A bouquet of roses and lots of thanks to Solo and SHaron for all their help scanning and proofing these classic stories of Constance Collins! This story originally appeared in the zine TLC. 

Comments about this story can be sent to: VenicePlaceAngel@aol.com

My Dream Is Your Fantasy
by
Constance Collins

She'd watched them put Simon in jail for eternity, she'd watched them put Peter and Matthew and Luke in jail, too, for trying to free Simon, and watched that ickysweet rat-fink Gail go soft and then crack up and have to be put in a home. Poor little girl.

Slowly the others had turned away -- copped out, dropped out, found other messiahs to follow. But not Hecate. For Hecate, Simon was the only god there was. She would have done -- would still do -- anything to please him.

Lately he had been talking to her, his voice in her head, telling her what to do to satisfy him.

Now, as always, she would do whatever she had to for Simon Marcos.

Weed watched Hecate dress, wondering how much longer he was going to continue seeing her. She wasn't exactly a knock-out -- no figure to speak of, limp, dishwater blonde hair -- and sometimes Weed wondered why he stuck with her. Then they got into bed again, and he remembered: she'd do anything. Weed had no unfulfilled sex-fantasies left -- at least none that would have left her alive. Anything he told her, she did, not only without protest, but with incredible enthusiasm. Marcos had trained her well.

The trouble was, she was so damned weird. She walked around like a zombie, with no life showing at all; and she was utterly inflexible about Weed and what was-left of the gang obeying 'Marcos' orders.'

"Weed," Hecate said in that low, solemn tone he'd come to recognize as her sooth-sayer's voice. "Weed, Simone has been away exactly six hundred and sixty-six days --"

Oh, shit, was this going to be more of that 'can't we break him out?' crap? Weed did pretty much what Hecate said because, well, he wasn't positively sure Marcos wasn't talking to her in her head, and the last thing Weed wanted to do was get on his wrong side. Even in prison, Marcos was dangerous. And, of course, as usual most of Marcos' ideas were real kicks -- they'd kept that DA's daughter alive for nearly a month on nothing but Diet Pepsi. Hecate had carved some kind of message on the chick's back, but Weed had hacked her to shreds before he pitched her in a dumpster in Venice. What the hell was the point of asking the cops to come calling?

Hecate just watched him, waiting until she had his full attention before she made her monumental pronouncement.

"Six hundred and sixty-six days -- so what?"

"Weed, Simone came to me in a dream just now --"

A dream just now? Just now they'd been screwing their brains loose, and she sure as hell hadn't been asleep.

" -- and he told me it was time for the pigs to meet their future."

Well, he knew who 'the pigs' were, but what the hell was that supposed to mean? "Meet the future?"

"Meet their future," Hecate corrected. "Their karma's going down; we have to begin before the next full moon, or Simone's spirit will be in turmoil."

Can't have that, can we? "Just what is this karma, baby?"

Hecate smiled. "Bring me the blond one. The other will follow."

********************

"Hutch," Starsky said seriously.

Hutch looked up from his typewriter. "What?"

"You're my pal, right? And we shouldn't have secrets?"

Hutch nodded, not knowing where this was going and not sure he wanted to commit himself.

"There's something I haven't been telling you, something about my past. I, well, I --" Starsky held up something for Hutch to see: the handle-end of a little pink plastic drink sword. "I was court-martialed out of the cavalry for cowardice." Starsky dissolved into laughter.

"You're weird," Hutch said, trying not to smile. No sense encouraging him. "And you watch too much TV. Mind if I go back to work now?"

"Hey, Hutch, does anything weird ever happen to you?"

Hutch dismissed the question. "Only when you're around."

"No, really. Something kinda weird happened to me."

"You mean besides the U.S. Cavalry expecting you to fight the Comanches with a two-inch pink plastic sword?"

"I got this outa Maria's drink last night. No, seriously, something kinda weird happened the other night."

Hutch sighed. Starsky was going to keep repeating that until he was asked to elaborate; might as well get it over with. "Weird how?"

"Well, when I got home from work one night last week, somebody'd moved my stuff. "

Now Hutch was interested. "What stuff?"

"In my bathroom. My razor and toothbrush weren't where they should have been, and the toilet seat was down, and the shower curtain was on the outside of the bathtub. "

It gave Hutch a chill. "You sure you didn't --"

"I don't think so. You think somebody broke into my house so they could play in my bathroom? 'Cause nothing's missing --"

"Hell, it was probably just the girl-of-the-week; and how many girls have you given keys to?"

"Yeah, you're right." But neither of them felt any better.

"Just -- be careful, okay?"

"Yes, Mother. Promise to eat my vegetables and wear my rubbers."

"Shut up. And your sex-life's your own business. Now, do you mind if I finish this report so maybe I can go home tonight and eat my vegetables?"

"And wear your rubbers?" Starsky asked. He went back to his typewriter. "You be careful, too."

Hutch watched him for a moment. "Me?"

"Yeah. If somebody's playing tricks on me, you're probably on their list, too."

Hutch nodded and went back to his typing.

***************

"Why the hell're we doing this?" Muscatel asked. He and Weed and Mobey, the last of the Devils motorcycle gang, were hiding in Hutch's apartment, waiting for him to come home.

"I told you, dipshit, we're gonna grab this cop and have some fun."

"'Cause Princess told us to?" Muscatel was getting fed up with Hecate ordering Weed around, and Weed ordering him around. Taking the DA's daughter had been one thing, but a cop? That was just plain crazy; it was begging for trouble. Muscatel's motto was 'Avoid cops at all cost.'

"We're doing this 'cause I say so. You got a problem with that?"

On the other hand, if Weed kicked him out, Muscatel had no place else to go. And Hecate's ideas always got him off.

Mobey was sleeping. No conscience and no nerves, he slept whenever nothing exciting was going on.

Muscatel heard the key turning in the lock and gave Mobey a shove to wake him.

Just as Hutchinson closed the door behind him, the three men jumped him, Weed and Muscatel holding him down while Mobey beat him into unconsciousness. Once they were sure he was out, Weed cuffed Hutchinson's hands behind his back while Mobey pocketed his Magnum.

"We gonna kill him here?" Mobey asked eagerly. "What're we gonna do to him first?"

Muscatel shook his head. Mobey wasn't too clever and sometimes it really grated on his nerves.

"No," Weed snapped. "We're taking him with us, I told you that."

"How's Princess think the other one's gonna find him, ESP?"

"We're going to send him a message later on." Weed wasn't sure of the intelligence of this plan, but it was the best he could do.

"Yeah? What kind of message? 'We got your partner'? Or what?"

"Shut the fuck up and help get him downstairs."

*************

Eight-fifteen the following morning. Starsky waited a good three minutes before shutting off the engine and running upstairs to Hutch's apartment. The LTD was out front, he hadn't had a date the night before -- unless he'd gotten lost on the way back from his morning jog, where could he be?

But the apartment was empty. No sighs of a struggle -- no sign Hutch had even been there; the bed hadn't been slept in, there were no dirty dinner dishes, no dirty clothes on the floor and the clothes in the hamper didn't include anything Hutch had worn the previous day.

"He made it home. He made it out of the car, maybe even up here, but they'd have to have caught him really unawares for the place to be so -- undisturbed. Musta been more than one guy --

"Shit. Shit!" Starsky dashed down to the Torino to call in.

************

Late the next morning, Hutch awakened. The lump in the mattress dug into his naked back -- naked back? Where were his clothes? The only warmth came from a body covering him, and most disturbing, a mouth against his.

Seeing Hutch was awake, Mobey bit hard into Hutch's lips.

Instantly Hutch was struggling, but he was tied spread-eagle, and there was no slack in the ropes.

Weed and Muscatel watched from the doorway as Mobey pawed at Hutch. Muscatel nudged Weed. "You gonna do anything about that? Cause Princess'll throw a shit-fit if Goldilocks loses his cherry before showtime."

Weed shoved Muscatel out of the way and pulled Mobey off Hutch.

"Hey!"

"Go get us some food. Pick up some chicken or something."

Mobey glowered at Weed for a moment, 'til Weed snapped his name, then he kicked Hutch hard in the ribs and stomped out. Weed and Muscatel followed, leaving Hutch alone in a now pitch-black room.

What the hell was going on? Who were these guys, and what did they want with him? He vaguely recalled being jumped in his apartment. They must have knocked him out and brought him here... but for what?

Mobey. Mobey? Shit, Hutch knew who Mobey was (assuming it was the same guy -- and how many Mobeys could there be?) Real name John North, member of the Devils, a motorcycle gang made up mostly of guys too sick, too warped for even the Hell's Angels. And Simon Marcos had done his level best to recruit them for his 'army' against the world. Marcos had had little success; the Devils weren't committed to anything but satisfying whatever bizarre cravings came to mind, and Marcos had used his female followers to lure guys into the gang, and drugs, sex orgies and fear to keep them in. Hutch remembered that when the busts came down, the Devils had conveniently vanished.

Shit. He was in serious trouble here. With these weirdoes anything was possible. And how was Starsky ever going to find him?

Hutch fought against the ropes, but they were strong and tied expertly, with no slack whatsoever. He ached from the beating and the strained position, and panic was forming in his throat, choking him. Meditate. Have to calm myself down so I can think straight.

Breathing deeply, forcing himself to relax, Hutch was able to bring himself to a clearer state of mind.

Okay, if that's Mobey, then this is connected to Marcos. Starsky was right -- they were responsible for that girl's death. The ME said there wasn't much left to examine --

"Stop that!" Somehow the sound of his own voice was comforting to Hutch. "Start telling yourself horror stories, you're not going to be able to think rationally. At least I can think rationally, which is more than I can say for the psychos out there. Okay, if they want me, they probably want Starsky, too. Wonder if they left him some kind of message...

"The bathroom. Somebody was sneaking around in his bathroom. And I said it was the girl-of-the-week. Well, this ought to put Starsk on his guard..." The only trouble was that he'd also be careless, concentrating not on his own safety, but on finding Hutch. And Hutch was scared Starsky would get grabbed, that they'd both end up in the hands of these psychotics.

****************

Starsky could barely stand still, watching the lab boys -- oh, well, Waliszweski was a girl -- slowly, methodically, go over Hutch's apartment. The real hell was that Starsky knew they wouldn't find anything useful, but he couldn't tear himself away until they finished.

At last they began packing up to go. Starsky gave them strict orders to call him if they came up with anything, and made dire threats if they neglected to do so.

Start with Huggy; besides information, Starsky needed someone to vent his frustrations on.

"Weed, I'm not so sure how long we can keep Goldilocks there under control. He's fightin' mad now - what say we give him a little shot of something to happy him up 'til we're ready... ?"

Hutch held very still, listening closely to Muscatel. A shot of something? Something like what?

"Sounds okay to me," Weed agreed. "You'll have to score something, though."

"Fine by me," Muscatel responded. "I'll go get some smack for baby here."

Hyperventilating, Hutch told himself. You're hyperventilating. And with the gag they'd put in his mouth, he was going to black out. Can't be happening -- on top of everything else, dear God, this can't be happening, not again --

****************

One-thirty-seven p.m. Starsky had just extricated himself from the awkward position of assuring Sweet Alive that Hutch would be fine, that he, Starsky would bring him home safe and sound.

Of course, she had no information. No one had any information; no one had even the slightest idea that Hutch had been grabbed, let alone who might be responsible. Every damned person Starsky talked to was as surprised as hell that Hutch was missing; there hadn't even been a suspicious look or gesture to indicate someone might be lying to him. It was downright freaky.

Back to The Pits. Huggy still knew nothing, and Starsky saw his own anxiety mirrored in Huggy's face.

"Anything?" Huggy asked hopefully. Starsky didn't bother to answer, just sat down at the bar. He was going to give himself five minutes to rest, then he was going back out and find something...

Huggy sat half a meatball sub in front of him, but Starsky ignored it. His stomach was so knotted, he'd only lose the sandwich in the car, and he didn't have time to spare for vomiting. "You haven't turned up anything, Hug?"

"Not a thing. Nobody I know knows anything at all."

"Nobody anyplace knows anything -- Hug, I swear, I'm sacred to look at the National Enquirer, 'cause the cover's gonna read: 'Blond Blintz Nabbed By Space Aliens'!"

Huggy tried to laugh, but there was no feeling behind it.

Starsky check his watch; his five minutes were up. "Gotta go. Get in touch with me if you hear anything --"

"Yeah, I know --" Huggy picked up the sandwich. "Hey, take this with you."

Starsky just waved and walked out the door.

****************

They didn't give Hutch the heroin; Hecate wouldn't allow it. She stopped them before they could even take it to the bedroom where Hutch was still tied on the bed. "Simone says that using drugs alienates us from our true selves --"

Muscatel gazed at the ceiling, seething. Who the hell does she think she is, telling us what to do? And since when did Marcos disapprove of drugs? I'm gonna give that bitch a joint filled with dust and watch her brains leak out.

Weed stared daggers at her, waiting for her stupid little morality speech to end. "All right, Hecate, but just how do you expect us to keep that pig from freaking out -- never mind," he broke off, "never mind, you're right, we want Baby Blue there to be in touch with himself, don't we? You just go leave that message for his partner."

"What -- ?" Muscatel began, outraged, but Weed gave him a shove.

"Shut up and come with me," Weed ordered. When they were out of earshot of Hecate, Weed jumped all over Muscatel. "Don't you ever question me in front of anybody again, you hear me? Ever. I know what I'm doing, and if you don't believe that, then you can just lose yourself right now -- you get me?"

"I get you."

"Okay. Now look, we paid good money for that H -- why waste it on some pig who won't even appreciate it? And, if we did get him stoned, he wouldn't be able to fully appreciate the fun and games later."

****************

"Dobey wants to talk to you," were the fist words out of Huggy's mouth when Starsky walked through the door of The Pits late that night. He'd been in and out all day, checking with Huggy, then heading back out on the streets to see who might know something.

Unfortunately, no one knew anything and Starsky was getting really crazed. He was avoiding Dobey, because he didn't want to be told again that he was not on this case, that he didn't have the perspective needed to handle it correctly --

Handle what? They didn't have a damn thing. The lab had turned up nothing -- no prints, no hair, no fibers, no anything. Starsky had spoken with all Hutch's neighbors, tracking them down at work if necessary. None of them had seen or heard anything.

Starsky motioned for the phone. Huggy handed it to him, then poured him a glass of milk. Starsky dialed, looking at Starsky questioningly. "You drink that. I know you haven't eaten all day --"

"Or worn my rubbers." Starsky listened to the phone ringing, then Dobey picked up. "Me, Cap'n, what it is?"

"I want you in here right now, is that clear enough? I don't see you in this office within the next fifteen minutes, you're on suspension."

Starsky hung up the receiver, drained the milk glass, and walked out.

****************

"You leave the message?" Weed demanded.

Hecate sat down at his feet. "Uh-huh."

"What's it say?"

Hecate stared at him, gray eyes huge and unblinking. "What Simone wanted it to say."

More of that crap. Fine, if that's the way she wanted to play it. "It better get him here pretty quick, cause with Mobey around, the blond's ass is not his own."

"He'll be here. Simone dreamed it."

God, she was getting worse, if that was possible. When this gig was over, he was dumping her; this wacko nonsense ended right after he had his turn with that blond.

Well, time to save Goldilocks' ass again. That partner of his better show soon, or he was gonna get stuck with leftovers.

Muscatel was sitting on the floor, smoking a joint and watching Mobey grope Hutchinson. Noticing Weed standing over him, Muscatel looked up and grinned. "I think that asshole's meditating or something."

Weed gave him a look, then grabbed Mobey and dragged him off Hutch. "How many times I gotta tell you, you can't have him yet. We gotta wait for his partner."

****************

Stars appear, and shadows fallin', you can hear my heart a-callin'... Hutch recited lyrics in his head to keep from screaming. When the hell was Starsky going to show up, a million black-and-whites right behind? If he had to suffer through any more of Mobey's gropings, he was going to lose his mind. The worse part of it was, the more he protested, the more he struggled, the more Mobey seemed to enjoy himself. Hutch was getting a first-hand understanding of why sexually abused children's personalities splinter -- holding himself still, pretending he was somewhere else, someone else, was all he could do.

"Starsky, you have to get some sleep, you're no good to the department dead on your feet."

"I don't give a damn about being good for the department -- my partner's missing!"

"How do you think I feel?" Dobey shouted back. "He's one of my men!"

How many times had Starsky heard Dobey say that? Nerves frazzled, he snapped back, "And that's another thing I don't give a damn about!" Starsky slammed out of the office, charging through the squadroom, yelling at the top of his lungs, "You want me to go home? Fine, I'll go home! I'll go home and shave and change my clothes and then I'm gonna go out there and find my damn partner!"

Outrage carried him home, where he dragged himself upstairs and into the bathroom. All he needed was a quick shower, a shave --

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Fatigue made his reflexes sluggish; he couldn't quite grasp that there were words on his mirror -- scrawled in blood? Was that really blood? What the hell kind of crazy message was this? 'HA HA HA HA HA HA HA' in blood ... on a mirror ...

Something clicked in Starsky's brain -- a message in blood on a mirror -- the mirror of the men's room at the court house where Simon Marcos was being sentenced -- but Marcos was in jail, and the losers who'd grabbed Starsky were in jail, so who was still out? Who was out and wacko enough to do something like this? Names zipped through his brain, but all those people were in prison. Who hadn't been busted?

And it came to him. The Devils. They'd none of them been true believers; though they'd loved the drugs and sex and violence Marcos surrounded himself with, but no one had been able to pin anything on them. Well, it was a place to start.

"Where do the Devils hang out now? Who would know that?" A quick call to Huggy got him a place to start: an ancient shack out in the middle of nowhere. "Thanks a lot, Hug."

"Starsky, these aren't guys you want to be messing around with," Huggy warned, but he was talking to the dial tone.

****************

Hutch didn't know how long he lay waiting, dreading Mobey's return, but dreading even more when Weed and Muscatel would decide to shoot him up. Mobey's gropings were bad -- horrible -- but when this was over, they'd be over. But if they strung him out -- that was a part of his life that would never end; nightmares of the last time still resurfaced. He couldn't live that nightmare again...

****************

Starsky had pulled up in front of the house and was out of the Torino before it occurred to him that he should have called in. He leaned back into the car, grabbed up the radio, identified himself and asked to be patched through to Dobey. It seemed to take forever, then, "Dobey."

"Starsky, Cap'n. Think I know who's got Hutch, they left a message on my mirror, better get somebody to my place to check for prints. Over."

"Where are you?" Dobey barked.

"Put the radio down," came a voice near Starsky's ear, accompanied by a gun pushed into his ribs. "You get blown away right now, your partner'll buy it before the echo's died away."

Starsky put the radio back.

Muscatel grabbed Starsky by the hair, and, still holding the gun to his ribs, pulled Starsky into the old house.

"Wanna give me some idea what's going on?" Starsky asked.

"Karma's going down," Muscatel answered, and laughed.

"You've got my partner --"

"Yeah, and pretty soon you'll have him."

Starsky didn't know what that meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

Muscatel pulled Starsky through the front door, into a small room where Weed and Hecate were sitting. Hecate gave him a spacey smile. "Hi, Starsky. Simone told me about you."

"Oh, yeah, when was that?" Starsky tried to sound casual, unafraid.

"Simone talks to me all the time... he talks in my head..."

Oh, terrific, this was like a rerun of the Twilight Zone he'd been in the last time Simon Marcos' dreams had taken over his life. "You know, you're all just digging yourselves in deeper and deeper..."

Weed slugged him in the stomach. "I don't wanna have to hurt you so bad you can't perform, so just shut the fuck up, hero."

Perform? What the hell did that mean?

"Nobody wants to hurt you," Hecate said softly. "You should be so happy; tonight your karma will be fulfilled."

"What the hell does that mean? And what're you doing with my partner? Marcos and all those other looney friends of yours 'fulfilled karmas,' and now those people are dead and Marcos is in prison --"

"What happens to your partner is entirely up to you, pig." Muscatel's eyes glowed. "You can watch us gang-bang your boyfriend --" Starsky felt the blood rush from his head, and for a second everything went black in front of his eyes. " -- or it can be just the two of you, nice and sweet."

It took a moment for Starsky to get it. "You're crazy," he said flatly.

"Yeah, well, who's in charge here, you or us?" Weed snickered. "And tonight your partner's gonna lose his cherry -- and you're the only one's got any say how. So what'll it be, piggy? You wanna watch the show, or you wanna be a star?"

"I'm not playing your sick games."

Muscatel dragged Starsky to the doorway, and with a flourish, flung open the door.

There was Hutch, tied to a bed, Mobey sitting next to him, mouthing his chest and pawing between his legs. Hutch's eyes were squeezed tight shut, his while body clenched, anguish radiating from every inch of him. Starsky thought he was going to vomit, the outrage was so violent. He tried to break away, but Muscatel still had one hand firmly tangled in his hair.

"We been havin' one hell of a time keeping Mobey there off him, anyhow. Be a lot easier just to let him take what he wants."

Jesus, they were serious.

Muscatel nudged Starsky. "You know, Simon always used this as initiation. Only problem was, sometimes we'd get a little carried away, and not everybody survived. Personally, I think Goldilocks here should last at least two or three days."

Starsky remembered the savaged bodies of young girls and boys that had been the beginning of the trail to Marcos.

Again Weed's nasty laugh. "So, what's it gonna be, Officer Pig?"

Numbed by fear and outrage, Starsky could only nod. No way could he let that happen to his partner, not if there was some way to prevent it. He had to play for time 'til the back-up arrived; God, what had he said to Dobey? His mind was blank. "I'll do whatever you say," he said quietly.

Muscatel laughed. "Bet your ass you will. Now strip."

Overcome by embarrassment, Starsky did as he was ordered. The ringing in his ears drowned out most of Hecate's ramblings about how Simone's dreams were coming true and Muscatel's lewd remarks. He stood frozen until Weed slapped him sharply on his ass. "Get going. And make it entertaining; don't forget, you can be replaced."

Entertaining? Oh, dear God, what the hell was he going to do -- strike that; how the hell was he going to do it?

Starsky walked slowly through the doorway and into the room where Hutch lay. Hecate and Weed and Muscatel followed him into the room and sat down on the floor to watch.

An audience. Dear God ... Starsky tried to pray, but Dear God was as far as his mind would go.

Hutch was still tied down, his whole body clenched, his eyes shut tight. Seeing Starsky, Mobey went to join the others on the floor. Shivering, Starsky went to the bed and sat down next to Hutch. Throwing the audience a defiant look, he began untying the ropes. He'd be damned if he'd do this with Hutch tied down. No one objected as the ropes were removed, and Hutch immediately tried to pull his numbed limbs into the fetal position to protect himself. Starsky started to rub Hutch's arms, trying to get some feeling back into them.

Hutch recognized the touch and looked at Starsky. "You're here."

"Yeah. You okay?"

"If there's a SWAT team outside, I'm just great."

Starsky shook his head. "Sorry. But somebody should be coming soon." Starsky hoped like hell it was true. He opened his mouth to continue, but how to begin?

Hutch said it for him. "I know what they want, okay? I've heard them talking, and Mobey -- " Now it was Hutch who couldn't go on.

Starsky lay down next to Hutch, whispering desperately. "I was talking to Dobey when they dragged me in here, so he should be doing something. The way I figure it, we're safe as long as we're -- entertaining." Starsky hated using that word, but no other came to his mind. "If we take it real slow --" He looked into Hutch's sky blue eyes staring at him. "I can't see any other way --" Starsky's murmured words sounded hopeless.

Hutch had been trying to prepare himself for whatever happened. "Not much choice, is there? Look, it's okay, okay?" But he couldn't help adding, "I've -- never done --"

"Me neither."

Hutch could remember being frightened before, frightened for himself and frightened for Starsky (and when had the line between the two disappeared?) but nothing had ever been like this. A part of him was relieved at Starsky's presence -- physically this beat the hell out of the alternatives, but it was so humiliating. He wasn't sure he wouldn't rather they'd just gone ahead and raped him, killed him, if only he could have avoided this degradation.

Faced with Hutch's anguish, Starsky's fear left him; there was no room for it; his whole being was filled with a need to protect his partner, to soothe him. And that made it easy to reach out and stroke Hutch's face, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close, to shield him from the prying eyes. Hutch clung to him. "It's all right, it's all right." Starsky stroked Hutch's hair, then gently kissed his lips.

Starsky's mouth on his made Hutch feel peculiar; they had always been close, but this was so different -- so impelling.

It was a damned good thing, Starsky thought, that their mouths were busy; he had no answers for the questions Hutch would have been asking. The most pressing concern on Starsky's mind was whether or not he would be able to perform. He kissed Hutch for long moments, keeping his eyes closed and trying to focus on the usual erotic images that came to mind when he was making love with someone, but nothing happened, and Hutch was trembling against him. Starsky held Hutch's face between his hands and looked into Hutch's eyes. "I'm not sure I can." But the anguish in Hutch's eyes melted his heart and that feeling of tenderness, more than anything, opened him up to the first stirrings of arousal.

He kissed Hutch as passionately as he could; no way in the world would they be able to get through this remaining aloof. He could feel Hutch arching against him, responding as if looking for a place to hide. And Starsky was more than willing to be his sanctuary; certainly Hutch was the only safety in the room for him. They held each other for a long time, learning the secrets of each others' bodies, fusing together.

Can't let myself be scared; Hutch's scared enough for both of us -- who can blame him. Can't botch this, I could end up getting him -- both of us -- killed -- The image of that first kid's body came to Starsky: a 16 year old runaway, his body torn apart from the inside. Starsky forced the thoughts away. Gotta get Hutch more into this -- Purring erotic nonsense in Hutch's ear, Starsky stroked down Hutch's chest, his brain furiously calculating 'how to do this.' Be tender, go slow... oh, shit. And how the hell do you -- The phrase 'make love to a man' put itself together in Starsky's mind, but he couldn't handle it. Thinking about this was going to drive him crazy, so he shut off his intellect and let his imagination take over. "You're beautiful," he whispered in Hutch's ear. "You know that? You're beautiful." He petted Hutch, caressed his thighs, cautiously avoiding Hutch's penis. By the time he was comfortable with the touches, Hutch had begun responding -- his mouth passionately returning Starsky's kisses, thrusting against him. Pleased at this success, Starsky went on, fingers brushing Hutch's cock, lightly, delicately, then found their way back to his balls. Hutch gasped, then relaxed into the contact. Starsky fondled his balls more confidently, squeezing and tugging lightly. Starsky wondered briefly if this felt the same to Hutch as it would to him. Hutch's embrace had grown stronger, tighter.

Starsky moved back to Hutch's cock; it felt like warm velvet in his hand. He'd forgotten that Hutch wasn't circumcised (certainly until this moment it wouldn't have made his list of pertinent information). Licking his fingers for lubrication, Starsky wrapped his left hand around Hutch's cock and gently slid the foreskin up and down. How could something feel so bizarre and so familiar at the same time? Hutch seemed to be resisting, so Starsky kissed him some more, first on the lips, then moving to his throat. "Show me," he whispered in Hutch's ear. "Show me what you like -- please, babe, ya gotta help me --"

Keeping one arm tightly around Starsky's neck, Hutch brought one hand down over Starsky's guiding his motions, changing his rhythm infinitesimally. Starsky was stunned when Hutch actually began to harden in his fingers. Staggered (elated) at this success, he returned to kissing Hutch's mouth, keeping his strokes regular, even, smooth. "It's all right," he murmured into Hutch's lips. "I promise you, it'll be all right."

His own erection throbbing, Starsky grabbed up a tube of Vaseline, honestly grateful to whichever creep had left it. He tore off the cap and squeezed practically the entire tube into his hand. It was important that Hutch be properly lubricated, of that much Starsky was sure. "Babe, turn over." Hutch didn't want to loosen his hold. "Babe, come on, listen to me, ya gotta turn over on your stomach -- it's too, too revealing any other way --"

"Starsk, please --"

"It's all right, I'll take care of you." He got Hutch to release his grip and turn over onto his stomach. Then he gingerly began lubricating Hutch's rectum, murmuring in his ear, trying to relax him.

Hutch was repeating, "please, please," under his breath, but he lay still and spread his legs, breathing deeply to compose himself. The frightening thing was, this was turning him on like crazy. Starsky straddled him, fingering his asshole, anointing him, opening him up. One finger was inside him, then, timeless moments later, two. Hutch couldn't believe the ferocity of his desire -- he wanted Starsky, wanted him like he'd never wanted anyone before in his life.

Starsky lifted Hutch's head, removed the pillow from underneath it, carefully lowered Hutch's head, then urged Hutch to lift his pelvis, sliding the pillow under him, trying for a better angle.

The fingers entered him again, feeling to Hutch as if they should always have been there. He felt Starsky move between his legs and kneel behind him.

Just as Starsky began to penetrate him, over the crooning in his ear Hutch heard, "Well, Officer Piggy, how's he feel? Nice and tight, I bet -- bet he's got some great moves, too."

All the tension flooded back into Hutch's body. Starsky swore, withdrew, then gently stroked Hutch's face, whispering urgently. "To hell with those creeps -- ignore 'em. We're alone here, this is all for us, for you and me, not for any damned sicko audience. You understand me, Hutch? For us --" Starsky stroked Hutch's cheek, kissing the back of his neck, then his hand found its way back down between Hutch's legs.

The tingling in his groin made Hutch moan and wiggle his hips, eliciting catcalls from the spectators -- but by now Hutch couldn't have cared less; Starsky was fully inside him -- the discomfort had become an exquisite fullness as his prostate was massaged; he couldn't hold still -- he was flying. Then Starsky started to move inside him, sending sparks through his entire body, and the world turned upsidedown, sailed away, leaving him floating on Starsky gentleness and his own insane arousal. "Please -- Starsky, please --" Somehow he couldn't seem to say anything else; the fire inside was threatening to consume him -- and from the way Starsky was touching him, kissing him, pulsing inside him, his passion was just as fierce.

Hutch thought he heard Starsky say something about the dark side of the moon, then Hutch was exploding, Starsky's loving hand bringing him to orgasm --

and Starsky was erupting inside him --

They lay exhausted, Starsky clinging to Hutch as if to a life-raft.

The passion-heat fog was just lifting when Hutch heard the sound he'd been praying for: the approaching wail of sirens.

Starsky was still panting against the back of Hutch's neck, repeating his name in a voice Hutch had never heard before, a voice filled with unfathomable longing. If they had been alone, Hutch wasn't sure he would have ever wanted this to end... but with -- God, it sounded like four or five sirens -- the cavalry on the way, and not being any too quiet about it, a shoot-out seemed imminent, and Hutch was not eager to get caught in the middle with no clothes and no guns. Damn, what were those morons doing, blaring their sirens -- didn't they know he and Starsky were there? They had to distract their audience, be more entertaining. "Oh, God, David, yes, I love you --"

The giggling got louder, and Hutch heard Mobey say something about it being his turn next.

Starsky pulled back immediately, startled as hell. "Are you all right?"

Hutch turned over and quickly embraced him, whispering, "Sirens," in Starsky's ear, hoping no more explanation would be necessary. Apparently it wasn't; Starsky relaxed against him, muttered something about being undercover with no damned covers, then he kissed Hutch like there was no tomorrow, energetically rubbing against him.

Mobey nudged Weed and repeated, "When's my turn?"

But Weed didn't answer; he was listening to the nearing sirens. "Shit, that's the cops!"

Starsky grabbed Hutch's hand, pulling him off the bed and into the next room. He slammed and locked the door before anyone could reach them. Holding Hutch's hand again, Starsky surveyed the room; shower stall, toilet, sink, no window, no other door. Dobey's voice through the bullhorn could be heard quiet clearly, ordering everyone out with their hands up.

"Don't see any guns, but here's your pants --" Starsky tossed them at Hutch. "Hey, and your shoes -- they've got both our guns. Geeze, you look like you're gonna pass out on me."

"I'm all right," Hutch protested.

Starsky took the pants back, sucked in hard to get them zipped, and stuck his bare feet in the loafers. He caught Hutch just before he hit the floor. "You okay?"

"I'm okay."

"Terrific. You stay in here -- hide in the closet."

"What closet? And where're you going?" Hutch asked.

Starsky looked down at himself, wearing pants and shoes that didn't fit, unarmed -- where the hell was he going? "No place. Let's find you something to wear."

"I think I need to sit down."

"Right." Starsky guided Hutch down to sit on the toilet seat, then he tore the pink and blue shower curtain down. "Here ya go, Scarlett, your new finery."

Hutch had just wrapped the curtain around his waist when the first shot sounded. Starsky pushed his partner into the bathtub and was climbing in himself when a bullet smashed through the door, sideswiping him and slashing across his side. "Jesus -- !" Falling, rather than laying down next to Hutch, Starsky clutched the wound.

Hutch was too oblivious to even realize Starsky had been injured, so he snuggled against him and let himself sleep. Starsky was there; it was all right.

****************

Mobey loved it. He'd never been in a real shootout before, and the bullets whizzing by gave him a turn-on nearly as good as what he got from Goldilocks -- in fact, it felt like a continuation of the turn-on he was getting from watching those cops fuck. When the cops out there were gone, he was gonna break down the bathroom door and ride Goldilocks through the floor.

Thoroughly frustrated by their situation --"no way out, there's no way out" -- both stolen guns fast running out of ammo, Weed struck out at the one person he knew wouldn't strike back, the person responsible for this whole situation -- Hecate. That damn chanting was getting on his nerves, so Weed backhanded her across the face. "Just shut up, you hear me? Just shut up."

Hecate fell back on the floor, still chanting. She had realized her objective, their karmas were complete; nothing would ever be the same again. And now that she had fulfilled Simone's dream, he would come to claim her.

The sound of shots faded away, replaced by Simone's words. Now she would live in his dreams forever...

Muscatel fired the second-to-last bullet in the Beretta, hitting a black and white. Damn. This wasn't even the Alamo; they didn't stand that good a chance of survival. He was going to be arrested, thrown in jail, tried, put in prison --

He'd been there before, and it made Marcos' initiations look like a Cub Scout Jamboree. They could forget that crap; he wasn't going back to prison --

Muscatel used the last of Starsky's bullets to splatter his head against the wall.

****************

Dobey opened the bathroom door to find Starsky and Hutch wrapped in each other's arms, Hutch asleep, Starsky leaking blood.

"He needs a doctor," Starsky said quietly.

"So do you; there's an ambulance outside. Dave, what --"

"Then don't just stand there, get them in here!"

The paramedics were in in a matter of seconds, loading Hutch onto a stretcher first (at Starsky's insistence).

Starsky started to protest the paramedics ministrations, but the truth was, his side hurt, and he wanted something done about it.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain," one of the paramedics told him.

Starsky was surprised to note she was a woman; he hadn't noticed that before. "Will it knock me out?"

"There's nothing in this needle that would knock you out," she answered. And technically it was true, but if it took effect at all, it would break down all the tension in his body and let him sleep.

****************

"No tearing, no permanent damage, just some slight abrasions. There'll be some discomfort, but you'll feel fine in a few days." The doctor's words echoed in Hutch's head. Easy for him to say. Hutch knew he was fine physically; the question was, would he be all right in a few days? They'd released him the next morning, but they'd kept Starsky. The gunshot wound hadn't been too serious, but he'd lost a lot of blood and he was terribly weak. And Hutch was scheduled to see a staff psychiatrist.

But first there was this to be gotten through -- answering questions, filing charges, filling out reports. So he was waiting in Dobey's office; being a cop had one advantage -- it got him this preferential treatment.

Dobey came in and sat down, looking decidedly uncomfortable. Hutch knew he wasn't looking forward to this, and something like empathy seeped through the wall of numbness surrounding him. "Hi, Cap'n."

Dobey tried to smile. "How're you feeling, Hutch?"

"Not feeling anything, if you want the truth. Any word on Starsky?"

"Still asleep. Hutch, if you're not up to this --"

Kindness. If there was anything Hutch couldn't handle right now, it was kindness. "I want to get this over with, all right? Then I'll have one less thing on my mind."

Dobey sat for a long time thinking about Hutch. He was holding himself in so tight, Dobey was half afraid he'd implode. Not that Dobey was surprised; Hutch's typical reaction to his own pain was to draw into himself; but his behavior regarding Starsky was strange, disinterested, almost as if he were unable to show much concern -- or afraid to. Either way, it was so unlike Hutch that Dobey was beginning to believe that this might be the end of the partnership; and how would they live with that?

****************

It went well, Hutch thought, driving home. He'd stayed calm, he'd been able to give them enough to put Weed and Mobey in jail for good. Hecate seemed to have taken up permanent residence in Simon Marcos' dreams -- it was unlikely she'd ever stand trial. Muscatel, of course, was dead.

He and Dobey went over the details for close to two hours, and by the time he left, Hutch knew he wouldn't be embarrassed reciting them again. Dobey had continued to be kind, averting his gaze, asking only what was absolutely necessary. Hutch wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that he couldn't feel anything anyway.

Maybe talking to the psychiatrist tomorrow would bring him out of his stupor, although Hutch wasn't sure he was ready to handle the feelings it held at bay.

Starsky lay staring at the ceiling of his hospital room, listening to some lady on TV gush about how thrilled she was to finally meet Monty Hall. The pain pills and antibiotics were making him woozy, and his thoughts seemed to be running lost through a maze -- no pay-offs, no exits, just endless bumping into walls of questions with no answers. Where was Hutch? How was Hutch? Was he all right, coping okay, or had he put himself in isolation? And why wasn't he here?

That question kept returning, even though Starsky was afraid he knew the answer -- Hutch didn't want to see him. He'd crawled in a hole, pulled it in after him, and nothing and nobody out there could blast him out. Without Starsky, who was going to keep Hutch from thinking himself to death?

Starsky closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. Life without Hutch was a bleak, bewildering prospect, difficult to even imagine. The medication numbed the pain of the bullet wound, and pushed the world away, but the longing for Hutch remained. This separation was like losing a limb; he ached for Hutch.

That time with Hutch played itself over and over in his mind, but somehow the anger, the fear, the pain had been erased, and all he could feel was the pleasure, the sheer exquisite joy of making love to his partner...

Those feelings were quickly chased away by shame and remorse. How could he think about that -- violation -- of the one person he loved most, and remember joy? Christ, he must really be sick.

A nurse bringing him food diverted Starsky's thoughts. He'd eaten practically all of it before it occurred to him to wonder just what meal it was -- breakfast, lunch, or dinner? The day was dark and gloomy, making time determination difficult, until he remembered he'd been watching, listening to, game shows and soaps. Must be lunch. Starsky finished his gruel, lay down his spoon, and closed his eyes. Eve and Nick were having their operations on the same day; April was convinced that she and Mike were through because Robin had come back, and last of all, Sally had her baby and Jack told Jennifer she couldn't keep it because she's going to spend three years in prison. It was good to know that, whatever else Starsky lost in his life, the soaps went on as always. After a while his full stomach, the drone of TV and the drugs let Starsky sleep.

****************

Hutch's visit to the psychiatrist had been better than talking to Dobey; Dr. Evans had an impersonal, almost chill manner, with no hint of kindness, and Hutch preferred it to sympathetic warmth; cool detachment didn't interfere with his wall of indifference. Still he wondered how the other patients, the ones who needed comfort, coped with having this man for a doctor.

"Well, Detective Hutchinson, perhaps you'd like to tell me what brings you to see me."

Evans had Hutch's file open on the desk in front of him. No doubt it contained all the facts, so what Evans really wanted was to see what Hutch had to say. Speaking carefully, Hutch began. "When I arrived home Thursday night, there were three men waiting in my apartment. They beat me unconscious, then took me to a house in the middle of nowhere. I was kept tied to a bed, naked, for two days." Had it really only been two days? It felt as though years had passed. "One of them, Mobey -- John North -- molested me repeatedly. I wasn't fed, they only gave me a little Diet Pepsi to drink and at one point they talked about giving me heroin to keep me under control. I made one escape attempt; I told the girl I had to go to the bathroom..."

"And what happened?" Evans prompted.

"She had Mobey take me to the bathroom, and it just gave that son-of-a-bitch another opportunity to maul me. So I didn't -- I couldn't -- try it again." Hutch stopped, going it over again in his mind. He should have done more, tried harder to get away, but he couldn't bear those hands all over him. Evans had asked him another question. "What was that?"

"I asked if you wanted to go on."

"Yes. Yes. Uh, well, then Starsky showed up and they -- they told him that either he sodomized me, or they were going to gang-rape me."

Hutch paused, and after a moment Dr. Evans asked, "And how do you feel about that?"

In the last few days it had been driven home again how little control he really had over his own life; he could be forced to do -- well, practically anything. But this was something no one could make him do: tell them about how he felt about what Starsky and he had done. He'd tell them what they expected, what they wanted to hear, but what was actually in his soul, well, that was reserved for his partner, and he was not going to reveal it to anyone else...

"Well, Doctor, I felt pretty embarrassed. And plenty scared. And, well, grateful to Starsky for showing up, for saving me."

"And how are you feeling now?"

"Uncomfortable, mostly. Embarrassed, still. I -- well, still kind of shaky."

"All of that is certainly to be expected. How do you feel about your partner?"

Hutch looked him square in the eyes. "He's my partner. Nothing has changed."

The doctor made a note, not saying anything.

After forty-five minutes of question-and-answer, Hutch left. He'd made an appointment for the following week, but it was a waste of time. The only one Hutch had anything to say to was his partner.

****************

First came the doctor to check his bullet wound. The incipient infection was under control, he was healing nicely, no reason he couldn't be released soon.

"Am I allowed to have visitors?" Starsky asked. Maybe security had been throwing Hutch out every hour on the hour .

"Yes, of course, one at a time and during regular visiting hours."

Of course. "Thanks."

Next came the staff psychiatrist. They fenced, danced around each other, and Starsky thought that this guy was a rank amateur at word-games; Hutch could outtalk this guy in his sleep. And after years of playing Hutch's word-games, Starsky could non-answer him easy for an hour or so, on drugs, tired-to-the-bone, and still think about Hutch, wonder about him, worry about him...

"Mr. Starsky, we don't seem to be getting anywhere."

Starsky smiled at him. Be charming. "Where did you want to go?"

"You need to talk this out of your system; it's the only way you're going to get over this."

"Get over? Get over. How do you get over --" Starsky stopped. Stay calm. "Get over. Yeah, but I can't --" I can't tell you what's wrong with me, I have to forget it, make it go away, and then everything can go back to normal, and how can I do that if everybody keeps dredging it all up? "I -- there really isn't anything to say, is there? I mean, it's all over and done with, what's the point of talking about it?"

"Dave -- do you mind if I call you Dave?"

"No, I don't mind if you call me Dave."

"Dave, when a person suffers the sort of devastating episode you and your partner have undergone, the shockwaves can shake your life in unthinkable ways. If you keep this locked inside you..."

Starsky tuned him out. He wasn't going to talk and there wasn't any way this Ph.Dipshit could make him talk. It had happened, it was over, there was nothing to say... except maybe to Hutch.

****************

Hutch returned to Dobey's office two days later. "Captain, there's no earthly reason why I can't go back to work. I know I'll be tied to my desk, but it's better than staying home." Thinking and worrying, he added to himself.

Dobey glanced at him, then looked away. "There seems to be a viral infection going around R. and I. and they're short-handed. I don't see any reason you couldn't work there until something permanent can be decided."

Hutch felt a chill. "What do you mean, something permanent?"

"Sit down, Hutch."

Hutch did so, wordlessly.

"Why haven't you been to the hospital to see your partner?" Dobey hadn't either, not being the least bit sure what he would say to him.

"I didn't think he was allowed to have visitors." I can't, I can't, I can't!

"When have you ever let a little thing like 'it's not allowed' stand between you and Starsky? And have you called the hospital to check on his condition?"

Leave me alone! I'm trying to hold myself together! "Captain, Starsky needs his rest. We'll have plenty of time to talk when he's released from the hospital." Hutch's cool tone closed the subject. He stood, waiting for Dobey to reply.

Dobey watched him for a moment, foreboding washing over him. Hutch was so brittle, he'd snap at the least strain. And without Starsky to untangle his snarls, Dobey wasn't sure how he was going to get himself back together. "Report to R. and I. I'll call and tell them you're coming."

"Thank you, Captain."

****************

As the antibiotics and pain killers were purged from his body, Starsky found himself able to think more clearly. It got easier to sidestep the psychiatrist's patter, and left on his own, he'd sit by the window and stare out, watch the hospital personnel change shifts, and wonder where Hutch was and what he was doing.

****************

"Detective Hutchinson, I don't feel you're being completely honest with me or yourself, and until you are, I don't see how I can help you."

That was it. At work everyone walked around him as if he were a time-bomb ready to go off; Huggy and Dobey were treating him -- he didn't know how they were treating him, but they didn't approve of his not trying to visit Starsky, and now this -- quack -- was on his back trying to play True Confessions. Fine, just fine.

"You want me to confide in you?" There was an edge of frost to Hutch's tone; his anger was cold as dry ice. "All right, I'll confide in you. You want details? They're right there in front of you and in that file. You want to know how I feel about what happened? Well, I was scared, and I was mortified, but then -- you don't know what it was like, I can't even begin to find the words to tell you -- he made love to me in my goddamned soul. And I don't see any point in talking to you about it, when what I need to do is talk to him." Hutch stood and walked out.

****************

Where was Hutch, anyhow? Doing what? Wrapped up inside himself, like a mummy in a sarcophagus? Scared to come see him?

God, I shoulda called for back-up sooner, then I wouldn'ta got caught like that. I was too tired, too wired to think straight. Dobey was right, I shoulda taken a nap -- He must know it was the only way -- he's gotta know that --

He knew. Hutch was nothing if not smart. He knew; it just didn't make a difference.

Maybe, besides knowing he had no choice, Hutch knew how exquisite it had been for him.

Starsky got out of bed and went back to the window. The day was perfect -- overcast, threatening to rain, the ideal day for depression. If it had been sunny, Starsky would have wanted to throw himself out the window, but the gray clouds seemed to seep into his head and he let his mind drift along on them. Nothing to think about, nothing to do... just sit and wait for nothing to happen.

****************

After his blow-up at Dr. Evans, Hutch drove straight to the hospital to see Starsky. He parked, but did not get out of the car, just sat trying to make himself do this. "You have to see him and talk to him. You can't put your life back together without him --"

But he couldn't. Not in that awful, cold, sterile place, not after the sweet, dark lust they'd shared. Had it been shared? Could Starsky have given him that rapture without feeling it himself? What had Starsky felt?

Hutch recognized this as sheer rationalization, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of the car. After sitting in the parking lot for the longest time, Hutch finally started the engine and drove home. He'd try again tomorrow.

****************

That was Hutch's car -- Starsky would know that junk-heap anywhere. Hutch had been here. Starsky had seen him sitting in the car, then watched him drive away.

Well, hell, if Hutch wasn't going to come in, then Starsky would just have to get out.

It should have been the least of his worries, but for some reason it bugged the hell out of Hutch that he'd had to find a new bar to drink in. The Pits had become unbearable with Huggy hovering about, watching him like a demolitions novice faced with an unstable time-bomb. Tired of his too-careful treatment, Hutch found himself drinking watery beer in the Sundown Hideaway. It wasn't a bad place -- the decor was early horror-flick -- Starsky would probably love the place.

Hutch gulped some more beer, trying to decide what to do next. He ought to go home, get some sleep, but there was no guarantee he'd be able to sleep, after this afternoon's bird impression; he'd done the best chicken act anyone had ever seen.

The waitress slunk by, brushing against Hutch provocatively. "Need a refill?"

The beer was lousy, the place was lonely, and Hutch didn't think he could stand any more of this come-on. "No, thanks. Here you go." Hutch handed her a five to pay for one beer and left.

****************

It was easy enough to sneak out of the hospital -- it was only Central Receiving, after all. He'd watched the shift changes enough to know when it was safe to sneak out of his room, steal some clothes from the laundry, and casually walk out of the hospital. Hotwiring a car was easy enough -- he couldn't have cared less about the morality or the legality of this action; he wanted to see Hutch. The quiet in the car got on Starsky's nerves right away, so he turned on the radio, jacking the sound up practically all the way. As his ears became accustomed to the din, the words of the song began to penetrate:

"If loving you is wrong,
"I don't wanna be right.
"If being right means being without you,
"I'd rather be wrong..."

Starsky managed to pull the Impala onto the shoulder of the road before he completely lost control. The semi he'd cut in front of blared its horn at him, but Starsky stretched out on the seat, sobbing and gasping for breath.

"Am I wrong to hunger
"For the gentleness of your touch..."

If Starsky had been able to think of any place to go, he'd have gone there, but where else was there? And if Hutch wanted to throw him out, tell him they weren't partners anymore, he had the right to do that. But if that happened, Starsky didn't know what the hell he'd do -- blow his brains out, maybe.

It was near midnight and Hutch was asleep when Starsky got to the apartment. Starsky wandered around as quietly as he could, touching the familiar objects that cluttered the place, trying to figure out what to do next. He wanted to talk to Hutch -- but he wanted to be the same David Starsky he'd been, talking to the old Hutch; only he wasn't sure where those people were. Gone, he supposed. And if they were gone, had their friendship, their partnership, gone along with them? Were they going to have to rebuild everything from scratch? If they were two different people, how could they build the relationship they'd had before? Or should they even try?

These life-questions were giving Starsky a headache. He hated pondering what was going on in his life; Hutch seemed to do it as easily as breathing, and no doubt he'd been doing a lot of it lately, maybe he'd come up with an answer. If he had, there was no reason for Starsky to give himself a migraine worrying over it. Starsky tiptoed into Hutch's room and crawled under the covers next to Hutch. He turned over on his side, pressing his back to Hutch's. The contact was like plugging himself back into his life -- he was where he belonged.

He hoped to God he could stay there.

Hours later, Hutch awakened with a start. It took several moments of staring at Starsky to believe he was really there. Finally he reached out and shook him.

Starsky flinched, then opened his eyes. A smile, then, "Hi."

"What're you doing here?" Hutch found himself asking, wishing he'd phrased it better.

Starsky sidestepped the question with one of his own. "How long was I in?"

"One week, one day."

Somehow the precision of this answer unnerved him. "Don't start getting soppy on me and counting hours, or anything."

"I haven't been counting the hours. I've just been scared --" Hutch stopped, afraid of revealing too much.

Starsky looked into his eyes gravely. "Are you all right?"

No elaboration was necessary; Hutch understood the implications beneath the question. "I'm fine; I'm perfectly all right. You're the one that was shot, you know."

Starsky looked away, ignoring the last part of Hutch's response. "Did you -- did you see a--"

"I saw a doctor first thing. He told me I was fine. I expect you to believe that."

Starsky nodded. "Do -- uh, do you want me here?"

Hutch hadn't known what to expect from Starsky when he saw him next -- it had never occurred to him that Starsky would doubt his welcome. "You're my partner," Hutch answered. He'd been using that response to all that 'what now?' questions people had asked about him and Starsky, not knowing what else to say. No one else seemed to really understand it.

Now, apparently it was satisfactory; Starsky turned to look at him again. "What now ?"

Hutch was moved by Starsky's unquestioning faith in him, but he wasn't sure he had any answers. "Well, I've been talking to a psychiatrist, I assume you have been, too -- maybe we should talk to each other?"

"You wanna know the truth, Hutch? I haven't been talking to much of anybody; mostly I've been ignoring the shrink they sent me." A long pause, then, "And I spent a lot of time looking out the window. I saw your car in the parking lot yesterday, so I came to see you. I wanted to make sure you still --" Still what? Starsky wasn't sure.

"You escaped?" Hutch asked.

"Wha'd you think, they released me from the hospital in the middle of the night?"

"It's nine-thirty a.m. -- the hospital must be frantic."

"Screw the hospital. They can't make me go back, can they?"

"No, I don't think they can make you go back -- though, if they do take you back I think they ought to give you a competency test and put you in the locked ward --" The words were right, but they sounded all wrong -- harsh, somehow, and indifferent.

"Fuck you." The usual come-back, but this time Starsky flushed and turned away.

"Look, I'm going to call Dobey, fill him in your jail break, tell him I won't be in for a couple of days -- he won't miss me, I've been working in R. and I. for the past week."

"And a day."

"No, actually I was off a couple of days -- I've only been in R. and I. six days."

"R. and I. Yuck. Geeze, can they find anything now? Have you totally screwed up their computers?" Starsky's voice sounded tight.

"Well, I spent the first four days erasing information, and the last two locking up the terminals." Still trying for a light tone, and his words were still lead sinkers. "I better call Dobey."

Starsky stared at the ceiling, half-listening to Hutch's half of the conversation, pretty sure he knew what Dobey was saying.

"Yes, he's here, he's fine --"

"I'm fine," Starsky echoed quietly.

"He doesn't want to go back to the hospital -- no, he doesn't need -- no! --" Hutch listened for a few seconds, then, more quietly, "All right, just to sign some papers, to get him officially checked out, but I swear, Captain, I'm taking my gun and if they try to keep him --" Starsky could hear Dobey's roar, and Hutch jerked the receiver back from his ear. "'Bye, Cap'n." Hutch hung up gently.

"Don't go 'round shooting people, Blondie, it just gets everybody all worked up."

"Get up, take a shower, I'll make us some breakfast. And after we eat, we talk."

****************

"I want you to stop asking me if I'm all right," Hutch snapped. "You've asked me that nine times now. I'm all right. Don't I look all right."

Starsky looked at Hutch for a moment, then glanced quickly away. "You look fine." You look beautiful.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Hutch took Starsky's hand. "You have nothing to feel guilty about. You had no choice -- we had no choice. We weren't calling the shots, remember? And what do you think would have happened if we hadn't --" Now Hutch was blushing, but he refused to stop speaking. " -- If we hadn't done what they told us --"

"I know all that, all right? I know all that, that's not the -- that's not what's wrong, it just -- it -- I --"

Hutch understood immediately, and a strange combination of serenity and elation settled over him. He squeezed Starsky's fingers. "I know. I enjoyed it, too, and not because of them, but because of you, because you were gentle and --"

"Stop it!" Starsky tried to pull his hand away, but Hutch wouldn't let him.

"Starsky, you said it yourself; what we did, we did for us, not for them, or for anyone else. You act like you -- like you were getting off on hurting me or something, and that's not what happened. I was scared all right, scared to death, but not of you, never of you. You were the hero, Mushbrain. You were tender and considerate... if you hadn't been, what kind of shape do you think I'd be in now?" Hutch paused, watching Starsky's quarter-profile. Starsky held himself perfectly still, like and animal frozen with fear, trying to make himself invisible. "You can feel guilty because you liked it, you thought I wouldn't want to see you because you liked it -- but I liked it, too. So how do you feel about me?"

"I don't know how to deal with this," Starsky whispered.

"Same way we deal with everything: together."

Finally Starsky looked at him directly. "What does that mean?"

"Whatever we want it to."

Starsky thought about that for awhile. "Means we have to talk some more, I guess."

Hutch reached out with his free hand and stroked his fingers lightly down Starsky's cheek. "Yeah, we have to talk some more, but not right now. Right now we have to get dressed and get the hell out of here for awhile, go to the park or something. Can you at least pretend you're a sane person for an afternoon or so, so I don't have to worry about the men in the white coats hunting us down?"

"There's nothing wrong with my mind --" Starsky protested, once again trying for frivolity. He understood what Hutch meant: let it go for now. "Oh -- do you know what happened to my clothes? Last time I saw 'em, some goon was takin' 'em away from me -- and those were my good jeans --"

Hutch grinned. "Good jeans? You don't own anything that could, by any stretch of the imagination, be called good jeans. And how many times have I told you, cops don't hotwire cars, that's called Grand Theft Auto --"

"Hey, you seen the car I took? It ain't grand, and it's barely an auto -- and I'm still hungry. You gonna buy me lunch on the way to the park? I gotta borrow some of your clothes --"

"Yeah, well, just don't bleed -- or drip food -- all over them."

"I'll wear a bib."

"Good idea -- I should have bought you a bib years ago --"

"Hutch --" Starsky's voice cracked, and again Hutch touched his face. "I -- I want a double cheeseburger, with everything --" I love looking at you. And now I gotta figure out what to do about this. But if you're not gonna cut out on me, if you're gonna be here to help me figure it out, I don't guess I gotta worry about it. He gave Hutch a shove, trailing after him into the bedroom. "I'm hungry! Are you gonna give me some clothes, or not?"

"You can't eat my clothes," Hutch objected.

"Nobody wants to eat your clothes! Geeze, Blondie, you're really weird sometimes. Hey, you wanna split a Giant Hot Fudge Marshmallow Sundae from Rico's?"

Hutch slipped one arm around Starsky's shoulders. "Yeah, sure, why not?"