Time why you punish me?
Like a wave crashin' into the shore
you wash away my dreams.
Time why you walk away?
Like a friend with somewhere to go
you left me cryin'.
Can you teach me about tomorrow
and all the pain and sorrow runnin' free?
'Cause tomorrow's just another day
and I don't believe in Time.
    Time ~ Hootie and the Blowfish

**** Hutch ****

   I was dreaming when the phone rang. A strange dream where Starsky and I had followed a couple of big time drug dealers into a warehouse. We were hiding behind packing crates, just waiting for money and heroin to change hands so we'd have enough cause to bust the creeps. Trouble was, the waiting just seemed to go on and on for hours, time stretching like saltwater taffy until my whole body ached from holding so still. Then, just when I didn't think I could stand another minute, the fire alarm went off.

   Now here's where the dream got really weird. Suddenly the air was thick with clouds of black smoke, making my eyes sting and choking the breath from my lungs, even though only a moment earlier there hadn't been the slightest hint of fire. I heard footsteps as the bad guys ran for their lives, then the voice of my partner, high with panic.

   "Hutch!"

   I stumbled to my feet, coughing and wheezing, knowing that we had to get out fast. My stomach did a long, slow roll as I realized I couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face, let alone...

   The fire alarm transformed into the trilling of the telephone on the bedside table. I rolled onto my back and fumbled for the receiver, bringing it to my ear without ever opening my eyes.

   "H'lo."

   Silence. No answering greeting, no "sorry, wrong number," not even a dial tone. Irritation drove away some of the fuzziness and I propped myself up on an elbow to squint at the clock. 4:01. In the morning. Jeez, was this someone's idea of a joke?

   "Hello? Who's this?"

   I was just about to slam the receiver back onto the cradle when a soft sound stayed my hand. Breathing, harsh and ragged, as if someone were struggling for air. Abrupt, irrational fear slammed into me like a freight train. I opened my mouth, but never got the chance to speak.

   "Hutch...help."

   Weak and thin, consonants slurred, but I'd recognize that particular voice anywhere, under any circumstances. I bolted upright, pressing the phone tightly to my ear.

   "Starsky? Starsky, what's wrong, are you hurt? Talk to me, partner."

   No response, just a muffled thud and then silence. Not even the soughing of his breath for reassurance.

   Okay, I'll admit it. I went a little crazy. I have vague memories of carrying the phone around, wedged between my shoulder and my chin, shouting and swearing at poor Starsky to pick up the damn phone and answer me as I pulled on some clothes. I couldn't bring myself to hang up. Just putting the phone down, terminating my only connection to him so that I could drive to his place, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.

   It's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't wreck my car on the way to his apartment. The streets were mostly deserted, which was fortunate since I ran every red light. My thoughts were all tangled and jumbled--snapshot images of the smoke and terror from my dream mixed with the countless real life threats we encounter every day. And through it all, over and over, those words kept echoing in my head:

   I pulled in tight behind the Torino and took the stairs two at a time. I raised my fist to pound on the door, then froze when I saw it hung ajar, spilling a pale swathe of light onto the top step. Up until that moment I'd been functioning as a friend, consumed by the need to reach Starsky, to verify that he was all right or help him if he wasn't. That four inches of space between the door and the jamb brought me to my senses, snapped me into cop mode. I drew my gun and nudged the door the rest of the way open.

   Other than a light over the stove, most of the apartment was bathed in shadow. Still, I know the place like the back of my hand, and was able to move unerringly through the living room to the bedroom. I risked calling out Starsky's name, my own voice sounding odd in the eerie silence.

   In the bedroom the first thing my eyes settled on was the empty bed, the sheets rumpled and twisted. I flicked on the light, saw the phone cord dangling from the nightstand and the crumpled form of my partner. A quick, sweeping glance to be sure we were alone, then I holstered my weapon and dropped to my knees.

   "Starsky."

   I was afraid to touch him at first. Starsky is a bundle of energy, perpetual motion. To see him lying pale and still made my heart twist in my chest. I tentatively ran my fingers through his dark curls, looking for a lump, blood--something to explain why he was lying, unresponsive, on the floor. Had he fallen out of bed, hit his head? The open front door flashed through my brain, defying such an innocuous explanation.

   When I couldn't find any sign of injury, I gently turned him over and pulled him into my lap. The warmth of his body, and the soft moan he uttered, slowed the pounding of my heart.

   "Starsky," I murmured, feeling up and down the length of each arm for broken bones. "C'mon, wake up, buddy."

   Dark eyelashes fluttered and his lids cracked open to reveal just a hint of blue. His mouth moved, and I could see the nearly superhuman effort it took for him to form words. "Hutch...help me."

   "I'm right here, Starsk, I've got you." I tried to mask the tremor in my voice, to make it as soothing as possible. "What's wrong, buddy, are you hurt? You've got to tell me what happened."

   His hands fluttered, fingers scrabbling to grasp my jacket as he struggled to open eyes that had slipped shut while I was talking. "Hutch...help...shot."

   A chill raced up and down my spine. "Shot? Someone shot you? Where, Starsk?" I eased him out of my arms and examined him from head to toe, only becoming more confused. No gunshot wound, no blood--in fact, there didn't seem to be a mark on him.

   The whole time I was checking Starsky over he was trying to grab hold of me, mumbling words that were so badly garbled I could barely understand them.

   "Mask...laughing...no shot...can' move...hours..."

   All at once his words clicked into place. I used my thumb to carefully pry open his right eye. It was glassy, unfocused, and the pupil was huge, black nearly swallowing blue. Starsky was referring to a hypodermic, not a gun. He'd been drugged.

   Hands shaking, I snatched up the phone and called for an ambulance, then hauled him back into my lap to wait. He kept trying to slip back under, but I wouldn't let him--lightly slapping his face, shaking him, forcing him to answer questions. I could see there was something else he wanted to tell me, but whatever he'd been given made concentration nearly impossible.

   "Who was it, Starsky? Did you see his face?" I'd been badgering him for information in the hope of keeping him conscious. So far it was working--sort of. He hadn't gone back to sleep, but he was pretty fuzzy and not making much sense. I heard the first wail of a siren in the distance and pushed a little harder, knowing help was only minutes away. "Why did he drug you?"

   He fought to focus on my face, fingers knotted into the leather of my jacket in a death grip, and his lips moved. "Po...po..."

   "Portrell? Is that who it was? Mickey Portrell?" My blood boiled and my head filled with ideas of just what I'd do to Mickey when I got my hands on him.

   Starsky's fingers curled around my wrist, tightening to the point of pain and capturing my attention. "No. 'S...po...poison."

   The paramedics chose that moment to burst into the apartment. They surrounded Starsky and started taking his vital signs, unceremoniously shoving me out of the way. I sank back against the bed, resting my forehead on my knees.

   After several minutes of leaving me to my own troubled thoughts, one of the paramedics, a kid who didn't look old enough to shave let alone take care of my partner, tapped me on the shoulder.

   "He's been drugged, some kind of barbiturate. It's a fairly heavy dose but not dangerous. We're taking him in to Memorial."

   "He told me he was poisoned," I said through numb lips.

   The kid frowned, sneaking a quick glance at his partner before answering. "They'll do a full blood work up at Memorial. He's stable for now."

   For now. Two little words that said it all.

   "I'm coming with you," I told him.

   His frown deepened and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but we don't allow family members to ride in the ambulance. If you get your car you can follow..."

   I had my badge in my hand as soon as I heard the apology, tempted to pull my gun as well. "I'm a cop, and that's my partner. Wherever he goes, I go--got it?"

   "This isn't an emergency, Tim, we can bend the rules a little. Let him ride along."

   I sent the slightly older, obviously wiser paramedic a grateful look, then stood to help them load Starsky onto the gurney. He was out again, not even twitching as they strapped him in. A clear image of him after the shooting in the restaurant flashed before my eyes, his face chalk white and so frail looking, and I mentally gave myself a slap. This was different. Starsky wasn't being held hostage by hired killers, losing more blood with every passing second. He was safe now, on his way to the hospital where a doctor would figure out whatever poison he'd been given and administer the appropriate antidote. By tonight we'd probably be back at Metro, rehashing old cases and going through old files to figure out who'd want to hurt him.

   I tried hard to tune out the siren's nerve-wracking whine, busying myself with tucking the blanket under Starsky's chin. The initial surge of adrenaline generated by his cry for help was wearing off, leaving me bone tired and sick at heart, a dull headache throbbing behind my eyes. Starsky was more than just my partner and best friend, he was closer to me than a brother. What hurt him hurt me, and I couldn't seem to shake the black cloud of uneasiness that had overshadowed me ever since I'd awakened from that blasted dream. The overwhelming feeling that Starsky...

   I kept repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra, all the way into the emergency room. Maybe if I said it often enough, I'd start to believe it.

**** Starsky ****

   At first I thought I was dreaming. There I was, sound asleep, when I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my arm. Felt like somethin' stung me or bit me. I sat straight up in bed, rubbin' it and kinda lookin' around, thinking maybe there was a bee in the room.

   I hate bees.

   Last thing I expected to see was some flake with a stocking over his head standin' next to my bed. I rolled away, hoping I could get outta bed and across the room to my gun before the guy could stab me a second time. Then things got really weird.

   Everything turned blurry, and tryin' to move was like swimmin' through molasses. I blinked and shook my head--big mistake. I was flat on my back 'fore I knew what hit me, struggling to keep open eyelids that felt as if they had thirty-pound weights attached to 'em. Someone started laughin' like he'd heard the funniest joke in the world and a minute later Stocking Mask was leanin' over me, holding a needle. It was like lookin' through a funhouse mirror--his face, the nose and ears all flattened by the mesh, and the needle looked huge while everything else wavered in and out of focus.

   I was terrified of that syringe. Loopy as I was, I could still remember Hutch sweatin' and shiverin' in my arms as I nursed him through withdrawal. I fought to move, to yank my arm from his grasp and crawl away, but it was like my body no longer belonged to me. I was helpless to defend myself, helpless to stop him. I just lay there like a baby while he rammed the needled into my arm, never letting up on that damn cackling.

   "You got twenty-four hours to live, Pig. Count 'em. Twenty-four."

   The words bounced and echoed through my head. Sounded like when we'd play cowboys and Indians in the drainage pipes when I was a kid, yellin' and screamin' at each other until the concrete vibrated or a cop came to chase us out.

   I watched Stocking Mask cross my bedroom and walk out the door, my ears ringing and my stomach churning from the dizziness. My eyes kept slipping shut and I really wanted to just let go and sleep, but something was naggin' at me. What had he said? I shoved at the darkness that continued to sneak up on me, determined to concentrate.

   Somehow I was able to move, to roll toward the table next to the bed. A little corner of my brain recognized that the display on the clock read 3:58, but my target was the phone. It looked a million miles away but I flung my arm out as far as I could, trying to snag the receiver. Smooth move--I lost my balance and ended up on the floor, still tangled up in the sheets. I was so dizzy and mixed up I felt like cryin', but as messed up as my head was, one thing was still clear--Hutch would take care of me. If I could just reach the phone...

   I concentrated on the nightstand and the three cords trailing down to the floor. There was really only one, of course, but my eyesight was pretty goofed up by Stocking Mask's drug. I heaved my arm up, tangled my fingers in the plastic, and pulled. The crash of the phone hitting the floor was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard.

   I could barely feel my own hands as I fumbled the phone into a position where I could see the buttons. The numbers kept melting and running together, but after four years I could dial Blondie's number in my sleep--which I nearly was by that time. Don't know if you'd call it prayin', but I just kept repeatin' the same words in my head as I listened to the phone ring. Kinda like when you're a kid and you say "Cross my heart, hope to die..." Only for me, it was:

   Funny thing was, when Hutch actually answered I couldn't seem to make my mouth work. All those words dancin' around in my thick skull and I couldn't get 'em past my lips. So even though my brain was sayin' "Hutch, I need help, some creep just shot me up with some kinda poison and I can't move," all that I could squeeze out was "Hutch...help." Sayin' those two little words was more tiring than chasing a punk ten blocks on a hot day. The darkness that'd been hangin' around the edges of my vision sorta took over, and I guess I musta passed out.

   I woke up to the feelin' of someone's arms around me and the warmth of a body pressed up along my back. Everything was so mixed up, at first I panicked, sure that Stocking Mask had come back to finish me off. Then I realized that whoever was holding me was bein' real gentle, checkin' me over to see if I'd broken any bones or if there was a new dent in my head. Little by little, like someone turnin' up the volume on a radio, I could hear a familiar voice, and then words.

   "Starsky. Come on, wake up, buddy."

   It took a lotta hard work just to crank my eyes open a crack, but it was worth it to see that face. For the first time since I woke up and saw the creep in my bedroom, I felt safe. Like everything was gonna be okay. I just had to make Hutch understand, but gettin' my lips and tongue to move was nearly impossible.

   "Hutch...help me."

   I could feel him tighten his grip on me, and he started talking into my ear real soft and low, tellin' me how he was right there and askin' me what happened. I still felt disconnected from my body, but I somehow got a couple of fistfuls of his leather jacket and tried again.

   "Hutch...help...shot."

   Brilliant, huh? You try makin' conversation when some flake's pumped you full of who knows what. See how much sense you make.

   Hutch, God love him, leaped to a completely wrong conclusion. 'Fore I could blink an eye he had me laid out on the floor so he could look for a gunshot wound. I kept trying to grab onto him, make him stop and listen, though I gotta admit I was babblin' by then. My brain wasn't workin' too speedy, but it was a helluva lot faster than my mouth. Stocking Mask, the needle, the fact that I couldn't even move--it came spillin' out all at once, in a voice I didn't even recognize.

   I gotta hand it to Hutch, though. Something, somewhere along the line clicked into place in that blond skull of his. He took one look at my eyes and figured it all out.

   Hey, what can I say? I taught him everything he knows.

   I think I started to fade out again while he was callin' for an ambulance. I remember him pickin' me up off the floor and talkin' to me. Thing was, I could hear his voice but none of the words made any sense. They were like butterflies flutterin' just out of my reach, and I was too tired to go chasin' 'em. Felt like I was sinkin' down into a deep, warm pool of water, but every time I'd start to go under, Hutch'd yank me back by talking in my ear, askin' me a question--once or twice by slappin' me or shakin' me.

   I finally decided if he wasn't gonna let me sleep, then I should tell him about the poison. I couldn't see his face when he finally got the message, but I felt his whole body tense up.

   I really wish I coulda seen his face.

   Suddenly Hutch was gone and people were pokin' and proddin' me, shinin' lights in my eyes and stickin' one of those cold things on my chest that they use to make sure you ain't dead yet. I knew Hutch didn't want me to go to sleep, but I just couldn't seem to fight it any longer.

   I let go, knowin' Hutch would be there to watch over me.

**** Starsky ****

   I guess I was in and out for a while. At one point I felt another sharp jab in my arm and I panicked--well, as much as I could, considerin' how loopy I was. I tried to move, to tug my arm from the strong hands, but I just ended up sliding back down closer to the darkness. One eyelid pried open to a blinding white beam of light. Scratchy cloth wrappin' around my upper arm and squeezin'. Cold metal pressed to the crook of my elbow. Something smooth and thin sliding between my lips and working its way under my tongue. And through it all, strange voices and sounds that droned on like white noise, without any meaning.

   Hutch! Where was Hutch? I wanted to call his name, to reach for him, but the best I could manage was a pitiful whimper, my fingers openin' and closin' on air like the mouth of a dyin' fish. A voice broke free from the general buzzing, sharp, angry. Then a large hand slid into mine--solid, warm, comforting. Familiar.

   His voice in my ear--low, soothing. I couldn't understand what he was sayin' any more than I could the others, but it didn't matter. I fought to tighten my fingers around his, to hang on even though I was sinkin' fast again. Hutch was my lifeline. If he was close by, I was safe.

   Simple as that.

   Without knowin' it, I drifted off to the sound of his voice.

   When I finally woke up again the fuzziness was gone. I just lay there for a minute, keepin' my eyes closed, tryin' to get a handle on where I was, what was goin' on. Didn't take long for me to figure it out.

   I hate hospitals. No, I mean I really, really HATE hospitals. First off, they smell funny. Kinda like the gunk our janitor used to use when some poor unfortunate schmuck would puke in school. You know, the stuff that made you feel like tossin' your own cookies.

   Plus, they won't leave you alone. I mean, there you are, sick or hurt, and they keep pokin' and proddin' and stickin' you with needles. Not to mention the fact that they give you pills so you can get some sleep and then wake you up fifty times during the night to make sure you're still breathin'.

   And nurses? Some of 'em might be angels of mercy, but not the ones I seem to wind up with. And let me tell you from first hand experience--you do NOT want to cross one of 'em. They can turn a sponge bath into a completely humiliating experience and take your temperature in places that I don't even wanna think about.

   I opened my eyes, glad to see that things were stayin' put and the blurriness was gone. An annoying beeping and the feelin' of sticky things on my chest told me I was hooked up to some kind of heart monitor. I stared at the light over my head for a minute until someone cleared their throat. I turned my head and saw a guy with gray hair and a white coat standin' off to my right. Guess they dress 'em like that so you know who's the doctor.

   "Detective Starsky, I'm Dr. Franklin. How are you?"

   I started to prop myself up on my arms, a little dismayed to find 'em weak and rubbery. "I dunno, Doc. How 'bout you tell me?"

   He pushed me back down without havin' to work hard at it. "Not yet, Detective. Your body is still throwing off the effects of a very powerful narcotic. Let's take it slow."

   Hearin' him use the word 'narcotic' was like a kick in the teeth. Suddenly all the fear that had been waitin' in the wings while I distracted myself by thinkin' how much I hate hospitals came crashin' down on me, and I could hear the echo of Stocking Mask's laughter.

   I felt a little light-headed for a minute, and it must've shown on my face 'cause the Doc was at my side in an instant and a nurse had her pretty little manicured hand wrapped around my wrist, takin' my pulse.

   "Detective?"

   "'M all right." I sucked in a gulp of air and forced the fear back into the box where I keep emotions I don't wanna deal with.

   I shook myself free of the well-meanin' angel and looked Franklin squarely in the eye. "Doc, I need you to level with me. Whoever did this, drugged me, made some threats. I gotta know if he was just blowin' hot air."

   I knew things were not good when Franklin's eyes skittered away from mine. "Suppose you tell me just what kind of threats."

   Doctors. Sometimes I swear they're not so different from the street punks Hutch and I bust. Both've perfected the art of answerin' questions without sayin' nothin'.

   "He indicated that he'd done somethin' to decrease my life expectancy." I didn't try to mask the sarcasm. "The figure he gave me was twenty-four hours."

   "Detective Starsky..."

   I cut him off before he could waste more time. "Just Starsky. And I want it straight."

   He pursed his lips, then nodded. "Analysis of your blood showed two separate chemical compounds. One was, of course, a sedative. Something that would render you incapable of fighting your attacker."

   "And the other?"

   "A toxin. Most likely from the organic chloride family."

   The fear was bangin' on the lid of the box, but I just sat on it.

   "Toxin. You mean like a poison?"

   Franklin poked his glasses up on his nose with his index finger. "Yes."

   "Just what will this toxin do to me?"

   Franklin pushed at his glasses. "It blocks the impulses in the central nervous system and..."

   "English please, Doc."

   He sighed. "Excessive perspiration, muscle cramps, difficulty breathing, impaired vision..."

   I chewed that over for a minute. The simple answer to the problem didn't jive with the expression on the doc's face, but I had to say it.

   "Well...if it's a poison, then there must be an antidote. Right?"

   "Unfortunately, Detective..."

   "Starsky."

   He blinked at me, momentarily derailed. "Starsky. Unfortunately, it isn't that simple."

   "Never is," I muttered under my breath.

   "There are many variations of the particular compound used. And we can't formulate an antidote with any certainty without knowing the exact composition. That requires the original solution."

   "Doc." My voice quavered. I stopped, swallowed hard, and continued. "Are you tellin' me there's nothin' you can do? That I'm gonna die?"

   I almost felt sorry for Franklin. He squirmed a bit, but then he met my eyes. "I'm telling you we'll need to run more tests. There are methods of narrowing down the possibilities. But..."

   "Odds."

   "Medicine is not an exact science, Detective, I..."

   "Starsky. Odds."

   He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Ninety percent. Against."

   Well, I asked for it. Suddenly I was ice cold in spite of the glaring lights overhead. I was gonna die. It was practically written in stone, there was nothin' anyone...

   "My partner," I said, my voice hoarse. When Franklin looked at me blankly I added, "Tall, blond, makin' a pain in the ass of himself?"

   Understanding flooded Franklin's face and for the first time I saw his lips actually quirk a little in the hint of a smile. "He's right outside. I'll get him."

   "NO!"

   That pulled him up short, like jerkin' a puppet's strings. His eyebrows lifted in a silent question.

   "Doc, I need... I can't..."

   All at once my eyes were burnin' and my throat felt like there was steel bands around it. I glared up at the light, breathin' in through my mouth and outta my nose. When I was sure I could go on without blubberin', I looked back at the doctor.

   "I need you to tell Hutch what you just told me."

   Franklin frowned and started to shake his head. "I really think it would be better coming from you. He's your friend, he..."

   "He's my best friend," I said fiercely. "Close as a brother--closer. That's why I can't tell him." I tried to grin but I think it came out pretty lopsided. "I hate soapy scenes." The smile slid off my face. "Please."

   The doc just looked at me for a long time. Hutch evidently got tired of coolin' his heels out in the hall, 'cause he chose that exact minute to come walkin' in. He was wearin' that face, the one he uses when he's been worried sick over me but ain't about to let me know it. Instead he pastes on this big, dopey grin.

   "Hi, Buddy."

   All I could manage was a little nod before I had to turn away. If I kept lookin' at him, seein' that smile, I'd never be able to hold it together. I looked up at Franklin. Begging.

   He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the monitor. "There's no affect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs for some more tests. You can sit up and rest for awhile now." Then he walked over toward Hutch.

   "Doc, I'd like to talk to him."

   That's my partner, not about to let hell, high water, or a guy in a white coat keep him from me when I'm hurt. I held my breath.

   Franklin stopped him with a hand to his arm. "In a minute. But first I'd like to ask you a few questions." He steered him out into the hall without looking back at me.

**** Hutch ****

   Two hours. That's how long I waited, never letting the treatment room door out of my sight. I think they were the longest two hours of my life.

   Have you ever noticed how Time is fluid? Oh sure, I know that it's supposed to be a constant, a universal invariant. But sometimes I think that's all just a load of crap. That we don't really understand Time at all, are just as mixed up as the folks who thought the Earth was flat. Because, I swear to God, Time never passes at exactly the same rate.

   Take our all too infrequent vacations, for example. One minute I've got three or four glorious days spread before me--plenty of time for hiking, fishing, and baiting my city-loving partner who I've conned into accompanying me. Blink of an eye and it's over, with only Starsky's scratching and whining about bug bites to prove that we ever left Metro. You just can't tell me that Time didn't play a dirty trick by speeding up.

   It goes both ways, of course. If Time can fly by like a hawk on the wing (or Starsky in the Torino), it can also creep along like molasses in Minnesota. Several times during those two long hours I was certain it had stopped altogether, only the hands on my watch convincing me otherwise.

   Barely.

   They'd let me stay with him in the beginning. Well...they hadn't been able to make me leave. Starsky was out cold for the entire trip in the ambulance, but when they finally got him into the ER and started working on him he woke up a little. No wonder, with two nurses and a doctor hooking him up to an EKG, drawing blood, and checking his temperature and blood pressure. I can only imagine what I'd do, waking up dizzy and disoriented as hell with all of that going on around me. Probably exactly what Starsky did--panic.

   Poor guy couldn't move, couldn't really talk. Best he could do was mumble something so garbled that no one could understand. The doc and the nurses just kind of ignored it and kept going about their business. They were so wrapped up in their jobs that no one thought to kick me out, so I just stood back and watched.

   Until I saw the hand.

   Starsky's left hand, the one he does everything with, was opening and closing as if he was trying to grab hold of something. Or searching for something. And suddenly I understood. It was me he was reaching for, and my name that he kept trying to say over and over.

   I'll admit it now--shoving that nurse out of the way was pretty rude. But at the time I didn't notice. My senses had narrowed until all I could see was those pitiful, grasping fingers; all I could hear was Starsky trying to call for me. I bullied my way to my partner's side, slid my hand into his, and started talking into his ear. I can't even remember what I said. Some of it probably didn't make a whole lot of sense, but I doubt he could really understand me anyway. What was important, what I knew he needed, was to hear my voice. To know he was safe. That I was right there with him, and I wouldn't leave.

   The nurse was understandably ticked off, and the doctor wasn't much happier. He put his hand on my shoulder, clamping down hard.

   "Sir, I'm afraid family isn't allowed in the treatment room. You'll have to leave."

   I never let go of Starsky's hand, though my whole body stiffened. I turned my head and gave the doctor a look I've perfected for when it's my turn to play "bad cop."

   "My name is Detective Hutchinson, and this man is my partner. As long as he needs me, I'm not going anywhere. Now if you want to keep that hand, I'd suggest taking it off my shoulder. Right now."

   He let go like he'd been burned, and when he adjusted his glasses I saw his hand shake a little. "Very well. We'll work around you--for now anyway."

   I could see Starsky was fading out again. His hand would start to go limp, then tighten up as if he was fighting sleep just so he could hang on to me.

   "It's okay, buddy." I kept my voice soft and low, not only to soothe Starsky but to try and maintain a shred of privacy. "You can let go if you need to. The doctor's going to take care of you and I'll always be close by. No one's going to hurt you any more--they'll have to go through me first."

   Wasn't long before he was out for the count again, and I no longer had a good reason to keep the doctor, whose name turned out to be Franklin, from kicking me out. And that's just about when Time decided to slow to a snail's pace.

   Finally I couldn't stand it another minute. I snuck a peek through the window and was surprised to see Starsky awake and talking to Dr. Franklin. I figured that was my cue to join them, since it didn't seem like Franklin was going to issue a personal invitation.

   My stomach felt twisted into knots, but I made sure to plaster on a smile before I pushed open the door. Starsky turned to look at me, and I was struck by the fact that his face held absolutely no expression.

   "Hi, buddy." I silently congratulated myself for sounding relaxed.

   The corners of Starsky's mouth turned up just a bit and he raised his chin. The next minute the blank face was back, though, and it seemed like his eyes were everywhere but on me. He gave the doctor an odd look and Franklin started talking, but he was fiddling with his glasses like he'd done when I threatened him. Something about that bothered me, but I needed to concentrate on what the doctor was saying to Starsky.

   "There's no effect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs for some more tests. You can sit up and rest for a while now."

   Franklin turned and walked toward me. I held up a hand to stop him. "I need to talk to him."

   "In a minute. But first I'd like to ask you a few questions."

   I was chomping at the bit to talk to Starsky, especially now that he was lucid, but we'd each been injured in the line of duty often enough that I knew the drill. Questions about insurance, the limits for active duty--all the red tape. Starsky and I had handled it for each other so many times it was routine.

   Except when Franklin got me out in the hallway, he didn't start asking any of the questions I expected. Nothing about filling out paperwork or instructions after discharge. Instead he asked me if we'd been partners a long time. Said Starsk had told him I was his best friend. I was only half-listening at first, my mind on catching the creep who was responsible for hurting my partner and making the last few hours a living hell. It didn't help that I couldn't figure out where Franklin was headed, why he'd dragged me out into the hallway to discuss my friendship with Starsky. When he finally cut to the chase, I felt like I'd been sucker punched.

   "I don't think your friend is going to make it. His relatives, any other close friends should be notified."

   "Wha..." I almost laughed at first--must be some kind of a bad joke, right? Then I got angry. "Well of course he's going to make it, you've got him in a hospital, don't you, you're running tests on him, he..." Franklin was stone-faced, but compassion shone through his eyes. My stomach plunged as if I'd just dropped thirty stories in a runaway elevator. "Does he know?"

   "He asked me to tell you." Franklin's eyes crinkled. "Said he hates 'soapy scenes.'"

   God, I could hear it, could picture Starsky saying it. He's a funny one, my partner. Emotions on his sleeve when it comes to those he cares about, always ready to share their pain. But when it comes to his own hurt, his own fear, his own heartbreak, Starsky holds his cards close and guards them jealously.

   He held me, sweat with me, ached with me, and even cried with me when I was so deep in withdrawal I could barely remember my own name. It still shames me when I think about how I treated him during that time, though I know he's never held it against me. Did he really think I'd let him get away with keeping me at arm's length?

   This time when I walked back into the treatment room I couldn't quite muster a full smile. Starsky was sitting up, bare legs dangling over the edge of the gurney, and he looked...fine. Completely normal, no different from the man who dropped me off at my place last night and roared home to catch one of those bad horror movies on TV. For a split second a cruel little glimmer of hope rose up in my chest and a seductive voice whispered in my head.

   I remembered Franklin's face, the way he met my gaze straight on, with a mixture of bluntness and compassion. And that spiteful little ray of hope turned on me, the edges sharp like a shard of broken glass.

   Starsky was dying. And somehow, some way, I was going to save him. Nothing else mattered.

   "How ya feeling, huh?" I couldn't seem to meet his eyes. I couldn't seem to keep mine from checking the clock.

   "Okay. Could even think I dreamed it all." His voice told me he felt as awkward as I. What is it with men anyway? We care deeply but we have such a hard time expressing it.

   Stick to the case, to finding the guy with the answers, I told myself. I tried not to sound like I was questioning a victim, but it was hard. Everything was mixed up, wrong. Starsky wasn't supposed to be the one giving a statement. The one assaulted and...

   And the crazy part was, I could tell he was trying to make things easier on me. As if I were the one handed a death sentence! Using expressions like "not rowing with both oars at the time" to distract me from the horror of picturing him drugged and helpless while the creep injected him. Helpless, but not oblivious. If I...

   When. When I got my hands on the punk, I planned on making him very, very sorry.

   When Starsky admitted that he thought he knew the guy, I savagely stomped on the hope that wanted to return.

   "Doctor Franklin. What about the twenty-four hours? Does it hold?"

   "If it's a progressive type poison, yes, its term could be predictable. The blood sample taken at the puncture indicates a poisonous compound--probably of the organic chloride grouping. Unfortunately, it could be any one of fifty varieties, and we can't prescribe the antidote with any certainty until we know the exact composition. Is that plain enough?" Franklin's expression was apologetic.

   I just wanted to be somewhere else. Any place but in a hospital, listening to the high odds against my best friend living to watch another cheesy horror movie.

   Starsky remained stoic through Franklin's little speech, but the white-knuckled grip of his fingers on the gurney betrayed him. "The part about the poisonous compound was, thank you."

   I, on the other hand, felt anger rising inside of me like a living creature. I was abruptly furious with Franklin, and the medical profession in general.

   "You know, it's amazing. You're well, you think they've got a miracle cure for everything. You get sick, they can't even cure the common cold." I knew I was snarling, unloading my frustration on the wrong man, but I didn't care.

   Franklin must have had plenty of experience dealing with upset family members. Rather than taking offense, he started spouting his suggestions for trying to treat Starsky. None of it sounded particularly pleasant. Starsky's bleak expression broke through my fury and I placed a hand on his shoulder, wishing I could offer so much more.

   Four years with the man, and though in some ways I know him better than I know myself, he can still surprise me. I wasn't prepared for his cool, controlled reply.

   "Doc, pursuing our own, as they say, line of expertise, my partner feels he can deduce certain things faster than you can. I mean, that's part of his job."

   I saw right where he was headed and tried to cut him off at the pass.

   "That's right, but you're not going anywhere."

   No one ever said my partner wasn't stubborn as a mule. "Look, you're thinkin' the same thing I am. We look for some flake with a mean laugh who knows exactly what was in that shot, right?"

   Stubbornness I can resist, but not that pleading, vulnerable face. More than once Starsky has left me in awe of his courage under fire. Today it staggered me. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to think things through logically. To be a cop and not a victim.

   "Right."

   "Well, while I'm still feelin' okay..."

   How could I possibly say no?

   "We find him and ask him."

   Doctor Franklin, of course, was not pleased with the turn of events. He pulled off his glasses and started arguing, trying to convince Starsky to stay put and let him do his job. My partner didn't seem fazed by his warnings, but I was already on shaky ground and questioning my own decision. Starsky, still in that calm, practical voice, cut to the chase.

   "Doc, I appreciate what you're sayin', but what it really comes down to is one question. Can you guarantee that if I stay here you're gonna be able to come up with the answer in time?"

   Now there was a question I was anxious to hear the answer to. If Franklin felt he had a good chance, some level of confidence that he could crack the code to this poison and cure Starsky...

   The doctor's eyes slid off to the right and then dropped to the floor. So much for that theory. Starsky just plowed ahead.

   "Okay, then I'd like to take a shot at it. Now if we don't score by, uh..." his eyes darted to the clock on the wall, "ten o'clock tonight, I'll come back and give you another crack at it, okay?

   My chest tightened at his words. Oh God, Starsky, what are we doing?

   Franklin just raised his eyebrows and dipped his head, obviously not happy but knowing when he'd been beaten. Starsky turned to me without stopping to take a breath.

   "Find my pants."

   It threw me for a minute, but I rallied. "Ah...got your watch." I pulled it out and offered it to him.

   Starsky put on a wounded expression, as if I'd insulted that striped tomato of his. "You forgot my pants?"

   I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His pants? I find him out cold on the floor and he really expected me to have remembered to bring him a change of clothes?

   "You mean you want me to hit the streets with no pants, no badge, no gun, no dignity? Whatsa matter with you?" When I still couldn't come up with a snappy reply, Starsky turned to Franklin. "You believe him?" He stabbed a finger at me and stalked out of the room, dripping with righteous indignation.

   Franklin, mystified by my partner's behavior, just gave his head a little shake and put his glasses back on. And then it all clicked into place and I saw exactly what my friend was up to. Smokescreens and mirrors. Get me all worked up over a pair of lousy pants and I might not worry so much about the poison slowly working its way through his body.

   Well, the least I could do was play along. For now.

   I hurried after him. "You know, you're right, Starsk? I shoulda left you lying on the floor while I decided which pair of your equally crummy blue jeans to pack." Heads turned as my friend stomped past, his gown flapping in the breeze.

   Dear God, I love him is what I thought.

   "They're all lookin' at ya," is what I said.

**** Starsky ****

   It felt good to be out of the hospital, behind the wheel and takin' charge instead of handin' control over to a bunch of people with no sense of humor and a never-endin' supply of needles. Back in the treatment room, when the doc was breakin' the bad news, I almost felt too scared to move. It wasn't the thought of dyin'--though I gotta admit I'm pretty addicted to breathin'. I mean, Hutch and me, we face that possibility every time we strap on our guns and hit the streets. A cop who ain't afraid of catchin' a stray bullet while bustin' up a robbery, or gettin' knifed by some strung-out hype desperate for a fix, is either crazy or just plain stupid. It goes with the badge.

   That don't mean you gotta dwell on it. Spend all your time worryin' about your own skin and you'd not only be a danger to yourself, but to your partner. I guess what I'm sayin' is you gotta look Death in the eye, tip your hat, and go about your business. And I'd always been able to do that, 'til now.

   This...this was different. My body slowly but surely fallin' apart, betrayin' me. Excruciating pain, losin' my eyesight, my ability to even suck in a breath of air? And Hutch, my partner, my best friend, the guy who'd step in front of a truck if it'd save my life, forced to watch it all, knowin' he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

   Probably blame himself, too. If there's one trip Blondie's got down to perfection, it's guilt.

   Sometimes I could swear he had a Jewish mother.

   Hutch picked up the mic and called R & I, askin'--no, tellin' poor Charlie to pull all our cases from the last five years and put 'em on our desks. By the time we got there, no less.

   Now don't get me wrong, I was feelin' every tick of the clock too. But do you have any idea how many wiseguys Hutch and me have busted over the last five years? It didn't really surprise me when Charlie started squawkin'.

   Around the station word is that I got a helluva temper, while Hutch tends to be more calm and easy-goin'. Of course, that's all a load-a bull. Okay, I'll admit I got a short fuse, but Hutch ain't no ambassador of good will either. Give him flack, especially when he's operatin' in what I like to call "white knight mode," and you better protect the family jewels. Poor Charlie had no idea what he was openin' himself up to.

   "Collins, we'll be there in twenty minutes, that's how long you've got." He said it in that cold voice he usually saves for rapists and killers.

   I turned to look at him, keeping my voice light. "Hey, take it easy. He's got no way of knowin' what's goin' down."

   That's what I said out loud. My eyes tried to tell him more, the words I felt deep down inside but couldn't speak.

   Hutch didn't say a word to me, but some of the lines around his eyes smoothed and his death grip on the mic relaxed.

   "Do it, will ya Charlie? It's that important. Captain Dobey'll confirm. Have him call Receiving Hospital and check on Starsky."

   He put the mic down and I felt his eyes boring into the side of my head. "Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

   Oh, just a couple hundred in the last ten minutes.

   I kept my eyes on the road. "Do you?"

   Hutch glanced out the passenger window. "I could be wrong." His sharp gaze returned to my face. "But then I'll be walking around tomorrow."

   Hard not to wince at that. I was tryin' to keep my mind on the here and now. Thinkin' about what lay around the bend was too scary. "Well, the doc was pretty straight about our chances."

   "Yeah."

   For some reason, I'm not sure why, I had a sudden, clear memory of another time in our lives when it felt like the whole world had turned on us and left us hangin' out to dry. I don't know if the smile reached my lips, but I felt it in my heart.

   "As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

   Once again Hutch didn't say anything. But then, he really didn't need to.

   Me and thee. I don't think they've invented a word that could define what's between us. I could say he's like a brother, but Nick and I have never shared the kind of bond that's between Hutch and me. Nicky is my little brother, and I love him, but I don't understand him--I never have. And he sure as hell don't know the first thing about me. To tell you the truth, sometimes I'm not even so certain he likes me.

   Hutch does. Oh, he plays jokes on me, gives me a hard time, but his eyes tell me the truth. We've laughed together. And we've cried together. I can't say that about any other person in this whole crazy, messed up world. It's scary, bein' known that well, all your hidden fears and deep, dark secrets. No one can hurt us as bad as we can hurt each other. And we have.

   It ain't exactly like the kind of love I have with Ma either, though there are similarities. I know Ma'll keep lovin' me no matter what I say or do. But with Ma, there's also the flip side--responsibility. I felt it the most when Pop died. Suddenly it all fell on my shoulders to be the man of the house. I used to envy Nick 'cause Ma would still baby him like a little boy. From the night Pop was killed, she treated me like a man.

   But I wasn't.

   Hutch? He takes me as I am and don't ask for much in return. And he lets me lean on him...a lot. It ain't easy for me. Usually by the time I do, it's 'cause I got nothin' left. Sometimes he comforts me, and sometimes he gives me a swift kick in the pants. And I trust him to know which one I need.

   I was still thinkin' deep thoughts when Hutch suddenly sat up straighter and pointed across the street.

   "Hey, is that Huggy?"

   I hung a U-turn and pulled up to the sidewalk where Hug was standin', then followed Hutch outta the car. Huggy tipped his head when he saw us, those teeth flashing in a grin.

   "Hey, what it is?"

   "Got a job for you."

   Hutch wasn't gonna let grass grow under his feet, I could see that. Problem is, even though Huggy's our friend, you gotta handle him right. Nobody likes bein' told what to do, 'specially a...businessman like Hug.

   "Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

   Hutch and I made a point of lookin' Huggy and his less than cosmopolitan surroundings over before we both raised our eyebrows in a "you can't be serious" expression. Huggy was not amused.

   "Honest! Got a job as a travel agent. It's a hard buck but an honest one. Need any airplane tickets?"

   Hutch didn't crack a smile. "What have you heard about a hit going down?"

   I swallowed but it wasn't easy. My throat felt like the Sahara and that disconnected feelin', the one that came over me when the doc told me about the poison, was back. Who'd a thought I'd be investigatin' my own murder? It was like some crazy movie on the late, late show.

   "On who?" Huggy asked.

   I looked at him, careful not to show how I was feelin'. "Me. Sparing the grim details, some guy got into my house last night and gave me a shot."

   Well, it ain't often you can surprise Hug. I just wished I could enjoy that look on his face. Under the circumstances, it wasn't too funny.

   "You gotta be puttin' me on."

   I shook my head. "I don't think he was puttin' me on either. Need your help, Hug."

   What you really need is a miracle whispered a nasty little voice in my head. I mentally flipped it the bird.

   "You gotta ask? I'll do anything I can. Something'll turn."

   I didn't want to see that expression on Huggy's face, or the look in his eyes. I hated it, and I loved it.

   I refused to look at my watch the rest of the drive to Metro.

**** Hutch ****

   I tried to keep my eyes on the scenery out the window. It wasn't easy--I'd catch them wandering over to Starsky like steel to a magnet. He seemed to be feeling just fine, but I couldn't help watching and waiting for the first signs of the poison, feeling like some kind of vulture.

   We had an argument about who would drive. I'd called Dobey at the crack of dawn, explained what was going down, and asked him to have one of our boys in blue drop Starsky's Torino at the hospital. I don't know what came over me, asking for the striped tomato instead of my own car. Guess I was so worried about Starsk at that point I would've done just about anything to make him feel better.

   Either that, or I was suffering from sleep deprivation and couldn't be held responsible for my actions.

   When we reached the Torino, Starsky still grumbling about his missing pants while giving an old lady in a wheelchair a free show, he crossed to the driver's side and held out his hand.

   I just stared at him as if he'd asked me to eat one of those greasy burritos he's so crazy about.

   He glared right back. "Keys!"

   My head was moving before his mouth stopped forming the word. "Uhn-uh. I'll drive."

   His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "It's my car, and I'll drive."

   I was getting truly pissed at him now. I understood what he was trying to do when he yelled at me about the pants, but this was going too far. An hour ago he'd been in la-la land, and now he intended to get behind the wheel? And what about the poison? What if it started affecting him while he was hotrodding down the street? No way was I going to sit there and...

   The hand reaching for the keys trembled. Just a slight tremor, and Starsky immediately clenched it into a fist, but it was already too late. His guard had slipped enough for me to snatch a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface anger--a man desperately afraid of losing control. Who needed to take charge, even of something as simple as driving his own car.

   I put my hand on his arm, no longer angry. "Starsk, I'm just not sure..."

   "Please, Hutch." He turned his head, but I could see his throat working. "You gotta trust me to know what I need. And right now, I need to drive my own car."

   There are times when, despite what my head tells me, despite common sense, I simply can't say no to him. He's like the tide, an irresistible force of nature that pulls me along no matter what good intentions I may have for standing still. Sometimes it's the child in him. Starsky doesn't talk much about the time after his father died, but I've been able to piece together a pretty good picture of how much his life changed. He was a kid forced to grow up fast--too fast. That's probably why there's a little boy still hiding inside him. Cynical and street tough as he can be after all we've seen, in many ways he holds onto the wonder and simplicity of a child. Which is precisely why this hardened cop, fed up with the euphoric sentimentalism of the Christmas season, braves the crowds every year to get his partner a present.

   Other times, it's his spirit that does me in. Starsky is a truly good person, and that's a rare find. Believe me, I know. I see the dregs of society every day, enough hatred, selfishness, envy, and mean-spiritedness to destroy what little faith I still have in humanity. Starsky keeps the spark alive. You know, most cops will spout the standard party line about the reason for becoming a police officer--wanting to make a difference, to help people, to protect the underdog. Starsky is the genuine item. The real deal. He's a sucker for someone in need, willing to not only hand over the shirt off his back, but to risk his own life if necessary. Like I said before, when the chips are down, he's the bravest person I know.

   He'd been through the wringer that morning, been given news no man should have to face. A lot of guys would just lay down, either give in to self-pity or give up completely. Yet there was Starsky, barely an hour after taking a sucker punch to the gut, picking himself up and dusting himself off, that damn stubborn streak driving him to hunt for his own killer.

   How in the hell could I say no?

   I tossed him the keys, irritated by the lump in my throat. "Better get in the car before you get arrested for indecent exposure."

   Starsky glanced over his shoulder at a couple of staring nurses, obviously on their way home after the night shift. "Hey, ain't you ever heard of Chippendales? Plenty of ladies'd pay money to see a show half this good."

   "Just goes to prove there's no accounting for taste." It felt great to be on familiar ground, Starsky acting like his old self. If only...

   I shook my head and headed for the passenger door. Thoughts like that were a dead end, a waste of time.

   We stopped by his place so that he could swap the white dress for a ratty pair of blue jeans and pick up his gun. Then we headed for headquarters, sun in the sky and Starsky behind the wheel, just like any other day. Except, of course, it wasn't.

   Starsky caught me checking up on him from the corner of my eye and his brow furrowed. "Willya quit lookin' at me like I've grown an extra head? You're makin' me jumpy. I crash this car and we won't need to find my late-night visitor."

   Having him snap at me like that was actually just what I needed. It reminded me he was still there, still alive. That old saying "Where there's life, there's hope" might be trite, but it gave me something to grab onto. I reached for the radio, figuring I'd get the ball rolling before we got to the station.

   "This is Zebra 3, patch me through to R & I."

   Normally I'd have made some small talk with Charlie Collins. He's a good guy, and he loves talking about his new granddaughter. To hear him tell it you'd think the sun rose and set, just for her. I didn't feel much like shooting the breeze, though, all things considered. I figured just this once Charlie would have to swap stories with somebody else.

   Somebody whose partner wasn't slowly dying right next to him.

   "Charlie, this is Hutch. Pull out every case we've worked on in the past 5 years and have them on our desks when we get down there."

   I didn't really expect Charlie's response, though I guess I should've.

   "No chance, Hutch. Everybody wants everything yesterday. Have you any idea of our workload?" Indignation dripped from his voice--I didn't have to be there to see the scowl on his face.

   I'd be damned if he was going to give me any lip about those files. Our request better override any others or I'd go down there personally and make sure it happened. With my gun, if necessary.

   "Collins, we'll be there in 20 minutes, that's how long you've got." I used my interrogation voice, the one that went with the "bad cop" face I'd given the doctor earlier.

   Starsky looked over and gently reminded me I was kicking the dog. It took the wind out of my sails and reminded me who I was talking to. Charlie deserved better.

   I did my best to patch things up before I signed off, then went back to not watching Starsky. Finally I couldn't take it any longer--I had to ask the question that had been bugging me since we left Doctor Franklin and his gadgets behind.

   "Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

   He wouldn't look at me but I saw his fingers squeeze the steering wheel more tightly. "Do you?"

   "I could be wrong. But then I'll be walking around tomorrow."

   I had to deflect, to put off the feelings the question stirred up. Starsky and I are both real good at sidestepping emotional land mines with a smart mouth. Helps avoid those "soapy scenes."

   Starsky didn't take the bait. "Well, the doc was pretty straight about our chances."

   "Our." Not "my." The fact that I knew he hadn't even thought about it, that it had come out as natural as saying my name, made my chest feel tight and my eyes burn.

   "Yeah."

   Starsky still didn't look at me, but something in his expression changed. I would've sworn he was smiling, but his mouth never moved. "As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

   I looked out the window and kept my breathing nice and steady. Starsky wasn't looking for an answer--he knew the list was short.

   The only person I'd ever trusted enough to let all the way inside. Who knew the dark as well as the light. Who celebrated my successes as enthusiastically as if they were his own. Someone who not only put up with my black moods, but cared enough to try and drag out of them--sometimes kicking and screaming. Who would trek through the woods and eat health food if it would keep me happy.

   Who would take a bullet if it would keep me alive.

   I couldn't imagine life without him.

   I wouldn't.

   Just then a familiar figure caught my eye and distracted me from my morose thoughts. I straightened up and took a closer look.

   "Hey, is that Huggy?"

   Starsky didn't waste breath answering me, he just slammed the Torino into a U-turn, tires screeching, and pulled up to the corner where Huggy was standing.

   You would've thought I'd learned something after riding Collins so hard, but that itchy, impatient feeling was back. I plunged in with both feet, and Huggy responded accordingly--by dragging his.

   "Got a job for ya."

   "Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

   Gainful employment. As a travel agent. Huggy tries on new careers like a stockbroker tries on suits. It almost coaxed a smile onto my face when I realized Starsky and I were giving him the same look of disbelief.

   One thing I can say about Hug, though. His loyalty is absolute. When the chips are down, when Starsky and I need his help the most, he turns from a streetwise hustler to a powerful ally. A lot of people underestimate him, and that's a big mistake.

   I watched his face as Starsky gave him the bare bones of what had happened, and I knew he'd use every means at his disposal--every snitch and hooker, junkie and hustler--to turn something for Starsky and me. I just hoped it would be enough.

   We'd already lost six hours.

PART TWO