't help the smile that came to his lips; he was just too tired and it was too obvious not to acknowledge. "No," he finally said. "No plan for cuteness from me."

   "Get going, then. First door on the left." Hutch started back down the hallway towards the stairs, only to have Charles Atlas yell back at him, "You'd better knock first. She's the nervous type. Doesn't like surprises."

   "I'm sure she doesn't," Hutch said, under his breath.

   The house was like something out of an old book he'd read - "Great Expectations," maybe. It was large and had obviously been nice, once, but everything in it was worn and shabby and a couple of decades out of date. He wondered if he'd find an old woman in a tattered wedding dress behind door number one; somehow, he suspected not. It was ludicrous for him to be unarmed and walking into nothing that he knew, but - what? Did it even matter? Starsky was either alive or dead. If he was alive, there would be time to figure out a plan on the fly. If he was dead - If he was dead, then Hutch wouldn't really care what happened to him after he opened up the door.

   He just barely remembered to knock.

   The phone-line voice came out to him, clearer through the door. "Bruno? I told you, don't bother me until he comes."

   Hutch tried to speak, but nothing came out the first time. He coughed and tried again. "It's not Bruno," he said, finally, and the door was opened.

********

   somebody already broke my heart
   somebody already broke my heart

********

   He was standing against the east window, hands raised and the sun coming up behind him; dust danced around in the room, floating over the walls that were uniformly wallpapered with dozens and dozens of photos - colour, and black and white, row after row of surveillance photos of nothing but David Michael Starsky. It was bizarre, like a museum exhibit or a shrine, a grotesque sort of tribute to the man. It might have been flattering, except for the fact that it was creepy and deeply frightening.

   Starsky was in a wooden chair in the corner, bound and gagged and blinking at him - like he either wanted to say something in the morse code blinking of his eyes or was just trying to convince himself that Hutch was really here and they were now in the same boat together, as if that was better than being here alone. Whatever it was those eyes were trying to say, what Hutch read in them was danger, danger.

   She was small - tiny, even, and seemed like the type who could be easily broken - blonde, and he might have called her pretty if it wasn't for the fact that she was plainly both delusional and volatile, liable to go off at any moment and take either or both of them down. Nobody had introduced themselves when he walked in, since it was obvious that she knew both of them - intimately - already. He couldn't place her at all, either from his past or from his partner's, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The only thing that really meant anything at the moment was the fact that Starsky was alive and that his kidnapper had a gun pointed straight at Hutch's chest - aimed right at the heart. Hutch found it apt, somehow.

   He stole a glance at his partner, put a wordless question into it, and received in return a tiny shake of the head. He was distracted away from Starsky's eyes by their hostess's words.

   "You know what the worst part is?" She spoke to him like they'd been having this conversation for a long time, and from the look on Starsky's face, Hutch guessed that she had, at least, and that it didn't really matter that he was coming in on the middle of it. When he didn't answer, the silence stretched out. "You think you love him," she said, finally. "You're as bad as he is. Don't you see? It's wrong. You can't love him like I do. And he's convinced himself that he loves you, but he doesn't, not really. If it wasn't for you, everything would be fine. All he needs to do is get away from you once and for all, forget about you, and then it will all be the way it's supposed to be. We'll be together." She waved the gun and Hutch held his breath, arms still raised. "I've got all of this to give him, and more. What can you give him, huh? Nothing. You've never given him anything, have you?" When he didn't answer, she repeated, a little more vehemently and pointing the gun straight at him, releasing the safety as she did so. "Have you?"

   "No," Hutch said, shaking his head. "I've never given him anything." He said it to mollify her, to keep her talking, to distract her from the gun in her hands. And he said it because he was starting to believe that it was true.

   "Except grief. And pain." She raised her chin, and aimed the gun a little straighter in her hands. Over her shoulder, Hutch saw Starsky's eyes widen in panic, watched him struggle against his bonds, then re-focused his attention on the unbalanced woman in front of him. "You couldn't even save his life when he got shot," she continued. "You weren't even there in the hospital when he died, but I was. I kept him alive. If it had been up to you, he would have died. And he'll just keep on dying if he stays with you. I tried to tell him that it didn't have to be like this, but he wouldn't believe me." She shook her head, disgusted. "He said he'd stay away from you, go away with me, but I know him. You're like a disease, and you're not that easy to just get rid of. You have to be destroyed."

   Starsky was looking back and forth between them; whoever had tied him up had done a good job - probably Bruno the Bruiser downstairs - and he wasn't any closer to being of any help in this little scenario than Hutch felt like he himself was.

   "I asked him, but he's biased. I didn't like his answers. So, now I'll ask you." She licked her lips before she continued; he watched the tip of her tongue slide out and back. "Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you?"

   He should have had something to say about it - or something more should have come to mind, at least. There was a bargain in the back of his mind that he'd never expected to go this far, but even that wasn't primary in his thoughts. He should have had some answer to this question that made sense to him, some justification for his life continuing on past the next few minutes for some reason other than habit, but he couldn't think of one. She was right; after all these years of cleaning up the streets and putting away the bad guys and holding himself to a higher standard and pretending any of it really mattered, all it really came down to in the end was a dusty room in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and the fact that he was the disease that had slowly infected his partner's life.

   "No," he said, with a shake of his head. "I can't."

   Hutch wasn't entirely sure whether he hit the floor before or after the gun went off; he didn't feel any pain, but he hadn't felt any right away when he got shot in the shoulder, either. It was only afterwards when the adrenaline wore off that it started to hurt like a son of a bitch. Everything felt so wrong anyway that he wasn't sure what specifically had happened, or even if he was dead; nothing sounded right and the light in the room hurt his eyes.

   But he heard the struggle and the pounding at the door and knew that was the bruiser-accomplice, brought by the sound of the gun to come and help his mistress. Starsky was still tied in the chair but it was now sprawled across the floor on top of the blonde woman, and Hutch scrambled to his feet in time to rip open the door and throw himself at the massive form of Bruno, hard enough to knock the gun out of his hands and tumble him over backwards, then fell with him down the stairs, going over and over until they reached the landing. Hutch landed on top, and when his fist connected solidly with a jawbone and that registered as pain, it was only then that he realized that he hadn't been shot. He rolled off of the now-unconscious man and picked up his own gun from the floor, and climbed back up to the bedroom.

********

   here I am
   so don't leave me stranded
   on the end of a line
   hanging on the edge of a lie

********

   Starsky was still on top of her even though the gun had been knocked away when he lunged, chair and all, at her legs to keep her from shooting Hutch in the heart. Hutch picked up the gun and pocketed it, and then helped right Starsky and the chair. He ignored the now-sobbing woman completely, in favour of pulling away Starsky's gag. "You couldn't have done that two days ago?"

   Starsky frowned, then snorted. "I would've," he said, spitting lint from his mouth, "but I needed you here to take care of Conan for me. Didn't want to have all the fun myself."

   "Ah," Hutch said, and started to work on the ropes around Starsky's wrists. "Jesus, these are tight."

   "No kidding? Hurry up, wouldja, before my hands fall off. Been tied up for ten, twelve hours."

   "You've been gone for three days."

   "Didn't need to tie me up before then. They knocked me out, like last time. I only came to, maybe yesterday mornin'. We were still in the city. They tied me up, threw me in the back of a van, and drove out here."

   Hutch worked the knots, and nodded over at the blonde, who had wrapped her arms tightly around herself and was rocking back and forth on the floor. "I can't place her. Who is she?"

   "Her name's Mary, don't know what her last name is. Apparently, she used to be a nurse's aide until about a year ago. She worked the ICU when I got shot."

   Hutch frowned, staring at her face, trying to picture her dressed in nurse whites with neat hair tucked under a cap. "And here I thought I knew all of your nurses intimately."

   Starsky grimaced, and Hutch grinned. "She wasn't one of mine," he said. "At least, not regularly. She was on the emergency team when I - when they brought me back. I guess after that happened she kinda fixated on me."

   "No kidding. I don't think your mom has this many pictures of you." Hutch finally managed to free the ropes wound around Starsky's arms, and started to gently rub circulation back into his hands. The ropes had chafed against the wrists, but although darkly bruised, the skin wasn't broken anywhere.

   "She saw herself as my guardian angel, and convinced herself that we were meant for each other," Starsky continued. "I never even talked to her, she never called me up or anything. She just watched me, for the last two years, and worked this whole thing up in her mind - that we were involved, that I loved her, that she loved me, an' we were gonna live happily ever after." He shivered.

   "Why the blackmail?" Hutch asked, and then voiced what he really wanted to know. "Why that blackmail?"

   "She had me under surveillance, takin' pictures, followin' me," Starsky said. "My guard was down. She trailed me everywhere, an' - well, let's just say that she saw some things that she probably shouldn't have." He shrugged. "She said she didn't want to hurt me, she was just tryin' to get me out of the Force, an' away from you. She wanted to threaten me just enough so that I'd resign rather than risk bein' exposed, and then ruin what we had by makin' me tell you the truth about my life."

   "And she'd be there to pick up the pieces," Hutch said.

   Starsky laughed. "I guess she figured that was the only way I'd be desperate enough to want her."

   "That explains why she took you that weekend, but what about me? Why take me, too - and why take those photos? She obviously hated me."

   "She was jealous of you, but I think she just took you so you wouldn't go lookin' for me, babe." Starsky shrugged. "And, she thought she could use the threat against you to get me to agree to stay away from you. Only, that wasn't enough for her anymore - she wanted you dead." He smiled at Hutch. "They feel better, now."

   "What?"

   "My hands," Starsky said, gently removing his hands from Hutch's, who had been rubbing them all this time. He bent over to undo the ropes around his feet.

   "Oh, yeah," Hutch said.

   "You should call Dobey. He's prob'ly breathin' fire by now, over you givin' them the slip."

   "Yeah," Hutch sighed. "I'm really looking forward to talking to him."

   "They'll want to know I'm okay," Starsky said. "That we both are. Besides, we need somebody to come and take away the two of them." He pulled away the last rope, and stood up, nearly collapsing as soon as he did so, his legs numb from spending so much time in one position.

   Hutch reached over to steady him, and that brought the incoherent Mary back to life, full force and mad as a wet cat. She snarled, "Get your hands off of him!" and lunged forward, her hands and fingernails outstretched like claws as she went straight for Hutch's face.

   Starsky tripped her before she had a chance to lay a hand on Hutch, and she went sprawling on the floor again. "You got cuffs?" he asked.

   "Yeah."

   "You'd better use 'em on her. Either that, or some of this rope. I've gotta get out of this room. It's givin' me the creeps." He walked, somewhat unsteadily, over to the doorway, then paused. "Where's the Hulk?"

   "Out cold on the landing," Hutch said. He hauled Nurse Mary to her feet and propelled her forward to the door.

   Starsky smiled. "See, what'd I tell you? I knew you could take care of him, partner."

   Hutch snorted, and followed him downstairs in search of a phone.

********

   I've been torn apart so many times
   I've been hurt so many times before
   so be careful and be kind

********

   "Mary Louise Anderson." Dobey slapped the file down on his desk. "No priors, no history of violent behavior, no record of anything, not even jaywalking. The most interesting thing we could find out about her was her nursing certificate and a glowing reference letter from her supervisor at the hospital, and the three boxes of photos that we pulled out of that farmhouse of you, Starsky.

   Unless her little friend and loyal bodyguard whatshisname - "

   "Bruno," Starsky said, absently.

   "Yeah, Bruno - unless he gets smart and starts opening up about her known associates, we aren't going to find out the big picture anytime soon. Maybe never."

   "The rest of the outfit was probably just hired guns she picked up along the way. She took most of the pictures I saw herself - I'm sure she just hired some extra talent for me 'n Hutch's 'lost weekend,'" Starsky said.

   "That's not quite all we know right now," Hutch said. He was leaning against the door, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a different file in the other. "According to this, she also has a family history of mental instability. Her mother killed herself when she was six, her father disappeared a couple years later, and she's got an older brother who's spent most of the last ten years in and out of prison and various mental hospitals. She was made a ward of the State when she was ten, and shuttled through half a dozen foster homes by the time she was eighteen."

   Starsky whistled. "That's more than enough to drive anyone around the bend," he said.

   Dobey frowned. "Where'd you get that file?"

   "I had a friend of mine run her name through Children's Services, and she sent it over," Hutch said.

   "I thought those files were supposed to be sealed," Dobey said.

   Hutch shrugged. "She owed me a favour."

   Starsky yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. "As fascinatin' as all of this is, can the paperwork wait a while? Like, maybe a week or two? I think I could prob'ly sleep that long - what about you, partner? You look like hell."

   "Thanks," Hutch said, ironically.

   "You're welcome," Starsky grinned.

   "Go on, get out of here," Dobey said. "I'm gonna be compassionate and give both of you two days off - and then I expect both of you to get your butts back here and spend the next two weeks cleaning up all the paperwork you owe me! And I don't just mean from this case - I mean from every case you've worked in the last six months!"

   "Gee, thanks, Cap," Starsky said, meekly.

   "That's very generous of you," Hutch added.

   "Be thankful I'm not making you take a refresher course at the Academy on the effective use of backup," Dobey grumbled. "You both could have gotten killed out there - "

   "But we didn't," Starsky pointed out.

   "And nobody else did, either," Hutch added.

   "And we did finally solve this case - even if we never really know why, we at least know who."

   "All right, all right, get out of here, already. I'm tired of being tag-teamed with double-talk by the two of you." Starsky stood up and Hutch opened the door to let him pass. "And Hutchinson!" he bellowed, before Hutch managed to escape.

   "Yes, Cap?"

   "Good work."

   Hutch smiled. "Thank you, Cap'n."

   "And if you ever do anything like that again, I'm personally going to chain you to your desk for a year! Understood?"

   The smile had quickly turned to a grimace. "Yes, sir," Hutch said, realizing that he was getting off easy.

   "Good. Now get out of my sight."

   Starsky was waiting by the water cooler. "So, where's my car, anyway?"

   "Uh, why?"

   "Because I'm not riding around any longer than I have to in that modified tin can you been drivin'. Where'd you get it, anyway?"

   "Well, it's kind of a long story, Starsk. Why don't we take a drive over to Merle's, and I'll tell you all about it."

   "I don't want to go to Merle's," Starsky said, half-yawn, half-whine. "I want to go home. I'm tired, Hutch. Just tell me where you parked my car, okay? I'll drive us, and you can leave that eyesore here. Maybe you'll be lucky and it'll get towed - or stolen."

   "Your car's at Merle's. I traded it for the van."

   After a beat, Starsky started to laugh. "Funny, Hutch. Sick, but funny. Now, where's my car really?"

   Hutch laughed, a little, but didn't say anything.

   Realization slowly dawning on him that maybe Hutch wasn't kidding, Starsky stared at him, incredulous. "You're telling me you traded Merle my beautiful car for that lime-green hunk of junk?"

   "Temporarily. I had to go find you, and I needed something that would be inconspicuous. Something nobody would know I was driving," Hutch amended, quickly. "Come on. We'll take the van back to Merle's, and get your car."

   Starsky was still acting shell-shocked. "You traded my car? My Torino? For that - "

   "Starsky," Hutch said, taking his arm and leading him down the hallway. "It'll be fine. I'm sure he hasn't even had time to sell it yet. He's only been open, what? Six hours?"

   "My car? My car?"

********

   somebody already broke my heart
   if someone has to lose, I don't want to play
   somebody already broke my heart
   no, no I can't go there again

********

   Hutch was less surprised than he thought he should have been when Starsky drove them both back to his own place after picking up his 'baby' at Merle's - much relieved that it was still there and in one piece. They hadn't said much during the drive; after Starsky stopped threatening his life if he ever dared do anything to his car again, they didn't say anything at all. Even after he shut the motor off in the driveway, neither one of them made a move to get out of the car.

   "I should go home," Hutch said, staring blindly out the windshield at the familiar house in front of him. Starsky didn't reply, but Hutch could feel the other man's eyes staring holes into the side of his head. "Starsk - " he sighed, resigned to having this conversation that he didn't really want to have anyway, but especially not right here and right now. Starsky wasn't listening to him, though, having already gotten out of the car. Hutch continued to sit there, until the passenger door opened.

   "Get up," Starsky said. When Hutch still made no move, Starsky grabbed his arm and pulled him from the car. "Come on." He shut the car door and pushed Hutch forward, nudging him up the steps to the front door of the house. When Hutch made no move to open the door, Starsky reached around him and slid his hand unceremoniously into Hutch's front jean pocket to pull out his keys.

   Hutch shivered as soon as he got inside. It was too soon, too fast, and he didn't want to be here - it was too much the same as it had been, before, when Starsky wasn't here. He wasn't ready.

   But Starsky wouldn't let him say anything, just took him by the hand and pulled him into the house, into the bedroom, and pushed him down onto the edge of the bed. He removed their shoes and peeled back the blankets and pushed Hutch underneath them, then climbed in beside him and cuddled tight against his body, fully clothed. Hutch realized he wasn't the only one who was too cold and too lonely.

   "Loosen up, wouldya?" Starsky complained, yawning violently into the side of Hutch's neck. "You're stiff as a board."

   "Starsk - "

   "No," Starsky said, shaking his head with his eyes closed. "'m too tired. I know you said we gotta talk - and we do, I agree with ya - but I'm too tired to listen to ya and you're too tired to make any kinda sense. You proved that already today."

   "When?"

   "Only about a thousand times," Starsky said, opening his eyes with an effort. "Comin' after me with no backup, trading my car in for a beat-up van - and even that's sorta normal crazy stuff I can kinda understand. What I don't understand is you standin' there with a gun in your face and not bein' able to come up with one good reason why you should live - that ain't normal, Hutch. That's crazy, crazy stuff."

   Hutch chuckled, a little. "Maybe I should be in the rubber room next to Mary Anderson."

   "Uh-unh," Starsky said. "You should be here, with me. 'Cause I got about a million different reasons why you should stay alive for a long time - an' I'm gonna tell you all of 'em, just as soon as I wake up. Now go to sleep." He shifted and settled himself against Hutch's body and fell asleep; Hutch, finally warmed by his partner's presence, soon followed.

********

   you came along when I needed a saviour
   someone to pull me through somehow
   I've been torn apart so many times
   I've been hurt so many times before
   so I'm counting on you now

********

   Hutch woke up in darkness, to the smell of coffee and the sound of off-key singing. He might have been able to feign disorientation, except for the fact that the signing was too familiar. He wanted either a shower or to roll over and have another four or five days of sleep, but figured that the twelve hours or so he'd just had would probably hold him for now.

   He went to the bathroom to relieve himself and then splashed some water on his face, running his damp hands through his already-rumpled bedhead. The room was warm and misty and smelled like soap, speaking to him of Starsky's recent shower, and he would have liked to take one himself, but it seemed a little - presumptuous, for some reason. Besides, he figured it was probably past time to face the music - so to speak.

   "Hey," Starsky greeted him when he walked in the kitchen. He was in a bathrobe; Hutch guessed he'd finally gotten tired of wearing the same clothes for three - or was it nearly four? - days in a row. "You hungry? I'm starvin'. Couldn't sleep any more - my stomach growling woke me up," he grinned.

   "I could eat," Hutch said, wondering if he'd actually be able to keep anything down. "Any coffee left?"

   "Plenty, I just made it." Starsky passed him a cup. "Eggs okay? They're fastest."

   "Anything's fine."

   "Make yourself useful and throw some bread in the toaster, wouldya?"

   They puttered around in silence together in the kitchen, putting together a midnight-breakfast feast. It wasn't until he took his first mouthful of food that Hutch remembered that the last thing he'd eaten was a stale donut about twenty-four hours before, and he plowed through three eggs and half a dozen slices of bacon, plus two cups of coffee and two pieces of toast.

   Starsky finished first and then watched him eat with an enigmatic smile, sipping his coffee.

   "What?" Hutch finally asked, breaking the silence.

   "'m just wondering if you really wanna have this 'conversation,' or if you just want to go back to bed. 'Cause, one way or the other, that's where we're gonna end up."

   "Oh, yeah?" Hutch asked, suddenly dry-mouthed and hard-pressed to swallow his coffee.

   "Uh-huh. So, we could talk about why you don't think we should be together, and I could tell you why we're gonna stay together, and you could give me all your arguments, and I could give you all of mine. Or," he said, "we could just agree to disagree and go make love properly."

   "Starsky - "

   Starsky shrugged. "You wanna have the conversation? Okay, I'll bite. Why do you think you don't want me anymore, even though we both know you do?"

   "It isn't that easy, Starsk," Hutch said, shaking his head. "You think it is, but it isn't."

   "Oh, but I don't think it is. I've known you for more'n ten years, baby blue, and if I've learned anything in all that time it's that your middle name is 'difficult.' And even knowin' that, I don't care. I wouldn't trade you for the ten easiest guys in the world." He grinned. "Easy don't really have anything to do with it."

   Hutch's face twitched at a smile, but he stubbornly overcame the urge to give in to it. "We shouldn't - "

   "Of course not," Starsky interrupted again, impatient. "It's gonna be hell to hide on the job, from the people that we come in contact with every day, from our friends, from family. And maybe we'll decide that we don't want to hide it, which is gonna bring up all whole 'nother kettle of fish to fry. But that isn't the point, either. Next?"

   Hutch sighed and studied the pattern of coffee drips on the side of his mug. "Starsk - "

   "Oh, don't tell me you've run out of arguments already, babe. And here I was prepared to go through that entire pot of coffee listening to ya."

   "You haven't listened to me at all. I haven't said anything."

   "You didn't need to, because you haven't been thinkin' anything I haven't heard already." Starsky got up and went over to the other side of the table, where Hutch was sitting. He kneeled down on the floor and placed his hands on Hutch's lap. "I love ya, you idiot."

   "I know."

   "I want you."

   Hutch took a deep breath. "I know that, too."

   "And?"

   Hutch opened his mouth, then hesitated.

   "I'm too old for this, babe," Starsky sighed. "I'm not a kid anymore, and I'm tired of pretendin' I've got the whole rest of my life in front of me. I'm gonna be forty a hell of a lot sooner than I'd like to think about, and I've just gotta grow up one of these days. I don't want to be forty and still out there chasing around, tryin' to find someone that's gonna make me happy enough, because I know the only person that's could really make me happy, happy is gone. I don't want a boyfriend - or a girlfriend, either; I want a lover, long-term. I want someone to come home to, an' I want you to be that someone." He picked up one of Hutch's hands and placed a kiss on the palm. "I want to go back to bed, and I want you to come with me." He grinned at the unintentional double entendre. "You know what I mean."

   "I don't know how to do this, Starsk," Hutch breathed, the wet pattern of Starsky's kiss still burning into his hand.

   Starsky grinned broadly. "Tell ya what: I'll teach ya everything I know, and some stuff I only heard about, besides."

   "I don't mean that," Hutch said with a groan, feeling his face starting to burn. "It's not the sex I'm worried about. The sex was - incredible." Starsky's eyes glowed, but he stayed silent, waiting for the rest of the explanation. "I don't know how to do the love. I've been a complete and utter failure at being someone's lover my entire life. I don't want to lose what we have now because I can't do anything else right, Starsk. I'd rather want you without having you than have you and then lose you because I tried and screwed up."

   "Well, that's just stupid."

   Hutch couldn't help himself, he started to laugh; Starsky's reaction was so blunt and perfectly Starsky that there was nothing else he could do.

   Starsky, on the other hand, seemed hard-pressed to find the humour in this situation. "You think my track record is so good, huh?" he asked. "You think I'm not scared, too? But we've been doing this - we've been partners for ten years, Hutch. We've been everything that it's possible for two people to be with one another - everything but lovers. I don't want to take anything away - I want to add to it. We can do this."

   "How do you know that?"

   "Because I want it so much that it would be cruel to try and not have it work out."

   That made Hutch laugh again. He shook his head. "Your glass is always half-full, isn't it?"

   "And yours is always half-empty. But you know what? Between the two of us, we got one whole full glass."

   "Or two half-empty ones."

   "And I'm saying we should pour 'em together and throw the empty one out." Starsky finally tore his eyes away from Hutch's, and sighed, his fingers worrying a pattern into his bathrobe. "I don't want to give you an ultimatum, blintz, but this is make-or-break time. I can't go back again. We either try this, or - "

   "Or what?" Hutch asked, startled. "It's over?"

   Starsky nodded. "Yeah."

   "That's not fair."

   "This from the man who's been telling me that life isn't fair for the last ten years."

   "You wouldn't be able to do it. End the partnership, end the friendship, end everything."

   "It would be hard," Starsky said, firmly. "But I would do it."

   "Why?"

   "Because I love you."

   "That's not love, Starsk. That's blackmail."

   "And what do you think you're doing to me? 'Here - take what I'm willing to give you and be happy about it, Starsky - even if you aren't happy about it.' No." He shook his head again. "A half-empty glass ain't good enough anymore. I want the whole thing, or nothing." He caught the edge of the table and used it to push himself up, somewhat wearily, and walked into the bedroom.

   Hutch sat and watched him go.

********

   somebody already broke my heart
   if someone has to lose, I don't want to play
   can't go there again
   somebody already broke my heart
   no, no I can't go there again

********

   The first surprise was finding Starsky's bathrobe tossed on the floor; Hutch looked at it like it had dropped there out of the sky, wanting to comment on his partner's uncharacteristic messiness but not wanting to raise his eyes to do it. Starsky was in bed, leaning against the pillows, covered with the blanket. Hutch knew the real meaning of the bathrobe, of course - Starsky was nude under those covers, and that was meant to entice him. It worked.

   He crawled in from the bottom of the bed, over top of the covers, shedding his shirt as he did so and tossing it so it landed on top of the robe. Starsky was trapped underneath him, but Hutch could feel the heat of his body even through the spread.

   "Maybe I was wrong," Starsky smirked, his eyes dancing with laughter. "Maybe you are easy."

   To shut him up, Hutch had to kiss him, hard. Or maybe he was just trying to re-assert, regain a little equilibrium, tell himself he wasn't falling for any of this. It was hard to feel that way with his tongue working its way down his partner's throat, though, but that didn't really matter. Fingers were working ruthlessly at the button of his jeans, and he lifted himself, helping without breaking the kiss. Finally freed from some of his confinement, Starsky pushed him over on his back.

   "'m supposed to be teachin' you, remember?" he said. They were still separated by that damned blanket, but instead of pulling it away, Starsky rubbed the length of his body through it. Hutch moaned and tried to arch up, pushing his cock, still clad in white briefs, into Starsky's hand. The rough tickle of white cotton dragged down the length of him, and then Starsky ducked down, mouthing and tonguing him through the fabric. It was like having a dream about being sucked off, maddeningly arousing but slightly unreal. Hutch had an inkling of what Starsky meant about that half-full glass, and hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband, impatiently shucking his underwear and jeans down as far as he could, with Starsky still half on top of him. They only went down to mid-thigh, but it was enough for now.

   Starsky took the broad hint and swallowed him to the hilt; Hutch had a vague remembrance of the first time he was sucked off by someone who was really good at it, a girl who really knew what she was doing. He'd never thought she could be bettered, but this was it - Starsky's mouth caressed him and devoured him at the same time, alternating the exact amount of pressure needed to take him almost to the brink of orgasm before slowing him back down. It continued on like that, a slow, hot, sweet torturous ritual, until he couldn't take anymore and had to press his fingers into those dark curls and physically force Starsky to finish him off.

   When he finally let go and they could both breathe again, he was greeted by a panting, feral, angry-looking Starsky, who ripped the blankets from the bed and then tore away the rest of his clothing. He lifted Hutch's legs and positioned himself, and Hutch, panicked, tried frantically to scramble away. But there was nowhere to go and Starsky had him in his sights, and he wouldn't relinquish the hold. His mouth descended until their lips almost touched, and he breathed, "Think you own me now, blondie?"

   Hutch shook his head, mute.

   "Good." Starsky pushed a cock that burned hot and huge against the crack of Hutch's ass. Hutch tried to think of an appropriate reaction to the gesture, caught in the cusp of abject fear and wondering what would ultimately hurt him more - getting fucked or this terrible, mysterious want of it.

   It wasn't destined to be that simple, though, not tonight. Starsky kept thrusting just the way he was, against instead of in, until Hutch's body overrode his mind and he began to thrust helplessly back, wrapping his arms around Starsky's neck to bring him closer, close enough so that he didn't have to look at him anymore. It was true; he was easy and this was easy and that scared the shit right out of him. He didn't have any references for 'easy;' nothing had ever been this easy before. It wasn't like they were inventing this; this was the pink elephant that had always been standing in between them that they were finally choosing to acknowledge.

   Starsky came and collapsed, soaking Hutch's ass and the sheets underneath them, his sweat-slick, dead-weight body slowly suffocating Hutch into the mattress. It took him a long time to rouse himself, but Hutch didn't move, all of the fight gone out of him. When Starsky finally did, he looked a long time at Hutch before he spoke.

   "Goddamn I want you, babe," was all that came out, in a cracked and broken voice. Hutch thought he was going to cry, or maybe both of them would. He shifted a little and then drew Starsky's head back down, settling it against his shoulder, and started to pet him with his hands, soothing the curls and gliding his fingertips down Starsky's back.

   "We have to try, right?" Starsky asked, lips brushing against his throat, seeking reassurance. "Don't you think we at least have to try?"

   Hutch nodded again, hands still rhythmically massaging as much of Starsky's body as he could reach. He closed his eyes, hoping that they could both just go to sleep, now. Starsky eventually yielded to Hutch's hypnotic touch and his own exhaustion, but Hutch found sleep elusive. Starsky was too warm and too close, and he couldn't get comfortable, but he didn't want to let go, either. He spent most of the night awake, listening to Starsky's restless sleeping breaths in his ear, unable to drowse himself until dawn was just beginning to break.

THE END