White man's world is crying in pain

Watch you gonna do when every body's insane

So afraid of wonder

So afraid of you

What you gonna do

Go crazy on you

Let me go crazy on you

        Crazy On You -- Heart

    Starsky tossed violently in his sleep, twisting the sheets around his legs, fighting phantoms. With a shout, he finally sat up blinking, wide-eyed in the darkness, his heart racing, every nerve on hyper-alert. Where am I? What's goin' down?

   Then he remembered all that his mind would let him remember. Oh, yeah. We're at Hutch's. His room. His big brass bed. I was havin' a nightmare. Then he wondered what kind of nightmare could be worse than what he'd gone through today.

   Hutch must be sleepin' pretty sound, he thought, to not hear me yellin'. Haven't done that since 'Nam. He eased back down to the mattress slowly, not wanting to bounce the bed and wake his partner. They'd had enough trouble just deciding where they would both sleep -- something that had been a foregone conclusion less than twenty four hours ago.

I should'a slept on the couch. It don't seem fair to him for me to be so close, yet so far away. 'Specially with the drug still workin' on him, makin' him -- feel that way 'bout me. But when I mentioned it, he just went all dead on me.

   Of course, the truth was Starsky hated sleeping on that couch, and Hutch knew it. But Hutch didn't have the spark left in him to fight about anything.

   They hadn't touched each other since they got in this apartment. In fact, they barely spoke.

At least I got some good food into him before I put him to bed.

   Maybe tomorrow -- that is, this morning -- the drug would have worked its way out of Hutch's system and he'd be his old self again. Starsky squeezed his eyes shut. Who was he kidding? Would either of them ever be their old selves again?

   I gotta get over this, gotta stop punishin' Hutch for what I did -- what I made him feel. We gotta both get over it. Or Gunther wins.

   He reached up to touch his most prominent scar, then turned on his side to face his friend. It was really dark in the room, but he had the need to watch his partner sleep, see some peace on his face. But it was so dark -- !

   He listened, and suddenly his heart rate picked up. "Hutch?" he said softly. There was no response, and finally, hesitantly, he reached out blindly to touch the sleeping form, no longer concerned with how Hutch might interpret the move.

   The other half of the big bed was empty.

   "Shit!" Starsky yelled, grabbing for the lamp switch and nearly knocking the damned thing over in the dark. The light flooded the room too quickly, burning his eyes, but he forced them to adjust as he clambered from the twisted sheets. He touched Hutch's side of the bed. Cold. Long gone.

   To connect? Starsky thought with a paralyzing fear. And I drove him to it, with my all macho bullshit. What has he got now but that need? I sure let him know he don't have me.

   Clad in dark blue pajama bottoms and nothing else, Starsky bolted from the bed, then halted and spun around, dashing for the bathroom. Maybe Hutch was in the john -- ? No. Empty. No trace of him there.

   He skidded into the kitchen, looked around. "Hutch?" No one. No coffee on the stove. No Hutch reading or sleeping on the couch. No Hutch fussing with his plants. An entire apartment with no Hutch.

   "Fuck!" Starsky spat, furious with himself, with his partner, with whoever had spiked their drinks, with Gunther, with the whole entire screwed up world. He slammed out the door without stopping for shoes or shirt or jacket and flung himself down the steps, halting only when he saw both vehicles -- Hutch's silly, midget car, Belle, and Starsky's fiery Torino -- parked nose to tail right where they'd left them.

    The cars have a better partnership than we've got right now, Starsky thought bitterly. He wondered if they engaged in partner-like badinage, or if maybe they got cozy with each other out on the street late at night when no one was looking. He shook his head. Huggy was right. This thing was gonna make him crazy.

   Could he make a connection on foot? Starsky wondered, gazing up and down the street. It was nearly five a.m. Not a good time to find drugs. But Hutch was a cop who worked the streets, and this was his neighborhood. He'd know where the all-night action was. He'd know somebody he could call. And I slept through it. Good work, Starsky!

   He stood there in terrible indecision -- go right, go left, go across the street -- without thinking that he wasn't dressed to go anywhere at all. Then, before he could decide on a direction, something inside him said, Look up. He stared up at the night sky -- and saw a pale hand suspended over the edge of the facade that framed the Venice Place roof.

   Hutch was on the roof, leaning over the facade. Contemplating -- ?

   Quietly, but hurriedly, Starsky ran back up the stairs to the apartment, stopping inside for just a minute before he headed silently towards the roof.

   Hutch was still in the same spot when Starsky finally got there. He was leaning on his elbows against the lip of the facade at its low point, staring out over the city. Starsky wondered how long he'd been out here. He wore pale cream pajama bottoms, a pair of beach flip flops, but nothing else. The street lights outlined his body in the dark, lighting his hair like a halo and accenting his trim, fit form.

   Starsky was so relieved at seeing him there, all in one piece, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. But he couldn't judge what kind of shape his friend was in. He could've connected already and be enjoying the high up here. He could be depressed as hell and thinking about a jump. Starsky would have to handle this carefully.

   He moved noisily across the roof so Hutch would hear him. He didn't want to startle a man standing so close to the edge. Hutch became aware of him, turned his head slightly in Starsky's direction. As he drew closer, Starsky saw the bottle of wine sitting on the lip of the facade.

   Resting his own elbows on the facade about three feet away from Hutch, Starsky said casually, "Trouble sleeping?"

   "Slept enough," Hutch replied in the same tone.

   He's wasted, Starsky thought anxiously, trying not to look down. "Wanna share?" he asked, indicating the bottle.

   Without speaking, Hutch upended the thing, showing him it was dry. Glancing down, Starsky saw another one lying on its side by Hutch's feet.

   "Does it help?" Starsky asked, knowing Hutch would know he was talking about the drug craving.

   "Actually, this time, yeah," Hutch told him. "Took the edge off. I found myself thinking about making some calls. You were dead to the world. I -- didn't trust myself to be near a phone. So I came up here with a few friends and a corkscrew. It helped some. It's bound to help you, too, buddy."

   Starsky could really hear the alcohol in his voice now. "Help me? How's that?"

   Hutch grinned, his smile all lopsided. It seemed half sad, half comic to Starsky. "I can't get it up when I'm drunk, Starsk. You know that."

   "I'm not worried about that, Hutch," Starsky said gently. "You've finished the wine, you'll be able to sleep now. Come on back to bed with me."

   The look Hutch turned on him could've melted steel. "That's all I can think about, Starsk. Going to bed with you. Being loved by you." He turned his face away. "Sorry. Promised myself I wouldn't do that. I know it sickens you."

   Starsky edged closer to his partner. "The thought of lovin' you don't sicken me," he murmured, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. "Don't I get even a little benefit of a doubt? I was just as fucked up on that drug as you were -- you just handled it better. Lotsa drugs make me upchuck, and you of all people know that. After all the crap they pumped inta me after the shooting, you cleaned up behind me more than the nurses did. You know my stomach don't like narcotics, pain killers, or any o' that shit."

   "Doesn't seem to be too fond of semen, either," Hutch muttered drolly.

   Starsky's stomach rolled. "That's a low blow, Hutch." This wasn't working, he realized, as Hutch leaned over his elbows and looked at the drop.

   "Did you come up here to stop me from jumping, or to stop me from shooting up?" Hutch asked.

   "Neither," Starsky lied, then berated himself for it. "Both. Either." He closed his eyes, started over. "I woke up with the screamin' terrors. And -- you weren't there."

   For the first time, something he'd said had touched Hutch through his own pain. The blond turned worried eyes on his partner. "Nightmare? The shooting?"

   Starsky shook his head. "No. Somethin' weird. It was -- my dad. He was tryin' to reach me. Tryin' to -- I don't know --pull me into heaven to be with him. Tryin' to talk me into dying. I was standin' on this threshold, all worried and feelin' strange, and Dad was tryin' to lure me onto the other side. An' I turned 'round to look for you to see if I should cross over -- an' you weren't there. An' I knew you were in trouble. Woke up in a panic, yellin'."

   Even in the street light, Starsky could see Hutch's pallid color. "What is it?"

   "Last night -- you told me -- you said I chased you into death, that I wouldn't let you go. I -- got the feeling it was a big factor in your sudden -- interest in me. You remembered that same scene, from your cardiac arrest. Your dad ready to lead you to the light. You said you were all ready to go, ready to die. You were hurting so bad you just wanted to rest. But when you turned around, you could see me -- "

   The memory hit him like a jolt and he gasped, "Comin' after me, runnin' down a long, dark hallway, lookin' so scared! I saw you and turned away from my dad. Later, Dobey tol' me. An' Huggy. How you came flyin' into the hospital. How my heart didn't started beatin' till you came bustin' through the doors. I remember. I remember that. Damn, Hutch!"

   The blond moved closer to him and away from edge of the roof. "What else?" he whispered, lifting a hand as if he might touch the rough-bearded face. "What else do you remember?"

   Starsky searched his mind frantically, but other than the dream image with an overlay of Hutch now imprinted on it, there was nothing else. No memory of touching, of loving -- of desire for this man he cared for so much. None of that. He sighed. Hutch could see it in his face.

   "Give me time," Starsky begged. "I'm tryin'! It's just so -- so damned alien to me!"

   Hutch laughed bitterly. "Last night I told you since I chased you into death, now all I had to do was chase you into life."

   Starsky took his friend's arms, pulled him around to face him, only partly to get him away from the roof edge. "Tell me all of it. You said the film was edited, fill in all the missin' stuff."

   Hutch shook his head sorrowfully, "Christ, Starsk, have a heart! Don't make me relive it all again."

   "Ya gotta. For me. Don't you think I want to remember lovin' you that much? Carin' for you? I hate thinkin' I did it just to use you. Help me out here. If -- if you tell me the other stuff -- what we said to each other, all that -- maybe it'll come back to me, like this dream. And then -- "

   "And then, what? You'll remember what it feels like to want me? You'll fall in love with me again, not just as your buddy, but as your mate? Starsky, this is crazy! You don't feel that way about me, you never did. It was the drug making you horny, nothing more. You would've felt that way about any woman, any man, any animal you were with."

   Only the fact that he was still worried about Hutch's close proximity to the roof's edge kept Starsky from stepping away from his friend after that statement. "Boy, do you have a high opinion o' me! Care to tell me how it is your reactions were so heartfelt and sincere, while mine was just plain cock-fever?"

   Hutch shrugged. "I guess it just opened something up inside me I didn't know was there. Leftover effect of the shooting, maybe. I'm not sure I ever accepted the fact that you lived. It was too big a gift. I couldn't examine all the different things I felt for you after that. I've been so full of feeling -- "

   Starsky nodded, seeing it. Hutch's single-minded devotion to helping him recover, his patience and selflessness in the way he tended to him. His complete lack of interest in women. His dogged pursuit of Gunther's empire. Avenging his love. All of it. And I encouraged him every step of the way.

   Starsky thought about all the dozens of women he'd fucked over the years before the shooting -- some of whom he could barely tolerate, some he didn't even like. He loved this man. Couldn't he give him this at least as easily as he gave it to those women? Will my stomach let me? he wondered guiltily.

   "Come to bed with me, Hutch," Starsky whispered. "Hold me. Be with me. Help me deal with this. I don't know how to stop hurtin' you."

   Hutch started to laugh, and swayed a little in his drunkenness. Starsky clutched at his wrist. "Now you want me to go to bed with you? After two bottles of wine? Starsky, your timing is the worst. Or is that why you want me there now? Cause I'm nice and safe."

   "Hutch," Starsky said, gritting his teeth, tired of the emotional seesaw, "there ain't nothin' safe about you." Deciding he'd had enough of this, he slapped the handcuff he'd picked up in the apartment on Hutch's left wrist and, before the inebriated cop could react, slapped the other end on his own right wrist.

   The blond stared at their joined wrists, and blinked dully.

   "I'm tired of fightin' with you," Starsky growled. "The sun's almost up, and I'm dead on my feet. And you're so fucked up I can't trust you to stay with me, even when I ask. How am I supposed to make it out here without you, huh? If somethin' happened to you tonight -- if you'd slipped and toppled over the edge, if you'd connected and o.d.'ed -- how the hell was I supposed to live with that? I'm hangin' on with my fingertips, dammit, and I need you. Maybe that ain't the kinda love you want from me, but it's all I got right now. You gotta gimme time, Hutch. Stop bein' so damned impatient and gimme time to get my head together about this. And I can't do that without enough sleep. So, come on. We're goin' to bed. Now." He marched toward the staircase, dragging the drunken cop behind him.

   All the way down the stairs, Hutch chuckled, completely out of it. By the time Starsky towed him into the bedroom, closed down the blinds against the burgeoning sun, and deposited the blond on his side of the bed, Hutch was really laughing.

   "We're gonna sleep in these?" Hutch asked through his guffaws, as he held their handcuffed wrists up.

   "That's right," Starsky said brusquely, as he climbed into the bed and tried to get them both settled. "An' if you don't straighten out by tomorrow, you may find yourself cuffed to the bed for the day."

   "Oh, Starsky," Hutch murmured playfully around his laughter, "I just love it when you're masterful!" Then he exploded into gales of drunken laughter.

   Well, I wanted to make him smile, Starsky thought wearily. He turned onto his side, and yanked Hutch's arm over him, pulling the blond close then slid backward, forcing Hutch to spoon against him.

   "You're being awfully brave, aren't you?" Hutch teased.

   "You're the one who said you couldn't get it up," Starsky reminded him, manhandling his pillow till it suited him. "And I think I can trust my partner enough to know he's not gonna fuck me in my sleep."

   Hutch sighed, then said seriously, "We never got that far last night, Starsk, even though you wanted to. Tell ya the truth, I'm damned glad we didn't. I don't think you could've lived with that if we had."

   Starsky closed his eyes, knowing his friend was right. He tried to reconcile himself with the words, you wanted to. "Hutch. We still love each other. We can still be there for each other. We might define that love a little differently now, but it's still love. It's us against the whole world now. We gotta hang on to our love." He pulled the blond tighter against him in the now- darkened room, and finally Hutch cuddled against his back, like the brother he'd always been. His arms snaked around Starsky and he hugged him, really hugged him. Damn, I've missed that, Starsky thought, hugging those arms back.

   "You're right, Starsk. You're right. I'll be okay." Hutch sounded sober.

   "I know you will, partner," Starsky said, and in spite of the cold metal around his wrist, and the still slightly odd presence of the man pressed against his back, the weary cop slid instantly into sleep, even as his partner did behind him.

~~~

   Hutch woke up with a pounding hangover about three hours later, and found he couldn't go to the john without waking Starsky. He stared at their handcuffed wrists and couldn't decided if he wanted to kiss the crazy man beside him or break his neck. Remembering that his own key ring was in the nightstand beside him -- something he had been far too drunk to remember last night -- he managed to retrieve them with his right and uncuff his wrist. Carefully, to teach his sleeping partner a well-needed lesson, he quietly enclosed the spare cuff around the brass bedstead.

That really is erotic, Hutch thought, as he stared at the curly headed man handcuffed to the bed. If I wasn't so hung over, it would even turn me on. Softly, he kissed Starsky's temple lovingly, then got out of the bed before he felt the urge to take even more liberties.

   An alka-seltzer and some aspirin helped him chase some of the fog away, and a shower helped, too. Hutch found a faded pair of denim cut-offs and a body-hugging tank top with bold horizontal stripes to wear with his flip-flops. Starsky slept on, oblivious, making Hutch smile. He could've set up connections with half of L.A. this morning and his guardian would've slept through it all.

   That was when he realized the worst of it was over. Okay, he was over the drug craving, now to get over the craving for Starsky. Not as easy. Smiling wryly in spite of his sensitive head, he went out to the kitchen to start coffee. While the pot brewed, he looked out on the sunny day. Looking on the bright side of things -- which was his job, he remembered -- he reminded himself that he and Starsk were still together -- really together, through the thick and thin of it. Even through his drunkenness, he could remember his partner reminding him, It's us against the whole world now. No matter how weirded out Starsky was feeling, he'd stick by Hutch no matter what. It was not something most men could've taken for granted if their best buddy suddenly fell hotly in love with them. Hutch was kind of lucky, really. For the first time since this whole mess started, he felt like life might still have some joy in it.

   He was pouring himself some fresh brewed when someone knocked on the door. He stiffened, making a move toward his gun before remembering that he didn't have one anymore. Who -- ? His heart started trip-hammering, and he worried that the reporters had finally found them. Tentatively, he answered the door. "Who's there?"

   "Detective Hutchinson," a male voice answered, "I'm Peter Whitelaw. You spoke to me some time ago about John Blaine. Now, I'd like to speak to you."

   Peter Whitelaw? He'd once been John Blaine's lover. Hutch opened the door. "How'd you get my address?"

   "The police aren't the only one's who can garner information, Detective," Whitelaw said civily. "Can I come in?"

   Hutch hesitated a minute, then said, "Sure. Of course." He ushured the tall, sandy-haired man into his kitchen. Whitelaw was young, younger than Hutch, and was a good-looking man. It was still hard to think that he'd once been Johnny Blaine's lover, but it was still hard for Hutch to think of Detective "Big Bad" John Blaine as gay. Wryly, he wondered how many people today felt that same way about him.

   He smiled politely at Whitelaw. "Coffee?"

   "Love some. Black, please."

   Hutch busied himself with pouring the brew.

   Whitelaw certainly didn't look like what Hutch thought of as stereotypically "gay" -- then he realized sheepishly, it was probably time for him to review those labels again now that one might be fitting him. Were you gay if only one man attracted you? He pulled his mind away from that track. Whitelaw, if anything, looked like a lawyer or a professional, a serious, if attractive young man in a crisp business suit with an expensive briefcase.

   The detective placed the cup in front of him and realized Whitelaw was appraising him just as carefully -- with one difference. It was very subtle, but Hutch was aware that Whitelaw was also taking note of the cop's attractiveness, the way a bold woman would. He felt his ears turning red, then slapped himself mentally. He was hardly in any position to criticize anyone else's desires.

   "Congratulations on winning the election, Mr. Whitelaw," Hutch said pleasantly.

   He'd run as an openly gay councilman for his district --a trendy part of town where gays congregated -- and had won handily. Once elected, Hutch was aware that the word on Whitelaw was good. He was an honest politician, and was serving his constituents well, both gay and straight. He seemed to especially favor underdogs -- going out of his way to support senior citizens and the handicapped. Even Starsky had mentioned -- without cynicism -- Whitelaw's willingness to put himself on the line for the less advantaged in his district.

   Imagine, Starsky had said, reading the paper one day, a politician who comes through on his campaign promises! He'd hafta be queer!

   "However," Hutch continued, "you must be aware that Venice is out of your district. 'Fraid I can't vote for you."

   Whitelaw smiled. "I'm not canvassing or fund-raising, Detective -- and I think you know that. I've come to speak to you about something -- more personal."

   Hutch had to smile. At least, today, he could. "And what might that be?"

   "Seen today's paper?" Whitelaw asked.

   Hutch shook his head. "Starsky and I have given them up. Bad for our eyes. We saw just about all we'd ever want to yesterday."

   Whitelaw unsnapped his briefcase, pulled out a morning edition and laid it on the table. The headline made Hutch's jaw clench. It read, "Gay Cops Suspended With Full Pay." The picture beside it was one of the many showing the two of them nude to the waist in bed, and lip-locked for all they were worth.

   "That's a lie," Hutch said. He kept his voice low but couldn't hold in the anger. "We've been suspended without pay. We don't even have any idea when -- or if -- we'll be reinstated."

   Whitelaw nodded, and folded the paper over, as if sensitive to Hutch's anger. "I know it's a lie. I know the whole thing is a lie."

   Hutch started to argue with him, then stopped with his mouth open. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked suspiciously.

   "I spoke with Captain Dobey myself yesterday. I called to appeal that you both be kept on active duty. With your arrest record, your commendations, all the work you recently did on the Gunther case, the attempt to assassinate Starsky -- you guys should've been kept on during the investigation. He told me it was out of his hands. And confirmed you were suspended without pay. Even if I hadn't spoken with him, I'm well aware this is the normal course of events in this kind of case."

   "If you could find that out so easily, then why -- ?" Hutch pointed to the lying newsprint.

   "Sells papers, Detective," Whitelaw said plainly. "Especially if it involves gays. This is the kind of prejudicial media coverage we have to deal with every day. Unfortunately, you've been branded with our label, so now you're finding out for yourself."

   Hutch stared at him. "We've been branded with your -- ? Are you saying you don't think we're gay?"

   Whitelaw glanced around the small kitchen as if deciding how to phrase his next statement. "Detective Hutchinson, no one in the gay community thinks you -- or Detective Starsky -- are gay."

   Hutch could only stare at the man and ask, "Why not?"

   "A lot of intangibles, and a lot of tangibles," Whitlaw told him. "You don't 'read' gay. You don't 'act' gay. And frankly, since a lot of us got to see your infamous film performance -- you simply don't make love like gays. Even though someone went to a lot of trouble to portray this as a long-time relationship, you were both too inexperienced. The whole thing was amazingly new and scary to you. You were clearly under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and -- well, you just weren't -- skilled enough."

   Hutch had to stifle the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. "You mean, as gays, we just don't cut it?"

   "Essentially. Look, Detec--"

   Hutch cut him off. "Please -- call me Ken."

   Whitelaw nodded. "Okay. I'm Peter. Look, Ken, this may come as a surprise to you, but at least thirty percent of all straight men have between one and five homosexual experiences in their lifetimes. It happens. Frequently under the influence. Sometimes stemming from strong feelings for a friend. Some life-changing experience. Most of the time, it's a one-time thing, there's guilt, shame, all the usual responses, and the men move on. In your case, it was clearly orchestrated, enhanced by something, and set up to get this specific reaction which could be used to ruin you."

   "Could you, uh, take out an ad in the L.A. Times and write that up for us?" Hutch said, smiling. "We could use a testimonial right about now."

   "I'd love to, Ken, but as a card-carrying 'queer,' I don't have much status in the arena of public opinion."

   "Oh, this is rich!" Hutch declared bitterly. "The straight world is ready to exile us into space, and the gay world won't have us, either!"

   "Well," Whitelaw said quietly, "I didn't exactly say that."

   Before Hutch could respond, a sound erupted from the bedroom, evolving rapidly from a low growl to a roar, accompanied by a harshly rattled chain.

   "Hutch! Hutch! HUUUUTCH!"

   The blond cop's face blushed violently as he suddenly remembered, Starsky's handcuffed to the bed!

   Before the Nordic cop could move, his partner bellowed, "GET THESE DAMNED HANDCUFFS OFFA ME! HUUUTCH!" The clanking chain grew louder, more violent. Hutch thought he could hear the bed moving across the floor. "YOU BETTER BE OUT THERE, HUTCHINSON, OR YER ASS IS MINE!"

   Whitelaw blinked, looking confused and alarmed.

   "Easy, Starsk, easy!" Hutch called, dashing into the bedroom and leaving Whitelaw behind without a word of explanation.

   "Very funny!" Starsky yelled as Hutch came into view. "Uncuff me from this bed! Now!"

   The taller man scooted around the side of the bed, keys in hand. "Will you pipe down?" he hissed. Quickly, efficiently, he unfastened the cuff attached to the bed, and Starsky nearly levitated out of it, snatching the keys out of Hutch's hands as he did. In sheer reaction to his friend's well-known temper, Hutch backed out of the bedroom toward the kitchen while the furious cop advanced on him.

   "The hell I'll pipe down! Fuck the neighbors!" Starsky jangled the cuff still remaining on his wrist in Hutch's face. "Think it's funny cuffin' me to the bed? I woke up wonderin' where the hell you'd gone? Why you left me alone -- ?"

   They'd finally moved far enough around the corner for Starsky to spy their visitor over Hutch's shoulder. He stopped in mid-tirade and stood there, still in his pajama bottoms, with a handcuff dangling from his wrist. "What --? Who -- ?"

   "I've been trying to tell you," Hutch whispered sotto voce, "we have company."

   Starsky must've just remembered who this was, Hutch realized, because his color rose in a blush as all the pieces fell into place. He groaned under his breath and his blue eyes darkened dangerously as he glowered at Hutch.

   Oh, I'm gonna pay for this, Hutch thought ruefully. What the hell. In for a penny --

   "Mr. Whitelaw," Starsky grumbled in greeting. "If you'll excuse me, I guess I'll -- change." He glowered at Hutch some more and went back to the bedroom, fumbling with the cuffs as he went. Hutch could hear him grumbling all the way to the john.

   "There's coffee out here, Starsk," Hutch called cheerily after him only to hear the bathroom door slam. "He's just not himself without his coffee," the blond said blandly to Whitelaw, and was relieved when the councilman started to laugh.

   "You guys have been partners a long time, haven't you?" Whitelaw asked, chuckling.

   "Long time," Hutch confirmed. "Went through the Academy together. Lotta time."

   "It shows. It's a good thing. Not many straight men could get through what you've been forced to endure and still remain friends. For that matter, I'm not sure a lot of gays could."

   Hutch nodded, worriedly. He wondered, not for the first time, if they would be able to, either.

~~~

   The resounding slam of the bathroom door made Starsky's teeth ache as the sound richocheted through Hutch's small bathroom. Isn't that what usually happened with his temper tantrums? They simply bounced back harder at him than anyone else?

   He took a deep cleansing breath even as he finally keyed open the handcuff bracelet from his right wrist. He took another breath, found his center, and struggled with a long, semi-satisfying ooooooooohhhhhhmmmmmm.

   He did it again, as he tried to rein in his fury, his terror, his embarrassment, his total confusion, even his -- He closed his eyes and touched his erection, trying to quiet it, soothe what couldn't be soothed. Christ, what was happening to him? He was falling apart.

   Ever since 'Nam, Starsky had been plagued with vivid night-visions, dreams so real he often woke shaken, upset, tense for half the day. But weirdly enough, he hadn't had any since the shooting. None, while Hutch and he had been together over these last nine months of recuperation and investigation. None while the two of them shared the same bed. Didn't take a psychiatrist to figure out that he felt safer with Hutch -- so safe it even affected his dream patterns.

   Then last night he'd received that sudden, vivid memory of his near-death experience -- or at least a dream of one -- when Hutch reminded him of it up on the roof. And then, after he'd cuffed them both together to try and keep Hutch with him -- when he went back to sleep --

   He swallowed, searched for his center, tried his mantra and gave it up. He filled the sink with cold water and splashed his face. It didn't help, and he knew damned well little would. The vivid dreams he'd had rattled him to his core. They still sat there, right behind his eyes, tormenting him with their lurid images.

     Starsky saw himself in black leather pants, biker's pants, tapered tight to the ankle, replete with zippers for his heavy biker's boots, zippers on his pockets, and chrome studding on the seam line. He wore a black tee and a biker's black leather jacket -- clothes he didn't own, wouldn't normally buy. Hutch was in leather, too, but in white. His clothes were more stylish, tight-fitting, his leather pants belled at the bottom and as soft as kid or goatskin. His leather jacket was a soft, pale beige, with fringe and small silver beads for trim. Under it, Hutch wore a dove grey tee. He looked radiant in the clothes, as bright as Starsky was dark. The clothes hugged their bodies, accenting their masculinity in an almost obscene way. Starsky didn't know where they were, couldn't recognize anything, but it didn't matter.

The only thing he could do was watch Hutch.

The tall blond said nothing to him, just smiled, sapphire-clear eyes watching him, and dropped to his knees, staring up at his partner as if mesmerized, as if Starsky held the answers to everything. Then, slowly, carefully, Hutch started unlacing the leather thongs that secured Starsky's fly.

   Starsky shook his head, splashed more water on his face, desperate to dispel the vision that had caused him to wake up hard, hot, confused, and scared shitless. In his dream, Hutch had given him the most incredible blowjob he'd ever had, and Starsky had not only let him, he'd encouraged him, praising his performance, petting his face, watching his every move. And he'd felt it all, every sensation, his hunger for Hutch's mouth unquenchable. He was seconds away from erupting when he'd suddenly woke up, gasping, sweating, his hips thrusting in the air vainly searching for that searing, wet haven --

   Was it a true dream or the mixture of dream and memory? Had it felt like that when Hutch went down on him? Could it have felt that good? Starsky leaned his burning forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom. He could never remember any sex act feeling that intense, that erotic, that extraordinary --

   Stop it! he ordered himself. He could barely face it, barely think about it, but all the dream did was confirm his own worst fears. Under the influence of Gunther's drugs, he'd once more become the self-centered user he'd been as a street-wise teenager, and had taken his friend for his own base gratification. Now, he was reliving it in his dreams.

   As a kid, he'd developed that wild, hard-bitten, selfish personality strictly as a defense mechanism, and found it kept him sane and alive through the hard New York years, through the death of his dad, the dislocation to L.A., through 'Nam, and all the other rough times he'd faced in his youth. In fact, he hadn't tempered that personae much until....

Until I hooked up with Hutch in the Academy. There was something so open about him, so vulnerable -- I could see how sincere he was and I couldn't be that way with him. That was when I realized I didn't need to be that way anymore. At least, not with Hutch.

   That rough exterior still came in handy on the street and at various other times in his life. He found that coating it with a teddy bear facade worked well with women. But convincing a semi-reluctant woman to go to bed with him wasn't the same thing at all as seducing his best friend. He hated himself for subjecting even a dream Hutch to such treatment, and was terrified to think that was how he might've actually used the real Hutch -- and he hated himself even more for being aroused by the vision of it. More than that, he hated himself for making Hutch want him.

   Now, with the two of them locked into their own company and isolated from the rest of the world, he worried about what would happen. They were like prisoners in their own little cell. And Starsky knew entirely too well what happened to prisoners. One would dominate. And one would submit. If he wasn't careful, his own selfish needs would get the better of him late one night, maybe after too little sleep, or too much beer. Or one too many dreams like this last one.

   He'd hurt Hutch enough. He had to get a grip on this.

   Of course, making a scene in front of that -- he stopped himself before he used an unkind term that struck too close to home -- in front of Whitelaw didn't improve his mood, or ease his concerns.

What is that -- politician doin' here anyway? What does he want? It always made Starsky nervous to see which buzzards showed up first over a fresh corpse. And another thing -- how come he seemed so friendly to Hutch? For that matter, how come Hutch seemed so friendly to him?

   He'd never find out hiding out in this bathroom.

   Quickly, he urinated, brushed his teeth, then, locating his jeans, dropped his pj's and slid them on over his bare rump.

Hutch was too damned gullible sometimes. And with all his confused feelings, he might just assume Whitelaw's some kind of ally just because -- just because --

   He didn't want to finish the thought. Just because they're both gay?

   No! Whatever Hutch was goin' through over him was just a weird little aberration. When all this blew over, they'd be knockin' off the stewardesses just like before.

   It was a hollow boast, and he knew it. His stomach complained, feeling like a snake too big to fit was housed there. Oh man, would he ever get over this bizarre bout of squeamishness?

   Forcing himself to put on a more cheerful demeanor, he grinned toothily in the mirror for practice. Be friendly. Be friendly. Hmmmm. Looked like a snarl. Well, it was the best he could do.

   He emerged from the bathroom to find Whitelaw and Hutch laughing over something, sharing coffee. Cozy, Starsky thought irritably.

   "Good mornin'," he mumbled, "I think."

   Without a word, Hutch handed him a cup of fresh coffee, which he took gratefully with a nod. It was perfect, the way Hutch always made it, and the rich aroma and flavor tempered some of his crabbiness. He killed half the mug in three big swallows. Yeah, that helped. Hutchinson's luminous blue eyes bore into him, as Whitelaw watched the two of them interact. Waiting for -- what? A good morning kiss between spouses? A little marital exchange?

   Starsky heard his mouth engage before his brain joined in. "Good coffee, sweetheart," he said to Hutch with exaggerated cheerfulness. Then to Whitelaw, "No one makes coffee like my Hutch. Picks the beans himself." Batting his lashes at Hutch, "Is it my turn to make breakfast, honey?"

   Amazingly, Hutch just smiled at him tolerantly. "Can the sarcasm, Starsky. Peter knows we're not gay."

   That took Starsky aback, but only for a second. He watched Whitelaw glance surreptitiously at his blond partner, and wasn't sure he was ready to believe that. Of course, there was always wishful thinking on Whitelaw's part.

   "Oh, Peter does, does he?" Starsky grumbled suspiciously, pronouncing the man's name in such a way as to make it sound like the street term for a sexual organ. "What gave us away?"

   "Poor technique," Hutch commented drolly as he stared at Starsky levelly.

   "What?" Starsky sputtered in masculine outrage, then blushed furiously as he realized what he was outraged about.

   Hutch and Whitelaw both laughed gently at Starsky's confused condition. "Peter," Hutch asked softly, "more coffee?"

   "Thanks, Ken. Your partner's right. It's very good."

   Starsky could feel his blood pressure rising, but he didn't want to think about why. He'd never been in a situation like this and didn't know the rules, didn't know how he was supposed to feel, how he was supposed to think or react. All he knew was that every time Whitelaw smiled at Hutch, Starsky wanted to go over and feed the handsome man his teeth.

   "Looks like you two have been out here long enough to swap Christmas cards," Starsky said. "You've got me at a disadvantage, comin' in late like this."

   "Peter brought us a present," Hutch said, flipping open the newspaper folded up on the table, and showing Starsky the headline.

   Starsky glared at the words, his rage climbing uncontrollably. It was irrational to direct his anger at Whitelaw, but he'd brought the damned thing in the house, and the cop was confused enough by Hutch to not want to direct any feelings at him. "Who wrote this?" Starsky said in a low tone.

   "Staff written," Whitelaw told him reasonably. "No byline. I already called the editor and complained." He said the next to Hutch. "I hadn't had a chance to mention that yet. They'll print a correction tomorrow."

   "Yeah," Starsky scowled, "on page thirty in tiny print."

   "I see you're familiar with the problem," Whitelaw said softly.

   "Enough," Starsky agreed. True to form, the curly-headed cop decided it was time to cut through all this and take the direct approach. "Why'd you bring this here? Think we din't have enough on our plate already?" He knew his behavior was defensive bordering on aggressive, but he didn't care.. If Whitelaw didn't stop eyeing Hutch like a slab of rare beef, he was gonna get a lot more aggressive.

Why should you care about that? Hutch is a grown man. He can make his own decisions about who he's attracted to. Or are you afraid that one roll in the hay's turned your partner into a screaming --

   Sensing his partner's confused, angry state, Hutch said softly, "Easy, Starsk. He's not the enemy."

   "You know that?" Starsky fired back, barely holding his fury in check. He was surprised to find how stung he felt to have Hutch defend this guy. "We don't know who the enemy is, only that we have one. Last time we saw Mr. Whitelaw here -- "

   "Peter," the councilman said pointedly.

   "The last time we saw friend Peter," Starsky corrected, "I remember saying some things to him that maybe he didn't 'preciate so much."

   Hutch grew tense. "Starsky. You're out of line."

   Starsky just stared at his partner, blood pounding in his ears. I'm out of line?

   "It's okay, Ken," Whitelaw said calmly. "He's right to be suspicious. You guys have your hands full right now."

   The councilman turned to Starsky, and he suddenly saw the politician who was elected in spite of the incredible odds against him. "Detective, when you spoke to me in my campaign office after John Blaine's death, and said that you didn't understand why my sexual orientation had to be an issue in my campaign, I didn't answer you. I didn't object to your question, nor was I surprised by it. I hear it every day. I didn't answer because I knew that as a heterosexual male in today's society, it would be damned near impossible to make you understand my point of view. You'd have to walk in my shoes to do that."

   Whitelaw sighed as if he were tired. "Well, now, because of what you and your partner are going through, the way you've been framed, I'm afraid you're not only in my shoes, but you're gonna wear the leather out before this is over. And I'm sorry for you. It's not fun and it's not pretty. And it's not fair. Neither of you deserve it."

   Starsky fidgeted uncomfortably as he felt his anger drain away. He recalled suddenly that Whitelaw had been a teacher once -- a good teacher from what he and Hutch had learned -- but he'd been dismissed when someone accused him of being a homosexual. He shrugged, and looked at his coffee. "Nice speech. That still don't tell me why you're here."

   Whitelaw paused, neither looking at him nor at Hutch, as if trying to decide if he really wanted to say what he'd come here to discuss. Finally, he asked Starsky, "I'm aware that you've been offered jobs at the Green Parrot. I know you have no income right now. Are you going to take the jobs?"

   Starsky almost blurted Are you crazy? before catching the hesitancy in Hutch's body. He clamped his mouth shut to find out what his partner had to say.

   "You think we should?" the blond asked carefully.

   "I think you should consider it," Whitelaw replied with equal care.

   "Why's that?" Starsky asked. "And what's your interest in it?"

   "Couple of things," Whitelaw replied. "In a city filled with some pretty hard-bitten cops, you guys are known for your fairness. You were friends -- good friends -- with John Blaine -- and you still cared about him even after you found out the truth. And I can tell you, he thought the world of both of you. You were fair to me and the people at the Green Parrot -- even to Nick Hunter, a penny ante hustler."

   The two partners exchanged a glance, as Hutch came to pour more coffee into Starsky's cup. The blond was making an effort to connect with his partner, and Starsky was a bit embarrassed that Hutch felt he had to. He tried to relax and remember that this was the man who was always on his side.

   "You're both good detectives," Whitelaw continued, "and I'm sure you'll pursue whatever avenues you can to bring down the parties that have tried to ruin you. You may even succeed. However, realistically speaking, I can't see any way for you to turn public opinion around on this. So, unless you want to be permanently dismissed from the police force for -- oh, take your pick, moral depravity, sodomy, violation of public standards, the charges vary -- you may have to join forces with people you'd never imagined could be your allies."

   "'Join forces,'" Starsky said, mulling those words. "You make it sound like we're joinin' an army -- gettin' ready to go to war."

   Whitelaw nodded. "It's not the worst analogy. I know you're aware that we've been pressuring the mayor's office for several years now to put some gays -- some openly gay people -- on the force. They've been very resistant. Well -- according to public opinion, there are now two gay cops -- heroes to this city -- already on the payroll. We want them back in their jobs because they're good cops and they deserve to be there."

   Hutch spoke up. "Wait a minute. You want us to be your representatives? You want us to be your gay cops? Publicly? Hold it!"

   Whitelaw held up his hands. "Listen to what I'm saying, Ken. You two are who you are. Nobody can change reality. But the rest of the world -- "

   "Has us pegged as queers," Starsky said, the picture growing clear, "just as Gunther planned it. So, now we are what they say we are, no matter what the truth is. That's the way the world works." He turned to his partner. "It don't matter if we moved to opposite ends of the city, Hutch, or opposite ends of the earth, or if we never spoke to each other, saw each other, worked together again. He's right about that. With what they've done to us, we might as well buy t-shirts with big letter 'Q's' on 'em. We're gay now. He's right. And the only way we'll get our jobs back is if we just accept that and work with it."

   Hutch was staring at him, amazed.

   "Hey, it ain't our fault, it ain't our doin'," Starsky said, fatalistically. "But it is what is."

   "And you're ready to handle that label?" Hutch asked pointedly, his eyes widening. "You're ready to handle the heat from it?"

   "No, I prob'ly ain't ready. I'll prob'ly be callin' guys out left an' right. But tell me how to change it, Hutch," Starsky said quietly. "Wha'd'ya think -- maybe nailin' the mayor's secretary in his office on his desk? Takin' out ads that say 'we din't really mean it, we were just foolin' around'? C'mon, Hutch. We knew we were underwater soon as we saw that film in Dobey's office. We knew that minute we were finished. But I'm not ready to lay down and die over it, I'll tell ya that." He turned, captured Hutch's complete attention. "We didn't come all this way to give up over somethin' like this. We didn't do all that work to get me healthy, then do all that hard-ass investigatin' -- we didn't bring Gunther's empire down so's he could get the last laugh in the end."

   Hutch stood up straighter. "No. No, we didn't. But, Starsk, be sure about this. We step down this path, we can never go back. We'll never shake this thing."

   "It's too late for that already," Starsky said dismally. "You think I don't know that? I knew it yesterday. I'm still dealin' with it, and not all that well, I gotta tell ya." Starsky looked right at Whitelaw. "I don't know yet that I'm --man enough to wear your label forever, specially when I feel like it's a lie. But that don't mean I ain't wearin' it. It's been put on me by a whole city full o'people whose minds I can't control, 'specially with what they're thinkin' 'bout me and Hutch. So, I'll deal with it, and what's gonna come down." He looked back at Hutch. "I can do that -- long as you'll stand with me."

   Hutch just gave him that big, blue-eyed look, all that love, all that open vulnerability placed right in his lap, just like always. Even after what I did with it. How'd he ever deserve all that from a guy like this?

   "Me and thee, partner," Hutch said with a casual shrug and the kind of disarming smile that destroyed women regularly, "same as always."

   Starsky wanted to weep when his friend said that. Me and thee, same as always? No, not hardly, babe. But that ain't your fault. An' I ain't gonna let you suffer 'cause o' me.

   "So," Starsky turned back to Whitelaw, realizing with some surprise, that he and Hutch were standing shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, facing Whitelaw, being united, being partners, ready to take on whatever the next challenge was. He felt his heart swell knowing that could still happen, ever after all this. "What's your plan? I know you got one."

   "Part of it involves working at the Green Parrot," Whitelaw explained.

   "Why?" Starsky asked bluntly, uncomfortable with the notion and not attempting to hide it.

   "I'm not gonna kid you," Peter said. "This is going to take a while. You're going to need some income, and I can't afford to support you out of the war chest. But the main reason is that the Green Parrot is a good place to connect with our network. A lot of us meet there. It would be convenient to pass information to you there."

   "What kind of information?" Hutch asked.

   "We have a lot of people working with us," Whitelaw told them. "Investigators, lawyers, private eyes, people in the mayor's office, other cops -- we're well connected."

   "All these people are gay?" Starsky asked bluntly. He wanted to know who these allies would be.

   "Most of them," Whitelaw admitted. "Some are sympathetic straights -- sisters, brothers, parents, friends of gay people. We intend to investigate how you were brought to this situation. We don't expect the police to uncover much, since the two cops best qualified to investigate the situation have been removed from the force."

   "It ain't like we can't do none of it," Starsky protested.

   "No, but you no longer have the resources of the police department to help you," Whitelaw reminded them. "Some of our people can help even that score with access to computer data banks, and so forth. You'll need their help. And you'll need our civil rights lawyer. You've probably heard of her -- Kelly Rose Callahan."

   Hutch whistled and Starsky's eyes widened. She'd won a huge settlement from the city regarding a bad arrest and beating of a civil rights protester a few years back. That had happened in another precinct, but Dobey had raised hell about it with his cops, making sure nothing like that would ever happen in his precinct.

   "K. R. Callahan is gay?" Starsky asked, remembering the red-haired, feminine woman -- with the mind of a steel trap and the no-nonsense attitude. He'd never seen a five foot, three inch woman be so intimidating.

   "No," Whitelaw said. "Her brother is. But she's a legal visionary. She says in the next twenty years gay issues will be at the forefront of civil rights work, and she likes to be ahead of the curve. She wants to work with you in the worst way. She says what's happened to you violates privacy laws and a dozen other civil rights that are guarenteed by the constitution."

   "Those issues can take years to resolve," Hutch said dismally.

   "True," Whitelaw agreed, "but with her track record, the city is already scared to death. She thinks she can brow-beat them into letting you back on active status while the rest of it is being resolved. She'd like to meet you for lunch tomorrow to start making plans. She wants to move on this before the city gets a chance to set up hearings or make any decisions."

   The two looked at one another again. Hutch swallowed. "You sure about this?"

   Starsky shrugged. "It's that, or quit, way I see it. And things never do work out for us when we quit."

   Hutch nodded. "Okay. Then we're in it." He looked at Whitelaw. "Listen, uh, you said there were cops on the force who -- "

   "We're everywhere, Ken. Straight people don't like to think about that, but it's true. We're closeted because we have to be, but we're everywhere. Some surveys are saying that one in every ten persons is gay. So, yes, there are gay people working as cops today. John Blaine wasn't the only one."

   "How are they gonna feel about this?" Hutch wondered. "I mean, if things work out, and we get our jobs back, and we become the first openly gay cops on the force. How are they gonna feel about these two straight guys taking their thunder while they're still in the closet?"

   Whitelaw shook his head. "You won't be taking their thunder, Ken. You'll be taking their heat. It's going to be very hard on you to be the first gay cops in L.A. Very hard. It'll be easier for the next one and the next. Because of the sacrifices you guys will be forced to make. Trust me on this. They'll be grateful."

   Starsky nodded. There wasn't one step of this that was gonna be easy. Not ever. Not from now on. It would never end. Never. If they could only hang on to each other through it --

   Whitelaw stood. "Well, I thank you for your time. I'll call you tomorrow to confirm that meeting. You should expect to be hearing from Sugar sooner or later about the job -- when you begin and so on. I'll be seeing you at the Parrot, too." He touched his briefcase, then unsnapped the clasps. "I hesitate bringing this up, but I did have one more little item for you."

   Starsky realized both of them visibly tensed.

   "I take it you saw your piece of film in your Captain's office," Whitelaw said, not looking at either of them. "I thought -- now don't take this the wrong way -- you might want a copy of your own. I mean, it must've taken you by surprise, so you probably didn't really get a chance to look at it as evidence. I was afraid, well, that you might regret having that opportunity at some point -- " He stopped, as if realizing he was blathering. He pulled a plastic case out of his briefcase and dropped it on the table. "It's a Betamax video tape. It was in my office when I got there at five a.m. yesterday. You can have it. Examine it if you think it'll help. Burn it up if you'd rather."

   Starsky forced himself to touch the thing, turn it over in his hands. He said the word over and over in his mind. Evidence. You're a cop, and this is nothing but evidence.

   "You're right," Starsky said, his voice raspy. "We, uh, we never really got to look at it as cops would, we were too surprised -- Listen, it might be useful as we investigate the case. Thanks for thinkin' o' that. We're not bein' as clear-headed as we need to be about this."

   Hutch had turned away from him to look out the kitchen window.

   Whitelaw closed his briefcase and moved to the door. "Thanks again for the coffee, Ken. And, uh, try to be nice to each other, will you? You'll need to stick together now more than ever. No more handcuffs, huh?" Smiling kindly, he let himself out.

   Starsky felt himself blush to the roots of his hair, and he remembered to glower at Hutch again.

   But Hutch had a funny expression on his face as he watched after Whitelaw's retreating form. "Pretty nice guy. Interesting way to start the day." He carefully kept his eyes away from the table. Away from the video cassette.

   "How's zat?" Starsky shot back, too bluntly. "With a little political intrigue, or maybe a tall, cool blond in the kitchen?"

   Hutch's spine straightened as if he'd been shot. "Now, there's a statement that could be easily twisted -- "

   "Yeah?" Starsky growled, trying vainly to curb his temper again.

   Chilly blue eyes appraised him silently, until Hutch finally said, "Y'know, if I didn't know better -- I'd think you were jealous."

   Starsky froze. He started to blurt a protest then forced his mouth to be still. This was no time to dissemble. "Hutch. He looked at you like you were the main course. He wanted you. Couldn't you feel it?"

   Hutch shrugged. "Of course I could. But why should that bother you?"

   Good question. Honesty was so difficult. But necessary. "'Cause, maybe I'm worried, because of what's happened -- Maybe I'm afraid -- you might want him back." And I can't handle that. You with some other guy. Ever. You're mine. The thought was like a cold, wet slap in the face. Where had that come from? What was he thinking? He ground his teeth.

   Hutch watched him as though he could read his mind, hear the wheels turning. Starsky had to remind himself that was impossible. Hutch was perceptive, but he wasn't telepathic.

   "Starsky," Hutch said, his voice low, soft. Seductive, Starsky thought. "I don't want him. I'm not gonna want him or any other guy. You can relax about that. Okay?"

   Starsky had to shut his eyes, his relief almost palpable. "Hutch, I'm sorry." Sorry I did this to you. Sorry I keep makin' it worse. Sorry you're stuck here with me in this.

   Arms slid around him, familiar arms, comforting arms, and he responded like a drowning man, grabbing hold, hugging, pulling the tall, warm body close.

   "It wasn't your fault," Hutch insisted. "Stop apologizing. If I made you feel like it was your fault, I'm sorry. This was done to us. We can't blame each other, or ourselves. We just gotta find our way through it. Together."

   For the briefest second, Starsky thought he felt the gentle brush of Hutch's lips against his forehead, then it was gone. That simple gesture, so full of love and longing, nearly broke his heart. They pulled out of the embrace with an awkwardness they'd never had before.

   "Actually," Hutch said, his voice low and husky, "it's my turn to make breakfast. How does oatmeal, wheat toast, orange juice and fresh peaches sound?"

   "Not as good as bacon and eggs," Starsky said, giving his standard speech, "but I'll take 'em." As casually as he could manage, he picked up the cassette and set it on a book rack where it fit tidily. "And more coffee. I have the feelin' we need to be doing something today, but for the life o' me I can't figger out what. Guess that drug's still playin' havoc with my brain. Uh -- how 'bout you?"

   "Seem to be over the worst of it," Hutch said. "But I can tell you what it is you don't want to remember that we have to do. It's been twenty-four hours, Starsk. We've got to face calling our families."

   Starsky groaned, wishing Hutch hadn't reminded him. He had to call and talk to his mom. She'd be sitting there, staring at that phone, waiting. He wondered what his kid brother Nicky would have to say about this. Starsky felt like he was falling down a long dark well.

I was a willow last night in a dream

I bent down over a clear running stream

Sang it a song that I heard up above

And you kept me alive with your sweet flowing love

Crazy, yeah, crazy on you

Lemme go crazy, crazy on you.

       Crazy On You -- Heart

 

CHAPTER 4