Title: Alone
Author: Daydreamer
Type: Gen
Summary: When Hutch disappears, it brings about changes in both men's lives.
Disclaimer: Not mine -- not for profit.
Notes: This story is being posted as gen. There is no m/m sex in it. It does, however, have slashy overtones. Or so I've been told. Actually, my gen readers were okay with it, but thought there was one scene that was iffy, and my slash readers didn't think there was enough contact. Go figure. If reading about two men offering physical comfort to one another offends you -- do not read this. Or at the very least, do not read it and then feel you need to write me and tell me I mislead you. Consider yourself warned. This may not be everyone's cuppa. But if you like a long, angsty tale, with lots of hurt, lots of comfort, lots of love and affection and devotion and companionship, this may be just what you're looking for. If you read the story and enjoy it, I would love to hear from you.
Format: Story
Categories: Hutch Angst, Starsky Angst, Mystery, Hutch H/C
Rating: R
Size: 424K
Date Added: 2003-03-22

Alone
by Daydreamer

Day 1 - Jan 12, 1979 - Disappearance

"Starsky!"

The dark-haired man sighed, looked around the room again quickly as if what was missing would suddenly appear, then hauled himself to his feet and moved. Opening the door behind him, he stuck his head in, strove for nonchalance, and said, "You wanted to see me, Cap?"

"Get in here, Starsky, and shut the door," the big man ordered.

Starsky complied and when Dobey waved at a chair, he settled into it.

"Where's that partner of yours? Did I give him a personal day and forget to write it down?"

Starsky shrugged, aiming for unconcerned but just coming across as nervous. "Must have, Cap," he replied, hoisting one leg up to rest it on his knee. "I, uh, haven't heard from him today."

Dobey cocked his head. "You covering for him, Starsky?"

Starsky shook his head, then slowly began to nod. "Maybe a little, at first." He glanced at his watch. "But, Cap, it's nearly three in the afternoon. You *know* Hutch isn't going to just disappear for a whole day without calling, or something."

The older man nodded, then busied himself with papers on his desk. After a few moments, he looked up, surprised to see his detective still seated. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go find him and get his sorry ass to work."

***********

Hutch woke slowly. He'd been drugged -- he could feel the lingering aftereffects. He opened his eyes carefully, wincing at the harsh light from the overheads. His head hurt, he felt slightly nauseous, and his mouth was dry. He lay on a small iron bunk, a thin mattress the only thing between him and the solid bottom of the low bunk. He had been stripped while he was unconscious and now he lay on the cold plastic of the mattress and shivered. Grimacing at the effort, he swung his feet over the side and pulled himself up to sit.

It was a small room, maybe ten by eight. It was slightly deeper than it was wide and as Hutch studied each wall in turn, he noted their identical lack of anything to differentiate one from the other. Smooth, white tile covered each, and only the fourth was different. A metal door stood lone sentry there, the gun-metal gray the only contrast to the unending white of the room. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, white lights. Even the bed was white enamel and the plastic mattress was white, as well.

What was lacking? No pillow, no sheets or blankets. And it was chilly, Hutch noted, as he shivered again and looked at goose bumps on his arms. No windows. No toilet facilities, no sink or other water source. No door handle on the door -- it obviously only opened from the outside.

The ceiling was high, at least twelve feet. Even standing on the bed, he'd never be able to reach it, and the lights were recessed, untouchable behind a clear screen of some kind. He moved to the door and tested it, just to be sure, but of course, it didn't move.

With nothing else to examine, he returned to the bed and studied it. It stood in the corner of the room, head and one side hugging the walls. It was maybe 18 inches off the floor and was bolted down, the pieces welded together. That fact killed any possibility of dismantling it and finding usable parts. He couldn't even turn it on end and use it to climb to the ceiling. The bunk itself was only about five feet long, far too short for his rangy frame. When he'd awoken, he'd been curled on his side, but sleeping fully stretched out would be impossible on it. He knelt and looked beneath it. Tucked neatly against the corner underneath was a bedpan. Hutch wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of it, but lay down on the floor and pulled it within easier reach.

His examination of the place complete, he turned and sat on the bed, frowning. With no immediate way to get out, he turned his thoughts to how he'd gotten here in the first place. He'd gotten up that morning -- or at least he thought it was that morning. He really didn't have any way of knowing how long he'd been here. But he didn't feel unusually hungry and other than a dry mouth, he didn't seem particularly dehydrated. His bladder was making itself known, but he decided to delay that for a while, in the hopes that there might be an option other than the bedpan.

So -- he'd gotten up that morning and gone for a run. Nothing unusual there. He'd come home, eaten a light breakfast, then gone to brush his teeth, and ... Hutch frowned again. That was all he remembered. He'd eaten breakfast, brushed his teeth, and that was all. After that? Nada. Zip. Zilch. There just wasn't anything else there.

Until he woke up. Who knows how many hours? days? later.

So here he was, in his quiet, white cell, with absolutely no idea of where he was, how he got here, or maybe most importantly, why he was here. Maybe it was time to tackle that one.

He stood and moved to the center of the room, then called, "Hello? I'm awake, and I think you should know, you've got a Bay City cop here. Who are you, and what do you want?"

There was only silence.

"I'm not someone who can just disappear. They'll be looking for me. I'm sure the search is already on. It's not very smart, kidnapping a cop."

Still silence.

"Is anyone there?" he tried again. "Can you hear me?"

When there was still no answer, no response, Hutch went and sat on the bunk. "Hello?" he called again, not nearly as loudly or as forcefully, and again there was no reply.

And as the silence continued, he began to feel the first inklings of fear.

***********

Starsky pulled up outside his apartment for the third time. It was nearly 8:30 and only just beginning to get dark now, due to daylight savings time. He'd been hunting for Hutch for almost six hours. First he'd gone over to Hutch's. The beat-up LTD had been parked out front but there'd been no answer to his knock. He'd used his key and let himself in, but there had been no sign of Hutch. His coffeepot had still been on, the coffee a dark mass of mud-like consistency after brewing all day. The remains of a hasty breakfast had still sat on the table, and Hutch's gun had been in his holster which hung in the closet. None of it was a good sign. He'd called Dobey immediately and they'd put out an alert for the blond, but then Starsky had continued his search, just in case.

He'd gone to his own place next, but Hutch hadn't been there and a quick look around had made it apparent he hadn't been by. He'd checked in with Huggy, just in case, then he'd started hitting the places he knew Hutch liked -- the park, the marina, the beach.

Still no sign of his partner.

Another trip to Hutch's house, this time to wait for the forensics team to come and take the place apart. The breakfast leftovers were bagged and tagged and taken downtown for analysis. The juice glass with its dregs of OJ got the same treatment, as did the coffee and the canister the grounds had come from. They dusted the place for prints and did a door to door to see if anyone had seen anything out of the ordinary, but no one had anything to report.

It was as if Hutch had simply vanished.

Starsky had gone back by his place, then made his rounds a second time -- park, marina, beach. A stop by The Pits had only yielded a concerned Huggy who encouraged Starsky to at least eat while he was there, and so with sandwich in hand, he'd taken off again for his place, and again, come up empty.

One more trip to Hutch's, one more pass through the park. Another run by the marina, a solitary walk on the beach, and here he was, pulling up outside his own apartment as the late summer sun sank slowly below the horizon. If there'd been any doubt this morning, it was gone now.

Hutch was officially missing.

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

Day 3 - Jan 15, 1979

He was cold. Not freezing to death, teeth chattering, shivering cold, but just -- not warm. Not comfortable. He felt awkward with his nudity, convinced he was being observed though repeated searches of his small room had revealed nothing that even vaguely resembled a camera. Still, that nagging feeling of being watched persisted. And what he wouldn't have given for a pair of pants or even a sheet to wrap up in.

He'd tried to stay awake -- had no idea how long he had lasted until he gave in. It was more boredom than exhaustion that defeated him. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to, nothing to read or think about. No windows to look out, not even a spot of color to break up the monotony of the white walls, white floor and white ceiling. He'd tried talking to the door, talking to the ceiling, anything to get a response but his every word rang hollow in the small room and was met by silence in answer.

He'd lost all track of time.

Somewhere between when he'd first awakened and when he'd finally lost his battle with sleep, he'd lost another battle and been forced to use the bedpan. Too far to the floor to stand and aim with any accuracy, he'd been forced to kneel awkwardly and that had made him even more self-conscious of his situation. It had been all he could do to relax enough to pee. He didn't want to think about what he'd have to do when he had to have a bowel movement.

His helplessness over his situation had infuriated him. It had been all he could do not to pick up the metal pan and hurl it at the wall, but since this was his living area for the time being, he had refrained himself.

He'd ranted at the walls and ceiling after that until his voice grew hoarse, and his thirst became uncomfortable. It had made no difference. There was no response, whether he asked quiet, polite questions or whether he screamed liked a lunatic. It didn't matter if he sat quietly on the bunk or beat the walls with his fists. If he was unmoving, no one paid him any attention, and if he paced frantically around the small, confined space, the result was the same.

He'd fought through the first vestiges of sleepiness, forcing himself to move until he got his second wind. He'd walked uncounted numbers of circuits of the room, run his hands over every inch of wall and floor and door he could reach. He'd minutely examined each leg of the bunk, each rail that supported the mattress. And when, finally, with nothing else he could think to do, and still no response to his repeated pleas for answers, he'd plopped onto the mattress and curled up, trying to generate a little heat to ease the cold that had seeped into his bones. The last thing he remembered thinking, as he lay with his arms wrapped around himself, was that Starsky would have been going nuts by then.

Now he was awake again, any hope of maintaining a sense of time passing was shot as he realized he had no idea how long he'd slept. There was a Styrofoam bowl on the floor filled with oatmeal and a bottle of water. The bedpan had been emptied. Other than that, everything was exactly the same.

He reached out and lifted the bowl -- the oatmeal was still warm and he ate the tasteless gruel greedily, mindless of the lack of utensils. Once done, he licked his fingers and sighed. Opening the water, he drank, savoring the slick slide of liquid down his parched throat. Both the food and the water were gone too quickly.

He amused himself for a while by tearing the bowl into little pieces. It was a game to see how many small pieces he could make, and he counted them over and over again just to have something to do. Bored at last with that, he lifted the bottle and its lid and spent a long time just screwing the lid on and off, counting how many turns it took to tighten it just right, watching the way the bottle changed size minutely, depending on how tight the lid was.

He would periodically get up and circle the room, speaking to the walls and asking his perpetual questions, "Who are you? Why am I here? What do you want? Why won't you speak to me?" but the lack of response was becoming familiar by now.

He grew tired again, and this time he didn't fight it. At least the time passed when he was asleep. He lay down on the bunk, curling up as best he could and again, his last thought was of his partner.

'Find me soon, Starsk, find me soon.'

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

Starsky's head was drooping and he jerked himself erect. Around him, the squad room teamed with people, all working on finding his missing partner. Unfortunately, while there were plenty of people, there was very little work because it was as if Hutch had vanished into thin air. There was no clue as to what had happened to the big blond.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then glanced over at the sounds of the swinging doors opening. Huggy was marching in, looking like a man on a mission. He had a cardboard box in one hand and a drink in the other. He moved straight for Starsky and plopped the box and the drink onto the desk.

"You eat," he ordered, folding his arms over his chest. "I know you. Bet you haven't eaten since Hutch disappeared. Now -- that's a roast beef sandwich. You like that. So, you eat."

"How can I eat when I don't know what's happening to Hutch?" Starsky protested.

"How can you *not* eat?" Huggy countered. "How you gonna find him if you fall over in a faint? You think about that?"

Starsky's stomach rumbled and he looked down, abashed. He picked up the sandwich and unwrapped it, then took a bite. "Thanks, Hug," he said around the food in his mouth. "Just feel guilty, that's all. Don't know if Hutch is eating ..." He dropped the sandwich back into the box and slammed his fist on the desk. "Don't know what the hell is going on with Hutch!"

"No, you don't," Huggy said soothingly, picking up the sandwich and pressing it back into Starsky's hands. "And you're never going to find out if you're in the hospital from exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition. So," the slight man took a deep breath, "you eat, and drink, then I'm taking you home and you're going to sleep." At Starsky's sound of protest, Huggy shook one finger before his face. "Nuh-uh-uh -- you *will* sleep."

Starsky looked up to see Dobey looming over his desk as well. "Listen to the man, Starsky. You can go with Huggy, get a few hours sleep, and come back. Or I can put you out for a mandatory 24 hour period. It's your choice."

Starsky took another bite of the sandwich, washing it down with several long gulps from his drink. "Four hours," he said softly, his eyes never leaving Huggy's. "You promise to wake me in four hours, or I'm not leaving." He jerked his glance to Dobey and added, "And nothing you can say will make me."

The two dark men exchanged a look and Dobey nodded slightly. "Four hours it is, my man," Huggy agreed, and when Starsky rose and headed out, he followed him.

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

Day 8 - Jan 20, 1979

Hutch rolled over and looked at the floor. Sure enough, the expected oatmeal and water was there and he slid off the mattress to squat before his meal. Eating didn't take long, and even though the oatmeal was cold this time, he forced himself to finish it. It was all he got. It was all he ever got. He drank the water a bit more slowly, taking the bottle with him as he walked a circuit of the room. Why he thought it would change, he didn't know, but he couldn't stop the need to check for anything new. When he had finished his water, and confirmed for himself that there was still no way out, he went to the door.

He pounded on it several times, then called, "Hey! Is a-a-anyone there?" He waited, hating himself for the frisson of anticipation that rose without his consent, and which was soon crushed when his cry went unanswered.

He went to his corner latrine and used the bedpan, no longer self-conscious of the awkwardness. It was clean, as it always was when he awoke, just as there was usually water and oatmeal waiting for him after he'd slept.

Shivering in the cool air -- still not cool enough to make him *cold,* but never warm enough to be comfortable, he went back to the bed and sat. Inching backwards, he leaned against the wall, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Dropping his head to breathe warm air into the small cavity he'd created over his chest, he let himself get lost in thoughts of summer days outside in the bright sunshine. Days when he was warm and happy. He dreamed of pizza and steak and fresh green salads -- so fresh the lettuce crackled when you bit into it. He dreamed of his guitar and music and singing with friends. And he dreamed of Starsky -- and the day when his partner would find him.

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

"It's been a week, Cap," Starsky said in frustration. He wore the same clothes he'd worn two days ago, which coincided with the last time Dobey had been able to get him to leave the station and go home and rest. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his normally tight jeans actually had a little slack in them now. Starsky couldn't take time to eat.

He had a list in front of him and began to read it out loud in a monotone. "Harris is still in prison. Chaco was killed in a knife fight in prison three years ago. Roger Burke is still locked up in the protected wing of the pen. Stryker's dead -- heart attack. Ben Forrest is in solitary, and has been for four years." He scrubbed at his face as he stared at the list.

"What are you doing?" Dobey asked. "Did you pull every case you've ever worked on?"

Starsky nodded grimly. "Just about. It's taking some time, but I'm tracking down everyone who might have any reason to hurt Hutch," he lifted pain-filled eyes to look at his Captain, "and it's a pretty big damn list." He pointed to several stacks of manila folders balanced precariously on the corner of his desk. He reached for the next folder and one pile began to slide, but Dobey caught it before it could shift too far.

"You getting help with this?" he asked gruffly, and Starsky nodded.

"I passed them out to the rest of the task force; we did a preliminary run-through on anyone who was loose but came up empty. Now I just need," he interrupted himself with a huge yawn, then went on, "to go through everything else. I'm the only one who will know what went down that didn't make it into the official report."

Dobey nodded. "All right. Sounds like a good plan." He looked at his watch. "Huggy should be here soon."

Starsky just nodded.

"What? No argument this time?" Dobey asked in astonishment.

"Not this time, Cap," Starsky replied wearily. "I'm tired. I need a shave and a shower and to sleep in my bed. I'm not gonna do Hutch any good if I can't function."

"Good man," Dobey agreed, his hand coming out to rest on the detective's shoulder for a moment. "What can I do while you're gone?"

Starsky held out a list with a few more names. "Get someone on this, will you? These are a few people I think have left the state, but I want to make an attempt to track them." He shrugged as he said, "They're long shots, but that's all I've got now."

Dobey nodded, accepting the paper. "Why don't you go on, get outta here? You can meet Huggy downstairs."

Starsky shook his head sadly. "In a minute, Cap." He took a deep breath. "I gotta call his folks first."

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

Day 14 - Jan 26, 1979

He was feeling pretty proud. He'd figured out a way to cover himself. He was sitting cross-legged on the bare metal bottom of the bunk, with the thin mattress draped across his lap. Aside from the fact that his butt was freezing, he was almost warm. It was wonderful!

He smiled to himself as he realized this was a good day. The oatmeal had actually been hot when he woke up, and at some point during the time he slept, he'd been bathed. He knew he had been drugged again, but he didn't care. It just felt so damned good to be clean again, and he'd even been shaved. He reached up and touched his smooth cheek, delighting in the sensation.

He didn't know what was going on, but it was apparently turning into a waiting game. And while he didn't particularly enjoy waiting, he could do it. He was much better at waiting than Starsky. Starsky was just too impatient, too quick to need to make something happen. But he could wait. He knew that right now, somewhere out there, his partner was looking for him and he would find him. He'd track down whoever had done this and then he'd walk through that door, those dark curls all wild, his eyes blazing, and he'd grin a goofy grin and say, "Hiya, Hutch. Ya ready to go?" And then he would say, "What took you so long, dummy?" and Starsky would laugh and he would laugh and Starsky would probably even have a sweater or a coat or something he could put on, and then he would be really warm. Hutch smiled again as he began to drift back off to sleep. It was gonna be great. Just as soon as Starsky got here ...

When he woke up, there was no oatmeal, no water, and the mattress was gone.

He began to cry.

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

"What do you mean you're pulling everyone but the six of us?" Starsky exploded. "How the hell can you do that? We haven't found Hutch! You can't break down the team already! We don't even have a single good lead!"

Dobey shook his head. "Sit down, Starsky, and listen to me." He waited while the dark-haired man stood there, obviously trying to decide if he should sit as he'd been ordered. When Starsky did sit, Dobey breathed a silent sigh of relief. The detective was getting more and more belligerent, harder to control every day, and he knew there was a serious confrontation coming. At least it had been forestalled for today. "It's because we don't have any leads that the Commissioner is pulling people from the team."

"I need people, Cap. I need people out there looking. We can't give up on him!"

"No one's giving up on Hutchinson, Starsky," the Captain said as he walked around his desk to lean against it and face the seated man. "You're still head of the task force. His disappearance is still listed as suspicious. You've still got Franklin, Colton, Vieweg, Pfeiffer, and Day on the case with you full-time."

As the storm clouds crossed Starsky's face again, Dobey sighed heavily. "Look, Starsky, I don't like it either. But I don't have any choice. Like it or not, all crime in the city did not stop when your partner disappeared and we do need some manpower to deal with it." He reached out to touch the other man, but Starsky flinched, still scowling, and Dobey pulled back. "Work with what you've got, Starsky, and be glad of it. If it was anyone but Hutchinson, you'd probably be on your own by now."

Starsky glared at Dobey, then rose and addressed the other men in the room. "Let's get back to it. You know what to do."

There was a brief pause as the other detectives looked from Dobey to Starsky and back again, not sure if they had been dismissed or not. Dobey nodded once and the room cleared. "Starsky," he said softly, gratified that the furious man at least stopped at the door, even if he didn't turn to look at him, "Edith wants you to come for dinner Saturday."

Starsky shook his head. "I can't," he said, his voice choked. He turned at last and looked at the Captain. "Tell her -- tell her thanks anyway."

"I tried, Starsky," Dobey said. "I went to anyone and everyone I could, including the Commissioner. I *really* tried."

Starsky ran his hand through his hair and nodded. "I know, Cap, I know." He dropped his eyes and stared at the floor, hands hanging uselessly at his side. "I just don't know what to do, where else to look. It's -- it's *killing* me!" His voice broke and his breathing grew ragged. "I don't know what to do!"

Dobey moved forward then and placed a large hand on the other man's shoulder. "You're doing all you can, son. You're doing more than anyone could expect. I know you're not eating, not sleeping -- finding Hutch has become your whole life. You're the best, Starsky. If he can be found, you'll find him."

Starsky shuddered then nodded. "Thanks, Cap," he said under his breath. "I -- I better get out there."

"You get something -- *anything* -- you let me know and I'll be on City Hall's doorstep so fast they won't know what hit 'em."

Starsky just nodded again and left the room, his head still down, dejection in every line of his body.

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

Day 30 - Feb 11, 1979

"Alabama - Montgomery"

"Arkansas - Little Rock"

"Alaska - No, wait. Alaska comes before Arkansas. I need to start again."

Hutch closed his eyes and shivered. The metal of the bunk was cold without the mattress. He wished he'd never tried to use it as a blanket. It hadn't been worth the punishment. Now the oatmeal only came every other time he slept and he could swear it was colder in the room than it had been.

He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them and breathed into the cavity the position created. It was the only warmth he could get.

"I - I'm sorry," he whispered to himself.

"I'm s-s-sorry!" he cried to the empty room. "P-please -- I'm s-sorry!"

There was, of course, no answer.

He lowered his head again, and focused on creating his small space of warmth.

"Alabama - Montgomery"

"Alaska - Juneau"

"Arkansas - Little Rock"

"Arizona ... "

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

Starsky awoke and rolled over, slightly disoriented by his surroundings. He blinked and looked around. Oh, yeah. He'd slept at Hutch's place last night. He'd come over to water the plants and check on things, and just hadn't been able to leave. He'd dusted, and then stripped Hutch's bed and taken the linens and the other dirty clothes in the hamper down to the basement and done laundry. He'd cleaned out the fridge, kicking himself for not having thought to do this weeks sooner.

He'd gone through Hutch's mail, then written out checks for the bills that needed to be paid, including the rent. He'd paid for the late fee himself -- after all, he was the one who'd forgotten to pay it by the fifth. He'd balanced Hutch's checkbook, and made out a deposit slip to get his last two paychecks into the bank so that the checks he'd just written would be good, despite the forged signature. It was a good thing Dobey knew them; the older man had not once balked at handing Hutch's paycheck over to Starsky. He'd just trusted that the one partner would be taking care of the other's needs.

Starsky had taken out the trash and mopped the kitchen floor and cleaned the bathroom. He moved the furniture and unearthed a plate with a petrified sandwich from beneath the sofa and 5 socks, 2 pairs of briefs, and a belt from beneath the bed. He had refused to count the dust bunnies.

He'd opened the windows and aired the place out, changed the filter in the air conditioner. He'd even taken the throw rugs out and shaken them.

When the apartment was as clean as he could make it, he'd gone to the store and picked up a couple of six-packs, come back and then gotten quietly drunk. He'd called his mother and actually cried when he talked to her, and she'd just made soothing sounds over the line and offered to come and stay with him a while. He'd declined, but it was nice to know the offer was there.

And now he needed to get over to his place, take a shower and a couple of aspirin, and get to work.

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

When he walked into the squad room, it was empty. Oh, the usual desks were there, a few detectives working who studiously avoided meeting his eyes, but all the extra tables, the extra phones, the extra people, were gone.

Starsky took one look and stormed into Dobey's office. "What the hell's going on here, Cap?" he demanded. " 'cause I gotta tell you, it ain't looking real good from my view."

Dobey looked at the younger man, then sighed and spoke into the phone in his hand. "I'll have to call you back, Commissioner," he said as he hung up. "Starsky ..." he began, but the other man interrupted.

"Tell me we ain't been cut off, Cap. Tell me!"

Dobey nodded. "I'm afraid so, Starsky. Everyone goes back to their assigned duties except ..."

"Not me!" Starsky protested. "I'm not giving up!"

"Except you," Dobey continued gently. "You can keep working on Hutch's disappearance."

"It's no good, Cap," Starsky said, the rage fading to disgust. "Everyone's giving up on him."

"It's been a month."

"I *know* it's been a fucking month! You think I don't know how long it's been? It's been one month. Thirty days -- six hundred and ninety hours -- do you want the minutes? I know *exactly* how long it's been!"

"Don't do this, Starsky. It's not my fault, it's not the other guys' faults, it's not even the Commissioner's fault. He's gotta put the resources where he's got a chance of getting results. We've poured everything we have into hunting for Hutch, but we're getting nowhere."

"I'm not giving up," Starsky said stubbornly.

"Of course you're not. Nobody's asking you to." He rose and came to stand by Starsky. "I'm not giving up either. "You keep working. You need anything, you tell me. If I can get it, I will. And a bunch of the guys, we've all agreed to help on our off hours." He passed over a list to Starsky. "You organize it. Tell us what you want us to do. Nobody's giving up on Hutch."

Starsky took the list, then looked up at Dobey and nodded. "Thanks, Cap," he said, "I appreciate this. Tell these guys -- tell them I'll be in touch." He cleared his throat, then looked at the floor. "I, uh, may not come in to the station much for a while," he said softly.

"Whatever it takes," Dobey said in acknowledgement.

"I've got some people I need to talk to -- they're kinda hard to catch and I may have to spend some time waiting at different places for 'em."

"Just call me, let me know you're okay."

Starsky nodded and turned to the door. "I can't give up."

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

Day 42 - Feb 23, 1979

Hutch woke, cold and stiff, and still lying on the tile floor where he'd drifted off. His back hurt all the time now, and the cold seemed to have seeped into his bones. His joints ached and his head hurt almost constantly. The lights were so bright and they never went out. He had no way to judge if it was night or day, no way to know how much time had elapsed, no way to know how long or how frequently he slept.

He'd lost weight, quite a bit, and he'd lost muscle tone as well. Walking his circuit of the room required much more energy now and he knew that the monotonous diet of bland oatmeal couldn't be healthy. But -- he had no choice. God, how he longed for a baked potato or a piece of apple pie. Or scrambled eggs, an orange, a chocolate bar. Anything that had some taste to it. Anything besides oatmeal and water.

He looked up at the thought of his meal and sure enough, it sat waiting for him on the floor by the bunk. He didn't bother to get to his feet, but just crawled the few feet over there and began to eat. The oatmeal was at least warm this time -- it was so hard to choke it down when it was cold. He finished it all, licked his fingers clean, and then drank the water. He halfway hoped it was drugged; he wouldn't mind waking up next time and being clean again.

He sat up and crossed his legs, then glanced over at the bunk. He'd avoided it since they took the mattress, but now, the mattress was back. It was enough to make him jump to his feet. He stumbled over to the bunk and touched the thin pad almost reverently. It was such a little thing, but in his greatly reduced world view, it was huge. He felt tears prick his eyes and that made him feel even worse.

What had he been reduced to that a ratty old mattress, less than two inches thick, could make him cry?

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

Starsky leaned back against the couch, a framed photo in his lap. It was their class picture, taken a few weeks after they'd started at the Academy. He smiled as he looked at Hutch. He looked so proud, so strong, so *young* in the picture. This was a Hutch who didn't really understand how evil people could be. A Hutch who believed being a cop was something you did to make the world a better place.

He looked at himself as well. He was younger, yeah, but his eyes weren't nearly as innocent as Hutch's. When he went into the Academy, he'd already done two years in Nam, and he knew intimately how evil people could be. There was a world-weariness about him even then, and much of the happiness and playfulness he'd developed in the ensuing years, was directly related to Hutch and his ability to convince Starsky to see the good in people, not just the evil.

He lifted the beer in his hand and saluted the photo. "It was ten years ago today, partner," he said softly, fingering the small pins he'd been given that morning by Dobey. "Ten years ago today -- we started at the Academy."

He swallowed hard and looked around at Hutch's place. He spent as much time here now as he did at his own apartment, but then, hadn't he always? He took another swallow of the beer, then lifted the photo and clutched it to his chest.

"I miss you, Hutch," he said softly, tears in his eyes. "When're you coming home, babe?"

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

Day 58 - March 15, 1979

He'd awakened furious this time. He picked up the disgusting bowl of oatmeal and hurled it at the wall, then he'd peed in the bedpan and thrown that at the walls too. He'd torn the mattress from the bed, not even thinking of the last time he'd moved it and lost it for who knows how long. He only knew blind rage and the need for destruction.

Overwhelmed by anger at his own helplessness, he'd stormed the door, screaming, "I am a fucking cop! You can't do this to me! You hear me? Answer me, you son of a bitch! Answer me!"

When that hadn't elicited a response, he'd pounded the door, first with his fists, then he'd kicked it repeatedly until his feet ached and then he'd gone back to using his fists. He'd thrown himself bodily against the strong metal, charging forward over and over again, hands beating futilely upon the uncaring door.

He'd raged repeatedly, "Let me out! Let me out! You can't keep me here like this! Just answer me -- talk to me! Tell me what you want!" He beat the door over and over again, pounding furiously against its unresponsive surface, alternating left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot.

And all the time he screamed, "They'll find me, you assholes! I won't be forgotten! They'll come for me! You won't get away with this! I'm a cop -- a cop! You can't do this to me!"

His fist hit the door, over and over again, harder and harder until -- it happened. He heard it even before he felt it. The crack of the bone sounded loud to his ears, then the pain flooded over him, and he collapsed to the floor, cradling the broken wrist against his chest. He was crying again -- he seemed to do that a lot now -- but he didn't care. At first he was terrified -- if the wrist was left untended, it could heal wrong and he'd be damaged for life. But then he realized, they were taking care of him. He was fed and watered and while he wasn't kept warm, he wasn't freezing either. He wasn't being abused -- surely they would have to come and fix his wrist, right?

He crawled over to the wall and leaned against it, the damaged arm still clutched tightly to his chest. He was going to wait because they would have to come now, right?

"I-it's broken," he called out. "I br-broke my arm."

No response.

"You h-have to t-take me t-t-t-o a h-hospital; I-I need h-help."

Nothing.

"Please?" he tried again. "P-lease?"

He pulled his legs up and lowered his head and began to breathe hard to make the warm space over his chest. It was the only warmth he had.

"They have to come," he whispered to himself. "They have to."

And some small, distant part of his brain wondered when he had begun to rely on "them" coming, instead of Starsky.

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

"All right, Cap," Starsky said, taking a seat and sipping from the cup of coffee that he held, "what did you want to see me about?"

Dobey took a deep breath and held out a file.

Accepting it, Starsky opened it, skimmed it briefly and frowned. "What's this?"

"Your case."

Starsky closed the file quickly, shaking his head. "Oh, no," he said, pushing the manila folder back toward the Captain. "I'm working on Hutch's case, remember?"

Dobey nodded in understanding, but his words belied his action. "And you can keep working on it, Starsky," he said, choosing his words carefully, "you just need to work on this, too."

Starsky rose angrily. "I don't have time for this," he snarled.

Dobey moved to stand in front of him, blocking the door. "You don't have a choice. You want to keep drawing a paycheck, you take the case."

"Then I quit," Starsky said defiantly, reaching around Dobey for the door.

The larger man stopped him with a touch on the arm. "You quit, Starsky," he said quietly, "and I take your badge, your gun, and you lose your pay. And you lose access to any resources we have here that may help you find Hutch."

Starsky lowered his head and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Fuck," he said softly. "I fucking hate this."

"I know, son," Dobey said, his voice gentling. "But you don't have a choice. Everyone's still willing to work off the clock with you; I've even gotten some more volunteers."

Starsky nodded his head, then reached out a hand to brace himself against the wall. "It's like nobody cares anymore, like everyone's giving up."

"Nobody's giving up," Dobey said firmly. "A lot of us care. We want him found."

Starsky nodded, then looked away. "When I was in Nam, Cap, the unit I was with -- we didn't leave anyone behind. No matter what, no matter where we were, we brought 'em all back." His voice broke and he choked on a sob, then lifted his dark-ringed eyes to stare at his Captain. "I feel like I'm leaving him behind, Cap. I'm just moving on and leaving him behind.

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

Day 68 - March 25, 1979

The white cast on his wrist was no longer completely white. It had taken on a rather grubby gray appearance and his arm itched horribly. If he'd been home, he knew he'd have had a coat hanger stuck down there, scratching away, despite the fact that it wasn't a smart thing to do. He didn't care. He just wanted the itching to stop.

It was harder to eat now too. He had trouble holding the bowl in his left hand, and rather than risk spilling the precious little food he was given, he held the bowl in his lap. But that meant that he would drip on himself as he brought the gruel to his lips using only his fingers. Still, he could always scrape it off his chest and belly -- it was messy but he managed.

He was hungry all the time now -- He figured he'd lost at least twenty pounds. Any padding he'd had on his body was gone and it made it that much harder to stay warm. He had no idea how long he'd been here. No one would talk to him. No one would tell him why he was here or what was the purpose behind his kidnapping. At first, he'd thought he was being observed, but now he wasn't so sure. It was almost as if he had been brought here and then completely abandoned. Only the oatmeal and water that still showed up when he slept and the periodic baths gave him any clue that he hadn't been completely forgotten.

And his memories of Starsky.

Whatever happened here, he knew that Starsky would never forget him. He'd never give up. It had probably been a few weeks now -- his time sense was all shot to shit -- but he knew he was sleeping a lot, so that made it seem like more time had passed than probably really had. Or something.

He rubbed his head. It always started to hurt when he tried to figure things out. It was like thinking was too hard now -- it was just easier to sleep and dream.

He went to the corner and used the bedpan, then drank his allotment of water and settled back on the bed. It was not only easier to sleep, it was more pleasant. When he slept, he could go anywhere, do anything. He watched movies on the TV. Tossed a football in the park. Ran on the beach, the sun hot on his face, his hair blowing free. He ate Edith Dobey's lasagna, and Huggy's chili.

And he wasn't alone.

There with him always, talking to him, touching him, just *being* with him -- was Starsky.

He closed his eyes and dreamed.

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

"Happy Birthday, dear Davey, Happy Birthday to you!" Starsky warbled the last words off-key, then saluted himself with his beer and collapsed on the couch.

" 'm thirty-nine, partner," he mumbled drunkenly. "Only one more year till I'm hitting the big four-o."

He drained the bottle and opened another, drinking deeply of the amber brew. "God, Hutch," he said under his breath, "I don't know what else to do, don't know where else to look." Raising his chin defiantly, he spoke to the darkened room, "But I ain't giving up. I ain't ever going to give up!" He drew another deep draught of the beer, then scrubbed at his face. "But it's so damned hard, babe. I'm just -- lost -- here. You're the one that figures things out. You're the one that can see what I always miss. How the hell am I supposed to find you, when you ain't here to tell me what to do next?" He finished the beer, swallowing a sob with the liquid and staggered to the bathroom. "You gotta come back, Hutch. I need you," he said as he started the shower and slowly undressed. "I need you."

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

Day 86 - April 12, 1979

He woke and felt -- lighter. It took longer and longer each time he woke for the fog to clear from his brain. When he finally uncurled from his fetal position, he realized the cast on his wrist was gone. He smiled and sat up, waving the hand in the air. It felt good. Then he indulged in a nice long scratch, just for GP.

And he was clean. Sometime while he'd slept, he'd been bathed and shaved again. It felt wonderful! He stroked his cheeks, then reached up and smiled again when he realized his hair had been cut. It was back to just about the length it had been when he'd been brought here. That was good. It had gotten so long it had tickled his back. He furrowed his brow as he thought about that. For some reason, it felt like he should be able to use the length of his hair to figure out something, but it was just too hard to think about it.

And besides, his oatmeal was here and it was *hot* this morning. The cast was off, he was clean, and his oatmeal was hot. He started eating happily, thinking, 'what more could I want?'

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

It was three months today. He hadn't slept more than two or three hours a night in the last week. He just had this feeling, deep in his gut, that something bad was going to happen. Every instinct he had was screaming that it was about Hutch, but he was refusing to believe that there could be anything bad about Hutch.

He was alive.

Starsky refused to consider any other possibility.

He was being blackmailed and had had to leave.

He'd been in an accident and had amnesia or he was lying in a hospital somewhere and didn't know who he was.

Or maybe he'd even been kidnapped and was being held captive, though that made no sense as there'd been no ransom demand.

Oh, yeah. Starsky was willing to consider a lot of possibilities when it came to where Hutch was. But there was one he would not consider. Wouldn't say out loud. Wouldn't even think about.

Hutch was *not* dead.

So this damned feeling he had in his gut had to be about something else -- something related to Hutch, but not *that.*

He pulled up to his apartment and just sat, waiting for the sun to come up. He'd been doing this more and more lately, driving around all night long, just looking as if he might suddenly turn a corner and there he'd be, tall and blond and maybe a little raggedy looking, stumbling up the street. Every corner he turned, every door he walked through, he felt his heart catch as he thought, 'He could be here. Just around this corner, just through this door -- he could be here.'

But, of course, he never was.

The sun rose and Starsky watched as the darkness was chased away by the light of day. His watch ticked on, still counting the minutes since Hutch had disappeared. It was six o'clock now. Hutch always got up at six. He got up, he ran, and then he came home and had some sort of weird shit for breakfast before he showered and came into the station. Starsky usually picked him up. It was amazing how he was always early to work now. He still left home when he always did, but he no longer had to make the trip to Hutch's place.

He wasn't sure when he'd gone back to leaving work every night, to sleeping some at night, to eating. He hadn't regained the weight he'd originally lost in those first frantic weeks after Hutch disappeared. His pants were no longer skin-tight, but he wasn't losing weight anymore either. That was a testament to Dobey and his wife, who insisted he join them at least once a week for a meal. And to Huggy, who was always bringing over food from the restaurant, special things Starsky knew he'd made just to tempt him. And a dozen other guys at the station whose wives or mothers were all taking turns cooking for him and making sure he ate. With all the food he was being given, there was no way he could continue to lose weight.

He pried himself out of the Torino and went into his place. A quick shower, shave, breakfast of a couple of muffins somebody had made -- Pete Ferguson's wife, maybe -- and he was almost ready to go. He brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

Something was going to happen today.

He got to the station and he knew something was going on by the way everyone avoided looking him in the eye. People spoke, they smiled, and called his name and made jokes, but no one met his eyes. His heart was racing by the time he got to the squad room. He didn't even reach his desk before Dobey opened his door and called, "Starsky -- my office."

Nodding bleakly, he rose and trailed the older man back into his inner sanctum.

"I'm sorry, Starsky, I hate to be the one to tell you ..."

"He's not dead," Starsky interrupted. "I'd know it if he was dead."

Dobey looked at him, confused for a moment, and then he smiled sadly. "No, Dave," he said gently, pushing the younger man into a chair. He waited until Starsky was settled then leaned against his desk and went on. "I don't have any news on Hutchinson's whereabouts. I need to talk to you about the department's official action."

He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. The words were ringing loudly in his head and it took a few seconds for Dobey's message to get through. "Official action, Cap?" he asked in confusion.

Dobey nodded grimly. "It's been three months, Starsky," he said bluntly, "and we're not any closer to finding Hutch than we were the day he disappeared. Word came down from the Commissioner that the case moves to inactive."

Starsky scrubbed his face. He's not dead. They're not saying he's dead. That's all that matters. He's not dead. He shrugged. "Sure, Cap, whatever." Rising, he moved toward the door. "We can still work on our own time, right?"

Dobey nodded. "Of course, and everyone's more than willing to continue doing just that. You keep feeding us what you want followed up on, we'll follow it up."

Starsky nodded and went to leave, but Dobey cleared his throat, so he turned back to see what was wanted.

"Sit," the older man said softly. "Please?"

Starsky frowned in puzzlement, but returned to the chair he'd just vacated. "What?"

"Look, Starsky, I want you to know, I fought this tooth and nail, but I lost."

"What, Cap? Just spit it out."

"Hutch is being placed on indefinite unpaid leave. His next paycheck will be his last."

Starsky's head fell and he scrubbed at his face again. "Aw -- fuck!" he said softly. He ran his hands through his hair, then looked up and sighed. "I can't afford to keep his place and mine. What am I gonna do?"

Dobey shook his head. "I don't know, son, I just don't know. They were gonna drop him from the rolls entirely, but I got them to do this instead. I know it doesn't solve the money issues, but at least he's still a cop."

Starsky nodded miserably. "I'm gonna have to call his parents again -- see what they want me to do with his stuff." He sighed again. "God, I hate that! Those people are as cold as a -- well, they're just cold. I can't believe Hutch is related to them."

"If it helps any, you can put anything that will fit in my garage. Some of the other guys might be able to make some space available too."

Starsky nodded as he rose. "Thanks, Cap. I should've seen this coming. I can cover the next month's rent, but I'm gonna have to figure something out after that. Shit! Hutch loves that place! What am I gonna do with all those freaking plants?"

"We'll find homes for them, Starsky." The big man laid a hand on Starsky's drooping shoulder. "I'll help you."

"Yeah, I guess so." Starsky stood unmoving for a long moment and Dobey squeezed gently. "I'm gonna go call his folks now," he said softly. "See what they want me to do."

Dobey nodded and let him go, and he made his way slowly out to the squad room. Taking a seat, he stared at the empty desk across from him and bit back the urge to start throwing things. With great care, he dug out a piece of paper from his desk, looked at the number and dialed.

"Hutchinson residence," a formal voice answered.

"Uh, can I, that is, I'd like to speak to Mrs. Hutchinson." He hated the way talking to these people always made him feel so tongue-tied.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Dave, David Starsky. I'm Hutch's, uh, Ken's partner."

"Just a moment, please."

There was silence for several minutes and he had begun to wonder if he'd been disconnected when a cultured voice said, "Hello?"

"Uh, yeah. Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"This is Mrs. Hutchinson."

"This is Dave, Dave Starsky."

"Yes?"

"From Bay City. I work with your son."

"Yes, Mr. Starsky," the voice said formally. "I know who you are."

"Well, ma'am, the thing is, I'm calling about Hutch." He swallowed hard to clear his throat. "About Ken."

"Has he been found?" The question was asked with an air of polite interest, as if the answer were of no importance.

"Uh, well, no, ma'am," Starsky stammered, "I'm sorry to say that he hasn't."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Well, you see, the uh, department has taken him off the active roster."

"A sensible decision, I'm sure, considering he hasn't come to work in three months."

Starsky bit his lip to keep from screaming. "Well, uh, that means he won't be getting paid."

"Yes?" Polite disinterest this time.

Starsky took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I've, uh, been paying his rent and stuff from his checks, but I can't cover it anymore after this month. I just wanted, to, uh, know what you want me to, uh, do with his stuff."

He could almost see the elegant white hand wave dismissively in the air. "It's of no importance to us, Mr. Starsky. Sell it, give it away, throw it away."

Starsky closed his eyes. He could never throw Hutch's stuff away. "I'd keep his place for him if I could, Mrs. Hutchinson." His voice broke and it took him a minute to go on. "I just can't."

There was a long pause, and then Hutch's mother asked, in a slightly warmer tone, "How much is the rent on his apartment?"

Starsky told her.

"I'll send you a check," she said softly, her voice almost human.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, totally astonished at the offer.

When she spoke again, her voice was once again distant and cold. "Please be sure and speak to me if you have reason to call again. My husband doesn't need to be bothered with these trivialities. He's a very busy man."

Starsky grit his teeth, but said politely. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you again. I'll call you when I have news on Hutch, uh, Ken."

"Kenneth," she said curtly. "Good-bye."

He hung up the phone, his hand shaking. How the hell had Hutch survived to get out of that frigid house? He shook his head. It didn't matter. Hutch had made his own life now, and it was a good one. And now, with help from his mother of all people, it would be waiting for him when he came home.

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

Day 89 - April 15, 1979

He woke. There was no oatmeal this time. Just water. He drank, then curled back up on the bed.

It was a good dream this time. He was in a boat, fishing. He'd talked Starsky into going camping with him, and his friend was actually enjoying himself, despite his reservations about being in the 'wild.' The sun was high in the sky and it felt so good, so warm on his skin. It was beyond warm, really, almost hot. He could feel himself sweating. He took his shirt off, then stood up, and Starsky swore.

"Christ, Hutch! Sit the fuck down! You're gonna tip the boat!"

He just shook his head and skinned out of his pants.

"What the hell are you doing?" Starsky said, a laugh in his voice.

"Going swimming," he replied, diving over the side and into the cool lake water. It felt wonderful. Warm and wet and he could feel it spreading over his skin.

Starsky was laughing at him now, taking his own shirt off and preparing to join him, but something was happening. The laughter was fading, the sun disappearing to be replaced with a pervading sense of cold, and as he watched, Starsky slowly vanished, almost winking out as he jerked awake and looked around.

Warm and wet and spreading.

He'd peed on himself.

He rose from the mattress and moved to sit on the floor.

He didn't even have the energy to cry this time.

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

It was almost midnight and he'd been sitting in his car at the Post Office for hours now. It was silly, really. The forms were complete, the envelope sealed. The stamp was on it and it was ready to go. All he had to do was pass it to the man standing there, waiting to take all the last minute filer's tax forms. But he was still holding onto it, as if by some miracle, Hutch would appear, and they could quickly open the envelope and Hutch would scrawl his name where Starsky had faked it and then *Hutch* could pass the envelope over.

Because, after all, they were Hutch's taxes.

But time was running short, and Hutch hadn't shown up yet. He stared at his watch, monitoring each click of the minute hand as it crept toward midnight.

At one minute till, he shoved himself out of the car and strode over to the man with the bag, the man collecting the last minute forms.

"Thought you were gonna sit there all night, man," he said, accepting the envelope.

Starsky shrugged. "I was waiting for someone."

"Ah -- sorry, man. Musta stood you up." The man turned to take an envelope from someone else and Starsky headed back to the car.

"You stood me up all right, Hutch," he whispered as he started the car and pulled away. "When you gonna stop standing me up, babe? It's getting pretty old."

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

Day 105 - May 2, 1979

When he woke, he was on the floor again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately -- falling asleep on the floor instead of in the bunk. He brushed his hair back from his face and then scratched at the beard on his face. He was about due for another bath and a shave and he was ready. He hoped they'd cut his hair this time; it was starting to bother him again.

He looked around, saw his oatmeal and water waiting by the bed and crawled over. The oatmeal was warm this time, and it didn't take long to finish it all. When he was done, he licked the bowl and once again wondered why he hadn't done that in the beginning. It wasn't as if anyone cared about how he conducted himself. He licked his fingers clean, then finished his water and crawled back to the corner by the door. He settled down again to finish what he'd fallen asleep in the middle of. Looking at the room, he smiled when he again realized how many of those white tiles made up the walls. This was a good project; it would fill many hours.

He turned his attention back to the corner and began to count.

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

"Starsky, you know Pete Ferguson," Dobey said, as the young cop scrambled to his feet, hand extended.

Starsky smiled and shook, saying to Dobey, "I know Pete. His wife has taken to feeding me on a regular basis." He nodded at Pete. "Tell her that last casserole was great, and I really appreciate it."

Pete nodded, "I'll tell her. We're, uh, I'm glad you liked it." He glanced awkwardly at Dobey, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

Starsky noted the action, then looked over to see Dobey had turned and was staring out the window. "Something going on here, Cap?" he asked slowly, noticing that the young uniform cop was decidedly out of uniform, wearing jeans and a green, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt was tucked in, and he wore no tie, but it was still a change of pace for Ferguson.

Or maybe for how Starsky saw Ferguson.

"You get promoted, Pete?" he asked, holding out his hand again. "Congratulations! That's wonderful! Betsy must be real proud."

Pete shook his hand again, mumbled, "Thanks, man, she is," and then dropped his eyes once more to stare at the rug.

"Cap?" Starsky asked, feeling a sudden sense of foreboding.

Dobey turned around with a sigh and came around his desk.

"You went after the Farinellis by yourself last week, Starsky," Dobey said. "I've told you -- you have to wait for backup."

Starsky shrugged. "They would have gotten away."

"Doesn't matter," Dobey said firmly. "You were shot." He pointed to the bandage just visible below the sleeve of Starsky's short-sleeved shirt.

Starsky shrugged again. "It grazed me. No big deal. Only took a couple of stitches." He cocked his head and nailed the Captain in place with his eyes. "What's going on here, Cap?"

"Ferguson made detective. Everybody in the unit is paired up except you. I want you to work with him."

Starsky looked over at the young cop. His face was bright red and he looked completely miserable. He'd just gotten promoted, was starting his new assignment, and he'd been put right in the middle of a hornet's nest. It wasn't fair.

But it also wasn't fair that Hutch had been gone for three and a half months and it was like people had forgotten him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him if he had anything new. He still had his list of volunteers for off duty investigation, but there just wasn't anything to investigate. He was still going through old files, but it was a fruitless effort. None of that mattered though. Hutch was his partner, and he wasn't going to work with anyone else!

He stuck out his chin defiantly and said, "No."

"No?" Dobey responded.

"Yeah. No." Starsky looked over at Ferguson and added, "No offense to you, kid, but," he turned his gaze back the Captain, "no."

"Why?"

"I have a partner," Starsky said stubbornly. "Hutch is my partner."

"I didn't ask you to partner Ferguson," Dobey reminded him gently, "just to work with him. He's new and he needs someone to show him the ropes."

"Find someone else," Starsky said, turning to leave. "Until Hutch comes back, I work alone."

Dobey nodded. "If you're sure that's what you want ..."

"I'm sure."

Dobey took a deep breath. "I'm not going to force you to do this, Starsky," he said. "I know that would never work. But if you want to work alone, then -- you work a desk."

"What?!"

"You heard me. You want to work alone, you work a desk. I'm not having you out in the field without backup." Dobey sighed and walked around his desk to sit in his chair. "It's your choice, Starsky -- Ferguson, or the desk."

Starsky muttered angrily under his breath, then studied the young cop for a long moment. The kid was still bright red, totally miserable, and completely at a loss as to what to do about any of this. He sighed, glared at Dobey who glared back, then reached out and tapped Ferguson on the arm. "C'mon, kid," he said, "you're with me."

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

Day 157 - June 22, 1979

Hutch stood in the middle of the room, one arm raised in the classic position for recitation.

"Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings of fate than arrows ..."

"Er ..."

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings of fate and arrows ..."

"Shit!"

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of ... uh, of ..."

"Damn!"

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of ... fortune ... outrageous fortune, or ..."

"Or ..."

"Or to take ..."

He furrowed his brow in concentration. "Damn! I *know* this one."

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of opposing troubles ..."

He smiled, pleased with his accomplishment. "Got it -- finally. Now, what's next?"

He looked down at himself, noting a dot of oatmeal that had fallen from his last meal. He'd missed it in his usual after-dinner clean-up.

"Out, damned spot!" he roared as he swiped it up with a long finger and sucked the digit into his mouth. It made him laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and before he knew it he had collapsed on the floor, laughing and saying it over and over and over again.

"Out, damned spot! Out, damned spot! Out, damned spot!"

It was hysterically funny and he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this.

He laughed till his side hurt.

He laughed till his cheeks ached.

He laughed till tears ran down his cheeks.

And then, he realized, he wasn't laughing.

He was crying.

"Out," he murmured through his tears. "I just want out."

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

"C'mon, Dave," Ferguson said again, "It'll be fun." He stopped, dropped his hand from Starsky's arm and went on, "Okay, so you don't do fun. But what could it hurt? We worked on this case for over two weeks. It's my first big bust as detective. Come have a drink with me. Please?"

Starsky shook his head, then scrubbed at his face. The kid was right. It was his first big bust. He deserved to celebrate. "You sure you want to go out with a morose old bastard like me, Pete?"

"Does that mean you'll come?"

Damn! The kid was like an eager puppy dog. How the hell could you say 'no' to that? "Yeah, I'll come. I'll even buy. But I ain't staying long, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, man. That's cool. I'm just really glad you'll come. Just let me call Betsy, tell her what we're doing." He stepped away, moving over to one of the other guy's desks to use the phone.

It was as if Starsky were seeing it for the first time. Ferguson had been working with him for six, seven weeks now. He'd never once sat at Hutch's desk, never used a pen or a piece of paper, or even the phone that sat there. He'd existed as an extension of Starsky, always at his desk, using his phone when it was available, even pulling up a chair to work on the corner of the desk. He'd worked under some extremely awkward and uncomfortable conditions, but he'd never complained and never once mentioned using Hutch's desk.

Starsky smiled. The kid was all right.

He looked over at his partner's desk and sighed. Tonight, after the celebratory beer, he'd come back and pack it up. Ferguson deserved a place to put his own shit.

He closed his eyes tight against the wave of pain the decision brought.

It didn't mean he was giving up. It didn't.

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

Day 222 - August 28, 1979

His hair was going gray. When it got long enough for him to see it, he could see the silver strands mixed in with the gold. At first, he'd thought he would pluck them out, but they were so numerous now, he figured he'd never be able to get them all.

"And even the very hairs of your head are numbered."

He did that a lot now, spouting off quotes. He couldn't remember where that one came from, but he was sure he hadn't made it up. Pretty sure.

At first, he'd cited sources when he quoted things, but now he couldn't remember the sources. Hell, half the time, he couldn't remember the quotes. There was a long one he used to know about battles and success and pride and honor, but he'd lost it all now. All that was left was a single line. "This band of brothers."

That's what he was waiting for -- to go back to his band of brothers.

It had been a long time. So long, he'd lost count of how many times they'd cut his hair. His silver-gold hair. But he was still here. He was still alive. He was still waiting.

And Starsky would come.

He had to believe that.

Starsky would come.

He sighed and tried to focus. He'd do countries this time. They were harder and he needed to work his mind. He took a deep breath and said, "A -- Asia."

He shook his head. "No, that's not right. That's a -- the other thing. Not a country." He scratched his head. "What is it?" He couldn't remember, but it wasn't a country, so he tried again.

"A -- "

Nothing came.

"A -- "

He shook his head again. Maybe he'd just do states. He could still do those.

"Alabama -- Montgomery"

"Alaska -- Juneau"

"Arkansas -- Little Rock"

"Arizona -- Phoenix"

Was that right? He'd always had trouble with Arizona. Starsky would know. He knew all this arcane shit, like how tall the tallest man had been, and where the largest omelet in the world had been made. Surely he'd know the fucking capital of Arizona, right?

He looked over and Starsky was squatting in the corner watching him with a smile on his face.

"Arizona, Starsk!" he cried out. "I need Arizona."

The other man never moved, just smiled at him, waiting.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked. "You there, man?"

He rubbed his eyes and when he looked again, he was alone.

So he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

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

It took two trips to get all the food into the apartment. There'd been cookies from a couple of the girls in records, a casserole and a cake from Edith Dobey, a pie from Betsy Ferguson, homemade bread from both John Day and Alex Vieweg's wives, and a lasagna from Amanda Patterson.

When he'd finally gotten it all in and opened his fridge, he'd seen Huggy had been by as well. In addition to several unfamiliar containers in the refrigerator, the freezer was full of frozen individual meals, enough to last weeks.

It was Hutch's birthday.

He was thirty-nine.

And he'd been missing seven months, fourteen days, and, he looked at his watch, four hours. Well, four hours if you count when Starsky first started looking for him as the first hour. He had probably gone missing long before that.

The dark-haired man gave up on rummaging through the stockpiled food, any thought of eating chased away as he thought of all the hours he had wasted, stupidly thinking he was protecting his partner when in reality, he'd been letting him slip through his fingers.

He should have started looking that morning. He should have gone over there and gotten him. Hell, he almost always drove. Why hadn't he been driving that morning? Why had they agreed to ride in separately?

Because he'd been with a fucking girl.

He'd been fucking a girl.

Susan something.

The night before, he'd figured he'd get lucky so he'd called Hutch and told him, "You're on your own tomorrow, bud."

Just like that.

"You're on your own."

"Fuck!" he said out loud, opening the refrigerator again and grabbing a beer. One look and he put it back, slamming the door shut. He opened the cabinet over the sink, pulled out the scotch and took a swallow. It burned going down, then ignited his belly like fire in the dark. He gasped, then did it again. "Fuck!"

He put the bottle aside, dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and moved to the phone. It was seven here on the west coast -- that would make it, what? Nine in Duluth?

The phone rang twice and then was answered. "Hutchinson residence."

He went through the whole rigmarole of who he was and that he wanted to speak to Mrs. Hutchinson and then he waited the interminable period it took for Hutch's mother to get to the phone.

"This is Mrs. Hutchinson."

"It's Dave, Miz Hutchinson, Dave Starsky. I work with Ken, uh Kenneth."

There was an icy silence, then she said, "Do you have news, Mr. Starsky?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. Nothing's changed." He waited awkwardly.

"Then why are you calling?"

"Uh, it's Hutch's birthday -- you know. Ken's. Kenneth's."

"I know what day it is, Mr. Starsky. My son would have been thirty-nine today."

Starsky frowned. "Is thirty-nine, you mean."

The silence was even longer this time, and then she said, "Yes. Is." Another long pause and, "Why did you call me?"

"It's his birthday," Starsky said again, not sure now why he had called. "I, uh, just didn't want you to, uh, think he was forgotten."

"Ah ... Well, thank you for calling. Good night." And the phone went dead in his hand.

Fuck! How the hell had Hutch survived with that woman? He thought of his own mother, screaming at him and Nicky, always ready to smack him upside the head if they did something wrong, or said something wrong or just looked at her wrong, but for every scream, every smack, there'd been a thousand kisses and hugs and cuddles, and never, not once, had his mother ever spoken to him in that icy, distant voice that seemed to be the only one Mrs. Hutchinson used.

He took two more quick swallows of scotch, welcoming the heat in his belly, then jumped when the phone rang.

He picked it up and growled, "Yeah?"

"Since when do you answer the phone like that, Davey?"

"Ma! I was just thinking about you! I'm glad you called."

"I was worried about you," his mother said softly.

"Worried? About me? Why?"

"It's Ken's birthday," she said. "He's thirty-nine now, right?"

"Oh, God, Ma," he choked out, his voice breaking, "you remembered."

"Of course I remembered," she said sharply. "It's important."

"I called his mother tonight. Just hung up, as a matter of fact."

"That was nice of you, Davey. I'm sure she appreciated it."

He snorted. "I don't think so, Ma. She said he 'would have been' thirty-nine. Would have been."

There was silence for a moment, then his mother said, "I'm sure this is all very hard on her."

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's probably it."

"Davey, what's wrong with you? What is it? I can hear something in your voice."

He drew a deep, ragged breath. "You know what was the last thing I said to him, Ma? The last words he heard from me? 'You're on your own.' I said that to him. 'You're on your own.'"

"Davey, you're taking it out of context, I know you are. I know you. You'd never leave him alone for something like this to happen. He knows that. He knows that."

"God, Ma -- it hurts so bad. I don't know what to do, I don't know where to look. He's out there, I don't know where, living I don't know how, and I'm here, safe and secure and my life just goes merrily on. Do you know what they did, Ma? The guys at the station? Do you know what they did? They brought me food. Cookies, and cakes and pies and casseroles. It's Hutch's birthday and they brought me food."

He broke down and began to cry. "God, Ma -- is he even eating?"

"Shhh, Davey, shhh," she whispered. "You'll find him. If anyone can do it, it will be you."

Starsky sat on the sofa and rocked himself while he cried, and let his mother soothe him as if he were a six-year-old child.

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

Day 269 - October 14, 1979

He was walking. The sun was high in the sky, casting shadows through the trees as he moved up toward the meadow at the top of the hill. A warm breeze rose over the ridge and added to his warmth. His cock twitched in anticipation.

He spread the blanket on the soft grass and slowly undid his pants. Hiking with no underwear had kept his cock hard inside the tight jeans. It felt wonderful, warm and sensuous, to slowly unbutton the waist, unzip the fly, and slide the denim down to expose his long legs to the warm breeze.

His cock stood proudly upon its release, the head shiny and slick. Moving quickly, his hand made its way to his crotch and he kneaded the firm head with his palm, moaning softly as his hand caressed the length of the shaft. His balls pulled up tightly as he was filled with the excitement of masturbating in the open like this.

Anyone could appear and see him.

The thought made him shiver and more moisture appeared on the tip of his cock. He continued to rub firmly as he sat down on the blanket, the thrill of being caught raising the intensity of the experience. His cock was standing at attention, the shaft red and shiny in the fractured sunlight that broke through the trees. He rubbed his nuts gently and got up on his knees to show off his erection.

Looking out over the meadow, he imagined he was being watched. Wrapping his hand firmly around the shaft of his cock, he began to slowly stroke up and down, barely brushing against the swelling head that was becoming more sensitive with each stroke. With his other hand, he continued to gently squeeze his balls and he rubbed a ring around his anus. He was so hot! The sun was hot -- his skin was hot. The scene was hot, and he was so fucking hot, he was about to blow his load right then.

He pinched the base of the shaft tightly, deciding he'd better slow down if he wanted this to last. Sliding down from his knees, he laid back, enjoying the feeling of lying in the sun, naked and exposed. The wind blew gently and made his cock quiver. His erection stood firmly, the dark reddish-purple a stark contrast to his fair skin. Relaxing, he stroked himself idly as he watched a plane pass overhead, and wondered briefly if they could see him.

He spread his legs further to let his balls feel the caress of the breeze as he watched the trees dance to the music of the wind. They had a strange rhythm to their movements, capricious yet steady. Their movements bent their shadows into various patterns. Unconsciously, he swayed with them, the sunlight dancing with the shadows across his naked flesh.

The constant warmth, the feel of the sun on his skin, continued to relax him. He caressed his belly, his hand darting upward to flirt with taut nipples before wandering down again to card through the thatch of hair at his groin.

Someone was watching.

He closed his eyes.

"Do it, Hutch."

The words were whispered and they both embarrassed and excited him.

He rolled on the blanket, then sucked his finger, wetting it well. His cock cried out to be touched again. With just the one finger, he rubbed on the edge of the glans, where it met the shaft. His back arched at the sensation. Grabbing the shaft with his other hand, he held it still while his finger made little circles over the newly created hot spot. He moved his finger slowly, savoring the feeling as his balls grew tighter and tighter.

His body was bathed in the grip of desire, sweat dripped from every pore as he hung on the brink of orgasm. He fought the urge to go faster and faster, knowing the release would come too soon, shortening the agonizing ecstasy. He was writhing on the ground now, moaning out loud. His balls pulled up, his body shivered on the edge, ready to go over but clinging tightly to control as he tried to stretch it out.

His breath was coming in gasps as the tension in his body grew. He rubbed even slower -- almost not moving at all -- until he couldn't take it anymore. He sucked in a deep breath, arched his hips, lifting his ass off the ground as a thick stream of cum gushed from his cock. He panted loudly as the orgasm stretched, then grabbed his balls and squeezed them over and over again. The sticky fluid sprayed over his belly, splashing against his skin and dripping down his sides. It seemed to go on forever.

When he was done, the warm glow of the orgasm filled him while he milked his shrinking cock dry. The cum was warm and he rubbed it into his skin, the odor to be a constant reminder of his day in the sun.

With a groan, he opened his eyes, returning to the small white room.

Starsky was squatting in the corner again, watching him with sad eyes, but he still wouldn't speak. He'd never speak.

Hutch looked down at his belly, the few drops of cum he'd managed to produce lost in blood. He frowned at the blood, then looked at his cock, rubbed raw from his constant masturbation. He touched it and flinched.

It hurt!

Then he shrugged and touched it again.

At least the pain was something.

At least with the pain, he could feel something.

He looked over at Starsky, still watching him, and growled, "You got a problem with this?" but of course, the other man didn't answer him. He never did.

Hutch sighed and closed his eyes, his fist closing over his abused cock, and began again.

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

"Look, Dave, can you just do it as a favor to me, please?"

"I don't date," Starsky said again.

"It's not a freaking date!" Ferguson slammed his hand down in frustration. "It's just my wife's sister. Betsy and I will be there."

Starsky cocked his head and studied the red-headed man who sat at Hutch's desk. "How old are you, Pete?"

"Huh?" Pete blinked. "Twenty-nine. Why?"

"And how old is Betsy?"

"Twenty-five. And again I say, why?"

"And this is Betsy's *younger* sister, right?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"So she's what? Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-two, actually."

"Shit, Ferguson! I'm nearly forty!" Starsky rose and went to the coffeepot, pouring a cup. "And I don't date."

"It's not a fucking date, Davey! How many times do I have to tell you that? It's my anniversary. I want to take my wife out. Her sister is here. Betsy won't go out without Chrissy and Chrissy won't come and be a third wheel. C'mon, man," Pete whined, "be a pal. She's a nice girl."

"She's a kid."

"I'm not asking you to marry her, for Christ's sake. Just come to dinner with us. Then, maybe, take her for a ride or something -- no, scratch that. Just take her for a walk. Give me a little time to give this," he produced a box and passed it over, "to Betsy. Alone. Please? That's all I'm asking."

Starsky opened the box and smiled at the ring. Three small diamonds in a silver setting. "It's nice," he said, passing the box back. "Betsy'll love it."

"Yeah," Pete said proudly. "It's perfect, too. You know why?"

Starsky shook his head. "Three diamonds. One for me, one for Betsy, and ..." He trailed off, watching to see if Starsky could finish the thought. At the grin that spread over the other man's face, Pete finished, "Yep. That's right. We're gonna have a baby!"

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

When he got home that night, he scratched another day off the calendar. He wasn't sure when he'd had to start using a calendar to track the time, but somewhere in the past months, he'd begun to lose track, and it had made him ashamed that he couldn't remember. How many days had it been? How many months?

He marked off the day, then quickly counted. Nine months and two days. Nine months. Hutch had been gone nine months, and in nine months Pete would be a father. Well, probably not nine months, probably six or seven, but the whole thing still took nine months. He shook his head and grabbed a beer, settling in on the couch to catch the news.

It hadn't been a late evening, and he'd actually had a good time. Betsy was fun and she always made him feel like he was doing her a favor by coming around. And Chrissy was a sweet kid. She'd laughed at his jokes, and told him about what she was studying in college and never once made him feel like he was almost old enough to be her father. When he'd offered to drive her home, to give Pete and Betsy some time alone, she'd nodded shyly and accepted, and he'd smiled at the warning glare he'd been given by big brother.

They'd driven around for a while, then parked and talked some more. And then he'd taken her home. When he'd walked her to the door, she'd surprised him by kissing him on the cheek and thanking him. She'd said she'd enjoyed the evening.

It had shocked the shit out of him.

How the hell could anyone enjoy anything with him? He'd lost all of his joy and playfulness nine months ago. Now there was nothing left but the job and the search for Hutch.

And yet, for just a few minutes tonight, he'd been happy.

He took a couple of swallows of the beer, then turned off the television and the lamp, leaving the room in darkness.

"I was happy tonight, Hutch," he whispered into the dark. "She was a cute girl. Too young for me by a long shot, but it was a nice night."

He grabbed a pillow and crushed it to his chest, hugging hard.

"God, Hutch, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to be happy!"

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

Day 290 - Nov 4, 1979

He touched himself carefully as he peed, then looked at his cock. The swelling was almost gone, but it still looked red and raw. God! What had he been thinking?

He still had no sense of time, so he had no idea how long his frantic masturbating had gone on. At this point, he supposed he was just lucky he hadn't caused himself permanent damage. He'd been kinda surprised when he finally realized how much he'd hurt himself, that his keepers hadn't done something about it. Apparently a broken wrist warranted treatment -- self-abuse did not.

He looked over at Starsky, still squatting in the corner where he always was. "I-I-I didn't m-m-mean to d-do it," he whispered. "P-p-please don't be m-mad at m-me."

Starsky just smiled, but he didn't speak.

Hutch wanted to go over there, to sit next to his partner, his friend, but he'd already found out that when he got too close, Starsky disappeared. He wasn't sure how, or even when, his partner had gotten in, but he no longer questioned it. He was just grateful Starsky was there and he wasn't always alone anymore.

He rose to his feet and moved slowly back to the bunk, settling in to sleep some more. "G'night, Starsk," he whispered softly. "N-n-next time you g-go, how 'b-bout you t-t-take me t-too?"

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

It was late. He and Pete had been out on a case until nearly eight and then had gone back to the station and done paperwork for a couple more hours. He was home now, but he was exhausted.

He raided the fridge, digging out a several leftovers and set everything in the oven to heat. While the food warmed, he took a shower, luxuriating in the hot water as it soaked the kinks out of his fatigued muscles. He left the water reluctantly, dressed in soft, oft-washed sweats and then fixed himself a plate. Grabbing a beer on his way out of the kitchen, he kicked the fridge door shut, then turned on the TV as he sat on the couch and began to eat.

"And again," the commentator said, "we report that over 3,000 religious militants have overrun the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and captured 54 embassy staff members. Religious extremist and Iranian leader Ayatollah Khomeini praised their actions. The militants demand that: the Shah, who has ruled Iran for decades and is now seeking medical treatment in the West, be turned over to them for trial; the United States apologize for crimes against the Iranian people; and the Shah's assets be paid to them."

Starsky snorted. "Yeah, right." He did feel sorry for the hostages. Had to be scary, thinking you were safe in the Embassy and then having it invaded like that.

He finished eating and leaned back, slowly sipping his beer. "Was that what it was like for you, Hutch? Did you think you were safe and then find out it was all an illusion?" He shook his head and finished the beer, then turned the TV off and went to wash up his few dishes.

"Where the hell did you go, buddy?" he murmured out loud as he started the water running.

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

Day 313 - Nov 23, 1979 - Thanksgiving

He'd finally been able to find a place out of the light. He would lie under the bunk. It was cold to lay on the tile floor -- much colder than the mattress on the bunk, but it was a place he could go to avoid the lights.

The lights *never* went off.

He'd been here a long time, a really long time, and the bulbs never burned out. He shrugged. They must change the bulbs when he was asleep. It was like all the other things that went on here -- he no longer had the energy or the inclination to worry about it.

When he got really dirty and smelly, he was bathed. When his hair got too long, it was cut. When he slept, food and water was brought to him and the bedpan was emptied. These things happened no matter what he did.

If he cried, they still happened.

If he raged against his captivity, they still happened.

If he did nothing, they still happened.

Basically, it didn't matter what he did, because nothing ever changed.

He curled up under the bunk, ignoring the pain in his back and legs, trying to forget the cold that seeped into his body, and just looked at the dark.

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

Starsky kissed Edith again, thanking her for the many containers that filled his hands and made his slow and stuffed way out to the Torino. The food had been excellent, the company warm and loving, and he'd more than enjoyed playing with Rosie and chatting with teenager Cal. The Dobey kids were great kids.

He hadn't been allowed to help with clean-up, but instead he and the Captain had been banished to the family room to watch the game. It had been a close one, and he hadn't even noticed the way trays with snacks had kept appearing all through it, but as he rubbed his still-full stomach, Dobey's size began to make sense.

He loaded the leftovers onto the front seat from the passenger side, then walked around and climbed in. It was a short drive home and then it was back around the car to try and balance all the containers and foil wrapped packages before he headed upstairs to restock his fridge.

He settled in and turned on the TV, quickly switching the channel as yet another reporter mourned the hostages in Iran, gone all of nineteen days now and missing Thanksgiving. He tried to hold back the snort of disgust, but didn't make it and while he really felt for the people being held in Iran, he had no doubt *they* would not be forgotten -- not the way Hutch had been.

He rose and went to the calendar -- quickly doing the math to realize that Hutch had been gone 313 days. A little over ten months now. Coming up on a year. He'd not only missed Thanksgiving, he'd missed his birthday, and Starsky's birthday, and Mother's Day and Father's Day, and Easter, and Valentine's Day and the Fourth of July. He'd missed Memorial Day and Labor Day and Columbus Day and spring and summer and now most of fall. And soon it would be winter and if he didn't find Hutch soon, then his partner would miss that, too.

Starsky went back to the refrigerator, looking at the wonderful array of leftovers Edith had foisted off on him. He reached in and began to unload everything he'd just packed away so carefully. Each container was opened and the contents spooned out into the trash. Every foil packet, tossed away. He washed all the containers and put them in a bag to take in to Dobey on Monday.

He felt guilty about wasting the food, but he wouldn't be able to eat it now.

He had nothing to be thankful for.

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

Day 346 - Dec 25, 1979 - Christmas

When he woke up this time, he was clean and his hair had been cut. It made him frown, because he didn't think he'd been that dirty, and he didn't think his hair had been that long.

His mattress was different too. Instead of the plastic cover, this one was cloth. He sat, lost for a long time, just stroking the new texture, luxuriating in the feel of something new.

He looked up, eyes darting around the room. Starsky still sat in the corner, his knees drawn up and his arms hanging loosely over them. He smiled, as he always did and his eyes seemed to track Hutch's every movement.

"S-s-ee this, S-s-starsk," he said slowly, his voice raspy from disuse. "N-n-new." He ran his hands over the mattress again, fingers tracing every detail of the stitching, the warp and weft of the fabric, the soft feel of the cotton ticking. It made him want to lie back down immediately, to feel it against all of his body and to sleep with this new sensation.

It was wonderful.

But he needed to eat first.

He picked up his bowl and had started to eat, the oatmeal still warm, when he suddenly stopped, fingers frozen in his mouth. There was something in the cereal. He swallowed, then sucked a finger into his mouth. It was something familiar, something he knew, but he couldn't place it. He sucked another finger, struggling to identify the unusual taste. And that's what it was -- a taste. Not the bland papery taste of the oatmeal, nor the non-taste of water -- this was a real, full-fledged taste.

He pulled another finger into his mouth, sucking greedily on the exotic taste. His mouth watered and his taste buds felt as if they had suddenly come alive. He wanted it to never end.

He dipped his finger in the oatmeal again, scooping the thick, warm gruel upward and into his mouth.

Cinnamon!

It was cinnamon!

He knew that taste!

That was something from before -- a wonderful something from before. He closed his eyes and savored every bite, stretching the meal out, not even caring when the cereal cooled and grew thick. He could still taste the cinnamon. He ate every bit, licking his fingers repeatedly, licking the bowl, and then sat back, not even wanting a drink that might wash the taste of the spice from his mouth. If he could, he would keep it there forever.

Finished at last, unable to draw the experience out any longer, he leaned over and found yet another surprise. There on the floor, next to his water was something else. He furrowed his brow as he tried to place this thing as well.

Color.

It was a color.

Red.

Bright red.

And you could eat it.

He looked up and grinned at Starsky, holding the fruit up for inspection. "A-a-a-ple!" he said triumphantly. "F-f-f-or m-me." He dug in happily, ignoring the pain in his mouth as his teeth, loosened from inadequate nutrition and lack of care, protested the work they were made to do to bite into the crisp, fleshy apple. He tasted blood in his mouth, his sensitive gums also protesting at their suddenly brutal usage.

But mostly he tasted apple -- an explosion of sensory delight rampaging through his mouth. God, it was so good! He couldn't go slow this time -- he bit and chewed and swallowed and bit and chewed and swallowed, going as fast as he could as if someone would come and take his prize from him. When he was finished, when he'd pried off every morsel of flesh he could, he sat there, sucking on the core. If they let him, he was going to keep it.

It was the best thing he'd ever had, and he wasn't going to let it go.

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

It was the first time in a long time he hadn't done Christmas. It was so weird -- he was Jewish but he'd always loved Christmas. And Hutch was Christian, and hated it. Go figure.

For years he'd teased Hutch relentlessly, pushing mercilessly to buy the tree, string the lights, go the whole route with presents and cider and candy canes and carols. And Hutch had always gone along.

Oh, he grumbled and he groaned and he bitched and he complained, but he'd taken to putting up a tree for Starsky, and hanging lights and there'd even been a couple of years where the two of them had sat on the couch together and strung popcorn garlands.

He'd gotten more invitations for today than he could count. His mother had wanted him to fly home, come back to the old neighborhood. His aunt and uncle had called as well, asking him to spend the day with them. And Dobey, and Huggy, and Pete -- all had tried to talk him into coming over, at least for a little while.

But he begged off each time.

Here was where he belonged.

He looked around Hutch's apartment.

The lights twinkled in the windows.

The small tree stood proudly in a corner, hung with ornaments and tinsel.

Packages even hid beneath its branches, peeking out from the green bower.

There were two packages for Hutch from him under there. He hadn't known what to get him and had finally settled on several cassettes of music popular during the year -- Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, Rod Stewart, The Commodores. It was stuff Starsky had chosen more because he thought Hutch would like it, and might even be tempted to try to play it, than because it represented any particular genre. He'd also gotten him that special holster he'd been talking about for years -- the one that had to be special ordered and custom-made. And Starsky admitted, that was as much for himself as it was for Hutch because it was a tangible, concrete expression of his belief that Hutch was coming back.

There was a package from Dobey and Edith, and a second, smaller one from Cal and Rosie. Huggy had dropped something off, and Pete had self-consciously passed two packages and a tin of Betsy's cookies to him yesterday, as they said good-bye in the parking lot. He hadn't even realized until this morning that one gift was for Hutch. And while Starsky's mom had sent something for Hutch, there had been nothing at all from his own parents.

Starsky snorted. Big surprise there.

He looked down at the bowl of popcorn in his lap, the threaded needle in his hand. He was going through the motions, but it just wasn't the same.

Of all the things he missed on this night, it was the singing he missed the most. Hutch, his talented, long fingers flying smoothly over the strings of his guitar, head held up as he sang in that beautiful voice of his. He'd give anything to have a tape recording of Hutch singing -- wouldn't even care what he sang -- he just wanted to hear him again.

Wanted to see him again.

Wanted to touch him again, and know that he was safe.

He drew a deep shuddery breath and put the bowl of popcorn beside him, then rose and went to the phone. A quick fumble in his wallet revealed the number and he dialed and identified himself to the servant who answered.

When Hutch's mother came to the phone, he forced himself to be cheerful and said, "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hutchinson."

There was silence and then she replied, "Mr. Starsky. Are you calling about Kenneth?"

Starsky swallowed hard. "There's, uh, still no news, ma'am."

"I see." There was another long pause and then she said, "My husband has instructed me to discontinue the payments for Kenneth's apartment. Please terminate his lease at the end of this month."

"This month?" Starsky repeated in dismay. "That's just a week."

"I apologize for the short notice. Good night."

The phone clicked and Starsky was left holding a dead receiver in this hand. "Son of a bitch!" he swore, slamming the phone down into the cradle. "Fucking son of a bitch!"

He looked around the small, neat apartment that he knew Hutch loved. He counted the many, many plants that he'd managed to keep alive he knew not how. He catalogued pictures and knickknacks and books and records and a thousand other things that Hutch had accumulated in his life and it was all just so overwhelming.

He sank back on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

"God, Hutch," he breathed, "I can't keep this up, partner. You gotta come back."

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

Day 366 - Jan 12, 1980

"S-s-starsk?" He lay on the bed and looked over at his partner, still seated in his usual corner of the room.

The other man raised his eyebrows but did not speak.

"I'm n-n-not f-f-feeling so g-g-good here, b-b-babe," Hutch whispered brokenly.

Starsky looked concerned and nodded.

"I-I-I, uh, m-m-maybe I-I-I'm s-s-sick." Hutch rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. "Head h-hurts. B-b-back h-hurts. Ache a-all over. 'm w-w-eak." He turned his head to stare back at the corner.

"D-d-don't th-think you're r-r-really here, b-b-but I n-n-need you s-s-so m-much!" A tear rolled down his cheek and he brushed it away without thinking. He cried so easily these days. " 's b-b-been t-too long, S-s-starsk," he whimpered, "t-t-too l-long."

Starsky nodded, but never moved from his spot in the corner.

"I-I-I r-r-really n-need y-you -- t-t-to t-talk to m-me, t-tell m-me 'm g-gonna g-get outta h-h-here." His blue eyes stared beseechingly across the room, then closed in pain when there was no response.

" 's o-o-kay, S-s-starsk," he finally whispered. "If y-you c-c-can't, 's o-o-k-kay."

He pulled his arm up and wiped at his runny nose, wishing for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time for a tissue or handkerchief. He was cold all the time and his nose ran incessantly. His wonderful cloth mattress had been taken away the last time he'd been bathed and he assumed it was because it was harder to keep clean. Well, he assumed that was what he assumed. He really didn't know. There seemed to be no way to determine what was real and what was not. Sometimes he thought maybe he had imagined the mattress, and the apple, and the cinnamon.

Sometimes, he thought he imagined Starsky, sitting in the corner, watching him.

Sometimes, he imagined he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere outside where it was warm and he could see the sun.

He frowned and another tear ran down his face. He hadn't seen the sun in a very long time.

He closed his eyes and decided he would imagine again. This time, he was just going to imagine that Starsky would talk to him. Maybe, just maybe, if he worked at it hard enough, he could make it real.

He fell asleep and dreamed of Starsky holding him, cradling him in his arms like he had when he'd kicked the heroin, like he had when the trunk of the car had exploded and burned his hand.

He dreamed that he was safe, held tight against his partner's chest, and a large, rough hand rubbed his face while words were whispered in his ear.

"Hang in there, babe. Hang in there. I haven't forgotten you."

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

Starsky looked around his new apartment. It was bigger than anything he'd ever had before, and filled with far too many plants for his normal tastes. But -- they were Hutch's plants, and while he'd given a lot of them away, he'd also kept a lot. Hutch needed to have something familiar to come home to. It was going to be hard enough not having his own place.

This apartment was nice. A ground-floor unit, he'd given up the privacy of his other apartment for a second bedroom in this one. It gave him a place to put some of Hutch's things. He'd had to rent a storage space for the big stuff, but his bed and dresser were in the second bedroom, his guitar, his clothes, were in the closet there, and his plants -- Starsky looked around at the green foliage that surrounded him -- his plants were *everywhere.*

Dobey hadn't wanted him to be alone today. He'd tried like hell to get him to come over, go to the basketball game with him and Cal, but Starsky had held firm.

He was spending this day with Hutch.

Huggy had wanted him to at least come to the restaurant and eat. Get out for a while. To not sit in the apartment by himself all day. Huggy had tried to entice him with promises of his favorite foods and plenty of beer. But Starsky had held firm.

This day was for Hutch.

Pete had actually been the first. He'd started back before the holidays, not mentioning the date, just wanting him to come over -- how about the second Saturday in January? He'd been slick. Starsky had agreed without thinking, not even realizing what the date was. But when his head cleared and he looked at the calendar, he'd told Pete the next day -- gotta get together another day.

He needed to be with Hutch on that day.

He'd almost wavered when Betsy had called. She was five months along now -- slightly swollen belly and a chubby face and just about the most beautiful thing Starsky had seen in a long time. She and Pete were so excited about the baby, their joy just couldn't help but spill over onto him. And he was willing to do just about anything she asked -- which is why he ended up eating over there almost as much as he ate at Dobey's or Huggy's place. Betsy had such a way of making him feel like he was doing her a favor by agreeing to let her feed him. But he'd had to say no to her this time.

This was time for Hutch.

He sipped his wine and leaned back against the couch. He was on the floor, an assortment of boxes, books, and other papers scattered around him. He was half-snockered at this point, but he was glad he had decided on wine.

Scotch was too fast, and beer was too associated with the fun times, the playful, lighthearted times. Wine was for serious stuff.

Special dinners.

Celebrations.

Anniversaries.

He finished the glass and poured another, then lifted it and breathed deeply. The rich red cab was filled with dark coffee aromas, hints of leather and the mustiness of vegetables. He took a sip, rolling it in his mouth and almost wishing he hadn't drunk quite so much so quickly. This was a good wine, an excellent vintage. The taste was rich berry and plum, almost concentrated in their strength. He swallowed and relaxed. It even had a nice finish. Yes, indeed. A very good wine.

Hutch would've liked it.

He spent the rest of the night going through the boxes. Hutch was a packrat. And when Starsky had cleaned out his apartment, putting the furniture and most of the other stuff in a storage unit he'd rented, he'd taken these boxes of pictures and other mementos.

There were some shots of Hutch as a child and it was fun to see how tall and gangly he'd been as a youth. Starsky could definitely see the vestiges of that too tall, too big child in his klutzy, awkward partner.

There were school photos, too. High school graduation, along with his diploma and the tassel from his cap. Honors.

College graduation. Degree in Sociology. Tassel from his cap. Summa Cum Laude. He snorted affectionately. That figured.

Academy graduation. Serious, young Hutch. Proud in his new uniform. Determined to right wrongs and make a difference in the world.

A Hutch who hadn't been jaded by the realities of just how hard it is to right wrongs. How so many things conspire against you, even when you're working for the cause of good.

He sipped the wine again, then turned to another box. This one was filled with pictures of him and Hutch. He had no idea where his partner had gotten them. Some were taken at crime scenes, some on the streets. Still others were at police functions, picnics, ball games, out on dates together. He could vaguely remember a few times when someone had snapped a photo and Hutch had called out, "Hey, I want a copy of that," but he had no idea the big doof had actually followed up. There were at least a hundred different pictures in the box and Starsky pulled them all out and began to go through them.

Hutch's messy scrawl was on the back of each one, and just seeing it was like balm to his soul. It made Hutch so real to him. There were pictures and here was his scribble and Starsky was sitting on the floor surrounded by his things.

He began to put the pictures in order, sorting them out by the dates on the back of each photo. And when he was done, he had a chronicle of their life together. From a shot of them sitting together at lunch during their Academy days, to the last one -- taken New Year's Day, 1979. Twelve days before Hutch disappeared. That one had been taken at a party they'd attended. He remembered how he'd soundly kissed the girl he'd been with and looked over to see Hutch doing the same. And then as if they each knew what the other was thinking, they'd pulled away, and champagne glasses in hand, had toasted the New Year. He'd stared at Hutch for the longest time, trying to figure out what that little smile on his lips meant, and then a flashbulb had popped and the moment was broken, and Hutch had grinned and called out -- "Hey, I want a copy of that," and the next thing he knew they were laughing and getting ready to leave with the girls. Funny how he could remember everything about that night so clearly -- everything but the girl's name. He shrugged. It didn't matter.

What mattered was finding Hutch.

He finished his glass of wine, then realized the bottle was empty, so he busied himself with opening another. Savoring the full, rich taste in his mouth, he drank deep and ignored the tears on his cheeks as he went through the photos once again. Laughing at some, staring solemnly at others, and at still others, feeling the tears streak his face.

God, he missed Hutch so much!

He closed his eyes, and whispered, "Hang in there, babe. Hang in there. I haven't forgotten you."

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

Day 438 - March 25, 1980

There was a sore on his butt.

It had started as a boil, but he'd forced himself to pop it and the foul fluid within had gushed forth. He'd used some of his water to wash it out, and had even called out for his keepers that he was ill, but he had been ignored.

He should be used to that by now.

Now it was just an open sore. When he craned his neck around, he could see the angry red lines that radiated outward from the lesion.

It hurt.

And it made him feel bad.

He was sure it was infected.

After feeling nothing but cold for so long, there were long periods where he was hot, and he would sweat. He felt filthy -- the first time in ages that he'd noticed anything about his physical condition.

When he'd realized he was really sick, he'd taken stock of himself.

His head hurt all the time.

His mouth was tender, the gums bleeding at the least pressure.

His joints ached and his back was especially sore. The wrist he'd broken when he'd first been brought here was another sore spot.

He was lethargic. He no longer had the energy to prowl the room. Just getting up and moving to the bedpan required effort and there were times he wasn't sure he would even be able to make that.

He spent most of his time laying on the bunk, either smiling back at Starsky over in his corner, content to just be there with him, or slipping in and out of dreams, never sure which was real and which was imagined. At times, his dreams were so vivid -- images of him and Starsky on the streets, chasing a perp, or at a game, or eating dinner together. It was all so real, and then he would wake up and think that this was the dream. That he was really back in his apartment, sleeping safe and warm in his own bed and dreaming that he'd been locked away in a small tiled room.

It made him wonder if maybe he was insane.

Maybe he'd had a breakdown and he was here to get better.

But then he'd look down at his skeletal frame, see the skin hanging from his bones, count each rib in his chest, and he knew this couldn't be a hospital. It wasn't healthy to eat the same thing day in and day out.

And if he was in a hospital to get better, wouldn't someone be talking to him?

But then he would wonder -- maybe they are talking to me and I'm just imagining this. Maybe I'm so far lost in this fantasy of the tiled room that I don't see them when they come in, I don't hear them when they talk to me.

Maybe I'm just really fucked up.

It made his head hurt to think about it, so he rolled over and went back to sleep.

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

"Get the fuck away from him!" Starsky shoved through the crowd, throwing people out of the way to reach the young man who lay gasping on the pavement. He knelt quickly, pulling the kid's head up and cradling it in his lap. "You all right, Pete?" he asked, his hand almost frantically stroking the younger man's face.

"Fine. Davey," Pete sputtered, still sucking hard for air. "Just. Got. The wind. Knocked."

"Shhh," Starsky said softly. "Just breathe. Don't try and talk." He looked at the cops milling around and barked, "Get these people back and get the damn paramedics over here!"

"Davey," Pete paused and breathed several times. " 'm okay. Don't need. Medical."

Starsky snorted. "Give it up, little boy. You're getting looked at. 'm not having my partner falling over on me on the way ..." He stopped, his eyes going wide and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

Pete was pulling himself up to sit. The paramedics were there and they were trying to push him back down, but he was fighting now, pushing their hands away because Starsky was backing away, his face pale and sweaty, his breath coming in huge, gulping gasps.

"Davey," he called, "wait!" He pushed at a beefy fireman with a caduceus on his sleeve, and tried to crawl away.

"Hold it," the paramedic said, "you took a pretty good hit. We need to look at you."

Pete waved him away and clambered to his feet. "In a minute," he said, hanging onto the larger man's arm as he got his balance, "I need to check on my -- him." He pointed to Starsky, leaning against a wall and barely able to breathe.

The medic drew a deep breath and said to his partner, "Looks like we've got another one." He began to move toward Starsky but was pulled to a halt by Pete's hand on his arm.

"No," Pete pleaded, "he's all right. Just," the redhead ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, "give me a minute to talk to him. He'll be all right." The fireman looked wary, so Pete added, "Please?"

The medic crossed his hands over his chest and frowned, but nodded and Pete took off.

He reached Starsky and immediately unbuttoned a few more buttons on his shirt. "Breathe," he ordered, his hands cupping Starsky face. "Just breathe, Davey!"

Starsky nodded and sucked in a great draught of air, then blew out heavily and did it again.

"Hutch is your partner, Davey," Pete said fiercely. "You two are like, legends, man! I could never take that away. You've got a partner, Davey. Hutch. Hutch is your partner."

Starsky was nodding, the color slowly coming back to his face. "Need to sit," he gasped out, and he dropped gracelessly onto the ground, letting the younger man control the fall and continue to hold onto him.

"Davey," Pete went on, "you gotta hear me, man. I *love* working with you -- you're the best. I know how lucky I got, getting to work with you. You're my trainer, my mentor, and you're my friend. But Davey -- you're not my partner, 'cause you can't have two partners. And you already have a partner. We're just working together -- you hear me?" He shook the older man's face slightly, forcing him to focus. "Working together. Remember? That's what the captain said. He said, 'Starsky, you and Ferguson can work together,' and we have."

" 'm sorry, Pete, 'm sorry," Starsky said, his breathing back to normal now, but his heart still racing.

"I'm not," the younger man said lightly. "I've had the best training a new guy can get. And not only have you taught me more about my job than I'd have learned in five years with some other guy -- you've taught me what partner- ship is all about. When Hutch comes back," he pulled Starsky's head around, forcing him to meet his eyes, "and he *will* come back, I'll go on and get partnered with someone. And it'll be okay, Davey, it will. Because, you see, while we've been working together, you've taught me what being a partner is all about."

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

Day 468 - April 24, 1980

He had to get strong.

He was letting himself fall apart.

If he kept this up, he wasn't going to be alive when Starsky finally came and got him.

He finished his oatmeal, drank his water, and pushed himself to his feet. He'd start slow. Just a couple of laps around the room.

He wobbled to the wall, one hand bracing himself upright as he began the circuit. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. It was slow and tiring. He forced himself to keep moving, to complete the whole circuit.

When he had circled the whole room, he sank gratefully onto the bunk.

He was exhausted, but he'd made it.

He curled up in a ball and breathed warm air against his chest.

He'd done it.

And when he woke up, he'd do it again.

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

He almost hated to watch the news. For almost six months now, not a day went by that there wasn't some mention of the missing Americans in Iran. A commentator would appear, an image of a blindfolded or hooded person behind him, and the banner would read Day 30 or Day 42 or Day 56.

And in his mind he would mentally correct it to read Day 320 or Day 332 or Day 346.

He winced as he turned the television on, opening his beer to avoid having to look at the screen.

"The mission began to unravel as soon as the first plane landed," the reporter said, "at what was supposed to be a remote desert location. Reports indicate that a passenger bus appeared and was stopped. As soldiers corralled the people on it, a truck came along. Despite being warned, it wouldn't stop, so it was fired upon."

Starsky watched, enthralled.

"With the airfield secured again, they waited for the rest of the team to arrive. The helicopters were late because they had run into a giant cloud of suspended sand. Three of the eight helicopters had had mechanical failures, so there were not enough helicopters to continue; the mission was scrubbed."

Jesus, what a fuck up! Once again, the American military shows they don't know shit. Shoulda had the Israelis do it. They, at least, know how to get their people out.

The commentator was droning on, a picture of a helicopter crashing into a huge cargo plane filled the screen.

"Then disaster struck: One of the remaining helicopters crashed into a C-130 waiting to take off. Eight men were killed in the resultant explosion."

Starsky tuned out the recitation of the eight names, focusing instead on the sheer level of commitment that was made to those people in Iran. People, equipment, money -- whatever was needed was made available. The best and brightest minds were part of the program to figure out how to get our people back.

And while he knew, on one level, that was as it should be, that those people in Iran had no more asked to be taken hostage than Hutch had wanted to disappear, he couldn't help but resent the national resources that were being expended to find them and bring them home.

And he couldn't even get the brass downtown to agree to reopen Hutch's case. They were still trying to claim that Hutch probably just decided to take off -- start a new life somewhere else.

It enraged him.

He rose and kicked the TV, watching in satisfaction as the screen cracked and then the whole box fell over, crackling and sizzling where it landed. He turned from there and attacked a bookcase next, then dragged pictures from the wall. Cushions on the couch were the next casualty as he methodically worked his way through the room, destroying everything he touched.

Nothing was safe. Records were broken, tapes destroyed. Books ripped apart, pictures shredded. Just about anything that could be lifted and thrown was, and it was a bonus if it shattered on impact.

He was still at it when his door flew open and two uniforms raced in, their weapons at the ready. He froze, a ceramic bowl in his hands, and turned to face them.

"Detective Starsky?" the black one asked.

"Officer Jenkins, isn't it?" He smiled and put the bowl down, keeping his hands in sight. "You think you and your partner could, um, not point your weapons at me?"

"Oh." Jenkins seemed embarrassed as he put the gun away and motioned for his partner to do the same. "Sorry, sir. We got a call about a disturbance ..." His voice trailed away as his eyes raked the devastation of Starsky's living room.

Starsky gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Sorry. That was me." He waved at the surrounding destruction. "I, uh, got a little upset about something on the news."

Jenkins nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I'm, uh, done now," Starsky added.

Jenkins nodded again. "Well, in that case, you won't be needing us." He touched his partner on the arm and nodded at the door. "Good night." When he got to the door, he turned back and said, "Do you want me to call someone for you, Starsky? Maybe Ferguson? Or Dobey?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nah. That's okay, Jenkins, but thanks. Guess this is a case of 'I made my mess, I'll have to lie in it.'"

"All right, then, if you're sure."

"I'm sure," Starsky said with conviction.

The black man nodded again and followed his partner out, closing the door behind him.

The rage gone now, Starsky looked around the room.

It was funny how, even through the rage, he didn't touch any of Hutch's things. Not a single book, or record, or plant went smashing to the floor. Of his own things, the destruction was almost complete. Pages ripped from books, albums smashed, pictures ripped off the walls and torn to shreds.

But everything that spoke of Hutch was intact.

After all, Starsky had lost so much of his partner already; he couldn't afford to lose anything else.

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

Day 483 - May 9, 1980

His stomach hurt so bad. He was curled up under the bunk, trying to relieve the cramps any way he could, but nothing helped.

Of course, he didn't have many options.

Just lying on his side, holding his stomach. Maybe rubbing his belly when he could stand his own touch.

His bowels had been the same as they'd been for as long as he could remember. No change there. So nothing to indicate why he was suddenly in such excruciating pain.

Another cramp washed over him and he cried out, his voice hoarse and ragged from disuse.

He pulled his legs up tighter to his chest, worked his hand beneath them and rubbed at his aching belly.

God! It hurt so bad!

When was this going to end?

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

"Zebra-three, Zebra-three. Come in." The voice on the radio crackled with static.

Pete leaned forward and picked up the mike. "This is Zebra-three, over."

"Zebra-three, proceed to Memorial Hospital. See the Admitting desk about a woman in labor, over."

Pete looked at Starsky, confusion in his face. "Woman in labor? Why the hell ..." His voice suddenly went up three octaves as Starsky hit the brakes, slid the Torino into a frantic U-turn, and raced off in the opposite direction.

"It's Betsy," Starsky said, reaching out to cuff the younger man on the head, then take the mike. "Zebra-three. Acknowledged. We are en route. Out." He clipped the mike back on the radio.

"Betsy?" Pete said in wonder. "It can't be Betsy. We've still got two weeks."

Starsky snorted. "Sounds like somebody forgot to tell your kid that."

Pete turned and looked at Starsky, his face a mask of seriousness. "No, really, Dave, it *can't* be Betsy."

Starsky laughed at the stunned father-to-be, then asked, "And why's that, Petey-boy?"

"We haven't even packed a suitcase yet."

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

When Starsky arrived that evening, flowers in hand, a stuffed bear under his arm, he was greeted by Betsy's soft, "Shush," and a finger pointing at the new father, asleep in a rocking chair, a tiny scrap of fabric resting on his chest. "He's exhausted."

Starsky held out the flowers with a flourish, smiling when Betsy squealed quietly, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. "And how are you, Mom? Aren't you the one who's supposed to be exhausted?"

She smiled back and said, "I'm too -- up -- to be tired right now. It'll come, I'm sure." Her smile turned to a rueful grin as she rubbed her hand across her deflated abdomen and added, "I know why they call it labor, now."

"Hard work, huh?" Starsky sympathized.

"She was great," said a voice from the chair. "Absolutely the greatest." He rose, carefully cradling the bundle of flannel, a knit cap peeking from the blanket and just covering a shock of bright red hair.

"Well," Starsky drawled, "I've been telling you for months she was the greatest. And if you don't treat her right, I might just steal her away from you."

Betsy reached out and took Starsky's hand. "Remember that, Peter," she said teasingly, "I've got a pretty good alternate offer."

Pete laughed comfortably, then sat on the bed beside his wife. "Ready to meet your namesake?" he asked, holding the baby out and placing him in Starsky's arms.

"Namesake?" Starsky squeaked.

"Yeah," Pete replied. "We want to name him David." He looked at his wife, silently imploring her help.

She reached out and placed her hand on Starsky's arm. "That's not all, Dave," she said. "We have a request to make. We don't just want to name him David -- if it's okay with you, we want to name him David Kenneth."

Starsky's breath caught, and Pete put a hand on his back. "Breathe, Davey," he whispered, rubbing gently.

"Is that all right, Dave?" Betsy asked again.

Starsky's eyes filled with tears as he looked at the tiny scrap of life in his hands. "Why?" he choked out.

"Because we want him to have a name that represents love," Betsy said simply. "We want him to always know that he was created in love, named in love, and will live with love."

Starsky nodded, fighting to hold the tears back.

"David Kenneth," he said at last. "Hutch'll be so proud."

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

Day 594 - August 28, 1980

Hutch sat on the mattress and shivered. His arms were wrapped around his legs as they usually were, but he was unusually cold today. He couldn't stop shaking. There'd been no food or water the last three times he'd awakened, and he was scared.

No one had responded to his calls. No one had come when he'd pounded on the door.

He'd tried to do the states again, and found he couldn't even remember what came first. He'd known at one time, he was sure of it, but it was like it was all gone now. He just couldn't remember.

So he'd tried to do the multiplication tables, but he couldn't do those either. They were gone just like the states.

It was all slipping away from him.

His stomach rumbled and he cocked his head, listening to the familiar sound. He was so thin now, beyond gaunt.

He had no strength. He still pushed himself to walk the single circuit of the room that his energy would permit, but that was more because it was a habit than anything else.

He couldn't remember why it was important to do it, but he just knew he needed to. The why had disappeared off to wherever the states and the multiplication tables had gone.

He crawled down off the bed.

He had to do something.

He was going insane.

If he couldn't do the states, and he couldn't do the multiplication tables, maybe he could still count. He crawled slowly to a corner and put a finger on the first tile.

"One, two, three ..."

He had to hang on to his numbers. If everything else was disappearing, at least he could still count.

That was something, wasn't it?

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

"Where the hell have you been?" Pete said, storming up from the desk and dragging Starsky back out of the squad room. He towed the older man back down the hall and out of the building.

"Shit, Pete!" Starsky said in irritation, finally shaking the other man's hand off. "I had a lead on Hutch. I was following up."

"And they don't have fucking phones where you were?" The younger man shook with rage and relief.

"Petey, man, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," Starsky said in an attempt to calm and placate his friend.

Pete looked at him for a long minute then pulled back his fist and nailed him on the jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he swore. "How dare you?"

Starsky staggered, then rubbed his jaw and swallowed, "What the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded.

"You!" Pete hissed. "You're what's wrong with me! You come to dinner Saturday, play with my kid, flirt with my wife, and then you fucking disappear!" He took a step back and scrubbed at his face. "Do you have any fucking idea how worried I've been?"

Starsky looked at the younger man, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the lines around his lips and furrows in his brow. He was unshaven, and his clothes looked slept in.

"Aw, shit, Petey, I'm sorry." He reached out tentatively, wrapping his arms around the kid, ready to pull back at the first sign of rejection. But Pete just hugged him back, squeezing tightly, then pulled away shaking his head.

"You can't *do* that to me, man," he whispered. "I'm not strong like you -- I can't take it." Tears glistened in his eyes.

"Pete, man, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't realize ... Aw, shit. I'm just sorry, Pete. Really, really sorry."

Pete stood stiffly for a moment, then nodded. "You get anything?"

Starsky shook his head. " 'nother dead end." He turned the other man and they began walking back to the station. "So, tell me, how much trouble am I in with Dobey?"

"None," Pete said shortly. "I covered for you."

Starsky froze. "No."

Pete took a couple more steps, then halted as well and looked back. "What?"

"No, Pete."

"No, *what,* Davey?"

"Don't cover for me." The words were ground out through gritted teeth.

Pete cocked his head and studied the other man. "Why?"

"When I ... When Hutch ... He didn't -- come in that morning," Starsky said, beginning to gasp as his heart began to race.

"It wasn't your fault," Pete said automatically, the words familiar to him after working with Starsky for over a year. "You couldn't have known."

Starsky's eyes were horror-stricken as he looked at the young man before him. "I didn't start looking for him till three in the fucking afternoon. Eight hours after I could have."

"It's still not your fault," Pete said stubbornly. "You didn't know."

"No," Starsky said, surprising Pete with his agreement. "But I covered for him, too." He stared at the redhead, then reached out and wrapped a hand around his arm, anchoring him in place. "I covered for him and he's lost. Don't you ever, *ever* do the same thing. Your partner doesn't show -- you find out why. You can't find out why -- you turn him in." He gave the arm a little shake. "You hear me, Petey? You understand?"

"Yeah, Dave," Pete said calmly, standing still beneath the other man's grasp. "I hear you."

Starsky clung to him a moment longer, then let him go, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Well. Good then. At least we got that settled." He began to walk again and Pete fell in step beside him.

"Oh, yeah," the younger man said with a laugh, "you pull this shit on me again, and I'm putting an APB out on your ass."

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

Day 713 - December 25, 1980

There was food on the floor, but it seemed like such a long way down from the bed. He looked at it for a while, trying to decide if he wanted it or not. He was hungry -- he was always hungry, but he just didn't want to move right now.

He reached down with one arm, was just able to snag the water bottle and lifted it up. He tried to open the bottle, but he couldn't turn the top.

He tried again and again and again, but he couldn't get it to move.

It made him cry.

He was really thirsty and he had water right here, and he couldn't get to it. Had his keepers suddenly decided to start torturing him?

He rolled over and fell asleep, and when he woke, there was food on the floor, and more water, but this time the bottle was open.

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

"Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"Mr. Starsky."

"I, uh, just wanted you to know, uh, what with it being Christmas and all, we, uh, haven't given up."

"We have, Mr. Starsky."

"Excuse me?"

"If Kenneth were capable of coming home, he would have by now."

"No, ma'am. Someone could be holding him, preventing him from coming home, or he could be hurt somewhere, just waiting for us to find him." His voice broke. "We can't give up."

"Yes, Mr. Starsky, we can."

Click.

Starsky sighed and moved to the Christmas tree. He picked up the five presents there for Hutch, one each from Huggy; Dobey; his mother; Pete, Betsy, and the kid -- the name he called both his namesake and his erstwhile partner -- and one from him. Stacking them in his arms, he carried them back to his spare room and added them to a box that contained last year's Christmas presents, two years' worth of birthday gifts, and at least a dozen other things he'd seen and bought for his partner, just because he thought Hutch would like them.

"Merry Christmas, Hutch," he whispered, as he turned off the light and closed the door.

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

Day 731 - January 12, 1981

He was under the bunk again, crying for darkness. If they'd just turn the lights out, just for a little while.

Then maybe he could sleep.

Then maybe his head wouldn't hurt so much.

He closed his eyes tightly, but even in the relative dark of his position beneath the bunk, and even curled with his arm thrown over his closed eyes, he could still see the light -- relentless, all-seeing, always watching him.

The bulbs that never burned out.

The light that never darkened.

It was making him insane.

He just needed to get out of the light.

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

Starsky sat with the boxes all around him again, a couple of bottles of wine already open and waiting for him to begin. He'd lit candles tonight, wanting the room to be dark, knowing the darkness was soothing.

He'd spent the last two weeks going through Hutch's things. Clothes had been sorted and boxed, books and records were categorized and inventoried, the framed prints that had hung on the walls of Hutch's place were now stacked neatly with proposed destinations in mind.

He'd pull out two books for Cal Dobey -- Kerouac's On the Road and Richard Wright's Black Boy. Rosie would get a set of three porcelain clown figurines. To Edith Dobey went an afghan she had crocheted for Hutch -- he had one as well. They'd been Christmas gifts the second year they'd worked for her husband. The man himself was getting several of Hutch's albums, a couple of jazz, one R and B, as well as John Denver's first album, which Starsky hadn't even known Hutch had. It would both embarrass and please the Captain -- he didn't like the world to know he was a fan of the singer's balladsy style. Huggy was getting a painting that had hung in Hutch's living room; it was something he'd commented on several times.

As much as it killed him, the really personal stuff he was sending to Hutch's parents -- graduation certificates, a couple of police citations, a small folder with a number of newspaper clippings. Starsky smiled. He had all of those clippings anyway; he'd been sending them to his mom all along.

The last thing that would be passed on was Ollie. The little bear had sat on Hutch's bed for several years now, ever since Hutch had unwrapped him while they sat on the floor playing Monopoly. Just holding him made Starsky tear up.

They were both gone now -- the two loves of his life. First Terry, taken by a man bent on revenge. Now Hutch, vanished with no rhyme or reason. Just -- gone.

Ollie would go to little DK. It was both the hardest gift to make and the easiest.

But the pictures he was keeping. If Hutch's parents asked, and he strongly suspected it would never come up, then he'd have duplicates made. But if they didn't ask, then they were his.

If he was never going to see his partner again, then he was damn well going to cling to every image he had of him.

Starsky pulled out the pictures, stacked neatly in chronological order, and looked at the first one of them in the Academy lunchroom. He poured a glass of wine, still smiling at the regulation haircuts, the spit-shined shoes and crisp-pleated pants, the starched shirts.

"Who'd a thought, Hutch?" he whispered. "Who'd a thought those two squared away guys would turn out to be me and thee?"

He sipped the wine slowly this time, no longer in any hurry for the drunk he sought to find him.

"Two years, babe," he murmured. "Two years, and I miss you like it was yesterday."

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

Day 739 - January 20, 1981

There'd been something in his oatmeal this morning. It had looked familiar and he'd stared at it for a long time trying to remember what it was. The name finally came to him -- spoon. It was a spoon. He knew it had something to do with eating, but he wasn't sure what it was. He pulled it out of his food and set it aside, then went ahead and ate as he always did, licking his fingers clean afterwards.

When he was done, he looked at the spoon on the mattress. It had oatmeal on it, too. He picked it up, licking it clean, the sticking it in his mouth and sucking.

Only then did it occur to him that he'd actually had an eating utensil to use, and he'd still chosen to eat with his fingers.

He shivered in disgust at himself, ashamed of how far away from his humanity he'd fallen.

With a groan he rolled onto the bed, curled up, and tried to go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he was still someone. He could talk and read and remember things, and people talked to him.

In his dreams he even laughed.

But most importantly, Starsky was there in his dreams, and he talked to him. In his dreams he slept at Starsky's place, ate at Starsky's table, rode in Starsky's car.

In his dreams, he had a lifeline, someone to cling to and believe in.

He looked over at the empty corner, the corner where his partner used to sit.

But there was nothing there now.

He was gone.

Hutch groaned again as he shifted on the mattress. With no padding over his bones, there was no position he could lie in that was comfortable, and it made it hard to fall asleep sometimes. His skin was dry and cracked and it split easily. The slightest bump caused bruising.

But he was determined to sleep.

Because, you see, in his dreams, he wasn't alone anymore.

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

Someone had brought a TV into the squad room and shortly before noon everyone gathered to watch Reagan take the oath of office.

Soon after the actual event, a commentator broke in and announced, "It has been confirmed. With President Reagan's assumption of power, eight billion dollars in frozen Iranian assets have been released, and in exchange, the 52 remaining hostages have been set free. They are, even at this very moment, on board an airplane headed for Algiers."

Starsky heard the words in silence, then stared around the room as spontaneous cheering burst out. He watched mutely for a long moment as the detectives clapped each other on the back and generally celebrated the captives' freedom.

Eight billion dollars. That was all it had taken to get these other men back. Just eight billion dollars.

He tried to control it, he really did. He clamped down hard on the rage, but at last it bubbled over, having grown too large for him to contain. Reaching out with both hands, he gripped the underside of his desk, and with a mighty roar, tipped it on its side.

The room fell quiet, except for a muttered, "What the fuck?"

Starsky glared at them all, then turned and stormed through the doors and down the hall.

"What the hell just happened?" Dobey asked, coming out of his office.

"444 days for the hostages," Pete said softly. "739 days for Hutch."

"How do you know that?" someone asked.

"*Why* do you know that?" chimed in someone else.

"Because," Pete answered, moving to lift the desk back onto its feet. "I need to know." His eyes drifted to the door Starsky had disappeared through. "It's important to my partner."

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

Day 780 - March 4, 1981

Alone.

That was what he was.

No one was coming for him.

He'd been forgotten.

No one even thought about him anymore.

The food came.

The water came.

He still woke up bathed and clean on occasion.

But other than that, there was nothing to indicate that there was anything outside the four walls of the small tiled room.

And Hutch was still alone.

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

"Whadaya got for me, Mickey?" Starsky asked, sliding into the booth next to the little man.

"It's good, Starsky -- real good." He licked his lips and gazed longingly up at the bar.

"Let me hear it."

When Mickey still only looked at the bar, Starsky sighed and nodded to the bartender. A drink was produced.

"Now, Mickey," Starsky said.

"This guy I know, his cousin, see? He just got outta the joint and he's looking for work." Mickey paused and took a sip of the drink.

"And?"

"So he hears about this gig going around -- ex-cons only. Three months, easy duty. *Big* money. Only catch is, you can't talk about it."

"What kinda money we talking, Mick?" Starsky asked.

"Three thousand a month, free and clear."

Starsky whistled low and shook his head. "And what do these guys have to do for that kinda bread?"

"That's the thing, Starsky. They're keeping some guy ..."

Starsky's eyes widened and he straightened in the seat. "Hutch," he breathed.

Mickey held up both hands, palms outward and shook his head. "I didn't say that, man. I just said they were keeping some guy."

"What are they doing to him?"

Mickey just stared at him. "That's what's so weird. They ain't *doing* nothing. They feed him, clean him up every now and then, but they don't *do" anything to him. They just -- keep -- him."

"Where?" Starsky demanded

Mickey shrugged.

Starsky rose and dragged the smaller man from the booth, throwing him up against a wall with his arm against his throat. "Where?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"I don't know! I don't know!" Mickey squirmed in Starsky's iron grip. "I've told you all I know."

"Who's the guy?"

"Ernie. Ernie Boyd."

Starsky dropped Mickey, straightening his tie, then reaching back to grab his drink and pass it to the shaking man. "Finish it quick, Mickey," he said. "You got work to do."

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

Day 795 - March 19, 1981

He'd been here for two weeks.

This time, he'd told both Dobey and Pete, and he'd taken some leave time to cover his absence. He called Pete daily, checking in so the younger man wouldn't worry, but he knew in his heart he wasn't leaving this bar until he'd found what he was looking for.

This time, he either came back with Hutch or he wasn't coming back at all.

He sat slouched in a booth, sipping the club soda he'd ordered, and watched the gathering crowds. He'd waited patiently every day, all day, and then all night as well, constantly scanning the faces for the one he was looking for.

Every night the bar had closed and he'd driven back to the ratty motel up the road to sleep until ten, then come back to be here when the bar opened again at eleven. He was getting tired. Tired of living on takeout food. Tired of running on five or less hours of sleep a night. Tired of the anticipation and the anxiety and the fear that this would turn into another wild goose chase, as all the others had.

He sipped his drink, then sat up, suddenly alert. His quarry was here.

Starsky watched the man carefully all night, noting that he threw back whiskey like most people drank water. He danced with a few of the women, copped a couple of feels, but made no move toward leaving with someone. When the bar closed at two, Starsky rose and left with the others, watching closely as the man climbed into a beat-up truck and pulled out, heading north. Climbing into the Torino, Starsky left the parking lot, turned left, and followed.

They drove for almost two hours. The road was deserted and rambled first through bare flatlands, then through a densely wooded area. Starsky was straining to keep the truck in sight and not wreck himself. He'd foregone his headlights, instead fixing his vision on the taillights of the pickup and praying that nothing unexpected popped up in his path.

When the truck's brake lights lit, Starsky began to decelerate. The man turned left onto a dirt road and drove slowly up, the bouncing of the truck as it hit potholes and small gullies obvious even in the dark.

Again, Starsky gave him a short lead, then turned in and followed.

They went two and three-tenths miles down the road, then the truck stopped at an old barn. Starsky quickly killed his engine and wished for the first time in his life that the car *didn't* have a 460 CID 4V Police Interceptor engine, fully bored. Instead, it would have been nice to have something that was stealthily quiet.

As it was, he watched as the man parked under a light, then walked around the truck and unlocked a door. Giving it a shove, he disappeared inside.

Starsky climbed out of the Torino and began to push it backward, looking for a place to get it off the road and concealed. He pushed for over an hour before he found what he was looking for -- a wide patch of road that led off to a small clearing. He pushed backward past his chosen spot, then yanked the wheel hard to the left and pushed the car forward. He rolled it as far into the clearing as he could, angling it to the right as close to the trees as possible. Once parked, he collected branches and other deadfall and covered the back of the Torino.

Once he was done, he checked from the road and was pleased that he couldn't see the car. He turned back toward the barn and began to jog.

The sun was just coming up as he made it back, and he hid in the trees and waited. Another hour or so later, the man from the bar came out, locked the barn, climbed into the truck and drove away.

Starsky waited until he could no longer hear the truck, then crept forward and examined the lock on the barn. He scouted around the building looking for another way in, but found nothing. Returning to the lock, he stared at it while he chewed on his lip.

He had no warrant.

He had no probable cause.

He had nothing but a gut feeling that his partner was behind this door.

Shit! He'd take a gut feeling over probable cause and a piece of paper any day.

He pulled his weapon and fired, smiling wolfishly when the lock exploded. Picking the remains apart, he opened the door and entered, weapon still drawn.

The barn was empty with two exceptions. To one side sat a large horse trough, with a pump at one end, ostensibly to fill it. A shelf over it held bath soap, shaving gear, and scissors.

That was remarkable by itself, but it was the other object in the room that drew his attention.

A free standing room, roughly eight by ten and maybe twelve or fifteen feet high. Heavily soundproofed, it was closed by a metal door, which was locked only with three bolts that were slid closed. He moved to it quickly and slid the bolts back, then threw the door open -- and gaped.

There, lying asleep on an uncovered mattress, was Hutch.

Tears filled his eyes as he holstered his gun and moved across the room. He gazed down at his sleeping partner and gasped.

The man was skeletal. His dry, cracked skin was split and oozing in several places. It hung from his frame. Small bruises peppered his arms and legs and he shivered in his sleep. His golden hair was heavily threaded with silver now, and even in repose his face was furrowed in pain.

Starsky lifted a hand and wiped his eyes, then briefly covered his mouth before reaching out to carefully touch the sleeping man's shoulder.

"Hutch," he whispered, "c'mon, babe. Time to wake up."

Hutch rolled over almost immediately and looked up at him with no surprise. "S-starsk," he said in a cracked and broken voice, "y-y-you came b-b-back."

Starsky frowned, but simply nodded. "Can you sit up?"

Hutch nodded but made no effort to move. "I-I-I thought y-you w-w-were m-mad at m-me."

Starsky's heart fell and he moved to sit on the bed and gather the broken man into his arms. Hutch was cold. His skin held no warmth at all, and there was no residual heat on the mattress where he'd lain. "Aw, no, babe, he whispered, his voice threatening to desert him entirely, "I was never mad at you. I been looking for you, Hutch, looking for you all the time."

Hutch nodded gravely, then let his head rest on Starsky's shoulder. " 'm g-g-lad y-you're not m-mad at m-me."

"Never," Starsky promised. He clutched Hutch to his chest, forcing himself not to squeeze too tightly because the man he held felt so fragile, the slightest bit of pressure could make his skin split or bones break. "We gotta get you outta here," he said. "You think you can walk?"

Hutch nodded. "I w-walk around the r-room. E-e-very time I w-wake up."

"Around the room?" Starsky took in his surrounding. The room was maybe twelve paces around. "How many times?"

"One. Th-then I g-get t-tired."

" 's okay, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "That's real good, babe. You kept trying, didn't ya?" He pushed away from his partner, reluctant to let him go for even a minute, but wanting to cover him, to get him warm. He shed his shirt and passed it over. "Why don't you put that on, Hutch?" he suggested.

Hutch stared at the garment for a long time, then a slight smile crossed his face. "Sh-shirt," he said, his fingers rubbing the fabric back and forth.

"Yeah, Hutch, it's a shirt. Put it on."

"B-b-but I-I-I don't w-w-wear clothes," Hutch said in confusion. "I-I-I d-don't have any."

"You can wear mine," Starsky said, taking the shirt back and pulling it gently over Hutch's head. He helped him lift his arms and get them in the sleeves then smoothed the cotton down, covering Hutch's abdomen and genitals. "Let's go," he said, standing. "I want us long gone before anyone gets back.

Hutch nodded and dropped onto the floor, then crawled to the wall and pulled himself up while Starsky watched, appalled. Regaining his wits, he moved forward and gently wrapped an arm around Hutch's waist, supporting the other man. He turned him and steered him toward the door.

When they reached the threshold, Hutch stopped, suddenly frozen in place. "S-s-starsk?" he said, whimpering. "Is th-this another d-dream? Are y-y-ou g-g-going to d-disa-p-pear a-g-gain?"

Starsky looked up into exhausted, confused blue eyes and shook his head. "No, babe," he promised, "this is not a dream. I'm real. You're real. We're getting outta here. And I ain't never gonna disappear again."

Hutch nodded feebly and stepped out of the room.

It had been 795 days.

He made it to the barn door before he collapsed. Starsky debated for all of two seconds on whether to leave him and go for the car, or carry him. And then he realized he could never leave him, never again. "Hutch," he said, leaning over to speak to the man who sat panting on the ground. "We need to move a little faster than you can go right now. I'm gonna have to carry you."

"C-c-carry me?" Hutch looked up in confusion. "Y-you can d-do that?"

Starsky looked at the emaciated form and nodded. "Yeah, babe, I think I can do that." He leaned over and pulled Hutch up again, warning, "This may not be very comfortable but it won't be far.

Hutch just nodded.

Starsky hoisted him into a fireman's carry and set off.

He was barely through the barn door when Hutch croaked, "S-stop! P-p-please."

Starsky halted immediately. He lowered Hutch to the ground, his hands running over him as he said, "I'm sorry, Hutch, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Hutch shook his head, then pointed up, his head lifted upward, eyes closed and smile of utter bliss on his face. "S-s-sun" he whispered reverently. "S-s-sun."

The tears fell then as Starsky gripped his partner and pulled him close. "Yeah, Hutch," he murmured, "it's the sun. And you can see it all you want."

Hutch snuggled closer to Starsky, leaning against the other man for support as he soaked up his impromptu sunbath. "I-I-I d-dreamed, S-starsk," he said, his voice still hoarse from disuse. "D-dreamed. Y-you." He held up one finger. "S-s-sun." He held up a second finger. "H-h-home." He held up a third.

"You got the first two, babe," Starsky said, rising again and pulling Hutch up. "Let's go get number three."

He hoisted the frail man again and, ever alert, headed back down the road toward the Torino. It took nearly an hour to get back to the car.

Hutch never complained, but Starsky would stop regularly, not so much to rest himself as to give the man he carried a break. When Starsky would lower him to the ground, Hutch would simply smile and lift his head to the sun. Nearly translucent from being confined for so long, his skin didn't take long to begin to redden from exposure. Starsky noticed immediately and at the next rest break, insisted Hutch sit in the shade.

There were a thousand questions running through Starsky's head. Who was responsible for this? Why had Hutch been taken? Had he been held here all the time? What had been done to him? Why did he seem so disconnected from everything?

Hutch was drowsing again, leaning against a tree with a small smile on his face. He seemed exhausted already and Starsky threw caution to the wind and let him sleep a while. As isolated as this place was, he would hear a vehicle long before it could be seen and would have plenty of time to lose himself and his partner in the woods if need be. As anxious as he was to get back to Bay City, to get Hutch to a hospital and to put the ball in action to get this place locked down and under surveillance, it all faded to the need to keep that simple smile on Hutch's face.

Hutch began to list to the left, and Starsky caught him, pulling him down until the blond head rested in his lap. His fingers carded through the golden hair, now fraught with so much silver, then he let his hand drop. Hutch mewed, and shifted as if seeking out the comfort of Starsky's touch again, so he went back to rubbing Hutch's head, stroking his face and arms, fingering the soft blond hairs.

Little details he hadn't noticed at first were becoming apparent. Hutch needed both a haircut and a shave. And -- he smelled. Some of the scent was just unwashed body, but beneath it there was a lingering odor of ill health and untreated infection. Starsky lifted the tail of his shirt, examining Hutch's rear, and noting the open sore there. Red lines streaked angrily around it and it looked very tender. He was surprised Hutch had been able to sit at all. The many bruises he noted did not seem to come from a beating -- they were too small and there was no pattern. Sighing, he had to admit that Hutch probably just bruised really easily and something as simple as bumping the wall would injure him.

He smiled down at the sleeping man, amazed that he was actually here and rested a hand on Hutch's head. "Hey," he said softly, "Sleeping Beauty."

Hutch's eyes opened and he smiled.

"Time to get going."

"Starsk." Hutch breathed the name reverently. "Thought I d-dreamed it."

"No dream, babe," Starsky whispered. "You're stuck with this ugly mug for the duration."

"N-not ug-ugly," Hutch insisted, his hand coming up to rest gently against his partner's face, before sliding back down, weary from the effort. "Dreamed of y-you."

"Yeah -- me and the sun and a thousand pretty girls," Starsky laughed, shifting Hutch up to sit again, wincing as he thought of the wound on his buttock. He climbed to his feet, then helped Hutch up.

"N-no," Hutch insisted. "Y-you and the s-sun, and home, and, and -- *you.*"

Starsky studied the fragile man beside him, his lip stuck out determinedly even as he swayed on his feet from the effort to remain erect. "Okay, Blintz," he said, smiling. "I missed you, too. Now -- let's get outta here."

"T-to the c-car?"

"Yeah," Starsky said, once more lifting Hutch over his shoulder and once more appalled at the lack of weight on the man.

He didn't stop again until he was at the clearing. He sat Hutch by a tree while he cleared the deadfall and backed the Torino out, cringing at the engine's roar in the silence of the woods. Nervous now, that their position was so easily marked, he jumped out and raced around to pull Hutch up and practically shove him into the car.

Pausing only a moment to look at the weakened man in the front seat, he leaned back down and did something he'd never done before. He dug between the seats and found the never-used seat belt and belted his partner in, wishing the single belt was a harness; Hutch looked about to fall over.

"You ready?" he asked, as he slid behind the wheel.

"H-home," Hutch said simply, his eyes already sliding shut.

"Yeah, babe," Starsky murmured as he shifted into gear and began the ride back to the main road, back to Bay City, back to their lives. "Let's go home."

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

It was a four hour drive back to Bay City and it looked like Hutch was going to sleep most of the way. But when they drove down a stretch of road that was lined with woods on each side, casting the car in shadow, he shivered and woke up.

"You cold?" Starsky asked and Hutch shrugged. Stopping the car briefly, Starsky popped the trunk and pulled out the blanket he kept back there. He got back in and passed it to Hutch. "Here you go."

Hutch just looked at it.

"It's a blanket, Hutch," Starsky said quietly, growing more concerned with his partner's overall condition. Aside from the obvious physical weakness and lack of care, he was confused, disoriented, slow to process and respond. It all brought back Starsky's original question: what had been done to Hutch?

Hutch frowned and said, "Kn-now that," but still didn't move to wrap up in the blanket, even when he shivered again.

Starsky leaned over and took it back, then gently wrapped it around the weakened form, saying "Shift up," as he tucked the edges under Hutch's behind. Once sure that Hutch was covered as well as he could be, Starsky started the car and got them on the road again. When his eyes darted right, Hutch was asleep again.

The miles passed too slowly. He forced himself to follow the speed limit and not press too hard, but as he drew closer and closer to his destination, it grew harder and harder to hold back. He wanted to floor it and fly and just get the still and silent man beside him to the hospital where he could begin to receive the care he needed and deserved.

Getting within half an hour of the city, he turned the scanner back on. The radio crackled to life and Hutch cried out and jumped, banging his head on the door.

"Hey, hey," Starsky said quickly, his hand reaching out to touch Hutch's arm. "It's just the radio. Didn't mean to scare you."

Hutch shook his head, his eyes watering and pulled out of the blanket, lifting his hands to cover his ears.

"Is it too loud?" Starsky asked, turning the volume down.

Hutch nodded. "E-e-everyth-thing too l-loud."

"It'll be better soon," Starsky promised, running his hand up and down Hutch's arm. "Just hang in there." He touched Hutch's cheek, waiting for the blue eyes to seek him out. "Can you do that for me, Hutch?"

Hutch nodded, then closed his eyes again, and Starsky did his one-handed best to tuck the blanket back around him.

He lifted the radio mike, held it to his mouth and said, "Dispatch -- this is Zebra-Three. Come in."

"Zebra-Three, acknowledged."

"Dispatch, I am en route to Memorial Hospital, ETA twenty minutes. I am transporting an injured police officer. Have Emergency meet me at the door, over."

"Zebra-Three, acknowledged." There was a pause and then the same voice, in much less formal language said, "Holy shit, Starsky! Did you find him? Is he okay? Where's he been? What's going on?"

Starsky laughed and said, "Yeah, Mildred, I found him. He's looking pretty rough, but he's gonna be okay. Can you patch me through to Cap'n Dobey?"

"Yeah, yeah, hang on a minute, Starsky, the radio's going nuts. Every cop in town wants to know where you are -- I think you're gonna have an escort."

Starsky heard sirens then, coming from two different directions and keyed the mike again, saying, "Tell 'em to kill the sirens, Mildred. It hurts Hutch's ears. Lights only."

"Acknowledged."

Almost immediately the sirens died, but within a minute flashing lights pulled in front of him. Mere seconds later, another set of lights was behind him.

"Zebra-Three -- this is Baker-Six, over."

"Jenkins? That you?"

"You got it, bro."

Starsky could see a hand wave in the patrol car in front of him.

"How fast you wanna go?"

"Fast as we can, Jenk, fast as we can."

"Acknowledged. Out." The patrol car accelerated and Starsky followed, one eye on the road, one eye on his partner. Amazingly, Hutch seemed to have fallen back to sleep.

"Zebra-Three, Zebra-Three, hold for patch to Captain Dobey."

"Starsky?"

"Yeah, Cap."

"Am I hearing the truth?"

"Yeah, Cap," Starsky sighed in relief. "I got him."

"I'll meet you at Memorial."

"Cap?"

"Yeah, Starsky?"

"Ferguson there?"

"You know he's been on desk duty while you were gone."

"Ask the kid if he wants to come."

The radio crackled and then Pete Ferguson's voice came through. "As if I'd be anywhere else."

Starsky smiled. "Right. Look in my locker, will you, kid? Bring me a shirt."

"A shirt?"

"Yeah. Hutch is wearing mine. See you at the hospital, out."

He clipped the mike back on the radio and noted several more patrol cars had fallen in line behind him, and there were three more to his left, pacing him and the others. As he watched, a couple of motorcycles joined the procession, and he fought back a wave of emotion as he realized that it was beginning to look like every cop in the city was headed his way.

"Hutch," he said softly, gently nudging the other man awake. "Look." He pointed at the cars beside them, the ones behind and in front, still others falling in line.

Hutch looked blearily around, then looked again, his mouth moving slowly. "F-f-fourteen," he whispered.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, and more are coming, Hutch. They're all coming to see you."

Hutch's eyes filled with tears and he murmured, "This band of brothers, this band of brothers ..." before his eyes slid shut again.

The hospital looked like a police convention. Patrol cars and unmarked units, motorcycles, SWAT and Bomb Disposal vans, and even the Police Chaplain's car were all parked haphazardly around the ER entrance. He watched as his escorts peeled off, leaving him a clear path to the door, where a team of people waited with a gurney.

He pulled up and before he could speak to Hutch, the passenger door was opened. A man knelt down and pulled the blanket off, then began to run his hands over Hutch. "Severe malnutrition, I'd say he's underweight by thirty, thirty-five percent. Dehydrated. No obvious signs of trauma."

"He's got a sore on his butt," Starsky said, concerned at the doctor's seeming lack of compassion. He jumped out of the car and ran around to the other side, leaning over the kneeling doctor to lay his hand on Hutch's shoulder.

The doctor nodded and reached up, lifting Hutch's eyelids to study his eyes. Passive up to that point, Hutch reacted and lifted his hands to bat feebly at the doctor. "N-no," he whimpered, his head whipping around, his eyes unfocused. "S-s-starsk?" he cried urgently.

"Here, buddy, I'm here." Starsky pulled Hutch from the doctor's hands and shoved the man aside as he moved forward to gather his partner to his chest. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

"You need to let me see him," the doctor said insistently. "Move aside."

"Th-thought y-y-you'd d-d-disappeared," Hutch said as tears began to fall.

"Shhhh, Hutch," Starsky said. "Don't cry, please. It's gonna be all right. I'm right here." He turned and glared at the doctor. "You're scaring him."

"I need to examine him."

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, I know. But he ain't been examined in over two years, and he can walk and talk and he knows his name and he knows who I am, so I think you can back off a little and work with him -- instead of scaring him to death." Starsky shook his head. "Sheesh. You'd think you guys would get training on how to handle trauma victims before we would," he added in disgust.

"S-s-starsk?"

"Yeah, babe," Starsky responded instantly. "I'm right here."

"A-arizona, Starsk. Wh-what's Ariz-zona?"

Starsky looked around in confusion, then tightened his hold on his partner when the doctor smiled a 'See? I told you,' smile. "What about Arizona, Hutch? Were you there? Did they take you there first?"

Hutch listened, finally shaking his head. "A-alabama -- M-Montgomery," he said. "Alas-ska -- J-j-juneau."

"Has he always stuttered?" the doctor interrupted.

Starsky shrugged and patted Hutch's hair, smoothing the strands gently as he rocked back and forth on the concrete. "A little. Not like this." He turned his attention back to his partner. "You wanna know the capital of Arizona?"

Hutch nodded, his eyes closed as he curled between Starsky's legs and leaned into him.

"Phoenix, Hutch. It's Phoenix."

"A-a-arizona -- Phoenix." Hutch sighed in contentment. "Kn-new you'd kn-now."

"Starsky?" the doctor interrupted. "It is Starsky, isn't it?"

Starsky nodded.

"You need to let us treat him. I know it's not going to be pleasant for him, but I really do need to do an in-depth assessment." He paused and Starsky saw real concern flit across the man's face. "We really shouldn't wait any longer."

Starsky nodded. "Let me get him up. I'll get him on the gurney for you."

"While you're doing that, tell me what happened. I remember reading about a cop who went missing a few years ago and when they notified us you were coming, they said it was him."

"Hutch," Starsky said, half to his partner and half to the doctor. "Let's get you up and on the gurney, okay?"

He rose and pulled Hutch up, supporting him while they walked the few feet to the gurney. A nurse immediately began to strap a blood pressure cuff on his arm and Hutch began to cry and pull away again."

Starsky gathered him up, murmuring, "Shhhh -- it's okay, Hutch. We're at the hospital, remember? Lots of people, lots of gadgets. They need to check you out."

"W-w-wanna g-go h-h-h-home," Hutch said.

"Let 'em check you out, buddy, then we'll go home, okay?"

Hutch nodded and Starsky laid him back down on the stretcher. His eyes closed immediately and the nurse placed the cuff on his arm with no further problem.

They got through the doors and Dobey was there, halting the procession with an upraised hand. He looked at Hutch, then lifted horror-filled eyes to Starsky. "Wha ...?"

Starsky just shook his head and whispered, "Not now."

Dobey nodded then leaned over and touched Hutch's hand, "Hutch?" he said quietly, waiting until the blue eyes opened and focused on him. "How are you, son?"

"Th-that you, C-Cap?" Hutch said huskily.

"Yeah, son, it's me." He held the frail hand then leaned over and lifted the man into a hug. "It's so good to see you again, Hutch!" he said fiercely.

Hutch lifted a hand feebly, patting at the Captain's shoulder, then sagged back onto the gurney.

"C-cloth," he said, patting the sheet as his eyes slid shut once more.

"Excuse us, gentlemen," the doctor said, indicating the orderlies should get the stretcher moving. "I'm going to do a preliminary exam and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." He stopped a moment and said, "I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression earlier, but believe me, your friend's in good hands."

The gurney pulled away, finally disappearing behind double doors and Pete and Dobey had to physically restrain Starsky from following. "You can't go back there right now," Dobey said gently, pulling the distraught man over to a chair.

Pete passed over a shirt wordlessly and as Starsky pulled it on, he sank into the chair next to him.

"Tell me what happened," Dobey requested.

The room was filled with cops, all of whom gathered around to hear Starsky's report of events. He started with his two week stake-out and ended with finding Hutch, naked, starved, and alone in the free-standing room in the barn.

"But he knew who I was," Starsky said softly. "He knew it was me, right away."

Pete's hand was on Starsky's back, rubbing small circles there. "Of course he did, Davey," he said quietly. "You're his partner."

"All right, Starsky -- I'll get in touch with the locals up there, see if they can't get this guy when he returns to the barn."

There was a moment of silence and then Dobey looked up and seemed to suddenly be aware that there were more than fifty cops in the ER waiting room. "All right, you guys," he announced, "we appreciate you being here, but time to hit the road. Remember, we're here to protect and serve everyone, not just our own."

"Yeah, yeah ..."

"All right, Cap."

"Got it."

"Call me, Starsky ..."

"...back when shift's over."

The words swirled around Starsky without really sinking in and he hardly noticed as the room emptied. An hour passed and Pete's hand never left his back and Dobey left his side only briefly and returned to push a cup of coffee into his hands.

He had finished half the cup when a distinctive howl shattered the quiet of the room. Starsky was up and moving before either of the other men could restrain him. He hit the doors running, skidding around a corner as he zeroed in on the soft crying that had replaced the one single scream.

Hutch had been restrained and a nurse was trying to draw blood as he fought feebly against the ties that held him down.

"Get away from him," Starsky snarled, pushing the woman aside as he began to undo the restraints. "Shhh, shhhh, shhhh, Hutch," he murmured as he freed his partner's hands and moved to undo the ties on his ankles. "I'm here, babe." He turned and glared at the nurse. "Get that doctor in here immediately.

"S-s-starsk," Hutch whimpered. "Y-y-you l-left m-m-me."

"No, babe, never," Starsky said fiercely as he freed the last restraint. "Never leaving you." He gathered Hutch up, holding him tight and the other man seemed to want to melt into his hold.

"W-w-wanna g-go h-h-home," he begged as Dobey and Ferguson entered the room. "P-p-please -- t-take me h-h-home." His hands clutched at Starsky's shirt, clawing at the material as he sought to get closer and closer to the one person he associated with home and safety. Starsky leaned further and further over the bed, until he was practically lying on Hutch, and then he shook his head and pulled back.

"Just a sec, Hutch," he said, one hand still holding onto his partner as he toed off his shoes and let the bed rail down. He climbed into the bed with Hutch, settling behind the still distraught man, cradling him between his legs with his head pillowed on his shoulder. "I got you, babe," he whispered into the ear by his lips. "I ain't letting you go."

Hutch settled almost immediately, no longer crying, no longer struggling to get free. He raised a hand and covered his eyes, then turned so that he could bury his face against Starsky's chest. "Does the light hurt?" Starsky asked gently.

"N-no d-d-dark," Hutch said.

The doctor arrived with Dobey and paused a moment to take in the scene before saying, "You have to let us treat him, Mr. Starsky."

"Why was he restrained?" Starsky demanded.

"Restrained?" Dobey echoed.

"He kept getting out of the bed and trying to crawl under it," the doctor said wearily.

"Did you ask him why?" Starsky asked.

"He's unresponsive."

Starsky looked puzzled. "No, he's not. He was talking to me fine, except for the stutter." He looked down at the man in his arms, asleep again now that he felt safe. "Hutch. Hutch," he said softly. "Wake up a minute."

Hutch opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. "B-b-bright," he said, closing his eyes again.

"Why'd you get under the bed, Hutch, hmmm? Can you tell me why?"

"D-d-dark," Hutch muttered, eyes still closed.

"Can you turn these lights down?" Starsky asked, looking up at the ceiling light as well as the light over the bed.

The doctor sighed. "I'll see what I can do. There's only one other patient on this side of the ER. Maybe I can move him and then hit the lights over here." He stepped forward and looked Starsky in the eye. "But you have to get out of the bed and let us treat him."

Starsky shook his head. "Isn't gonna happen. I gave you your shot -- you blew it. I ain't leaving him again."

"I need to be able to work," the doctor said shortly. "You're in the way."

"Work around me," Starsky replied. "I ain't moving."

Hutch began to shiver and Starsky looked at Dobey, pointedly ignoring the doctor. "Pass me that blanket, will you, Cap?" he asked, waving at the foot of the bed. Dobey handed it over and Starsky wrapped it carefully around his partner.

He looked up to see the doctor had disappeared and then the ceiling lights went off. Hutch sighed contentedly. "D-dark, S-s-starsk," he mumbled. "Y-you m-made it d-dark."

"Whatever you want, Hutch, you tell me. It's gonna be all right."

When the doctor returned, Dobey said to him, "This man is a kidnap victim and we consider him to still be at risk. He is in protective custody. Detective Starsky has been assigned to him and he is not to leave his side. Is that understood?"

"Look," the doctor said in exasperation, "I'm not trying to hurt the man. I just need to make an assessment. The nurses haven't even been able to get the IV in, and if nothing else, I know he needs fluids."

"They can put it in now," Starsky said. "I'll explain it and he'll be still for 'em." He leaned forward and began whispering in Hutch's ear. The doctor watched a moment longer, sighed, and left.

"I'm taking off, Starsky," Dobey said quietly. "I want to get back downtown and get Hutch reactivated -- make sure his insurance is in place and some other paperwork that needs to be done. I'm leaving Ferguson. If you need anything, he can get it for you, and if you need me, just call."

"Sure thing, Cap," Starsky said as the older man left, "and thanks."

"Don't thank me. You're the one who wouldn't give up." Dobey patted Starsky's shoulder. "Just take care of your partner. I'll be back tonight."

When the nurse came back a few minutes later, Starsky uncurled Hutch's arm, and laid it on the bed. "Time for that stick, Hutch," he said softly. "Just a little one, okay?"

Hutch nodded and never moved as the needle was inserted and the IV established.

They spent several more hours in the ER, made a trip to Radiology for x-rays, and Hutch endured placidly as blood was drawn. He was even able to provide a urine specimen when requested, a sign which encouraged the doctor as he obviously was not completely dehydrated if he could produce waste. He was also weighed. Starsky stood on the scale, holding Hutch up and together they weighed 300. Starsky quickly subtracted his own 180 and gasped. Hutch was down to a mere 120 pounds.

"Do you know his normal weight?" the doctor asked.

It took Starsky a moment to respond. The number had shocked him as much if not more than anything else that he'd seen since he found Hutch. "Uh, yeah. He usually ranges between 190 and 195. No fat. He's, uh, muscular. Works out and runs."

"And he's what, six feet tall?"

"Six one."

"And how long has he been missing?"

"Seven hundred and ninety five days."

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

"Try and get him to drink, Mr. Starsky," the young woman said as she passed over a cup of water. "The IV is putting fluids in him, but it will be better if he can drink, too."

They'd finally moved Hutch from the ER, admitting him to a medical floor. He was the only one in his room, as Dobey had not only managed to convince the hospital that he needed a full-time guard, he had convinced them he needed a private room as well.

Starsky nodded and gently shook his partner. He'd finally been able to get out of the bed once all the tests were completed. Hutch had been settled for a while now, sleeping fitfully, occasionally waking to be soothed back to sleep by Starsky. "Here, Hutch," the dark-haired man said, holding the straw to Hutch's lips, "can you drink some water?"

Hutch looked around dazedly, ignoring the straw, then leaned over to look at the floor. "N-no w-water," he said, his voice still hoarse. "M-maybe next t-time."

"The water's right here, Hutch," Starsky said, holding the cup up. "Take a sip."

"B-bottle," Hutch said. "W-w-water in b-b-bottle."

Starsky put the cup down and looked at the nurse. "Can you get him a bottle of water?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. We don't have any bottled water."

Starsky rose and patted Hutch's shoulder. "I'm stepping to the door for a minute, Hutch, but I'm not leaving, okay?"

Hutch nodded, his eyes already closed again.

Starsky opened the door and looked down. Pete was sitting in a chair just outside the door, a paperback in his hand. When he saw Starsky, he jumped to his feet. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Starsky nodded. "Look, I said you could come sit with us."

Pete shook his head. "Not now. Not yet. It's too soon. You guys need some private time together."

"You can't stay all night," Starsky said gently, one hand on the younger man's arm.

"I know," Pete replied. "Betsy got Chrissy to come over to watch DK tonight and she's gonna bring dinner. I figured we could all eat together, if that's okay with Hutch's docs."

Starsky shrugged. "They haven't really talked to me yet."

"Well, if he can't eat yet, or if he's on a restricted diet or something, you still need to eat. Betsy insisted."

"She's gonna make me fat," Starsky said, patting his stomach.

"No fear of that," the redhead said lightly, looking at Starsky's trim waist. "Now, I, on the other hand ..." He rubbed his own flat belly and managed to pinch up a miniscule roll of flesh.

Starsky laughed quickly then sobered. "We need to turn her loose on Hutch. My ma and Betsy and Huggy -- if they can't fatten him up, it can't be done." A shadow crossed his face as he thought about what he'd said.

Pete's hand was on his arm immediately. "It can be done, Davey. He's gonna be fine." He waited until the tension left the other man's form, then cocked his head and asked, "Hey -- what did you want?"

"Oh." Starsky looked back at Hutch, then at Ferguson. "Bottled water. Can you rustle up some?" He pulled his wallet to hand over some money, but Pete stopped him. He reached into his pocket and produced an enormous wad of bills.

"Where'd that come from?" Starsky asked in disbelief. "You haven't been knocking over liquor stores again, have you?"

Pete laughed and shook his head. "Nah -- had to give that little hobby up when I started working with you." He cleared his throat and looked slightly uncomfortable. "Guys have been coming by all afternoon. Everybody's leaving money -- just in case Hutch needs something. Clothes, books, music, whatever. You just let me know what you want, I'll make sure you get it."

Starsky's throat was tight as he nodded. "I'm gonna have to take back everything I said about people forgetting about him."

"It's all right, Davey," Pete said softly. "They understand." He waited a moment, then said, "Okay, then. Bottled water it is. What about clothes? Does he have to stay in that gown, or can he wear clothes?"

Starsky shrugged again. "I don't know yet. Can you get him something just in case? Maybe a sweatsuit? Something soft 'cause his skin's so sensitive, but warm, too? He seems to stay cold."

"I can do that," Pete said firmly. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Thanks, man," Starsky said softly, patting Pete's shoulder. "I owe you."

"Nah, man -- it's me who owes you." He stared into Starsky's blue eyes for a moment, then pushed him gently. "Now get in there -- your partner's waiting."

Starsky went back in Hutch's room and settled himself in the chair again. Hutch was sleeping. The nurse said that it was normal for him to sleep like this -- in his weakened state, it was the best way for his body to conserve energy.

A new doctor appeared a few minutes later and pulled up a chair to sit next to Starsky.

"I'm Doctor Patel," he said quietly, with a faint Indian accent. He extended his hand. "I'll be taking care of Mr. Hutchinson from here on."

Starsky shook hands, then asked, "What happened to, uh -- I don't even think I got his name. The guy in the ER?"

"He's an emergency physician," Patel explained. "I'm an internist. Of course, if Mr. Hutchinson already has a physician ..."

"Nah, that's okay, Doc," Starsky replied. "He only went to the doctor when he had to -- police physicals done by the police doctor."

"Well, in that case, I was told that Mr. Hutchinson has an advance directive?"

"Yeah. He and I both got one a few years ago after that mess with that girl -- Karen Ann Quinlan? He's not real close to his family and my mother is in New York, so we just wrote out what we wanted and designated each other to make sure it happened. Got a lawyer to make it legal."

"A wise precaution," the doctor said, "and it certainly helps us now. I'll need to get a copy of the directive for our files, but knowing that you have it, I'm going to consider you his next of kin. You'll have to make some decisions for him."

"Hutch ain't so out of it that he can't make his own decisions," Starsky protested.

Dr. Patel shook his head. "I don't agree with you, Mr. Starsky. While Mr. Hutchinson is amazingly cognizant and coherent at times, given his physical condition, he is also confused, disoriented and out of touch with reality. He frightens easily and doesn't seem able to relate for any period of time to anyone but you. You are his constant, his touchstone, if you will."

"So what decisions do we need to make?"

"Let me tell you what we've determined so far. From what you've told us, and until Mr. Hutchinson is able to provide us with more information, we are going on the assumption that he was held in isolation in the room from which you rescued him. Given his overall condition, physical and mental, I'd say it's likely he was kept there, alone, for the majority of the time he was missing. Deterioration of this magnitude does not happen overnight.

"So let's talk about the physical issues first. He has a generalized low-grade infection, probably originating from the wound on his buttock. It appears he has had other lesions such as this -- I'd say they were bedsores. I've got him on an IV antibiotic and I expect that to clear up in time.

"Our biggest concern is the severe malnutrition he is suffering from. The body has the remarkable ability to adjust to nutritional limitations by decreasing metabolism and energy requirements. As the malnutrition continues, however, the body is not able to maintain all its usual functions. Weight loss is generally the first sign of malnutrition and when there is loss of 10% of body weight, we consider a person to be malnourished. In Mr. Hutchinson's case, the loss is more along the lines of 35 - 38%.

"Poor nutrition will eventually affect every organ in the body: the heart becomes weaker, the immune system is less able to protect against infection, and even the intestines are less able to absorb the nutrients that are ingested. Dehydration and electrolyte abnormalities, which we have confirmed in Mr. Hutchinson's tests, can lead to erratic heart rhythms, which can be fatal.

"Now, before you panic, most people can recover even after severe and prolonged starvation, as long as they haven't lost too much of their body mass."

"How much is too much?" Starsky asked.

The doctor looked uncomfortable and looked away for a moment, then met Starsky's eyes. "Loss of 40% or more of the body's mass is almost always fatal."

"But, Hutch -- he's not there, right? He's not that low?"

"We don't think so, Mr. Starsky. He weighs 120 pounds, down seventy pounds from the 190 you estimated as his normal weight. That's 37%."

Starsky raised his hand to his mouth, pinching his nose and then slowly dragging the hand down over his lips and chin. "He's close," he murmured, his eyes closed in pain.

"Yes," the doctor said, reaching out to touch Starsky briefly, "but he's not critical yet. His tests show a decrease in certain proteins in the blood, mild anemia, decreased numbers of certain white blood cells -- lymphocytes -- which will result in a decreased reaction to infections.

"What do we do?" Starsky asked. "Just feed him up good?"

"It's not quite that easy. Treatment for malnutrition needs to be directed at the cause of the condition. In severe cases of malnutrition, the first step is to insure adequate fluid and electrolyte -- mineral salt -- intake and correct other medical complications such as infections. The IVs will take care of that. Most malnourished people are severely dehydrated and have electrolyte abnormalities, such as low levels of potassium, calcium, phosphate, and magnesium. These imbalances can lead to irregular heart rhythms, which can be fatal, so it is essential that the imbalances be corrected before any other steps are taken."

"Fatal," Starsky repeated.

"Can be fatal," the doctor corrected, "but we will work very hard to prevent reaching that eventuality."

"The next step is to replenish calories. This must be done slowly and carefully. In the severely malnourished, and Mr. Hutchinson meets that criteria, rapid replacement of protein and calories can lead to 're-feeding syndrome,' which refers to very low levels of phosphate and can be life-threatening. The serum phosphorous level falls precipitously with re-feeding, due to a shift of phosphate from the extracellular to the intracellular compartment. This shift occurs because of the huge demands for this ion for synthesis of phosphorylated compounds. The result of this sudden massive reduction in phosphorous levels is a multitude of life-threatening complications involving multiple organs: respiratory failure, cardiac failure, cardiac arrhythmias, rhabdomyolysis, seizures, coma, red cell and leukocyte dysfunction." He smiled wryly as he looked at Starsky. "Obviously, we want to avoid these complications. There are guidelines specifying how many calories and grams of protein can be given in a day to re-feed a malnourished person safely, and we will follow them scrupulously."

"Okay -- I'm a little lost here. Can he eat or not?"

The doctor nodded and went on smoothly, "Now, because Mr. Hutchinson is fairly awake and lucid, and appears to have a functioning intestinal tract, food can be eaten normally. He'll still receive supplements intravenously, but it will be important that he eat as well.

"He's really weak, Doc. Weak as a kitten. And he's got no stamina."

"Once we have him stabilized and have begun re-feeding successfully, another important aspect of treatment is going to be physical therapy to help him regain strength. Muscle wasting is a key feature of malnutrition. The lost muscle mass needs special attention to restore itself to functional levels.

"I won't lie to you, Mr. Starsky: his physical condition is serious. We're going to have to watch him carefully and monitor both his intake and output levels, but I want to encourage him to be as self-sufficient in the process as possible. He can feed himself, choose from a variety of approved foods and liquids, take care of his own toileting and bathing, though he may need some assistance initially, and I want him to be as active as his decreased stamina will allow.

Starsky was nodding now, feeling encouraged by the doctor's words.

"I've taken the liberty of presenting Mr. Hutchinson's case to several of my colleagues in the psychiatric service as well."

"Psychiatric?"

"Mr. Starsky -- Mr. Hutchinson is going to have some long- lasting effects from his confinement of the last two years plus. He's going to need to talk about it."

"He can talk to me," Starsky said. "There's lots of people he can talk to."

"Let me tell you a little about some of the symptoms that can be attributed to conditions of confinement. They include perceptual distortions, illusions, vivid fantasies, sometimes along with vivid hallucinations ..."

"He said I'd been in the room with him, then I was gone." Starsky ran a hand through his hair. "He thought I was mad at him."

"Exactly. Visual hallucinations. You can also expect him to have hypersensitivity to external stimuli. Along with these, some people develop observable syndromes which include cognitive impairment ..."

"He couldn't remember the capital of Arizona."

"Well, that's pretty minor in the whole scheme of things, but it could be indicative of greater problems. He could also experience massive free-floating anxiety, extreme motor restlessness, emergence of primitive aggressive fantasies, sometimes along with fearful hallucinations, and possibly, delirium-like behaviors."

"Once he's stronger, we're going to want to do an EEG to see if there are organic changes in the brain similar to stupor and delirium."

"All right," Starsky said, nodding. "He needs a good shrink. Who do you recommend?"

"Well, as I was saying, several of the people I spoke with recommended an indefinite confinement for Mr. Hutchinson ..."

"No way in hell!" Starsky swore. "He's had enough of 'indefinite confinement' to last three lifetimes."

Dr. Patel nodded. "I agree wholeheartedly. Which is why I would recommend a friend of mine, a man I knew in India. I spoke with him and he agrees, that while Mr. Hutchinson will require intensive therapy, it would not be in his best interest to seek an inpatient placement unless he were to become violent or a danger to himself or others."

Starsky snorted. "As weak as he is, Hutch couldn't hurt a fly."

"Now -- that is true. But he will grow stronger. Things could change."

"So who is this guy you want to see Hutch?"

"Dr. Zuban Barot. I feel that not only are his medical skills excellent, but his personal beliefs will support a more understanding and patient course of treatment for your friend."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "What are his 'personal beliefs?'"

"He practices Jainism, as do I, and amongst our most sacred teachings is this: 'A man should treat all creatures in the world as he himself would like to be treated.' Very similar to your Christian 'Golden Rule,' don't you agree?"

"I'm not Christian," Starsky said absently, "I'm Jewish."

"Ah, then you would be familiar with this version: 'What is hateful to yourself, do not do to your fellow man. That is the whole of the Torah.'"

Starsky nodded. "So since you wouldn't want to be locked up, you're not gonna recommend it for Hutch."

"And since I would not want to suffer the indignity and pain that Mr. Hutchinson has suffered, I will do everything I can to avoid anymore of that for him.

"I will arrange for a consult with Dr. Barot in a few days. I want Mr. Hutchinson to have a few days to acclimate to his new environment. In addition to eating and drinking, I want him to shower and clean himself, to use the toilet, to begin to adjust his sleep cycles."

"Can he wear his own clothes?"

"I don't see why not."

"He said the lights were always on in that room. He wanted it to be dark."

"Constant light deprives an individual of healthy sleep, disturbing the normal sleep-wake cycles and increases the vulnerability to developing delirium. While I want him to become reacquainted with the light and dark cycles of a day and night, I believe we can do that just using the natural light provided through the window. If he wants the lights out, I do not object." He tilted his head as he studied Starsky. "He is very -- attached -- to you."

"We're partners."

"Do you plan to stay with him?"

Starsky stuck out his chin stubbornly. "I'm not just his partner and his friend, I'm his guard. He's in protective custody."

"Good," said Dr. Patel, smiling. "I think it will be very good for Mr. Hutchinson to have a familiar face around at all times. But let me warn you, you will probably be dealing with some of the psychological fallout from his ordeal."

Starsky sighed. "I already know he hallucinates and he can't always follow a conversation. He sleeps all the time and never seems rested when he wakes up. He's scared I'm gonna leave him alone -- but I'm not! Not ever again! What else could there be?"

"You'd be surprised. The first thing you need to be aware of is that he's probably going to deny there's a problem. In past studies of inmates who were kept in isolation for a prolonged period, and that is our only population group available for comparison, many tended to rationalize away their symptoms, they avoided mentioning them, or denied their existence all in what seemed to be efforts to minimize the significance of their reactions to conditions of confinement."

"Amongst prisoners isolated for prolonged periods, they reported an increasing inability to tolerate ordinary stimuli, even simple things such as noise -- the ordinary, everyday noises of plumbing and heating systems working. They reported hearing voices, even whispers; panic attacks; difficulty in concentration and with memory; for example, inmates stated they could not concentrate to read, which can lead to disorientation; their mind wanders; they report aggressive fantasies of revenge, torture and/or mutilation of the guards; paranoia and other fears; they claim that authority figures are trying to 'break them down.' They doubt themselves and have trouble determining what is real, and have problems controlling impulses, sometimes resulting in random violence."

"Hutch ain't violent."

"He's a police officer -- there is violence inherent in that."

"It doesn't mean he'd just up and hurt someone."

"No, it doesn't. Or at least it didn't. But that man in there is not the same man he was two years ago." The doctor reached out and laid a hand on Starsky's arm. "Your friend is not in for an easy journey. That you have chosen to walk this path with him speaks highly of you, but you must be prepared -- the way will be long and difficult."

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

When Pete knocked on the door and stuck his head in, Starsky was still sitting where the doctor had left him, his mind swirling with the ramifications of the man's words.

"Hey," Pete said softly, "can I come in?"

Starsky jumped slightly, then smiled and nodded. "Of course," he said, nodding. "You get it?"

Pete held up a bottle of water in one hand and a bag in the other. "I got a case of the water," he said, passing the bottle over. "The nurses marked it for him and put it in their lounge, with a few bottles in the fridge to keep 'em cold."

"Great," Starsky said, rising to stand by the bed. "And clothes?"

Pete placed the bag on the chair Starsky had just vacated. "Two sweatshirts, two pairs of pants, a couple of packages of T-shirts, a half dozen pairs of boxers," he paused and flushed slightly, " -- I didn't know his preference."

"Boxers are fine," Starsky said, smiling.

"I got him a dozen pairs of thick socks, too, and a robe and some slippers. Had to guess at sizes," he added. "He's so ..."

"Yeah, but he won't be forever," Starsky said, looking fondly at the man in the bed. He turned then and smiled at Pete. "Thanks, man. This was above and beyond and we won't forget it."

"I'm glad to do it." Pete looked at his watch. "Look, I'm gonna go back to my book. Betsy's coming at seven." He looked faintly worried as he asked, "You are gonna eat with us, right?"

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, I will. I don't know about Hutch. They want him to eat, but everything's gotta be approved."

"I'll call home and find out what's she's bringing. Then you can check it out."

"Sounds like a plan." He waited until the younger man was at the door then added, "And Pete? Thanks."

He turned back to Hutch, laying one hand on the sallow cheek. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, "time to wake up. Your water's here."

Hutch rolled onto his back and looked up at Starsky, then painfully pulled himself up to sit. He took the bottle in his hand, studying it longingly before his eyes filled with tears. He put the bottle on the bed and lay back down, turning his back to Starsky.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked worriedly, growing more concerned when there was no answer. "Hutch?" he repeated, rubbing the other man's back softly. "What's wrong?"

There was still no reply, no acknowledgement, just the muted sound of tears hitting the pillow.

Starsky walked around the bed, bending low to look Hutch in the face. "Hey, babe," he said gently, his hand on Hutch's cheek, "what's wrong with the water?"

Hutch opened his eyes again, surprise evident for a moment as he said, "S-starsk?"

"Yeah, Hutch," his partner replied, "I'm here." He brushed the blond hair back from Hutch's face, letting his fingers linger on the scalp, rubbing gently. "Can you tell me what's wrong with the water?"

"W-w-weak," Hutch mumbled. "C-c-can't op-pen it."

"Oh, babe, I'm sorry," Starsky said quickly. "Here, let me help you up." He pushed the button and then supported Hutch as the top half of the bed shifted upward. When Hutch was mostly sitting up, Starsky opened the bottle and passed it over. Hutch drank greedily, then looked at the floor. "What're you looking for?" Starsky asked.

"O-oatmeal."

"Oatmeal? You want some oatmeal?"

Hutch looked at him blankly.

"You want oatmeal?" Starsky repeated but again there was no response.

A hurried conversation with Pete produced a bowl, hot water, several packets of instant oatmeal, and a container of applesauce. Starsky mixed the cereal, then rolled the bed table over and helped Hutch sit up.

Hutch touched the oatmeal, then smiled and mumbled, "It's h-hot th-this time."

"This time?" Starsky touched Hutch's shoulder to get his attention. Every time he did this, it was like Hutch was seeing him for the first time.

The blond blinked, then opened his eyes wide, then smiled and said in a voice half-fearful he wouldn't be answered, "S-s-starsk?"

"Yeah, Hutch," Starsky replied, petting his hair, "I'm here. You, uh, eat a lot of oatmeal?"

Hutch nodded and stuck his fingers in the bowl, bringing them up to his mouth. "It's f-f-food. H-have to eat t-t-to stay st-strong."

Starsky took Hutch's hand, nodding as he wiped the sticky cereal from his fingers, then handed him a spoon. "You want to try it with this?"

Hutch stared at the spoon for a long time, then dipped it awkwardly into the bowl, his hand shaking as he tried to bring it up. Starsky reached out and steadied him, helping him spoon the gruel to his mouth. Hutch managed several more bites with assistance, then seemed too tired to eat more.

"What else did you eat, Hutch?" Starsky asked.

Hutch gave him the blank look again, then said, "O-o-oatmeal is f-f-food."

"Aw, jeez, Hutch!" Starsky exclaimed, horrified. "Are you telling me all you ate for two years was oatmeal? That's all they gave you?"

"I-It's f-f-food," Hutch insisted.

"You never had anything else?" Starsky asked, taking over the spooning process as Hutch seemed willing to eat, just too weak to manage on his own. As the spoon would approach his mouth, it would open like a baby bird's, awaiting whatever would be offered.

"H-had a-a-apple once," Hutch said.

"An apple?"

Hutch nodded, then frowned. "I-I-I think it w-w-was r-real. It f-felt r-real."

Starsky pushed the oatmeal away, suddenly disgusted. "Hutch," he said softly, "how about we try some applesauce instead of the oatmeal? Would you like that?"

"A-a-apple?"

"Apple *sauce.*" Starsky opened the container and lifted a spoonful to Hutch's mouth.

The blond's eyes closed in ecstasy and he held the applesauce in his mouth for a long time before swallowing. When he opened his eyes, they were shiny with unshed tears. "G-g-good," he said at last, smiling.

"I'm glad it's good," Starsky said, offering another spoonful. "Have some more."

Hutch managed to eat about half the applesauce as well as the few bites he'd managed of the oatmeal before Starsky had taken it away. Then his eyes began to close and he fell asleep. Starsky sighed and threw the oatmeal away. If he had his way, Hutch would never eat oatmeal again. From now on, meals would be a variety of the approved items on Dr. Patel's list. And since Hutch didn't eat much, Starsky was going to make sure he ate often -- like every time he woke up.

Hutch slept through Pete and Betsy's visit, but Starsky set aside the chicken rice soup she'd brought -- no meat, just rice and broth -- for him to have when he woke again. Despite Betsy's original concern that they would disturb Hutch, they ate in the room and Starsky laughed over stories of DK's latest antics. Now that the kid had his feet under him, there was no stopping him -- he was into everything.

"So I was in the living room," Betsy said, "putting the tapes back on the shelf and I hear this crash. I race into the kitchen and he's happily pulling all the pots out of the cabinet."

They all laughed and Pete added, "I'm getting those lock things this weekend. Shoulda done it months ago, but I kept thinking we had time."

"Locks aren't going to protect the bookshelves," Betsy said smartly.

"Just move the stuff on the bottom shelves for a while," Starsky suggested. "Maybe you could put his toys there. That would let him satisfy his urge to pull stuff out while you still made sure he only pulled out what you wanted."

"You sure you don't have kids?" Betsy asked, her head cocked and a smile on her face. "You're pretty good at this stuff."

Starsky snorted. "Not me, thanks. I'll stick to uncling -- not sure I could handle it full-time." Without thinking, his eyes drifted to the man on the bed.

"You can do this," Betsy said, rubbing his arm.

"It's Hutch that's got to do it," Starsky said, but he smiled to make sure there was no sting to his words.

"No," she corrected gently, "it's both of you. You're in this just as much as he is." She turned and studied Hutch's sleeping form. "In a lot of ways, it's gonna be harder for you, Davey, than it will be for him."

"I, uh, don't understand."

Betsy patted him on the arm. "You will. You just remember -- you are not alone. You've got me and Pete and Captain Dobey and his family and Huggy Bear ..." She smiled at the name. DK had taken to calling the bear Starsky had given him -- the first bear, not Ollie -- DK called it Huggy. "You've got everyone at the station; none of us are going to let you do this alone."

"I, uh, don't know what to expect," Starsky confessed quietly. "I don't know what I thought he'd be like when I found him. I guess I figured he'd just come back. It would be like it was before. I didn't -- couldn't have -- imagined this."

Pete rose and stood beside Starsky, his hand resting on his shoulder. Betsy moved to join him and he wrapped an arm around her. "We're gonna help, Davey -- all of us. Whatever you need."

"I -- I just ..."

"Davey," Betsy said, waiting for him to look at her, "remember what we told you when we named DK?"

Starsky nodded. "It's about love."

"We love you," she said softly, her hand cupping his cheek. "And you love him. It all connects, Davey."

"Is it enough?" Starsky asked, his voice rough as he rose to his feet and was pulled into an embrace by Pete and his wife.

"Love is always enough," Betsy said, and Starsky nodded, letting his friends hold him while he tried to believe.

After Pete and Betsy left, the nurse came in and checked Hutch's IV, changing the large bag and adding a smaller one that she indicated was antibiotic. Before Starsky could stop her, she shook Hutch, saying, "Let's wake up, Mr. Hutchinson. You need to try to go to the bathroom."

Hutch woke up, eyes blinking sleepily, then he pulled away in panic. Starsky was already around the bed, pushing the nurse out of the way. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he snarled at the woman before he reached out and touched his partner. "Hey, you," he said softly, waiting as the blue eyes blinked again, then focused.

"S-starsk?" Hutch asked as he had every time before. Starsky helped him as he struggled to sit up.

"Yeah, babe, it's me," Starsky replied, "in the flesh." He jerked his head at the woman who was sputtering behind him. "Nurse Ratched here wants you to pee."

Hutch calmed, then nodded, looking around the room. "W-where i-is it?" he asked.

"Where's what?"

"B-bedpan."

"You don't need a bedpan, Mr. Hutchinson," the nurse spoke up. "We need to measure output, but you can just use a urinal."

Hutch's head was swiveling again, searching for something and he was growing agitated. "Easy, buddy," Starsky soothed, "just give me a second to sort things out and we'll figure out what's going on, okay?"

Hutch nodded slowly, then leaned forward, his head resting against Starsky's side. Starsky wrapped his arm around his shoulders and gently stroked the silver-blond hair.

"Is there a reason he can't use a bedpan?" he asked the nurse.

"Well, not really," she replied uncomfortably. "It's just the orders say he can get up and it's a good idea for people, uh, like him, to, uh, get moving as soon as possible."

Starsky's eyes narrowed and his voice was cold as he asked, "And just how many police officers who have been held in isolation for two years and starved nearly to death have you treated, Miss?"

"Well, uh ..."

"Just what I thought. So you don't have a clue what's a 'good idea' for 'people like him,' do you?"

The woman stuck her chin out and said, "We have to measure his output. It's easier if he uses the urinal."

"Easier for who?" Starsky demanded.

The woman didn't answer and Starsky sighed.

"Just get me a bedpan, will you? I'll try and get him to use the urinal, but if the bedpan works -- then you'll just have to deal with it."

"You're not making this very easy for any of us, Mr. Starsky," the woman complained as she moved slowly toward the door.

"I'm not here to make it easy for you, lady," Starsky shot back. "I'm here to make it easy for *him.*"

The door closed and Starsky slowly released Hutch. "Think you're ready to get up? Maybe take a whiz?" When Hutch nodded, he lowered the rail and helped his partner to slide his feet over the side.

The nurse came back in with the requested bedpan, set it on the end of the bed and left without a word.

Hutch looked at it in confusion, then stared around the room. "N-not my r-room," he mumbled.

"Yes, it is. Your new room. You're here with me now, remember?"

Hutch turned and looked at Starsky, eyes lighting up as he drank his presence in. "K-keep forg-getting." Hutch batted his head a couple of times, until Starsky reached out and gently took his hand. "L-like my br-brain d-doesn't want to w-work."

"It'll come, Hutch," Starsky said reassuringly. "Just give yourself some time."

"G-gotta pee."

Starsky laughed. "Well, let's do it then."

Hutch pulled himself to his feet, holding Starsky with one hand and snagging the bedpan with the other. He stumbled a few steps to the corner and dropped to his knees.

"What're you doing, Hutch?" Starsky asked, still holding onto Hutch's arm.

Hutch was pulling his gown out of the way, lining up to hit the bedpan, and as Starsky waited for a reply, Hutch began to pee.

"Guess that means you didn't want to try it in the bathroom, eh, Hutch?" Starsky said with a smile. He waited until the other man had finished then helped him to his feet and led him back to the bed. "You get back in bed and I'll get you a cloth to wash your hands, okay?"

"W-wash?"

"Yeah, Hutch, wash. Remember? You wash your hands when you pee." Hutch just stared at him blankly and Starsky sighed. "It's okay, buddy. I'll show you."

He got a washcloth and wet it, then helped Hutch wash up. Picking up the bedpan, he was moving to transfer its contents into the urinal in the bathroom, when Hutch stopped him.

"L-leave it, S-starsk," he said.

"Why? Don't you want to get it out of here?"

Hutch shrugged. "It'll b-be gone wh-when I w-wake up. A-always is."

Starsky nodded. "I'll just take care of it this time, okay?"

Hutch shrugged again and settled back in the bed.

When Starsky finished in the bathroom, he came out and opened another bottle of water, passing it to Hutch. Hutch drank it all, then passed it back. "Think you can eat some soup?" Starsky asked.

"S-soup?"

"Yeah, soup. Chicken broth and rice. Pete's wife made it."

"S-soup? N-not oatmeal?"

"No, babe. Not oatmeal. Not oatmeal ever again."

Hutch smiled, a real Hutch smile and nodded. "I-I-I can d-do soup."

He managed to eat only about a quarter of the generous serving Betsy had brought before drifting off to sleep again. Starsky took the rest out, asking that it be put in the refrigerator for Hutch for later.

When he came back to the room, he settled in with one of the books that had been left for him. He had books, newspapers, a couple of jigsaw puzzles, crossword puzzles, as well as half a dozen little hand-held metal and wooden brain teasers and a Rubik's cube. Everyone was determined that he would have plenty to do to fill his time while Hutch slept.

He chickened out of calling Hutch's parents, postponing the inevitable until tomorrow, when it wouldn't be so late in Duluth. But he couldn't resist calling his own mother, knowing that even though it was an hour later in New York, she'd probably fly out and kill him if he didn't share the good news right away.

She squealed, then cried, then squealed again, then cried, and then began asking when she could come. Starsky put her off for the time being. He told her Hutch was sick, that he'd been starved but apparently not beaten, and that was all it had taken. The call to provide food was one that Deborah Starsky was not capable of ignoring. They settled on compromise; she'd bake and send care packages for a while, and when Hutch was stronger, she'd be one of the first who could come and see him.

Their conversation ended with her fussing over him like he was ten instead of forty.

"You have to eat, David," she ordered.

"Yes, Ma."

"Don't let yourself get run down. You have to eat and you need to sleep, too. You can't stay up all the time."

"I know that, Ma."

"Ken will understand that you need to sleep now and then. You have friends there, right? People who can stay with him while you take a break?"

"Lots of friends, Ma."

"Because I could come you know, help out ..."

"Not yet, Ma. Give him a little time."

She sighed. "All right. But you take care of yourself as well, Davey, you understand?"

"I will, Ma."

"Ken needs you, but he needs you strong, so you have to take care."

"Ma -- I'm taking care, I promise."

"I just don't want you to forget."

"I won't forget, Ma. Betsy -- Pete's wife? She's almost as insistent as you. Brought me dinner tonight and some soup for Hutch."

"Good girl. You listen to her. And you let Pete take a turn with Hutch, and your Captain and your other friends. They can all take a turn. They *need* the chance to take a turn."

"I will, Ma, when Hutch is ready."

"I mean it, David. I know you love him, but other people do, too. You let them help."

"I will, Ma."

"And just be careful of yourself, Davey. Don't get run down."

"I'm being careful, Ma."

"It's early now, son. But it's going to get rough and you're going to need your strength."

"Ma -- I'll be okay. I'm not going to lose it, I promise."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?"

"I'm sure. I mean, I do want you to come, Ma, just not yet. Hutch'll want to see you -- you know he adores you -- but he's gonna want to be stronger before he has too many visitors. Things are still -- confused -- for him."

"All right. Well, if you're sure."

"I'm sure. Just send some of your apple cookies -- he loves those. Nothing with oatmeal in it though, okay?"

"I heard you the first time, David."

"Oh. Sorry, Ma."

"You'll call me again in a few days?"

"Yeah -- Sunday night."

"Sooner if there's a change."

"Sooner if there's a change, Ma." Starsky sighed. "Look, Hutch is waking up. I better go."

"I love you, David."

"Love you, too, Ma."

"Give Ken a kiss for me."

"I will."

"Bye, Davey."

"Bye, Ma."

It was -- comforting -- and he needed it. The adrenaline surge he'd been riding for weeks was finally starting to burn off and he was feeling a little emotional. Thrilled and excited and scared and confused and furious and vengeful and a hundred other emotions he couldn't name. It was all a little overwhelming, but as always, the gentle back and forth with his mother had soothed him.

Hutch really was waking up and as Starsky hung up the phone he threw back the blankets and began to claw at the flimsy hospital gown, growing more agitated each second until he finally got it off.

"Hutch, Hutch," Starsky said as he reached out to capture the flailing hands in his own. "What's wrong, buddy?"

"N-no," Hutch moaned, "no, no, no!"

"No what, Hutch? What's wrong? Are you hot? Does the gown bother you? What is it?"

"C-an't," Hutch breathed. "N-no -- n-no ..." he paused, head swiveling back and forth as if he wasn't sure where he was, and then his eyes cleared fractionally and he looked up at his partner. "S-starsk?"

"Yeah, babe, still me. I'm still here." He pulled the fluttering hands to his chest, then let the rail down and slid onto the bed with Hutch. "I'm not going anywhere." He wrapped his arms around Hutch and the blond sagged into the embrace, resting his head on Starsky's shoulder.

"S-s-sorry," he whispered. "C-confused."

" 's all right. It'll get better. What confused you?"

"C-covers. N-no c-covers. I-I-I d-don't w-wear ..."

"You didn't have any clothes for a long time, buddy, but that's over. You can wear them now. It's all right."

"P-punish," Hutch muttered darkly. N-no m-m-m-mattress."

"They took your mattress?"

Hutch sat back and nodded grimly. "L-long time."

Starsky thought back to the stark little room. The mattress on the bed had been the only thing Hutch had that might have offered the slightest bit of comfort. And they'd taken it as punishment. His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes, working hard to keep from squeezing his partner too tight.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly, "you're awake now. How about a shower? The doc says if you're up to it, it's okay, and it might make you feel better."

Hutch shook his head, fear filling his eyes.

"Hutch? What's wrong? Don't you want to clean up? Put on some real clothes?"

Hutch shook his head again. "D-drugged." He reached out and weakly gripped Starsky's arms. "No d-drugs, Starsk. P-promise?"

"No, babe," Starsky said reassuringly, "no drugs." He gently touched the IV in Hutch's wrist, scratching at the itchy tape and added, "This is just to help feed you -- vitamins and stuff like that." He decided to avoid mentioning the antibiotics at this point, not sure if Hutch would understand the distinction. "What about the drugs and the shower, Hutch? What happened?"

Hutch shrugged. "Drugs -- a-asleep. W-wake up -- c-clean."

"They bathed you while you were drugged? You never had a bath or a shower awake?"

Hutch shook his head. "N-never s-saw anyone." His eyes filled and he began to shake. "W-was j-just -- a-alone."

Starsky wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a hug. "You're not alone anymore, partner. I'm here. I've got you. You're not going to be alone again." He held the frail form until the shudders eased, then gently laid him back on the pillow. "Tell you what, buddy. It's really late, nearly midnight. How about you eat a snack or something, and we can do the shower tomorrow?"

"A-apple?" Hutch asked, his eyes brightening.

"Apple *sauce,*" Starsky said, agreeing. He retrieved a container of applesauce from the nurse's station, then helped Hutch manage the spoon and was pleased that this time, the blond ate more than half before drifting off to sleep.

Starsky threw the rest away, then wiped Hutch's hands and face with a washcloth, noting that the exhausted man never woke during his ministrations. He washed his own hands and face again, then stood in the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He was exhausted. All the exhilaration and excitement of having found his partner, of finally having him back and knowing that he was alive had run down until nothing was left but a bone-numbing weariness. The enormity of the task before him was daunting. Hutch was so -- broken -- and he had no idea how long it would take to fix him, or if he could be fixed.

Starsky sighed and went back out to the room. The chair folded out into a bed of sorts, and someone had left linens and a pillow for him. He made his makeshift bed, stripped down to just his boxers and slid between the sheets. He lay there for a long time, not able to relax, sleep completely eluding him.

At last he rose and went to stand by Hutch's bed. He looked down at the sleeping man, so frail, so thin, such a shadow of his former self, and Starsky felt the tears well up in his eyes.

"I counted while you were gone, Hutch," he whispered. "I kept a calendar -- marked off the days. I knew you'd come back, knew I hadn't lost you forever." He swallowed hard, straightening his shoulders as he fought the urge to give in and cry.

"You're here, babe," he whispered, one hand gently stroking the nearly translucent skin on a bare arm, before he tucked blankets around it. "And I'm counting again."

"Today was Day 1."

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

Day 2 - Friday, March 20, 1981

It was dark when he woke up; that was the first thing that clued him in that something was different. Not completely dark; a small light cast slight illumination but it was much darker than it was in his room. There, the lights were always on.

He rolled onto his side and hit a barrier, but not the wall. It was some kind of railing. That was the second clue that things were different. He had on some kind of clothing, and there were sheets on the bed and blankets over him. He wasn't cold. Something was stuck in his hand, a tube of some kind that led up to a bag on a pole.

It was all different and it was all scaring the shit out of him.

He yanked at the tube in his arm, pulling it free, then fumbled at the covers and managed to pull himself up to sit. Scooting down, he worked his way around the railing and slid down out of the bed. The bed was much higher than he remembered.

He wasn't in his room anymore.

He must have been moved.

His heart began to race and he was having trouble breathing.

If he wasn't in his room, then he didn't know where he was. He didn't know what would happen. He had clothing and covers, and he wasn't cold, but maybe it was just a trick to break him down. Maybe all of this was designed to lull him into a false sense of security and then they would take it all away again.

He sat on the floor where he'd fallen when he'd slid from the too-high bed. It was cool, and he could feel the warmth leech from his body into the tiles.

He looked around again.

Starsky was laying on a cot or something, sound asleep.

That was different, too.

Starsky didn't sleep when he came to stay with him.

He just sat in his corner and watched.

So why was he here? And why was he sleeping?

Hutch continued to survey the room. There were two doors this time. He picked one at random and crawled toward it. Reaching up, he was shocked when it pulled open at his touch. It was even darker in here and he relished the sensation. The lack of light was oddly soothing and he could almost feel his heart slow down.

This was another room, a small one. Even smaller than his old room. The tile here was cool and it felt familiar to him. His hand was bleeding where he'd pulled the tube out and he stuck it in his mouth absently, while he tugged at the covering he wore and eventually managed to get it off. He looked around to see if he was being observed. He couldn't see anyone but Starsky and he was always there, just watching.

Hutch scratched his head for a minute, a new thought running fleetingly through his mind but refusing to stay still long enough for him to grab it. Something about Starsky being real and talking to him, but he couldn't hold the memory. He couldn't remember much of anything anymore.

Everything all just ran together. He knew there was a time when he lived somewhere other than the room, but it was growing hazier and hazier. He could remember different foods and being with different people, and music -- he remembered music. But when he reached into his memory for words or melody, there was nothing there.

He remembered his job -- he was a cop. He worked with Starsky. Hutch looked back over his shoulder to where the other man slumbered on. He'd lost Starsky somehow, and he'd been put in the room. And then one day, his partner had just been there, quiet and smiling from his place in the corner. He was there for a long time, then he was gone again, and then he was back.

And when he came back, he talked and he touched and he could be touched. He gave him his shirt. Hutch looked down at his naked body and sighed. He wished he still had Starsky's shirt. Something had happened after Starsky had come back -- Hutch had been in the sun. He remembered the sun. It had been warm and had felt so good.

But he'd been so tired.

He'd slept and Starsky had kept talking to him, kept touching him, but now he wasn't talking or touching. Starsky was just laying there. And it was dark. And he was in a different room. He shook his head. It was all so confusing and it made his head hurt.

He needed something familiar.

He needed something to do.

He needed his routine.

Hutch turned his attention to the floor and all the little tiles and began to count.

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

It was a sharp gasp that brought him awake. He was up in an instant, eyes taking in the nurse at the door, the empty bed, and then, the long bare legs that protruded from the bathroom.

"Hutch!" he called, moving quickly to kneel beside the prone form.

Hutch did not respond. He was touching each tile on the bathroom floor and his lips were moving, though no sound escaped.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky said again, gently touching the bare shoulder, "whatcha doing?"

Hutch turned his head slowly, looking at Starsky for a moment, then smiling. "Hey, S-starsky. You're s-still t-talking."

"Yeah, babe, I'm still talking. You know where you are?"

Hutch shrugged, then laid his head on the floor. "N-new r-room?" he mumbled.

"Hospital," Starsky said. He nudged the still form and said, "How 'bout we get you up? Maybe take that shower we talked about earlier?"

"Sh-shower?" Hutch said, his eyes lighting up. "Awake?"

"Yeah, awake." Starsky put his hands under Hutch's arms and lifted Hutch to his feet, wrapping an arm around him for support.

"Mr. Starsky, it's the middle of the night and he needs to be in bed. I'm going to have to restart his IV."

Starsky nodded. "After. Since the thing's out now, let me get him cleaned up, then settled in the bed then I'll call you."

The woman nodded. "I'll get you a stool," she offered. "I don't think he'll make it standing up through a shower."

Starsky smiled gratefully and steered Hutch to the toilet. "You want something to drink?" he asked. Hutch nodded and when the nurse returned with the stool, Starsky asked for a bottle of water and for some of the soup to be heated up. He figured since he was up, Hutch might as well eat.

He got Hutch up, managed to convince him to pee in the bathroom, not the corner he'd used before, and helped him wash his hands. That little activity nearly exhausted the wasted man. Once finished, he helped him pull on the robe that Pete had bought that afternoon.

The nurse returned and Hutch drank his water sitting on the toilet, then let Starsky spoon-feed him another serving of the soup. Once finished, he was nearly asleep where he sat, leaning heavily on Starsky.

"Think you can make it through a shower?" Starsky asked softly, nudging Hutch awake.

"Sh-shower," Hutch nodded, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Starsky started the water running, put the stool in the shower, and checked to make sure he had everything he needed: washcloth, soap, shampoo. He'd been given an electric razor as well, but he figured they'd tackle that particular chore a little later. Bathing was enough of a first step.

He spent a few minutes wondering how he was going to manage this task, then shrugged and stripped himself. He pulled Hutch to his feet, took the robe off and helped him into the shower. Once the blond was seated on the stool, Starsky lathered the washrag and began with Hutch's back. He washed slowly and carefully, continuing to be appalled at how thin and wasted Hutch had become. As he felt every bone, traced each rib, gently lifted the man to his feet so he could wash the non-existent buttocks, he was amazed that Hutch could still walk and talk. He seemed skeletal and Starsky was reminded of pictures he'd seen of concentration camp survivors.

He was only halfway done when Hutch began to fall asleep, leaning precariously to the side. Starsky shifted to support his partner, finishing the shower awkwardly with one hand trying to hold Hutch up while the other washed him.

Body done, he said, "Close your eyes, Hutch, I'm gonna do your hair now." He poured shampoo into his hand and began to rub Hutch's head. The blond moaned and Starsky froze. " 's it hurt, Hutch? Am I hurting you?"

Hutch shook his head. "F-feels nice," he said softly. "M-missed this."

Starsky smiled. "Well, not this exactly, my friend," he said with a chuckle. "Can't say as how you've ever had Mr. Tyrone wash your hair before, but I imagine it does feel good."

"M-missed you," Hutch mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Starsky's eyes filled again. "Yeah, partner," he said softly, leaning over to hug the seated man, "I missed you, too."

He finished Hutch's hair, rinsed it and then turned off the water. Toweling Hutch dry, he wrapped him in his robe and seated him on the toilet again while he dried himself off and skinned back into his shorts. He then dressed Hutch in the new clothes Pete had brought, starting with boxers, then the sweatpants and then a T-shirt and sweatshirt. Last, he pulled a pair of the thick socks over Hutch's still cold feet. "Doesn't that feel better?" he asked, looking up from where he knelt at Hutch's feet.

But there was no reply.

Hutch was asleep again.

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

"Let's call your folks, Hutch," Starsky said when the blond finished his breakfast. He'd eaten a soft scrambled egg and a half a piece of toast, as well as finished another bottle of water.

Hutch frowned at the words. "Y-you think I-I should?"

Starsky nodded, trying for enthusiastic. He wasn't sure what Hutch's parents would say about his sudden reappearance, but he couldn't avoid telling them, so he pasted on a smile for his partner's sake. "Your mom will be thrilled to find out you're okay."

Hutch still looked worried. "I-I d-don't know, S-starsk," he murmured. "Are y-you sure?"

"I gotta let 'em know we found you, babe," Starsky said softly. "If I don't, Dobey'll have to call, or someone else from the department. We gotta tell 'em."

Hutch nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. I-I c-can see th-that."

Starsky raised the bed, then helped Hutch get settled in a sitting position. He dropped the rail, so that he could sit beside him on the bed, then picked up the phone and dialed. It was odd to go through the formalities again, he asking for Mrs. Hutchinson, the maid telling him to hold, the long wait and then, finally, Hutch's mother answering.

"Mr. Starsky? There really is no need for you to continue to call me," she said by way of opening.

Starsky looked at his partner and grinned. "Oh, yes, there is, Mrs. Hutchinson. I found him."

There was a long silence and then, in a disbelieving voice, she said, "Kenneth?"

"Yes, ma'am," Starsky said proudly. "He's weak, and he gets tired easily, but he's right here."

"Kenneth? Really?"

"You wanna talk to him?" Starsky was actually enjoying the woman's discomfiture.

"Please," she whispered and he passed over the phone.

"M-mother?"

"Is that really you, Kenneth?"

Hutch smiled and nodded, then when Starsky nudged him gently, he said, " 's m-me."

"What happened to you?"

Hutch shrugged and again Starsky nudged him. He flushed, then said, "I w-was al-lone."

"Let me talk to Mr. Starsky."

Hutch handed the phone back to Starsky.

"What is the matter with him?" Hutch's mother demanded.

"Uh, maybe I should talk to you later," Starsky said with an uneasy look at Hutch.

"You'll talk to me right now, young man," the woman ordered imperiously. In the background, he could hear a man calling, "Who is that, Katherine?"

"They've found Kenneth, dear." The words came through clearly on the line.

There was the sound of feet shuffling, then a deep male voice said, "This is Elliot Hutchinson. Who is this?"

Starsky frowned, but answered, "David Starsky -- I'm Hutch's partner."

"Let me speak to my son."

Starsky put his hand over the phone and asked Hutch, "You wanna talk to your dad?"

Hutch's face paled and he shook his head.

"He's sleepy right now. He can't talk." Starsky was getting very tired of these people.

"You tell him he will either speak to me on the phone or he'll speak to me in person."

Starsky sighed. This really hadn't been a good idea. He held the phone out and repeated Hutch's father's words.

When Hutch took the phone this time, there was fear on his face. "F-father?"

"Just where the hell have you been for the last two years?"

The words were spoken so loudly that even Starsky could hear them, and he immediately scooted onto the bed and dropped an arm around Hutch, putting his ear by the phone.

"Do you have any idea how worried your mother has been?"

Hutch struggled to sit up straight in the bed as he answered, "Y-yes, S-s-sir."

"And you're stuttering again. What the hell's the matter with you?"

"S-sorry, S-s-sir."

"Oh, for Christ's sake. Just how much of a mess are you in now? Am I going to have to come out there and deal with this?"

Hutch's eyes filled with tears and his mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Starsky pulled him close, easing him down in the bed until the blond head rested in his lap. He yanked the phone away, took a deep breath and said, "This is David Starsky again, Mr. Hutchinson. Your son is not well, but he'll recover. Your presence is not required, and in fact, at this point, I intend to inform his doctors that I am convinced it will be counterproductive. Any decisions that need to be made that Hutch can't make for himself, I'll handle."

"You -- You can't do that!"

"Actually, I can. Your son gave me that legal authority some time back." Starsky took a deep breath again, and stroked the silver-blond hair, cursing himself for having put Hutch through this. "You know, I've always known he wasn't close to his family, but now I see why. You can tell your wife, Sir, that she won't have to worry about me calling again." He hung the phone up, then wrapped his arms around the form huddled against his leg. "I'm sorry, Hutch, I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I really didn't know it was that bad."

Hutch snuffled a bit, then nodded. "N-not al-w-ways like th-that."

"Oh, you mean he's sometimes better?"

Hutch shook his head. "N-n-no," he said, looking up with still fearful eyes, "w-w-worse."

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

The call had exhausted Hutch and he'd soon slept again. When he woke the next time, he'd eaten, then Starsky had tackled shaving him. It was awkward at first, even with the electric razor, but he'd finally managed it by the simple expedient of climbing in the bed -- again -- and sitting behind Hutch. Then he'd been able to shave his partner using the motions he was already familiar with from dealing with his own beard each day.

Hutch had rewarded him with a smile and a shy, "Th-thank you," before drifting off to sleep again.

Starsky was learning to take advantage of Hutch's downtime to sleep himself, so when the phone rang later that afternoon, it woke both of them. He reached out and grabbed it, even as Hutch slapped his hands over his ears.

"Hello?"

"David?"

"Ma?"

"I couldn't wait for Sunday," she said with a laugh. "Can I please speak to him?"

Starsky laughed and said, "Hang on, Ma." He looked at Hutch and asked, "Are you up to talking to my mother? I talked to her last night and she was supposed to wait until Sunday to call, but she couldn't wait."

Hutch grinned and nodded.

"Here he is, Ma. Go easy on him, okay? He's still a little ..." Starsky paused, trying to think of how to describe his weak, disoriented, emaciated, confused partner, and finally settled on, "tired."

"I'm not going to hurt him, David," his mother said crisply and he passed the phone over to Hutch.

"Ken?"

" 'lo," Hutch said, managing the single syllable without a stutter.

Starsky lowered the rail again and crawled back into the bed, listening shamelessly.

"It's so good to hear you, Ken! We've all been worried sick about you."

"G-good to b-be ..." He trailed off and looked around in confusion.

"In the hospital, Hutch," Starsky prompted him. "Remember?"

Hutch nodded. "... here."

"Are you really okay, Ken? Are you in pain? Is there anything I can do?"

"N-no p-pain," Hutch said, smiling.

"Apple cookies!" Starsky hollered into the phone. "You can do apple cookies!"

"I've already made them. They're already in the mail. Now, Ken, you tell that son of mine that I made these cookies for you. Don't you let him eat them all, you hear me?"

Hutch was smiling, totally relaxed as he leaned against Starsky's shoulder and let him share the phone. "M-my c-cookies," he said happily, looking at Starsky.

"Well," Starsky said, teasing, "you still have to share."

"No, he doesn't," Deborah Starsky said curtly. "David, you leave him be. Now, Ken," she said almost without stopping to breathe, "I've been so worried about you, and here you are, sounding like yourself."

Hutch frowned and shook his head. "N-not m-me. S-s-stutter."

"Oh, pshaw! I understand you fine, and that's all that matters, right, Davey?"

"Right, Ma." He looked at Hutch and added, "And I understand you too, babe."

"Now, Kenny," Starsky's mom went on, "I want to come and see you ..."

"Ma, we talked about this," Starsky interrupted. "It's too soon."

"No one asked you, David. I was talking to Ken. Now, Ken, when do you think I should come?"

Hutch was smiling again, almost laughing as he nodded his head, but didn't speak.

"Ma?" Starsky said. "He agrees you can come, but it's still going to have to be a while, okay?"

"Of course, that's okay. Whatever you want, Ken. It'll be okay."

"I-I-I ..."

"Shhh, now," Starsky's mom said. "David? Are you wearing him out? You need to let the man get some sleep. What's he doing, Ken? Keeping you up to keep him company? Well, you just remind him that you need to rest to get your strength back."

"I-I-I ... t-tired."

"Well, of course you're tired. I'm sure you've had a busy day. You just go right on to sleep. But, Ken?" Her voice softened and was filled with love. "Before you go, I just want you to know how very, very happy I am that you're back with us."

"W-want t-t-to see y-you," Hutch forced the words out around a yawn.

"And I want to see you too," Starsky's mother said. "So, you rest and get strong, and I'll be on a plane out there before you know it."

"He's asleep, Ma," Starsky said, settling Hutch against the pillow and pulling a blanket up over him.

"He sounds awful, Davey."

"Yeah. He's really messed up, Ma. Really bad."

"Oh, baby! I'm so sorry. Is he ... will he get better?"

Starsky nodded then said, "Yeah. The docs think there's a good chance. I mean, physically, almost certainly. He just needs to eat and get his strength back."

"But mentally? Emotionally?"

"Aw, Ma -- I just don't know. He's pretty -- destroyed."

"It's okay, Davey. Tell me."

"He can't remember where he is. He can barely communicate. He gets confused so easily. Has flashbacks, or at least I think that's what they are. He just isn't ..."

"Shhh," his mother said, "yes, he is. He's sick. He's hurt. He's tired, and confused, and scared. But he's still your Hutch."

"I feel so guilty, Ma. I never considered, never thought that he could be like this. I just assumed that, you know, when I found him, he'd be okay." He petted the head that had rolled up against him, holding his partner close.

"David, people don't disappear for two years and turn up 'okay.'"

"Yeah, I know, Ma. Pretty dumb, huh?"

"Nothing dumb about it all, David. I would imagine that that image of Ken was a lot of what kept you looking for him, kept you believing."

"I missed him so much, Ma, and now he's right here and I still miss him!" Starsky couldn't help the tears that rolled down his face. "It's like I don't know who this is. He sorta looks like Hutch, but ..."

"It's all right to be sad, Davey," his mother said gently. "Ken is not the only one who's suffered here. I know what you've gone through the last two years, and finding him, well, it's wonderful. It's a miracle. But it's also devastating to see him so broken, such a shadow of himself."

Starsky sniffed. "Yeah. That's it exactly. And then I feel like I'm being ungrateful or something. I mean, I got him back. Am I greedy to want him back the way he was?"

"Not greedy, son, just human."

Starsky wiped at his face. "God, Ma, it hurts so bad!"

"You'll get through it, baby. You're strong. It's okay to be sad, and to miss what you used to have. It's all right to cry and to grieve. You're entitled. But then," her voice hardened, "David Michael, you have to pull yourself together. You picture that image of Hutch, your Hutch, the one you held onto all the time he was gone. You hold that image in your mind and you help him get himself back."

Starsky sniffed again. "Yeah, Ma. Thanks. I can do that."

"Davey?"

"Yeah, Ma?"

"I wish I was there so that I could hold you and hug you and tell you it would be all right."

"Me, too, Ma, me, too."

"You know," Deborah Starsky said quickly with a tease in her voice, "I could always get on a plane ..."

Starsky laughed. "You never give up, do you?"

"Are you okay now, David?" she asked.

He laughed again. "Yeah, Ma, I'm okay."

"It really is okay to cry," she said again.

"I know, Ma. God knows, I've done enough of it lately."

"It's good for you. Let it out and deal with, then you can move on."

"Moving on now, Ma."

"Fine. You give Ken a hug for me, and a kiss, and don't you eat all his apple cookies."

"I will, Ma, and I won't." Starsky hugged the sleeping form beside him and gently kissed his brow.

She laughed. "I love you, David."

"I love you, too, Ma. And Ma? Thanks."

"For what, baby?"

"For loving Hutch, too. He needs it."

"He's easy to love."

"Yeah." Starsky looked at the man who curled next to him in the bed. "Yeah, he is."

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

Deborah Starsky's Apple Cookies

Ingredients

an apple 2 sticks butter (16 tablespoons total) 1 teaspoon baking soda 1.5 cups brown sugar a couple glops of honey or maple syrup 2 eggs 2 tblspns of vanilla cinnamon (add until the dough is a light-brown color) optional nuts 2.5 or so cups of flour

Procedure

Dice apple into cubes about 5-10 mm per side. Lay apple cubes on baking tray. Set oven to around 300 degrees F, and put apple tray in for about 15 minutes or until they are slightly soft. Let apples cool a little before adding them into mixture. Melt butter in a large bowl. Add in everything but the flour and apple pieces. Mix. Add flour and apple pieces. Mix some more. Add extra flour until dough doesn't stick to fingers too much. Drop little clumps of dough onto baking sheet. Bake 9-10 minutes at 375 degrees F.

Don't overcook -- cookies should come out slightly undercooked for that delicious chewy texture.

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

Day 3 - March 21, 1981

He woke up alone again. Back in the cold, little room. No window, no clothes, no blankets or sheets or pillows. No food, no water, no bathroom. No Starsky -- not in a chair, not on a cot, not even sitting in a corner and watching him without talking.

He was all alone again.

He was on the floor -- in what he had come to think of as his corner. There was the corner the bed was in, the corner the bedpan was in, the corner Starsky stayed in, and then there was this one -- his corner.

The tiles were cold on his naked butt, and even with his knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, even when he blew warm breaths into the crevice there, he couldn't get warm. It was like all the heat had been stolen from him. He couldn't remember the last time he had been warm.

And he was thirsty.

The food and water hadn't been coming as regularly of late, and he was beginning to miss it. His mouth was dry, his head ached, his belly was empty.

He was scared.

Scared he was going to die, all alone, forgotten, in this cold, white room.

He began to rock, just a soft shifting back and forth on the floor, but before long, it had increased in intensity and he was not just rocking, he was banging his head against the wall.

Wham!

Wham!

Wham!

"Hutch!"

He stopped for a minute, eyes shut as he listened. It had almost sounded like someone was talking to him, but there was only silence and he began to rock again.

Wham!

Wham!

Wham!

"Turn the damned lights back off!"

He pulled up short, stopped again, and listened. Still nothing. But he could feel something -- *someone* -- touching him.

He shivered.

It had been so long since anyone had touched him.

"Can you open your eyes for me, babe?"

He screwed up his face, thinking about the words. Someone talking to him. Someone touching him. He had to be dreaming, right?

He was alone in the cold, white room. He'd been alone for a long, long time and there was no reason to believe he was ever going to get out.

He was losing his mind, if he hadn't already lost it. He started rocking again.

Wham!

He was caught in strong arms, pulled close to a broad chest.

"Please, Hutch!" the voice begged. "Open your eyes and talk to me!" Gentle hands rubbed his back, stroked his hair.

He rocked in the arms, eyes closed, soaking up the illusory warmth and comfort. He could just stay here -- this was nice. If he could stay here, and feel warm, and have someone hold him and touch him and make him feel good -- well, if he could have that, he didn't care if he was mad.

"Hutch! Please!"

The voice was more insistent and he risked opening one eye.

The room was dark. He frowned. That wasn't right. It was never dark in the room. He rocked harder.

He tried to remember.

He'd dreamed, hadn't he? Dreamed that Starsky had finally come? That he'd been in the sun, and there'd been a warm, soft bed, and food -- applesauce! -- and Starsky touched him and talked to him, told him it was over and he was okay.

But it had just been a dream, hadn't it? Like any of the hundreds of other dreams he'd had?

"Hutch, babe -- you're scaring me. Please, please, wake up!"

He pried open the other eye and looked around the dark room. He stopped rocking and risked a look up, a look at the face that belonged to the arms that held him.

"Starsk?" he asked tentatively, afraid there would be no answer.

Starsky breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, Hutch, it's me. You awake now?"

"I'm d-dreaming," Hutch said. "This c-can't be real."

"What? What can't be real?"

Hutch waved at the room, at Starsky, at the clothes he wore and the blanket his partner had wrapped around him. "This. I-I dream this all the time. You come. Y-you finally come and get me. We leave. S-sometimes we go home. Sometimes we come here -- to the hospital." He shook his head sadly. "B-but it never lasts. I always wake up and it's all gone and I'm a-alone again."

Starsky pulled him close, cradling the too-thin body against his chest. "Not a dream, Hutch," he said softly. "It's real this time."

Hutch shook his head. "No," he said, fear in his voice, "I can't b-believe that." He began to rock again, and only Starsky's grip kept him from banging his head against the wall once more.

"Hutch, shhhh," Starsky soothed, rocking with him but keeping him safe. "It's all right. You don't have to be afraid."

Hutch stopped rocking suddenly and tried to pull away.

Starsky let him go, reluctantly.

Hutch stared at him, his eyes vivid blue pools of fear and desperation. "I can't believe, Starsky," he whispered, "I j-just can't." He stretched out one hand and latched onto Starsky's arm.

Starsky reached out, placing a hand on each side of Hutch's face, gently holding him in place. "Why can't you believe, Hutch? Why can't you believe it's over?"

Hutch took a deep breath, then slowly let his head fall forward until his forehead rested against Starsky's chest, just below his chin. "Because," he said, still whispering, "if I wake up and it's not r-real, I think I will die. I can't do it anymore. I just can't. I can't be a-alone." The last word was broken by a sob, and Hutch wept.

Starsky wrapped his arms around him, gathering him close again, and said, "It's real, Hutch. I promise. It's over and you gotta trust me on this. You're not dreaming."

He shifted carefully and rose to his feet, bringing Hutch with him. Hutch never let him go. Starsky gently led the other man back to the bed, turning him to sit, then sliding him in and helping him to lay down until he was comfortably settled, head on pillow, blankets pulled up.

He gently broke Hutch's grasp on his arm, saying, "I'll be right back." He darted to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, wetting it in cold water, and then returned. Hutch immediately latched onto him again. He sponged Hutch's face, lingering over his eyes and mouth, then set the cloth aside and lifted a cup, holding the straw to Hutch's mouth and saying, "Drink." To his surprise, Hutch did.

"Good, Hutch, good," he murmured as he refilled the cup and held it out again.

The nurse at the door, the one who had turned on the lights at the sound of Hutch banging his head, called softly, "Do I need to call Dr. Patel, Mr. Starsky?"

"No," Starsky replied, his attention still on Hutch.

"It's real?" Hutch asked again, his hand tightening on Starsky's arm. "You promise?"

"I promise," Starsky answered, stroking Hutch's hair.

"Do I need to call Dr. Barot?" the nurse asked.

Starsky paused, studying Hutch. He was relaxing, the panic in his eyes had receded and the tension in his body was lessening. He still clutched Starsky's arm, but the fevered desperation was fading. "No," he finally said. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"All right," the woman said. "Do you need anything?"

He shook his head. "No, thanks. I think we'll be okay now." He looked at Hutch. "Won't we, partner?"

Hutch just stared at him.

Starsky heard the door shut, but ignored it, never taking his eyes off Hutch. "You're all right now, Hutch," he murmured soothingly. "It's all over. You're here with me and I ain't gonna let anyone hurt you, you got that?"

Hutch nodded, but didn't release his grip. "Stay with me, Starsk," he begged. "Please stay with me."

Starsky nodded and climbed into the bed, wrapping himself around the other man. "I'm right here, Hutch," he whispered. "You ain't ever gonna be alone again."

The next time the nurse came in to check on Hutch, they were both sleeping in the bed. She woke Starsky carefully, and said, "Dr. Barot is here. He wants to talk to you outside."

Starsky nodded and gently disentangled himself from Hutch, then rose, his back cracking sharply from the cramped sleeping arrangement. He stepped to the door and waited until the tall, dark-haired man looked his way.

"Ah," Dr. Barot said as he approached, "Mr. Starsky. I understand you had a rough night."

Starsky shrugged. "A little. Hutch had a really bad flashback. It took a while to convince him all this..." he gestured around him vaguely, "was real."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Starsky shrugged again. "He thought he was back in the room -- thought this ..." he gestured again, "was all a dream."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said he couldn't stand to be alone again." Starsky frowned as he remembered Hutch's desperate plea. He replayed the events in his mind, a smile slowly crossing his face as he remembered. "Hey, Doc," he said, "he wasn't stuttering last night!"

"At all?" the doctor asked.

Starsky pursed his lips and thought. "A little, maybe, but nothing like before." He looked at the doctor. "What do you think it means?"

The doctor was smiling. "I think it means, that despite his flashbacks and moments of doubt and insecurity, Mr. Hutchinson is beginning to trust that he is really here and his ordeal is over." He patted Starsky on the shoulder. "I think, Mr. Starsky, that it is a very good sign."

Starsky nodded and went back into the room with a much lighter heart. He was grinning and couldn't seem to stop. He walked to the bed and looked down at his sleeping partner and murmured, "Oh, yeah, babe -- you're gonna get well. We'll beat this yet."

The phone rang and he hustled to answer it, picking it up before the first ring ended. "Hello?"

"Starsky? Dobey here."

"Oh, hey, Cap'n." Starsky shifted into full alert, his eyes flicking once to check on Hutch before he focused totally on the phone call. "What's going on?"

"How's Hutch? He sleep all right? He need anything?" the Captain asked gruffly.

Starsky chuckled softly. "Nah -- he's good. Had a bit of a rough time last night, but we got through it. He's sleeping now."

"Good, good," Dobey said. "You need anything, Starsky? Something to read? A magazine?"

Starsky looked at his pile of books, magazines, puzzles, and games and smiled. "Nah - I'm good, too, Cap. What's up?"

Dobey sighed. "Todd Mitchell. They picked him up at the barn the night after you got Hutch out."

Starsky stiffened, listening intently.

"We've had him for over twenty-four hours, but he's not talking."

"You gotta let me talk to him, Cap," Starsky said. "He'll talk to me."

"Yeah," Dobey replied, "I was thinking the same thing. But, Starsky," he added warningly, "don't make me regret calling you."

Starsky snorted. "I gotta get someone up here to stay with Hutch."

"How about Ferguson?"

Starsky shook his head as he said, "Nah -- Hutch doesn't know him that well yet. He was just another uniform when Hutch went missing." He looked at his watch, then grinned. "I think it's about time the Bear was getting up, don't you?"

"Just get down here, Starsky," Dobey grumbled. "Let's get this over with."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and be sure and tell Hutch I called. I'll stop by and see him again soon. Don't want him to think we don't care."

"He knows, Cap'n. I explained that the docs think it's best he doesn't have too many visitors until he's feeling better. He understands." Starsky sighed. "I think that's part of what's so hard for him. He *does* understand. He knows that the way he's behaving, the way he's reacting, it's not normal, and he feels helpless to stop himself. He remembers what he was like and can't help how he is now." Starsky swallowed hard. "It scares him, Cap."

"He'll get better, Starsky," Dobey reassured him. "Today's only the third day he's been back. Tell him to give himself some time."

"I do. I tell him that all the time. He just gets -- frustrated." Starsky shook himself, then sighed again. "Anyway ... let me call Huggy and get him over here, then I'll be in."

"Is Ferguson there yet?"

"He wasn't when I talked to the doctor a few minutes ago. Why? You want him to come with me?"

"No," Dobey replied. "I want him to stay there. This protective custody is more than just a beard to allow you to stay in the room with Hutch. If you're not going to be there, I want someone I trust with him. And it's not that I don't trust Huggy ..."

"No, Cap, you're absolutely right. I agree. And Huggy will understand."

"Then make your phone calls and get your butt over here now!" Dobey said, hanging up the phone.

Starsky chuckled again and placed the phone back in the cradle. He stepped to the bed, smoothing Hutch's hair and tucking the blanket around him before he moved into the bathroom and quickly went through his morning routine. He forewent a shower, but washed his face and hands, shaved, and brushed his teeth, then ran a comb through his unruly mane. He rummaged in the gym bag of clothing that Pete had brought and changed into a clean shirt, then settled into the chair and put on clean socks.

Rising once more, he lifted the phone and called Huggy. The phone rang fifteen times before a very tired voice answered and said, "This had better be good."

"Huggy?"

"Starsky?" The voice was instantly wide-awake. "Is Hutch okay? Is something wrong? Do you need something?"

"Yes, Hutch is okay. No, nothing is wrong. And yes, I need a favor."

"Anything, man -- ask and ye shall receive."

"I gotta go in to the station for a few hours. I need you to come stay with him."

"You got it. You want I should bring breakfast?"

Starsky could hear the other man pulling on clothes even as they spoke. "Breakfast would be good. Something simple. Maybe those muffins Hutch likes."

"Yeah, yeah," Huggy agreed distractedly, "from that place over on 23rd. I can do that." He paused a moment, then went on in a disgusted tone, "Next time, give me a little notice. I'll *make* the muffins. Do you know how embarrassing it is for me show up with food from another place?"

Starsky laughed. "Aw, Hug, that's never stopped you before. Remember Dobey and the wonton soup?"

Huggy laughed. "Yeah, well, my man, I was just trying to, um, *impress* the captain."

"It worked," Starsky replied. "So just put the muffins in a bag from your place -- I'll never tell."

Starsky heard a muffled snort, and then Huggy was back. "All right. I'm dressed. I'll go by the bakery and be there in, uh, thirty minutes?"

"That's fine, Hug," Starsky responded. "I've still got to get Hutch cleaned up so we've got some time."

"See you soon then," Huggy said.

"Yeah. Thanks, Huggy."

"Anything for Hutch, man, you know that."

"Yeah, I do know." Starsky hung up the phone with a glance at the bed and was surprised to see two blue eyes studying him. "Hey, you," he said, stepping over to lay a hand on Hutch's arm. "You're awake."

Hutch nodded. "I-I think I am. I dreamed, didn't I?" He lifted a hand and touched his head, and Starsky suddenly wondered if Hutch had hurt himself banging into the wall in the night.

"You okay?" he asked in concern, reaching out to run his fingers lightly over Hutch's head. There was a slight bump, but the skin had not been broken.

Hutch nodded, then lifted his hand. "IV itches."

Starsky lowered the bed rail and sat facing Hutch, taking his hand into his lap and gently scratching at the tape around the IV. "Look, Hutch," he said softly, "Huggy is coming over in a little while."

Hutch smiled. "Good. I miss -- m-missed him."

"He's bringing muffins from that bakery over on 23rd. The one you like so much?"

"Banana?" Hutch asked, still smiling.

"Banana, blueberry, pineapple. He'll bring a bunch." Starsky continued to scratch at Hutch's hand, but his eyes skittered around the room.

"S-starsk?" Hutch asked, worry apparent in his voice. "What's wr-wrong?"

Starsky shook himself, then placed Hutch's hand on top of the blanket and reached for the water pitcher. He poured some into the cup, then held it out to Hutch and watched approvingly as Hutch drank through the straw. "You know what you just did, don't you?" he asked when Hutch was done.

Hutch just looked confused.

"You drank from the cup, buddy, instead of a bottle. You used the straw."

Hutch smiled for a moment, then snorted in disgust. "S-sounds like I'm a b-baby -- drinking from a c-cup, instead of a b-bottle."

"It's a step, Hutch. The doc said you had to start with baby steps, so maybe this is just one of those baby steps."

Hutch threw his arm over his eyes and turned his head away. "D-don't know why I'm like this," he said in frustration. "J-just want to be m-me again."

Starsky gently turned the blond head back to look at him, removing the arm and taking the hand back into his lap. "You are you. And look at how much better you are already. You've been through a lot, you know that, babe. You're not going to be back to normal right away. You've got to eat, gain your weight back. Sleep, get your strength back. And be patient with yourself."

"So I get myself back, right?" Hutch asked with a wry smile that seemed so Hutch-like, Starsky thought for a moment he might cry.

He settled for swallowing hard and nodding. "Yeah. You'll be back to normal -- it's just going to take some time. And you gotta be patient with yourself."

"Frustrated," Hutch muttered.

"Are you listening to yourself?" Starsky asked.

"Huh?"

"You're not stuttering -- hardly at all."

"I'm not?"

"No, and Dr. Barot says that's because, uh, subconsciously, you're beginning to believe that it's over and you're safe now."

Hutch thought about that for a minute, then nodded and grasped Starsky's hand. "I'm with you," he said simply.

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

Starsky stepped into the interrogation room. He moved over to the table, turned a chair around and sat down, placing a couple of cans of Coke and a candy bar on the table. "Hi," he said.

Todd Mitchell looked at him skeptically, but responded with a quiet, "Hi."

"You want anything?" Starsky asked. "Soda, candy bar, that kind of thing?"

"Are you the good cop?" Mitchell asked suspiciously.

Starsky stared at him for a long moment then slowly shook his head. "Oh, no. I am not the good cop. I am definitely not the good cop. I am so far from the good cop, they don't even know what to call me."

Mitchell drew back at the icy coldness of Starsky's words, then looked around the room frantically.

"Where, uh, where'd the other guy go?"

Starsky just shook his head. "You sure you don't want something?" he asked again, his voice no longer cold and deadly.

Mitchell shook his head.

"Where's the other guy?"

"Nobody here but us, Todd. Just you and me." His voice grew cold again as he added, "And you know who I am."

Mitchell shook his head.

"Sure you do, Todd," Starsky said, his voice warm again. "C'mon now, say it with me -- 'not the good cop.'"

Mitchell's eyes were wide and he swiveled his head, looking over at the large mirror that took up most of one wall. "They're watching us, right? Watching you."

Starsky shook his head again. "Just you and me, buddy," he said. "Nobody needs to watch us." He opened the candy bar slowly, broke off a piece and held it out.

Mitchell shook his head.

Starsky shrugged and popped it in his mouth. "You know," he said slowly, "funny thing about eating. You can choke and never even know why. I mean ..." he rose to his feet and began to move around the table, "we eat all the time. It's almost a -- reflex. So what happens when suddenly, it goes down wrong or gets stuck in our throat, and we choke?" He stood next to Mitchell and laid one hand on his shoulder. "Have you ever thought about that?"

Mitchell had broken out in a sweat, and he lifted one hand and wiped his face. "I want a lawyer," he said, his voice shaking.

Starsky shrugged. "I want world peace, but hey, you know how it is. We can't all have what we want."

"I asked for a lawyer," Mitchell whined. "I know my rights. You gotta stop talking to me until he gets here."

Starsky shrugged again. "I can't help you right now," he said. "I'm not allowed to leave you unattended in this room, and there's no one here to relieve me, or to take your request to the public defender." He leaned down close and said, "Guess you'll just have to put up with me for a while longer."

"Who are you?" Mitchell demanded, trying to work up his own courage by being aggressive.

"I told you," Starsky said and he reached out and gently slapped Mitchell's cheek. "I." Slap. "Am." Slap. "Not." Slap. "The." Slap. "Good." Slap. "Cop." Slap.

Though the blows had been gentle, tender even, Mitchell's eyes were full of fear.

"Think you can remember that now, Todd?"

"What do you want?"

Starsky sat again, holding out the candy bar once more. "You sure you don't want some of this? I mean, I don't want you to worry about choking or anything. Not because of anything I said. I know that Heimlein, Heimler, uh," Starsky snapped his fingers, "*Heimlich* maneuver. So if anything happened, I could help you." Starsky's face grew thoughtful as he watched Mitchell. "Of course, you know, sometimes people's ribs get broken from that. You can push too hard and actually *rupture* their internal organs. Who'd have imagined that? But," he made a gesture as if waving the words away, "I'm sure that wouldn't happen to you."

"What do you want?" Mitchell asked again.

"You had a man ...." Starsky said, the words hanging heavy in the air between them.

"I didn't hurt him!" Mitchell cried. "I never did nothing to him."

Starsky's eyes were hard and cold. "I want to know who hired you."

Mitchell shook his head.

"Todd, Todd, Todd," Starsky said, disappointment evident in his tone, in the way he held his body. "Have you forgotten who I am?"

Mitchell looked up warily. "Uh ...."

"C'mon, Todd, say it."

"Youarenothegoodcop," Mitchell mumbled.

"Say it again, Todd -- a little louder, please."

"Youarenothegoodcop," Mitchell repeated, not quite as softly.

"Now, one more time, Todd, and this time, let me *hear* the words."

Mitchell glared angrily at him, then said, "You are not the good cop."

"Very good!" Starsky said, smiling like a proud parent as he praised the man. He leaned back in the chair, propped his feet up on the table and asked, "And if I'm not the good cop, then who am I?"

Mitchell looked up. "Uh ... the bad cop?"

Starsky shook his head. "You weren't listening, Todd," he said, opening one of the cans and taking a long swallow. "What did I tell you?" He held the other can out, and Mitchell shook his head frantically. "Now, who am I?"

"Far, uh, far beyond the bad cop?"

"Very good," Starsky purred, sipping the cold drink. "And they told me you weren't very smart." He shook his head sadly. "I really need to have better evaluations from my people before I come in to do these -- interviews. I mean," he looked at Mitchell with cold, hard eyes, "they led me to believe you're not very smart, but you know what, Todd? I don't think that's true. I think that when you realize that the man you were holding is a cop, that he's in the hospital right now, and he's pretty bad off, and that I'm his partner -- well, Todd, I think you're just going to *want* to tell me who hired you."

"I, uh, I told you. I never hurt the guy."

"What was that, Todd?" Starsky rose and advanced slowly around the table. "I couldn't hear you. It sounds to me like -- you're choking. Yeah, you're choking." He reached out and grabbed the man, wrapping his arms around him and lifting him from the chair. "Here," he said, "let me help you with that." He squeezed.

Mitchell began to struggle, but he couldn't scream because he couldn't get any air.

"Who hired you, Mitchell?" Starsky asked, his mouth at the man's ear.

Mitchell waved his arms and kicked.

"What was that, Todd? I couldn't hear you." Starsky squeezed harder.

Mitchell's movements were beginning to slow.

Starsky released the tension fractionally and asked again, who hired you?"

"You. Can't. Do. This," Mitchell panted.

"Do what?" Starsky countered. "Try and save the life of a suspect who choked on a piece of candy? Shit, man, I'd lose my job if I didn't try to help." He tightened his hold again. "Who hired you?"

Mitchell's arms waved again, and Starsky let him breathe. "George. George Rizzo."

Starsky let him go and Mitchell collapsed to the floor.

"You need anyone to come and look at you, Mitchell?" he asked solicitously as he sauntered toward the door. "You want a doctor?"

Mitchell clutched his throat, breathing heavily, but shook his head.

"You still want that lawyer?" Starsky asked as he opened the door and a uniform slipped in.

Mitchell just glared at him.

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

Day 8 - Thursday, March 25, 1981 -- Starsky's birthday

The room was crowded -- Dobey and his wife, Huggy, Pete and Betsy, and of course, Starsky. Hutch was on a pass to the waiting room for Starsky's birthday. Cal and Rosie Dobey were there, as was little DK Ferguson. Hutch had walked down on his own, one hand towing his IV pole, and the other only needing to reach out for Starsky's arm a couple of times to keep his balance. He was hugged and kissed by both Edith and Rosie, while the teenaged Cal had restricted himself to a firm handshake.

Everyone laughed when DK toddled over to Hutch, looking up and up and up until he finally met his eyes, and promptly lost his balance and landed on his butt. His well-padded butt. It didn't faze him for a minute; he just reached out and grabbed Hutch's pant leg and pulled himself to his feet again. "I know how you feel, kid," Hutch said with a smile as he moved to sit down.

It was the first time he'd been out of the hospital room for something other than tests. He sat quietly, enjoying the hubbub, but not really participating. At times, it was almost too much - too many people, too much movement, the laughter too loud -- but every time he felt he couldn't take another minute, it would quiet, and Starsky would appear beside him, the others seeming to know to back off and give him space.

There were presents and cake and ice cream, and Hutch was very annoyed that cake and ice cream were *not* on his list of approved foods. Despite several pleas and numerous pitiful looks, the best he was able to do was one very tiny bite of cake which Starsky let him sneak.

At one point, while Dobey, Starsky, Huggy, Pete and Cal were having a rather boisterous discussion on the Lakers' chances for the playoffs, and Edith and Rosie were busy with the baby, Betsy Ferguson came and sat quietly beside Hutch.

"You're P-pete's wife," he said, and she nodded. "H-he's Starsky's new p-partner." Hutch wasn't able to keep the bitterness from his voice, but she just shook her head.

"He's a new detective," she said, pride in her voice. "One of the youngest ever. But," she turned and looked at Hutch, "he's never been Davey's partner. That job is filled."

Hutch smiled at her words, then murmured, "Davey?"

She blushed a little, then nodded. "It's his name, isn't it?"

"I-I call him Starsky," Hutch said softly.

"I know," Betsy replied, "and it didn't seem right for Pete to call him that, too. That's *your* name for him. We call him Davey."

Hutch's eyes filled with tears and Betsy looked away, calling, "Hey, Davey, I think Ken is getting tired."

Immediately, Starsky was at his side, pulling him to his feet. "Good night, folks," he said as he walked to the door with Hutch. "Thanks for coming over tonight."

"Glad to be here."

"Happy Birthday, Davey."

"Good to see you, Hutch."

"See you tomorrow."

The words filled the air, but Hutch was suddenly focused on one thing, getting back to the safety of his room. He moved as quickly as he could without losing his balance, and breathed an audible sigh of relief when he was in his bed with the door shut.

"You okay, Hutch?" Starsky asked in concern, taking in the abnormally pale face, the light sheen of sweat that streaked Hutch's brow. "What happened?"

"It was j-just -- too much," Hutch said, his hands raised in a gesture of helplessness. "Too many people, too much noise." He smacked his fist on his leg. "I w-was panicking."

Starsky moved to sit by him. "No, you weren't, Hutch. You were fine. And it was a lot -- a lot of people, a lot of noise. It's okay that it was hard for you."

Hutch pouted and replied petulantly, "D-didn't use to be hard for m-me."

"Things are different now, babe," Starsky said softly, no accusation in his voice. "You have to give yourself time. It's only been a week."

Hutch hit his leg again, and Starsky took his hand. "Hey," he said gently, "stop beating up on my partner. I may have to hurt you." He turned the fist in his hand and scratched around the tape holding the IV in place, knowing it was a source of constant irritation to Hutch.

"What if -- wh-what if I n-never ...?" Hutch let the question hang, unfinished.

"You will," Starsky said firmly. "Look at you. You walked down to the waiting room by yourself."

Hutch rolled his eyes.

"And you've already gained three pounds, Hutch. That's great progress. The docs are really pleased."

Hutch turned his head and looked away, but Starsky gently cupped his cheek and turned his face back to meet his eyes. "You have to be patient. You can't give up."

"T-tired," Hutch said, his eyes closing.

"Then sleep," Starsky replied, tucking the blankets around his partner. "You'll feel better tomorrow."

" 'm sorry," Hutch mumbled.

"For what, babe?"

"D-didn't get you a p-present."

Starsky leaned over and hugged the man in the bed. "Oh, yes, you did. The best present of all. I'm holding it now and I ain't ever letting go."

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

Day 14 - Thursday, April 2, 1981

"C'mon, Hutch," Starsky said, fighting for patience. "You need to take a shower."

"I said I don't want to!"

"At least come in the bathroom, wash your face, brush your teeth, shave?"

"I-I don't want t-to get up. Why are y-you always p-pushing me, Starsky?"

Starsky took a deep breath. "I'm not pushing, Hutch, but you know you need to do this."

Hutch didn't respond. His eyes were closed and he had his arms folded over his chest as he lay in the bed.

"Fine. You don't want to clean up, then don't." Starsky wheeled the table over and opened the breakfast tray. "Why don't you eat then?"

Hutch pushed it away. "Not hungry."

Starsky bit his lip for a minute then forced a smile. "Look -- you've already gained five pounds. That's great progress, but you gotta keep eating to keep gaining."

"I d-don't want it! Wh-what's wrong with you, S-Starsky? Y-you can't h-hear?"

"Hutch -- you know you gotta eat. What's wrong? You want something else?"

"W-want to g-go h-home," Hutch said stubbornly.

"You know you can't go home till you gain some more weight. You're still too sick."

"N-not sick, S-starsky!" Hutch shoved the tray again, pushing until it fell on the floor. "S-sick of this!" He waved at the room, the bed, himself. "W-want to g-go home!"

"Well, you can't!" Starsky said in frustration. "You're too weak! You have to stay here and you damn well better start taking care of yourself -- clean up when you're told to, eat what you're given. If you ever want to get home, you better do something about that attitude you're developing!"

The door opened and Pete Ferguson peeked in. "Uh, hey guys. Everything okay?" He stared pointedly at the food and tray on the floor.

"No, everything is *not* okay," Starsky said angrily. "Hutch has decided to act like he's DK's age, instead of like a grown man, and I'm getting pretty damned sick of it!"

"Y-you're so s-s-sick of me, then g-get out!" Hutch pulled the pillow from behind his head and heaved it at Starsky. "Just g-get out and l-leave me a-al-lone!"

"You want to be left alone? Fine! I can do that! I can leave you so much alone, you'll think you're back in that godforsaken little room!" Starsky turned on his heel and marched to the door. "You want alone?" he said staring back at the man in the bed. "You got it!"

Pete's head swiveled. He stared at Hutch, watching as his eyes grew huge and tears welled, then he turned to stare after Starsky as he stalked down the hall. He ran a hand through his unruly shock of red hair, stared after Starsky again, then stepped into the room. "How about I clean this up?" he asked softly as he knelt and began to pick up the broken plate and silverware that had fallen when Hutch shoved the tray.

Hutch didn't respond. His head was turned to one side and Pete could hear him crying. He didn't know what to do. Should he go to the man in the bed, try to comfort him? Go after the man in the hall? Try to comfort *him?* Pete ignored the quiet sniffling for as long as it took to finish the clean up, then went in the bathroom and brought out a wet washcloth.

He walked to the bed and held it out, but Hutch didn't acknowledge him. "Uh, Ken?" he asked quietly, reaching out to touch the blond's shoulder.

Hutch looked up slowly, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. "S-starsk?" he asked, his voice broken from his tears.

Pete shook his head. "Pete. Pete Ferguson. You remember me?" He held out the washcloth again.

Hutch nodded miserably, but took the rag and scrubbed his face. "He left me," he said softly.

"He'll be back."

"I-I told him t-to go."

"He'll still be back."

"He's g-getting tired of this." Hutch waved at the room and at himself. "W-wants his partner back."

Pete ran his hands through his hair again. He felt wildly out of his depth. "He's got his partner back. He's got you."

"N-no good," Hutch muttered. "H-he needs s-someone who c-can back him up." He looked up at Pete. "Someone like y-you."

Pete lifted his hands in surrender and backed a step away. "No way, man," he said with a smile. "I just worked with him while you were gone. You're the only one who can put up with him full-time."

Hutch smiled. "N-not so hard."

"No, it's not," Pete said as he stepped back to the bed. "You two have a system, a routine." He patted Hutch's shoulder. "It'll be all right."

"I st-still gotta stop b-being weird."

"You're not weird, Ken," Pete said. "You're sick."

"Not s-sick," Hutch said insistently.

"Okay, so you're not sick," Pete agreed. "But you're not well, either." He leaned forward and said earnestly, "You went through a lot, Ken. A lot of people wouldn't have made it out as intact as you are. But you can't get well overnight. You gotta give yourself time. Give yourself a break."

"And S-starsk?"

"Yeah, him, too," Pete said, nodding. "He hasn't left this room for two weeks, except to walk down the hall and go to the station that one time. He needs a break."

Hutch reached up and clutched at Pete's shirt. "I d-don't want to be alone," he said, pleading.

"I know," Pete replied, patting his hand. "I'm gonna call someone to come and visit for a while, okay? Maybe Huggy? The Captain?"

Hutch didn't speak, but he nodded minutely.

"Then when they get here, I'm gonna go find that partner of yours. I've got an idea of just what he needs. I'll have him back in three or four hours, okay? Can you handle that?"

"H-have to," Hutch mumbled, his eyes blinking rapidly as he fought sleep.

"No, you don't," Pete said softly, reaching out to touch Hutch again, waiting until he had his attention. "If I go out in the hall and get him, he'll come back in here, no questions asked. But," Pete raised a hand to silence Hutch, "I can't guarantee that next time it won't be him throwing the tray on the floor. He just needs a little break, Ken. Can you see that? It doesn't mean he's deserting you, he just needs a break."

"I know," Hutch agreed. "Just -- t-take care of him for me, please?" His eyes closed and he was quickly asleep, exhausted by the morning's emotions.

"We'll take care of him together," Pete murmured to the sleeping man. "That's what partners do."

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

"Are you sure he's okay with this?" Starsky asked again.

"The Captain's with him and Huggy is cooking up something special for him and when that's done, he's coming over. He's gonna be fine." Pete stopped at a red light and looked over at Starsky. "You needed to get out of there for a little while."

Starsky dropped his head, running his hand through his hair. "I can't believe I did that..." he said softly, shame in his voice.

"Did what?" Pete asked as he pulled forward and turned right. "Acted human?" He watched the other man out of the corner of his eye. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, Davey, but, uh, you *aren't* a saint."

Starsky made a fist and lifted his hand as if he were going to punch the roof of the car. Pete reached out and captured his arm, saying, "Hold that thought." He pulled into a parking spot, adding, "We're here."

"The gym?" Starsky asked.

Pete nodded. "Yeah. You have way too much energy locked up in you after being cooped up in that room for two weeks. You need to let loose a little." He stared pointedly at the arm he still clasped in his hand. "And I'd really prefer you let loose on something other than my car."

Starsky relaxed and dropped his arm, and Pete let him go. "It's a nice thought, Pete," he said, "but I really don't want to go in there with all those other people. I'm just not up for that."

"No one's there," Pete said. "I called Vinnie and he's shut the place down for a couple of hours."

Starsky stared at him. "How'd you work that?"

Pete shrugged. "He owes me, from back when I was on the beat. I just decided to collect today."

Starsky got out of the car, staring at the old building warily. "This is really more of Hutch's thing than mine."

Pete came around the car, a gym bag in hand, then grabbed the arm of Starsky's jacket and towed him toward the door. "Just come in and try it. If it's not what you need, we'll leave. We can always go somewhere else, do something else."

Starsky nodded and followed him in.

True to Pete's word, the place was deserted. Pete went by the equipment locker and grabbed a couple of gloves, then continued to nudge Starsky forward. They ended up in the locker room, and Pete tugged a sweatsuit out of the bag he was carrying. "Here," he said, holding it out. "Change."

Starsky quirked his mouth in an 'I'm not so sure about this' motion, but took the proffered clothes and began to change. A few minutes later, sweats on, Pete was holding out the gloves.

Starsky shook his head. "I don't want those."

"You'll need them to protect your hands."

Starsky shook his head again.

Pete shrugged and dropped the gloves. "Suit yourself."

They walked out of the locker room and Starsky headed for the heavy bag, hanging off by itself to the side of the ring. He walked up and studied it for a moment, then swung at it half-heartedly.

"That's no good," Pete said, appearing on the other side and bracing the bag. "You have to really nail it."

"I feel silly."

"What would you do if it was Todd Mitchell?"

Starsky lifted a fist and plowed into the bag.

Pete's eyebrow lifted. "That's it? That's all you'd do?"

Starsky swung again, then said, "I told you, I feel silly."

"You think Hutch felt silly, being kept naked all the time?"

"Don't ..." Starsky said, his voice a warning.

Pete pushed the bag and it swung into Starsky, knocking him back several steps.

"You think Hutch felt silly when Todd Mitchell was bathing him? *Touching* him ..."

Starsky hit the bag again -- several blows in quick succession.

"You think Hutch ..." Pete started, but Starsky interrupted him with a roar.

"STOP!" He pounded the bag furiously, blow after blow rocking it, only Pete throwing his whole body against it held it in place. The pounding continued for long minutes, the only other sound the struggling gasps for breath of the two men.

"What about George Rizzo?" Pete taunted, when Starsky began to slow.

The blows picked up again, fast and furious.

"And how about the man that hired them?"

Starsky was swinging again, pounding the bag, throwing all his strength into each blow.

"What would you say to them, Davey? What would you tell 'em?"

"I can't," Starsky panted, his fists flying into the bag. "I can't ..."

"Yeah, Davey, you can."

" 'f I start, I won't," he emphasized his words with several more rapid-fire blows to the bag, "be able to stop."

"No one's here but me, Davey," Pete said, "Tell me what you'd say." He pushed the bag forward again, breaking Starsky's rhythm for a moment before the dark-haired man found it again. "Tell me what you'd do to them."

"Why?" Starsky screamed. "Why'd you do this to him?" He punctuated the words with a staccato of blows to the bag. "How could you do this to anyone?"

"Just why, Davey?" Pete was panting, working hard to anchor the bag.

"No -- I'll kill you!" Bam! Bam! "I'll track you down," Bam! Bam! Bam! "and fucking kill you!" Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! "You won't get," Bam! Bam! "away with this!" Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

"Why, Davey?"

Starsky yelled again, and laid into the bag, his hands and shoulders screaming from the effort, but he didn't stop. "They took him!" Bam! Bam! "They took my Hutch!" Bam! Bam! "God damn it, Pete!" Bam! Bam! Bam! "Just look at him!" Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! "Look what they did to him! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

Starsky stopped and pulled away, his eyes wild. He spied the weight benches and darted over to them, then, with a mighty roar, he tipped the first one over. Weights scattered across the floor. "He's not even the same man!" A second bench went over. "He's broken -- shattered -- and I can't do *any* *fucking* *thing* about it!" Another bench hit the ground and Starsky followed it down.

He sat shaking, huddled on the ground, and Pete slid down beside him, his arms going out tentatively to wrap around the older man. Starsky threw his hands up, pushed Pete backward and scrambled away. He began to pound on the wooden floor. "It isn't fair! It isn't fair! He didn't deserve this! It just fucking isn't *fair!*" he howled.

"No, it's not fair, it's not fair at all," Pete echoed. He moved forward again but was once more pushed away.

Pete watched him from a distance until he saw the red on the floor. Scraped and raw, Starsky's hands were beginning to bleed. He scooted forward once more, saying, "Davey -- Davey, let me help." His arms went out slowly, reaching for Starsky as if he were a wild animal or a skittish colt, and this time there was no rebuff. Pete wrapped his arms around Starsky, and pulled him close. Starsky stiffened, then leaned into the embrace, the first sob coming out choked, but rapidly followed by others. "He's so *fucking* broken," Starsky sobbed, his chest heaving as the tears streamed down his face. "I lost him. I left him there alone for *two* *fucking* *years!*"

"It wasn't your fault," Pete soothed, rocking Starsky as he wept. "It wasn't your fault."

"He was *alone!* He was fucking *alone* for two *fucking* years." He sobbed again and clutched desperately at Pete. "And where was I? Where was I when he was so fucking alone it was driving him crazy?"

Starsky's head fell and he rocked harder, the tears choking him as he struggled for breath. "I was working -- closing cases like nothing was wrong." He suddenly pushed Pete away and rose shakily to his feet. "What the hell was the matter with me? What was I thinking?"

He turned back to the bag and began to beat it again, leaving bloody streaks on the covering. The bag rocked, crazily swinging out of control with each punch and Starsky welcomed the blows as it banged into him. The last one unbalanced him, and he fell, and Pete was there again, now pleading, "Stop it, Davey. It's not your fault."

"Do you know what I was doing?" he said, staring at Pete and ignoring the tears that still fell. He choked out the words. "I was having dinner with you, and Huggy, and Dobey, laughing and talking and having a good old time, and he -- he ..." Starsky stalled, then clutched his stomach, his eyes haunted as he stared at Pete, "he was fucking *starving!*"

He rolled away from Pete, coming up on his hands and knees and began to vomit. He choked and heaved and cried, until there was nothing more he could bring up, and Pete gently drew him away.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God ..." Starsky moaned, and Pete pulled him close, holding him as tight as he could, knowing he would leave bruises and not caring. It seemed as if Starsky were ready to fall apart, to shatter into a million pieces and Pete was the only thing keeping him together.

"No one talked to him, Pete, *no* *one.* Do you know what that's like for someone like Hutch? He's so smart, always thinking, always learning -- and they just took it all away. All -- gone."

The sobs were slowing now, the rocking not so violent. "He's destroyed, ravaged, torn down," Starsky said, resting now in Pete's arms. "And I don't know if I'm strong enough to build him back up."

"You are," Pete said confidently. "You're the only one who can do it."

Starsky sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Didn't do a very good job this morning."

Pete barked out a laugh. "We know your limit now. Two weeks and you have to have a break."

Starsky nodded, leaning heavily against the younger man for a minute, then pulled away, both hands scrubbing at his face. "Hutch didn't get a break, Pete."

"No, he didn't" Pete said seriously. "And look what it did to him." He reached out and touched Starsky's cheek, then dropped his hand. "You have to take care of yourself, let others take care of you, so that you can take care of him. No one loves him like you do -- none of the rest of us can be what he needs. It's not fair, Davey. None of this is fair, but you have to deal with it. And part of that means, you have to let us love you, so you can love him."

Starsky was quiet as they drove to his apartment, quiet as he showered and changed again. He was quiet as Pete cleaned his hands, and bandaged the worst of the splits on his knuckles, still quiet when Pete insisted he lie down and sleep for a few hours. When he woke, Pete had soup and sandwiches ready for lunch, and they ate in companionable silence.

After a quick kitchen clean up, they were headed out the door when Starsky darted back into the apartment, back to the spare room. He emerged seconds later, a good-sized box in his arms.

"What's that?" Pete asked curiously.

"Something for Hutch," Starsky said, his eyes shining again. "Christmas, birthday, and some other stuff."

He bounced in his seat the whole way back to the hospital, chattering non-stop about the holster he'd had made for Hutch, about the tapes he'd bought and how much Hutch was going to like them. He wondered out loud what was in the Dobey's gifts and Huggy's, and tried his best to get Pete to own up to what was in the ones from him and Betsy. Pete just grinned and told him he'd have to wait.

Starsky jumped from the car and practically raced into the hospital, Pete hurrying to keep up. But when he got to the door of Hutch's room he stopped, suddenly reluctant to step inside.

"What's wrong, Davey?" Pete asked quietly.

Starsky shook his head. "I -- What I said to him this morning." He looked at Pete with worry in his eyes. "What if he's still mad at me?"

Pete snorted. "Him? Mad at you? He stays mad at you about as long as you stay mad at him." He reached out and patted Starsky's arm. "Trust me, man, he is *not* mad at you."

"You talked to him?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah. This morning. He was -- worried -- about you."

Starsky dropped his head and shook it slowly. "That's Hutch. He's always worrying about everyone but himself." He looked over at Pete. "Hey -- did he eat this morning? You think I shoulda brought something?"

"Huggy made him something and brought it over. I'm sure he ate. Now -- will you," Pete poked him in the chest with his finger, "quit stalling and get in there and make up with your partner. And you can tell him, we have a new rule -- Ferguson's rule. From now on, the person who throws the food on the floor has to clean it up."

Starsky laughed, then reached out impulsively and hugged the younger man. "We gotta get you a real partner. You're too damned good to keep hanging out with an old buzzard like me." He sobered as he pulled back and looked Pete in the eyes. "Thanks, man. I mean it."

Pete just patted his arm, then made a shooing motion. "Go on, get in there."

Starsky went through the door and set his box on the floor to one side. Hutch and Huggy were playing checkers, and they both looked up at his entrance. No one spoke for a moment, though Starsky stared at Hutch and Hutch stared back. Huggy began to pack up the checkers set.

"Hey, brother man, you're back. And just in time, too," Huggy said as he put the checkers in a box and folded the board. "Time for this dude to head back to the Pits. Some of us gotta work -- you know what I mean?"

Starsky nodded, his eyes never leaving Hutch. "Thanks, Hug. Thanks for coming over and staying."

"Yeah, thanks, Huggy," Hutch added. "Breakfast w-was good, and I a-appreciate the company." He kept his eyes on Starsky as he spoke.

Huggy gathered his coat, and a bag with dishes, then headed for the door. "I'll, uh, see you two later, right?"

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, Hug. Thanks again."

Huggy left and Starsky waited until the door was shut then he walked slowly over to the bed. "Hey, Hutch," he said softly.

"I-I'm sorry, Starsk," Hutch interrupted. "I was being an asshole."

Starsky shrugged. "You're entitled. I was being one myself. And a jerk, and an idiot." He let the rail down and sat on the bed next to his partner, reaching out to take his hand.

Hutch looked away at last, biting his lip, then said, "I-I don't r-really w-want to b-be a-alone," he said in a small, scared voice.

"Hutch," Starsky said gently, but the other man did not move. "Hutch," Starsky said again, releasing his hand and reaching for his chin. He turned Hutch's head back to face him, his stomach clenching when he saw the tears in his partner's eyes. He closed his eyes in pain for a moment, then opened them and brought his other hand up to cradle Hutch's face. He used the balls of his thumbs to wipe away the tears, then leaned forward so his forehead was pressed against Hutch's. "I'm sorry for what I said," he murmured. "I'm not going to leave you alone, you know that, right?"

Hutch was still for a moment, then he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Starsky sighed. "Well, I'm not sure you believe me right now, but that's okay. I'll just have to show you." He pulled Hutch into a hug, waiting patiently until the other man lifted his arms and hugged him back. "I'm not going anywhere, Hutch," he said softly. "You're not going to be alone again."

This time Hutch's nod was almost immediate. "S-sorry."

" 's okay," Starsky murmured. "We were both being jerks, but hey, we should look at the positive in all of this."

"P-positive?" Hutch asked, pulling away and sitting up.

"Yeah, positive. You were positively a jerk," Hutch rolled his eyes at Starsky's bad play on words, "and that means you must be positively getting stronger."

Hutch laughed and punched Starsky on the shoulder. "You're insane, you know that?"

Starsky rubbed his shoulder in mock pain. "And you're positively getting stronger, too."

"What happened to your hands?" Hutch asked.

"Went to the gym. Went a few rounds with the bag."

"No gloves?"

Starsky shrugged. "I told you I was an idiot."

"You okay?" Hutch's blue eyes were worried but Starsky just nodded.

"Oh. Okay then." Hutch looked at the box on the floor and asked, "What's in there?"

Starsky bounced up and retrieved the box, setting it in Hutch's lap. "Remembrys," he said, pulling out a gaily wrapped gift, snowmen dancing on the blue paper.

"Looks like a Christmas present," Hutch said. "Why'd you call it a 'remembry?'"

Starsky shrugged. "It's what my mom called them. When you get something for someone who's not around. It's a remembry."

"These are mine?" Hutch asked in disbelief.

"Yeah." Starsky looked at the package, read the tag, then said, "That's from Huggy, but I can't remember if it was the first Christmas or the second."

Hutch was still staring at the package in confusion. He looked up at Starsky and said, "I'd been gone almost a year by Christmas."

Starsky nodded. "Yeah. It was hard. I put up the tree at your place, did the lights and everything, but it just wasn't the same."

"You decorated my place?"

Starsky nodded.

"Starsk -- I don't even *like* Christmas."

Starsky nodded again, smiling. "Yeah, but you always decorate for me. I just ..."

Hutch reached out and took his hand. "I know ..."

"I missed you so much, Hutch," Starsky said. "It was an ache that wouldn't go away. I hurt all the time."

Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand.

"I kept wondering, Hutch, wondering what was happening to you. Where were you? Were you hurt?"

"How long did the department keep looking for me?"

"I never stopped," Starsky said. "There was a bunch of us, we never stopped. Every lead, every scrap of information, we followed up. It's just --" he raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness, "there was nothing."

"The department, Starsky. What did they say?"

Starsky dropped his head. "After a while, they, uh, started saying that with no leads, you had probably just taken off."

Hutch shrugged. "I'm not surprised."

"It doesn't make you mad?" Starsky asked in amazement.

Hutch shook his head. "If there were no leads, they had to move on, had to come up with something." He tapped Starsky on the chest. "Just glad you didn't give up."

"Never," Starsky said, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

"I never gave up on you either," Hutch said. "I always knew if I was ever getting outta there, it would be you who found me." He turned away again, suddenly uncomfortable.

"What?" Starsky asked gently. "What is it?"

"I-I'm sorry I'm so -- chicken -- about being alone. It's gotta be -- weird -- for you."

"Hutch, babe," Starsky said, waiting for the blond to turn and look at him, "I don't wanna be alone either. I've had enough of being alone to last me forever, okay? So, it works out good -- us being partners and all. We can be not alone together."

"Did that even make sense?" Hutch asked with a laugh.

"I understood it," Starsky countered, laughing as well. He stared at Hutch, drinking him in hungrily, memorizing his face, his eyes, his hair, and reveling in the joy of having him here and having him alive, until Hutch began to flush under his scrutiny. Starsky turned away for a moment, swallowed hard and blinked to clear his eyes, then looked back and asked, "You gonna open that, or what?"

There was silence for a moment as Hutch stared at him just as hungrily, but then he said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm gonna open it, but ..." Hutch paused and looked around the room.

"What?"

"I want Christmas lights," Hutch declared.

"Christmas lights?" Starsky asked in confusion.

"Yeah, Christmas lights. You know, strings of bulbs that light up when you plug them in? Lots of different colors? Twinkly?"

"Twinkly?"

Hutch harrumphed. "Yeah -- twinkly. If I gotta be here for a while, I don't want it to look so much like a hospital room. I want Christmas lights."

Starsky smiled. "You got it. Tomorrow, we hang Christmas lights. Twinkly ones." He nudged his partner. "Now -- open it! I've been waiting two years to see what's inside!"

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

Day 30 - Saturday, April 18, 1981

"When can I go home?" Hutch asked for the third time in as many hours.

Starsky was just coming out of the bathroom when Hutch hit him with the question. He rubbed his face. "You're up twelve pounds, Hutch, 132 now. You know the doc said you have to get to 145 before he's going to let you out."

"I'm eating. I'm doing the PT. I'm doing the counseling. I don't even have an IV anymore." Hutch waved his hand in the air, then returned it to the arm of the chair he sat in. "I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do -- why can't I go home?"

"You're doing great, Hutch," Starsky said, as he came to stand beside his partner. "Lots better than a lot of people would have thought when they saw you a month ago. But you know," he reached out and patted the other man's shoulder, "you still have a ways to go. You're eating, but you still don't keep everything down. You're going to counseling, but I know you haven't talked to Barot about everything. You don't sleep right -- you're awake at all hours and when you do sleep, you have nightmares."

"I'm better," Hutch insisted.

"Yes, you are," Starsky agreed. "I'm not saying you're not improving, I'm just saying you got a ways to go yet." Starsky rubbed his face, then interlaced his fingers and pushed his arms outward, stretching. "You still have some problems with memory, Hutch. You get confused. You've got to give yourself some more time to deal with those things, so that when you do come home, you'll be safe."

"My memory's fine," Hutch said petulantly.

"What did you have for breakfast?" Starsky asked.

Hutch's face paled and his eyes lost focus for a moment as he said, "O-oatmeal."

Starsky shook his head gently and took Hutch's hand. "No," he said quietly. "No oatmeal. You had eggs today."

Hutch dropped his head forlornly. "It's taking so damned long, Starsk," he said dejectedly.

"Different perceptions, buddy," Starsky replied. "I am quite frankly amazed that you're doing as well as you are. When you first got here, you could hardly answer a question, let alone bitch about going home." He grinned as he spoke and was pleased to see an answering smile flit across Hutch's face. "You couldn't walk without help, and even then you couldn't make it more than a few yards. Now you roam the halls like Ivanhoe roamed Saxon England."

Hutch snickered. "Careful, Starsk, people might find out you actually read."

Starsky punched him lightly. "The point is, Hutch, you're doing great. I know you're impatient -- hell, *I'm* impatient. I want you well and home and back on the street with me. You gotta know that."

Hutch nodded and stared out the window.

"But we both gotta be patient. Give yourself time. Another ten, fifteen pounds and believe me, babe, you are outta here." Starsky swooped his hands through the air in classic umpire moves.

"And then I go home," Hutch said in satisfaction. "I miss my place, Starsk. Hey!" he turned and looked at Starsky. "What about my plants? Did you kill 'em all?"

Starsky snorted. "No -- and thank you very much for that astounding display of faith in my abilities."

"So, uh," Hutch said, coughing to hide a laugh, "exactly how many are left?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "I had to give some of them away -- but don't worry. I made sure they all went to good homes."

Hutch frowned. "Give them away? Why'd you give them away?"

"I didn't have enough room," Starsky replied.

"Enough room?" Hutch asked in confusion. "There was plenty of room at my place."

Starsky took a deep breath. "Hutch," he began, "you were gone over two years, man."

"Yeah. So?"

"The, uh, department put you on unpaid leave, Hutch."

Hutch frowned, his face still showing confusion.

"No money, Hutch." Starsky spread his hands helplessly. "I had to let your place go."

"My place is gone?" Hutch asked. "I don't have my apartment anymore?"

"I'm sorry, Hutch. I tried. I kept it for a year -- your mom helped. She paid the rent and I covered everything else, but then she, uh, well, then I just couldn't make it work anymore."

"I don't have a place to go home to?" Hutch asked again, his eyes growing bright with unshed tears.

"Nah, Hutch, of course you do! You've got a place -- you've got my place. It's *our* place. I already got your bed set up in the second bedroom, your stuff's all over the place."

"I-I don't have m-my apartment a-anymore?"

"I tried, Hutch, I really did. The guys at the station were even gonna take up a collection, but it would have only put it off a couple more months. I didn't want to let it go -- but I just didn't have a choice."

Hutch nodded, patting Starsky absently. "D-did you say my mom ...?"

"Your mom covered the rent from the time the department cut you off until the end of the first year."

"And then you ...?"

"I got a storage place, moved your stuff in there. It's all there, Hutch, everything. I didn't throw nothing away. And your plants -- I kept a bunch of 'em."

Hutch looked at Starsky in disbelief. "But you hate plants."

Starsky shrugged. "They were yours. I don't mind 'em so much."

"So when I go home, I'm going to your place?"

"Our place, Hutch. You're coming home to our place."

Hutch narrowed his eyes. "Did you say second bedroom?" He looked at Starsky. "I know my memory isn't the best -- as you just pointed out to me -- but you don't *have* a second bedroom."

Starsky chuckled. "I do now. I moved."

"When?"

Starsky stopped and thought. "Um, about fifteen months ago."

"Fifteen months?" Hutch shook his head. "I-I ... the t-time. I-I get so confused."

Starsky nodded sympathetically, and placed his hand on Hutch's shoulder. "I know, babe. But it *is* getting better. And the more time you give yourself, the better it will be."

There was a knock at the door and Mary Kelly, one of the nurses stepped in. She was an older woman who both Starsky and Hutch liked. She had a no-nonsense air about her and yet was still compassionate and understanding. She was one of the few people on staff who didn't treat Hutch like he was a nutcase, or a bomb waiting to explode.

"There's a phone call at the desk for you, David," she said as she slipped through the door and came and sat in the chair beside Hutch. "You go answer it. It'll give me a chance to talk to Ken for a few minutes."

Starsky looked at Hutch, saw he was okay, then nodded and stepped out. Behind him, he could hear the nurse say, "So anyway, my daughter was telling me that this powdered stuff she buys is actually *good* for people. I just can't believe that. But I've heard you know about these health food things, so ..."

Starsky smiled and stepped to the desk, picking up the phone that another nurse pointed to. "Starsky," he said.

"This is Dobey."

"Hey, Cap. What's up that you can't talk to me in the room?"

"We found Rizzo."

"You need me at the station?"

"No. He gave it up no problem. Couldn't spill his guts fast enough."

"Who was it?" Starsky asked, his skin tingling in anticipation.

"Ben Forrest."

Starsky stood in shocked silence, then muttered, "Fuck!"

"Starsky?"

"He's in prison, Cap'n. He was one of the ones I tracked down. Two *fucking* years ago!" He paused and ran his hand through his hair. "Are you sure it was him?"

"I had them search Forrest's cell. He had letters, even photos, in the leg of his bunk." Dobey's voice was grim. "There's no doubt about it -- it was him."

"Why, Cap'n? Why?"

"Forrest was in isolation for a while -- he said this was his way of getting even."

"How the hell was he able to set this up from inside prison?"

"We're still looking into that. We suspect a guard was involved, but," Dobey sighed heavily, "it's going to take a while to sort it all out."

"I want to go see him."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Starsky."

"I do. I need to go see him, Cap. I need to see him face to face. I want to tell him he didn't win -- I want him to see that Hutch survived and he's gonna be fine!"

Dobey sighed again. "All right, Starsky. I'll set it up."

"I want something else, Cap'n."

"Why do I think I don't want to hear this?"

"I want Forrest back in solitary -- indefinitely."

"I can't ..." Dobey's voice trailed off and there was silence for a long moment and then he said, "I don't know if I can work it out, but it seems fitting. I'll talk to the warden."

"Are Edith and the kids still coming over this afternoon?"

"Yeah," Dobey said. "I'm taking off to join them. She's making a picnic -- thought we'd spring Hutch as far as the hospital courtyard and eat outside for a change."

"He'll love it, Cap'n. And it'll give me a chance to take a drive up to the state pen."

"I don't know if I can make the arrangements that quickly, Starsky," Dobey said.

"Then I better let you go, so you can get started," Starsky said quickly as he hung up the phone.

Hutch was sleeping when Starsky stepped back in. "Thanks, Mary," he said softly as she put down the magazine she was reading and rose.

"He's doing a lot better, David," she said as she moved to the door. "A lot of folks weren't sure he'd ever get as far as he has."

"People like you help a lot, Mary. He needs to be treated normal."

Mary nodded and disappeared out the door, shutting it behind her. Starsky checked on Hutch, pulling up the blanket and straightening the pillow, then silently chiding himself for mother-henning, but still taking a moment to let his hand rest on Hutch's head. It had been a month since he'd come back, and Starsky was still amazed at times that he was really here. Amazed that he could talk to his partner, reach out and touch him, look up and see him. He'd almost given up hope that he would ever have that again.

Starsky let his touch linger a moment longer, then settled in the chair and began to doze. He was awakened by the door opening, and sat up groggily. It was Dobey.

"Edith and the kids are down the hall in the waiting room," he said. "Are we too early?"

Starsky looked at Hutch, still sleeping, then motioned to step into the hall. Once there, he asked, "Did you get it worked out?"

Dobey nodded grimly.

"Everything?"

"You can go up today -- they'll bring Forrest out and you can have ten minutes with him. Then, when you're done, he'll be returned to solitary. Apparently, the warden was considering it anyway. There've been some threats on his life."

Starsky said through gritted teeth, "They'll have to get in line."

"Starsky!" Dobey barked. "Do not make me have to drive up there to get you because you got stupid."

"No, sir, Cap. I'm not getting stupid." His eyes traveled to the door behind them and he stared through the window at the sleeping man. "I got what I wanted. Anything else is gravy."

"You, uh, gonna wake him up?" Dobey said, his eyes following Starsky's.

"Yeah. He needs to stop sleeping so much during the day anyway."

"All right. I'm going back to wait with Edith. We'll be there whenever you're ready."

Starsky went back in the room and woke Hutch. It only took the blond a few minutes to wake up, to wash his face and use the bathroom, and then put on his shoes. He was eager to go, ready for a chance to get outside again.

"I'm not gonna stay, Hutch," Starsky said as they walked down the hall to the waiting room."

Hutch froze. "Why?"

"I've got something I've gotta do -- related to a case."

"I-I thought y-you were coming?"

"You'll be okay," Starsky said, his voice softening at his partner's slight agitation. "It's the captain, remember? And Edith and the kids?" He patted Hutch encouragingly and nudged him to start walking. "You're gonna have a great time."

Hutch nodded. "B-but you're c-coming b-back, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Starsky said promptly. "I'll be back in two, three hours, tops. And Dobey's staying till I get back, okay?"

Hutch took a deep breath, then released it. "Yeah. Yeah." He turned and looked at Starsky, a big smile on his face. "Of course it's all right. I'm just b-being weird."

"Not weird," Starsky replied. "Still a little -- concerned. And that's okay. Things will get back to normal soon enough." He placed his arm around Hutch's waist as they walked, and he could feel the other man lean slightly into him. "We're getting there, Hutch. We're getting there."

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

Starsky paced the small room, the cinderblock walls painted a sickly green that he imagined was supposed to be soothing.

It wasn't soothing him. Rage bubbled inside him, just below the surface, constantly threatening to erupt.

There was a click as a key turned, then a clang as the metal door opened. An old man in an orange jumpsuit stumbled in the room. The door shut and locked again.

"Starsky!" Ben Forrest said, taking a step back.

"Hello, Ben," Starsky replied, staring coldly at the man who had stolen two years from Hutch, and had almost stolen his life. "I only want one thing, to know why you did it."

"He took away my life!" Forrest exclaimed. "He got what he deserved."

"No, he didn't," Starsky replied furiously, "but you're going to. And he may have taken away your life -- but you sure as hell didn't get his! He's getting stronger every day, getting well, and it won't be long till he's back on the street putting more scum like you in here -- right where they belong."

Forrest laughed and shook his head. "Yeah, Starsky, you just keep telling yourself that. I saw pictures of him. He ain't never coming back from that -- and that thought alone will be all I need. I'm not ever getting outta here, and now I don't need to. I got what I wanted and I can die happy, even if I die in here."

"Enjoy it while you can, Forrest," Starsky said as he rose. "Next time I come see you, Hutch'll be with me." He pounded on the door, calling, "On the gate," then waited until a guard appeared. "Take Mr. Forrest back to his cell. Oh, and wait -- did I understand there was to be a change in his accommodations?"

The guard chuckled as he pulled Forrest to his feet. "Yeah, Detective," he replied, "I think you may have heard right. Mr. Forrest here is going back in solitary. Indefinitely."

"NO!" Forrest screamed, suddenly struggling against the guard's hold, "You can't do that to me!"

Starsky stepped forward and grabbed him by the front of his jumpsuit, pulling him from the guard's grasp and slamming him against the wall. "Actually, we can," he said smugly. "We've heard threats have been made against your life so -- it's for your own protection." He yanked him off the wall and threw him back at the guard. "Have a nice life, Forrest," he said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

Behind him, he could hear the older man screaming, and he smiled as he walked away.

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

Day 57 - Friday, May 15, 1981

"Very good, Mr. Hutchinson," Dr. Patel said as Hutch stepped off the scale. "You're at 140 pounds now."

"I can go home?" Hutch asked.

The doctor stood quietly for a moment, studying the still thin form before him, then slowly nodded. "Yes, I think we are ready to let you go."

Hutch let out a whoop of joy, turned, and threw his arms around Starsky. "Didja hear that? I can go home! I'm free!"

Starsky hugged him back, saying, "Of course I heard. Geez! I think they heard you in the next county!"

Hutch whirled back around and spoke to the doctor. "When? When can I go home?"

Dr. Patel smiled as he answered. "I think we can get your paperwork done and get you processed so that you can leave this afternoon."

Hutch looked around the room, his eyes settling on the small wardrobe that served as both closet and storage. "I'm gonna pack," he said happily, opening the door and pulling out a bag."

"There will be some guidelines you need to follow, Mr. Hutchinson," the doctor said, but Hutch ignored him, totally focused on the task as hand. He had the suitcase on the bed and was folding clothes, mumbling to himself. The doctor sighed, then looked at Starsky. "Mr. Starsky," he said, motioning toward the door, "if you will?"

Starsky followed him out, then stood by the window to the room, watching Hutch, but listening as the doctor spoke.

"Physically, he is making good progress. He needs to continue to eat small, frequent meals, and I want to see him gaining at least two pounds a week, or he'll need to come back."

Starsky nodded. "Eat frequently -- two pounds a week. Got it."

"I also want him to continue his physical therapy every day. He can come here as an outpatient now, but he does still need to come."

"PT," Starsky repeated.

"Moderate exercise at home, Mr. Starsky. I don't want him to take up jogging or weight lifting. He can take short walks, perhaps ride a bicycle. Nothing more strenuous." The doctor chuckled as he added. "I do not want him doing anything to compromise those pounds we are working so hard to put on him."

"Right -- short walks, bike rides." Starsky tore his eyes away from Hutch and looked at the doctor. He swallowed hard. "Is he, uh, ready for this?"

The doctor smiled kindly. "Mr. Hutchinson -- yes. I think the question you are asking is -- are *you* ready for this?"

Starsky was silent for a minute, then nodded.

"This is a big change in your relationship, Mr. Starsky," the doctor said. "Up until now, you have been the primary caregiver, but you have had all of this," he gestured around the hospital corridor, "right here for help and support. Once you are home, you will be on your own." The doctor looked Starsky in the eyes. "Are you ready for that, Mr. Starsky?"

Starsky looked at Hutch, his suitcase almost packed, and watched as the blond scanned the room for loose items. He gave a single quiet laugh, then nodded. "Ready? Man, I been waiting over two years for this day. Yeah, I think I'm ready."

"Good. I will arrange for Mr. Hutchinson to continue his counseling as an outpatient as well. I believe we can schedule his appointments for the mornings, which will allow him to have his afternoons free."

"That'll work," Starsky said, thinking it through quickly. "We've agreed that once he's sprung from here, I'm going to go back to work. I can drop him off here in the morning, then pick him up at lunch."

"Have you thought about what you will do in the afternoons?"

Starsky looked back at the doctor in confusion. "In the afternoons?"

"Initially, at least, I do not think it would be advisable to leave Mr. Hutchinson alone. I believe Dr. Barot will support me in this position."

Starsky scrubbed his face with one hand. "Yeah. You're right. I'll, uh, work on that one." He sighed, then looked back at Hutch as he finished cleaning out the bathroom. "Eager, isn't he?" he observed with a wry smile.

"For him, it is a major step to getting his life back. For you," the doctor laid a hand on Starsky's shoulder, "it presents innumerable new difficulties. If there were such a thing, I would recommend you join a support group yourself. Fortunately, however, there are not many other people who have gone through Mr. Hutchinson's ordeal, therefore there are very few people who have walked your path as well."

Starsky shook his head. "Doesn't matter. He's back. He's getting better. Things will get back to normal soon enough. It's all going to be okay."

"He's very lucky to have you, Mr. Starsky," Dr. Patel said softly. "I believe it increased the speed of his recovery immensely.

Starsky sighed and shook his head. "I'm the lucky one. I don't know how much longer I could have gone on if he hadn't come back."

The doctor was silent for a moment, then said, "I will write up all of the instructions and they will be included in Mr. Hutchinson's discharge papers. Additionally, there will be a schedule for his counseling and therapy sessions." Dr. Patel smiled, then grew serious. "Do not let him convince you to terminate these sessions too quickly. He may see coming home as signaling the end of a need for intervention. Remember our discussion about denial?"

Starsky nodded again. "Yeah, I remember. He already does that -- tries to convince me he's better than he really is."

"And as he does improve, his ability to convince you will improve as well. It is very important that you work with us, myself and Dr. Barot, and that Mr. Hutchinson continue to receive the services that he needs."

"How long, uh, how much longer do you think ...?"

"How much longer will he need physical therapy?" Patel shrugged. "It's hard to say. Until he is close to his normal weight, his muscle mass has returned, and his muscle tone is good. I would say maybe six months."

"And the other?"

"Counseling?" Patel shrugged again. "Intensive, as he is receiving now, for a while longer. In general, Mr. Hutchinson may need professional help in dealing with this for the rest of his life."

Starsky lifted a hand and rubbed his eyes. "Will he -- do you think he'll ever be able to come back to work?"

"I fully expect him to be able to meet the physical requirements at some point. As to the psychological?" Once more, Patel shrugged. "So much is unknown. Mr. Hutchinson has already proven himself to be much stronger than many would have been in the same situation. If he is determined to return to his job as a police officer, then I suspect he will be able to do so -- at some point. But that could be a very long way off."

Starsky was nodding, and watching Hutch through the window. He saw the blond suddenly look around the room and realize he was alone. He saw the flash of panic that crossed his face, and quickly excused himself from the doctor. He stepped back in the room, saying, "Hey, Hutch, I'm right here."

"S-starsk ..." Hutch said, the tension lines easing from his face. "I-I ..." he gestured helplessly, "c-couldn't find you."

Starsky pointed at the window. "I was right there. Just talking to the doc. He went over and pulled Hutch into a hug. "I wouldn't leave you -- you know that, right?"

Hutch hugged him back then pulled away and smiled sheepishly. "I-I f-forget, sometimes."

" 's okay," Starsky replied, "I'm here to help you remember." He went over to the bed and looked at the suitcase. "You sure you got everything?"

Hutch nodded, then settled into the chair. "All we gotta do now is wait for the paperwork."

Dr. Patel was good to his word and by early afternoon, Hutch was released and ready to go. He was alternately edgy and excited on the ride to Starsky's apartment, at times calling out the names of places he recognized and commenting on the new neighborhood, and at other times sitting almost moodily and staring out the window in silence.

When they reached the apartment building, Hutch looked around in surprise. "You moved to a complex?"

Starsky shrugged. "I wanted two bedrooms -- this is what I could afford."

"Oh, Starsk," Hutch said softly. "I'm so sorry. I know you hate the idea of living in a place like this."

Starsky shrugged again. "It ain't so bad. The apartment's big, has what they call two master bedrooms. It's got two bathrooms, too, so we don't have to share. And there's even a pool." He furrowed his brow for a minute, then added, "We'll have to see if swimming is on your list of approved activities."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Of course I can swim. I'm not sick, Starsk. I'm home now."

"We still check with the doc, okay, Blintz?"

Hutch frowned but finally nodded. He studied the building a minute longer, then said, "Which one's yours?"

"Ours," Starsky corrected, as he climbed out of the car and gathered up the first load to take in, "and it's this one." He nodded in the direction of a ground floor apartment in the building to their left.

Starsky headed for the building, but stopped when he realized Hutch wasn't following. He turned around to find the other man staring at a beat-up old car parked two slots over.

Hutch looked up with a grin and said, "My car!"

Starsky laughed. "Yeah -- and let me tell you, it was hard to resist 'upgrading' it while you were gone."

"Starsk!" Hutch said in dismay, "You didn't!"

Starsky was still laughing. "Nah -- I didn't. I just kept her tuned up and made sure she ran." He walked over and set the things in his arms down, then folded his arms over his chest as he watched Hutch walking around the car. "I did, uh, remove the creeping crud from the back seat before it took on a life of its own, but other than that, she's pretty much as you left her."

"I don't know what to say!" Hutch opened the driver's door and slipped behind the wheel, then looked up at Starsky with a huge grin. "She's -- beautiful, Starsk!"

Starsky just shook his head. "Now I remember why you're getting your head examined," he said, chuckling. He tugged on Hutch's arm. "You can get reacquainted with the Brown Bomb another time. C'mon inside. I want you to check it out."

Hutch nodded, then slid out of the car and followed Starsky up the walk. His head kept swiveling back to look at his car, until finally, they were inside the building and he could see it no more.

Starsky unlocked the door and pushed it open, dropping the keys on a table that stood just inside the entry. "Home, sweet home," he announced, ushering Hutch in with a flourish.

Hutch stood in the doorway a moment, then stepped through and looked around. Plants were everywhere. Every table, every counter, hanging from hooks in the ceiling. "God, Starsky, you really did keep most of them," Hutch breathed solemnly. He turned to his partner and grinned. "It's like ..." He trailed off and walked over to a plant that sat on top of the television. "Albert," he said softly, rubbing the leaves between his fingers, "did you miss me?"

He wandered around the room, touching the other plants, his fingers trailing over furniture and books. Starsky watched in silence, a happy smile on his lips. Hutch finally stopped prowling and looked at his partner and said, "Starsky ..."

"Yeah?"

"This is my couch."

Starsky nodded.

"And my chair."

Starsky nodded again.

"And my books are on my bookcase. And my records are in my record cabinet."

Starsky nodded again. "And that's your TV as well."

"Why, Starsk? Where's your stuff?"

Starsky flushed, then shrugged and said, "I sorta tore it up."

"You what?"

"I, uh, had a bit of a temper tantrum one night, and I, uh, kinda wrecked the place."

"What happened?" Hutch was still looking around, his mouth open in disbelief.

"Well, you'd been gone about a year and a half, and the government had decided to launch a rescue mission for the Iranian hostages."

Hutch looked at him blankly and Starsky shook his head. "Never mind that. I'll explain later. Anyway, this news report came on about what they, we, the United States, were doing to rescue these people that had been taken hostage in Iran. And it seemed so -- unfair -- to me. All this effort, all this time and money and energy into freeing these people in Iran, and I couldn't even get the department to reopen your case." Starsky dragged his toe through the gold shag carpeting and stared at the floor. "I sorta got mad and put my foot through the TV and then, uh, well, it went downhill from there."

"Oh, Starsk," Hutch said, coming over to wrap his arms around his partner. "It was so hard on you, wasn't it?

Starsky reached around and grabbed Hutch, his fingers clutching at the back of the man's shirt as he clung to him. "I missed you so much, Hutch. I was so lonely, so afraid. I didn't know if I was ever gonna see you again." He choked back a sob, then tried to laugh. "The neighbors called the police on me that night."

"Shhhh," Hutch said, ignoring Starsky's attempt to change the subject. "I'm here now," he whispered in Starsky's ear. "I'm back and it's going to be all right."

Starsky drew another deep breath, then hugged Hutch to him even tighter, his head buried in the taller man's shoulder. "Oh, God, Hutch," he groaned, "I didn't think I could stand it."

"I'm here," Hutch murmured again. "I'm here."

The first sob was choked, ragged, as Starsky struggled for control. But Hutch's hands on his back, rubbing in soothing circles, his voice in his ear, whispering care and comfort, the feel of Hutch's arms around him and Hutch's body, filling out, growing stronger and firmer, it all overwhelmed Starsky, and within seconds he was sobbing in his partner's arms.

Hutch held him tightly, spoke softly and continued to rub his back, glad that for once he could be the strong one. When Starsky began to calm, he led him to the couch and pulled him down, his arm still around him. Starsky was shaking, the after-effects of the adrenaline surge set off by his breakdown. Hutch pulled the afghan Edith Dobey had made from the back of the couch and wrapped it around his partner.

"You okay?" he asked, when the shaking finally stopped and Starsky had been still for some time.

"I'm sorry," Starsky said in a small voice.

"I'm not," Hutch replied.

"What do you mean?"

"You needed me," Hutch said simply. "I'm glad you still need me." He pulled away slowly and rose, standing in front of Starsky and looking down at him.

Starsky shook his head. "I'm supposed to be here for you," he said, "not the other way around."

"Hey," Hutch said, reaching out to turn Starsky's face and make him look up at him, "we're partners, right?"

"Always," Starsky said with a smile.

"Then we share. Sometimes you be strong, sometimes it's my turn to be strong." He shrugged. "This was my turn."

"God, I've missed you so much, Hutch," Starsky said again.

Hutch nodded. "You were the only person, the only thing, from my life that I could consistently remember. I forgot everything. Hell, at one point I wasn't sure of my name, but I always knew that Starsky was out there, looking for me, and that you were going to bring me home. I *never* forgot that!" He turned and walked away, standing by 'Albert' and stroking its leaves.

"You okay, Hutch?" Starsky asked, rising.

Hutch turned and looked at him. "I'm a little tired. You wanna show me my room?"

Starsky led the way down the hall and pointed to the door on the right. Hutch stepped forward and stopped inside. His bed was against the far wall, under a window. His dresser sat on the right, and there was his chair in the corner. The left wall held the closet and one of his bookcases, full of his books and sheet music. His guitar leaned in the corner. More plants hung from hooks over the bed, and stood on the dresser and nightstand. Even the bedspread was his, the striped one made of heavy cotton that he'd gotten on a day trip to Mexico once. Pictures that had hung in his sleeping alcove, now hung on these walls. The only thing different was a framed photo that stood on the dresser. He stepped over and lifted it, then looked back at Starsky who lounged in the doorway. Appearing outwardly indifferent, Hutch knew that Starsky was completely tense, just waiting for the word on whether or not the room was okay. He looked at the picture and smiled -- it was the last one he had of the two of them, taken New Year's Eve before he disappeared.

He looked over at Starsky and smiled. "It's perfect," he said. "Perfect."

Starsky released the breath he'd been holding and nodded at the picture in Hutch's hand. "I didn't know you really followed up on all those times you told people you wanted copies of pictures."

Hutch smiled. "Do you know how hard it is for me to get a picture of you? You wanna take pictures of everything in the world, but let someone want a shot of you ..." Hutch shook his head. "Getting copies was the only way I was ever gonna get a picture of my partner." He looked at the framed photo in his hand and ran his fingers over the glass. "I really like this one."

Starsky waited a moment, then cleared his throat. "You, uh, wanna lie down for a while?"

Hutch looked around the room, then nodded. "But, uh, maybe on the couch, huh? I think I may be too keyed up to sleep."

Starsky nodded. "Couch it is. You can watch a little daytime TV while I get the rest of the stuff outta the car and figure out what to fix for dinner."

Hutch settled on the couch, Starsky's afghan folded up and used for a pillow. When Starsky came back from the car, he was asleep. Starsky removed his shoes, then dug through the pile he'd just carried in and pulled out the second afghan, the green twin to his own blue one. It had been one of the first of Hutch's things to make its way to the hospital. When Starsky had mistakenly thought he was going to be able to let Hutch go for good, he had given certain things to their friends, and the afghan that Edith Dobey had made had been returned to her. But as soon as she knew Hutch was back, Dobey had been dispatched to deliver it to the hospital. It had added a bit of comfort and familiarity to the cold, clinical feel of Hutch's hospital room. Now -- Starsky spread it over Hutch, letting his hand linger on the sleeping man's brow for a moment before he returned to his task of unpacking and putting away.

Dinner was quiet and Hutch ate well, his appetite seeming to be larger than normal. And he managed to keep it down, something he didn't always do. They watched TV together quietly, chatting softly during the eleven o'clock news when reference was made to something that had occurred while Hutch was missing. They watched Carson's monologue and then Starsky rose, taking their glasses back into the kitchen and washing up quickly.

"You ready?" he asked Hutch, holding out a hand to pull the other man up.

Hutch accepted and let Starsky tug him to his feet. "Yeah. Guess it's time." He turned and walked down the hall, Starsky following.

"You gonna be okay?" Starsky asked as he leaned in the doorway of Hutch's room and watched him strip down to his boxers.

Hutch shrugged. "My room, my things. I'm home. Why shouldn't I be okay?"

"I'm right across the hall," Starsky said, motioning to his room.

"Go on," Hutch said, smiling. "Stop fussing. I'm fine."

"I'm leaving my door open," Starsky said, "if you need me."

"Starsky," Hutch said firmly, "I'm okay. Go to bed."

"Yeah, well," Starsky ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, then. Good night, Hutch."

" 'night, Starsk," Hutch said, his back to the man in the door as he pulled back covers and prepared to climb into his own bed for the first time in nearly two and a half years. He settled under the covers, then reached out and turned the bedside lamp off, leaving the room in darkness.

"Hutch?" Starsky called quietly from the doorway.

"Hmmmm?"

"Welcome home, babe."

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

Starsky woke slowly. Something was different, wrong. He lay quietly, then realized the first different thing was that he was home, in his own bed, and not sleeping on the fold out bed in the hospital.

The second thing was a sound. He listened carefully, trying to figure out what it was as his brain slowly woke up. He looked around the room for Hutch. Maybe Hutch heard it, too. He might know what it was. But Hutch wasn't here, because this was his room at home.

He tried to wrap his foggy brain around that one and failed. All he could come up with was that Hutch wasn't here, Hutch was missing.

He jolted to full awake, his heart pounding in his chest as he sat upright in the bed.

Home.

Safe.

Hutch was home.

He was sleeping in his own bed, in his own room.

Starsky scrubbed his face tiredly and smiled.

So -- if he was in his bed, and Hutch was across the hall in the other room, what the hell was that noise?

Crying -- Hutch was crying!

Starsky bolted from the bed, tripping over the sheets and falling hard, but he was up and running again in seconds and into the other bedroom. Remembering how the lights bothered Hutch, he halted at the door and turned on the hall light rather than the overhead in the room.

In the faint illumination, he could see Hutch curled fetally on the bed. He was naked and his sheets, pillows and comforter were in a pile on the floor. He rocked slowly back and forth as the tears ran down his face.

Starsky lifted his hands to his face, fingers pressing against his eyes before he scrubbed his cheeks hard. He moved to the bed and knelt at the side, his face even with Hutch's.

"Hutch?" he said softly, waiting for the blue eyes to focus on him.

"S-s-starsk?" Hutch asked in surprise. "Y-you c-came b-back?"

Starsky cursed inwardly. The stutter was back with a vengeance. "I'm here, babe. I didn't leave."

"I-I-I c-couldn't f-find y-you," Hutch said, the fear tangible in his voice.

"I'm right here, babe, right here." He reached out and touched Hutch's shoulder, then ran his hand along his side and over his hip. He was freezing. "Let's get you covered up, okay?" Starsky said quietly as he lifted the linens from the floor and began to pile them on top of Hutch.

"W-w-was a-a-alone," Hutch murmured, his eyes still streaming tears.

"You're not alone," Starsky assured him as he tucked the bedspread in around his shivering partner. "I'm right here." He reached out and wiped Hutch's face. "Hey, babe, don't cry, please? Please don't cry anymore. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

"N-n-not a-a-alone?" Hutch asked, his hand shooting out to clutch at Starsky's arm.

"No, babe," Starsky repeated, "You're not alone. I'm here. I'm right here and I'm gonna stay right here."

"S-s-stay," Hutch said, tugging at Starsky's arm to draw him onto the bed. "S-s-stay."

Starsky looked at the shivering form on the bed for only a moment before he gently broke Hutch's hold on his arm. He patted the blond's shoulder twice before quickly darting around the bed. Pulling back the covers he slid in behind the frightened man. He pulled Hutch close, spooning his body around Hutch's chilled one.

"I'm here," he whispered in Hutch's ear. "I'm right here. Please don't cry anymore, babe. I'm sorry you were scared, but you don't have to be scared anymore. I'm right here."

"S-starsk?" Hutch asked softly, snuggling back to absorb the warmth his partner offered.

"I'm here, Hutch. You can go to sleep now. I'll be right here when you wake up.

"Love you, S-starsk," Hutch murmured, his voice heavy with sleep already.

"Shhhh," Starsky whispered back. "Go to sleep, Blintz." He paused a moment then added, "Love you, too."

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

Day 75 - Tuesday, June 2, 1981

"Well, if you need anything, holler," Betsy said as she moved into the kitchen to finish making dinner.

Hutch sat on the couch and stared at the TV. He was tired. His PT had exhausted him physically and his time with Dr. Barot had exhausted him emotionally. He was tired of having to come here or to the Dobey's every day, ashamed that he still couldn't bear to be by himself and so he had to have a babysitter.

It shamed him, but not enough to risk trying to stay home alone yet. The one attempt at that, when Starsky had gone to the store, had been so disastrous, he wasn't ready to risk it again. At least here, there were the sounds of Betsy working in the kitchen and he could watch DK toddling around, dragging his bears.

It was still hard to believe these people had named their child after him -- when they didn't even know him. They only knew what they knew of him through Starsky. It was pretty damned humbling.

He rose to go to the bathroom, stopping at the door. This was always hard here. Pete and Betsy's bathroom was white on white -- white tiles, white tub, sink and toilet, white towels and shower curtain. He hated going in it, but he hadn't said anything. Starsky kept telling him he needed to get back to normal, so he was trying. He tried to remember to go to the bathroom at the hospital just before Betsy picked him up, but he'd forgotten today, so he had no choice but to go in the little white room.

He made it two steps when the room seemed to shift and he slid to his knees. He slipped further down, lying on the cool tile, his head turned to one side as the world around him grew silent.

He was back in the room.

It was cool, and white and silent, and the lights were always on.

He felt the panic bubbling up in him. He'd been dreaming again -- dreaming he'd gotten out and had even gotten home -- and it was always so hard to wake up here when he'd been dreaming.

He needed a routine, something familiar. He lifted his head and ran his finger across the small, white tiles, and began to count.

"Ken?" Betsy called as she emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She frowned when there was no response.

She looked over at DK; he sat before the bookcase happily building a tower with the blocks that now resided on the bottom shelves. His ever-present bears sat beside him.

"Ken?" she called again, moving toward the bathroom. The door was open and she could see Hutch lying on the floor, one long, finger gently tracing the tiles as his lips moved. She walked to him slowly, speaking softly as she went. "Ken? It's Betsy. Don't you want to get up from there? I was just going to suggest we all have a snack. I tried Davey's mom's recipe for those apple cookies you like. I thought we could have some."

Hutch didn't respond. His finger continued to move across the tiles and he was totally engrossed in watching it, oblivious to her presence.

She slipped in the bathroom beside him, kneeling next to him and gently placed a hand on his back, rubbing a small circle. "Ken? Let's get up now, please?"

No response.

She rubbed his back some more, talking constantly but not really saying anything, just hoping she could get him to respond, but he remained beyond her reach. She finally leaned down, almost lying beside him, and stared into his eyes. He stared back, but she knew he wasn't seeing her. He wasn't seeing anything at all that was even remotely close to her, her bathroom, or her house.

He was lost in a waking nightmare and she was powerless to stop it.

She rose and backed out of the room, almost running to the phone. DK was still sitting quietly with his blocks and bears as she snatched up the phone and called the dispatcher. She asked that an emergency message be sent out to Pete and Starsky, then hung up and waited for the phone to ring. For three long minutes she paced, glancing from Hutch to DK and back again. When the phone finally rang, she jumped, then snatched it up. "Davey?"

"No, baby, it's Pete. What's wrong?"

"It's Ken. He's in the bathroom, on the floor."

She heard a hurried conversation, then Starsky was on the phone. "Is he hurt?"

"No, no, I don't think so. I mean, I didn't hear him fall and I don't see any bumps or bruises. I just can't get him to respond to me."

"All right, I'm coming. I'll be there in about ten minutes."

"I'm sorry, Davey, I'm so sorry ...."

"Bets -- it's not your fault. He just -- does this sometimes. I'm sorry it happened with you. Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared," she replied, "just worried, that's all."

"Just, uh, grab a blanket and cover him up or something, okay? He gets cold. I'm on my way." The phone clicked in her ear, and Betsy turned to go and find a blanket.

But DK had beaten her to it.

While she had been on the phone, the baby had taken the afghan that hung over the recliner and dragged it in to Hutch. He'd also dragged his bears. He shoved Ollie into Hutch's face and tried to cover the prone man with the afghan.

As she watched, she could hear him ask, "oo seepin?"

Hutch lifted his head and scratched his nose, satisfying the itch Ollie's fur had caused. He blinked in confusion, then looked around and saw Betsy watching him.

"Are y-you okay?" he asked her, noting her pale face and shaking hands.

She nodded. "Are *you* okay?"

Hutch flushed, then looked around. "Think so." He pulled the blanket up and tucked it around his shoulders, then rose to his feet. " 'm t-tired," he said absently, running a hand through his hair.

DK held up Ollie and Hutch smiled and took the bear, then said, "Thank you."

Next, DK lifted his arms to be picked up. Hutch looked at Betsy, saw her chew her lip for a moment, then nod, so he lifted the little boy and walked back to the living room, flopping onto the couch. DK snuggled into his lap, his eyes closing almost immediately, his Huggy bear clutched in his arms. Hutch held Ollie in one arm, DK in the other, and before he realized what was happening, he had followed the baby into sleep.

When Starsky pulled up a few minutes later, Betsy was back in the kitchen, dinner was almost done, and Hutch and DK were firmly ensconced on the couch, deep in sleep. The afghan had been pulled around to lay over them both, and Hutch had a contented smile on his face.

"How ...? What ...?" Starsky sputtered as he looked from his partner to Betsy.

She smiled and shook her head. "I didn't do anything. It was DK. He just went in there, shoved Ollie in Ken's face, and the next thing I knew, he was up, and then the two of them were asleep on the couch." She dropped her eyes shyly. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Pete went and put his arms around her. "You did the right thing, baby. It's okay."

"Yeah," Starsky added. "Don't you feel bad. I'm just sorry it happened. I, uh, I can try and find someone to come stay with him at the apartment, if you're, uh, uncomfortable ...?"

She gave a delicate little snort. "You can't leave him with *strangers,* Davey," she said fiercely. "Of course, I'm not uncomfortable." She hugged her husband, then walked over to Starsky and hugged him, too. Then she moved to the couch and one hand came out to rest on DK's wild red hair. She stroked it for a moment before she lifted her hand and rested it on Hutch's hair, combing through the mixed silver and gold with her fingers. "He needs us almost as much as DK does," she said softly as she looked over her shoulder at Pete and Starsky. "How can we turn away from that?"

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

Day 97 - Wednesday, June 24, 1981

"Are you sure about this, Starsky?" Hutch asked as they pulled up outside the station.

"I'm sure," Starsky replied. "Betsy has to take DK for his check up and Edith and the kids are out of town with her mom. What else were we going to do?"

Hutch flushed and ducked his head. "I coulda gone home," he muttered.

Starsky looked over at him and sighed, feeling that he'd stuck his foot in his mouth once more. "I didn't mean it like that, Hutch," he said softly. "I was just thinking, that with everyone else gone, this was a good chance for you to come by the station, see some folks, check things out." He watched Hutch, noted the slight tremble in his hand. "If you don't want to do this, we can go home."

Hutch shook his head. "I just mean, I don't still need a babysitter."

Starsky thought back to the night terrors that were still occurring with frightening regularity, the panic attack that his simple visit to the store had provoked, but decided not to bring them up right now. "It's not babysitting, Hutch," he chided gently, "and you know it. Look," he said, twisting in the seat to face his partner, "everyone knows this has been a tough adjustment for you and you're doing great. If you're a little uncomfortable being alone right now, that's okay. It's completely understandable. Don't keep pushing yourself so hard -- you've got time."

Hutch drew a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. "Yeah, you're right. I just -- *hate* -- being like this. The longer it takes, the more I think they've won."

"Who's won, Hutch?" Starsky asked with a frown, remembering the doctor's comments on paranoia and that Hutch might feel someone was out to get him.

"Them," Hutch said, waving vaguely. "The ones that did this."

"Ben Forrest did this, and he is currently rotting in solitary in the state pen. No one is out to get you, Hutch." He reached out and touched Hutch's arm. "You're safe, partner."

Hutch frowned a moment, then dredged up a smile and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Well, I mean, I knew that. I just ..."

"Forget," Starsky finished for him. "That's okay, too, Hutch. It's coming. Things will be back to normal soon." He opened the door and stepped out, then leaned back down to look at Hutch. "You coming, or what?" He stood and slammed the door, then waited while Hutch exited the other side.

While Hutch stood staring up at the building, Starsky walked around to join him, then tapped him on the arm. "C'mon, you. I think Pete and Dobey told everybody you were coming in today." He pointed to the parking lot, full of patrol cars when it should have been empty. "Everyone's car had problems, and if it wasn't the car, it was the radio." He grinned. "There's a lot of people who want to see you, Blintz. Let's go in and start saying 'hi.'"

Hutch took a deep breath and nodded, then set off briskly up the walk and into the building. Just making it through the first floor took over thirty minutes as people stopped to talk to Hutch, to tell him how good he looked, to welcome him back.

He was handling it well. Starsky kept a close eye on him, watching for signs of discomfort or incipient panic, but Hutch seemed himself -- calm, cool, collected. Happy to be there, happy to see people, happy to catch up with old friends. He remembered people's names, asked about husbands, wives, and kids, brought up commonalities -- teams, music, foods. He was a bit quiet, but friendly and seemed to be enjoying all the attention he was getting. No one asked anything too specific about his captivity, and the few tangential questions thrown his way -- How'd you make it so long? Are you putting the weight back on fast enough? Do you think you'll be able to come back? -- were handled with poise and aplomb.

They eventually made it to the elevator, both of them with hands full of goodies that had been brought in just for Hutch's return. Starsky was carrying two tins of cookies, a loaf of banana nut bread, and roasted chicken. Hutch had been weighed down with a chocolate cake, an apple pie, and a large container of soup.

Once in the elevator, Hutch turned to Starsky and said, "Whew!" He drew a deep breath and said, "That was harder than I thought it'd be."

"You did great," Starsky said, smiling.

Hutch hoisted his goodies slightly and added, "This was a surprise."

Starsky laughed. "You'd be amazed," he said softly. "I know a hell of a lot of guys a hell of a lot better now -- mostly because their wives kept cooking for me while you were gone." He dropped his head, embarrassed at his self-perceived gaffe. While Hutch had been starving, Starsky's biggest eating difficulty had frequently been which casserole to heat up for that night.

Hutch shifted from his side of the elevator to stand next to his partner. He nudged him with his shoulder. " 's okay, Starsk," he said softly. "Don't feel bad, please?"

Starsky roused himself and smiled. "No, I'm not feeling bad," he lied with a laugh. "I'm just wondering where we're going to put all this stuff."

The elevator stopped on the seventh floor and Hutch stepped forward as the doors opened. A crowd was hovering and applause broke out at his appearance. Starsky could tell it had startled him and he moved to stand halfway in front of the taller man, as Hutch took a step back.

"S-starsk," Hutch whispered under his breath.

"Hey, guys," Starsky called cheerfully, "give the man a break. Let him get his bearings before you swamp him, okay?"

People laughed but the crowd began to break up.

"Welcome back, Hutch!"

"I'll stop by your desk in a bit."

"Good to see you, buddy."

"Looking good there, Hutchinson."

The words swirled in the air as Hutch struggled to breathe. Starsky moved closer to Hutch, signaling Dobey to step in. "Hey, Cap'n," he said casually, "you think you could help us out with some of this stuff?" He nodded as the captain relieved Hutch of his burdens, passing them to Pete, then emptied Starsky's arms as well.

"Hutch," Dobey said quietly, "let's go in my office. We've got some paperwork you need to look at."

Hutch swallowed hard and Starsky put his hand on his back, then began to gently prod him forward. "It's okay, Hutch, these guys just wanted you to know you've been missed and they're glad you're back."

Hutch nodded, saying, "Kn-now that." He gave a shaky laugh. "Don't know what's wr-rong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you," Starsky said promptly. "It's just a little overwhelming -- being here, having all these people around. It's okay."

They made it down the hall, Pete, Dobey and Starsky forming a protective barrier around Hutch. Dobey did the talking, at his gruffest as he chased people off with barks of, "Leave the man alone. He's got business to attend to. You can visit later."

They made it into the squad room, and the goodies Pete and Dobey carried were added to an already large pile that sat on Starsky's desk. But Hutch wasn't looking at that. He wasn't looking at the room, or the people in it who watched him, or even at Starsky.

He was looking at his desk.

His desk which looked the same as it had the day he was taken.

His nameplate sat on the side of the desk. Pens and pencils stood upright in his pencil caddy. He picked up the piggy bank that had always sat between his and Starsky's space, shook it briefly and peered into the slot before setting it back down. Even his desk calendar from 1979 was there, blank after the first twelve pages. His mug sat on the corner, the one Starsky had gotten him that had Inspector Clouseau speaking to a policeman in a zebra suit, saying, "One more outburst like that, and I'll have your stripes." He picked it up, semi-toasted Starsky with it and quoted, in his best Clouseau voice, "That man is crah-zee!"

Starsky laughed and shook his finger, feeding him the next line. "We don't use that word around here, sir."

"Then what word do yeu use?"

"Now, now..." Starsky said, finger still wagging.

"That man is very now, now!" Hutch replied with a grin.

Hutch and Starsky both broke out laughing, Pete joined in cautiously and Dobey watched them like they were lunatics, hiding his smile.

As they quieted, Dobey said, "If you're both quite finished ..."

"We're done," Starsky said, still chuckling.

"Quite done," Hutch added. "You needed to see me, Cap?"

Dobey nodded. "My office. This won't take long."

"You want me to come, Hutch?" Starsky asked.

Hutch chewed his lip a moment, then shook his head. "I'm good," he said as he stepped through the door into Dobey's office.

Starsky looked at Pete, then stepped over and quickly hugged the man. "How'd you do this?" he said, pointing to Hutch's desk, to all the things that were back in place that Starsky had packed up over a year ago.

Pete shrugged. "I've got a key to your place, remember? I just went over and got everything, set it back up. It's no big deal."

"It's a *huge* deal. Did you see him? He was thrilled!"

Pete flushed, pleased. "I'm glad."

"Where's your stuff?" Starsky asked, looking around.

"Took it home for a while. We can share again, right?"

Starsky nodded. "Of course. But Pete -- why?"

Pete looked at the closed door to Dobey's office, then sighed. "He's lost so much, Davey. His home, his job, his self-confidence and independence. It just seemed like he needed to have something that was still the same, something that was waiting for him just the way he left it."

"Aw, kid," Starsky said, swallowing hard. "I don't know what to say."

Pete nodded, then looked back at Starsky. "You think he's gonna come back?"

Starsky nodded emphatically, then shook his head, then shrugged helplessly. "I just don't know. He wants to, or at least he says he does. But sometimes, in the middle of the night when he's screaming and so scared and lost, I just don't know."

Pete reached out and patted Starsky's arm. "If anyone can make it, it's him."

"Yeah." Starsky looked up as Dobey's door opened and Hutch walked out, a bemused look on his face. "He's the strongest guy I know," he said softly as he moved to his partner, guiding him over to his desk.

"What did Dobey want?" he asked, leaning back against the desk as Hutch settled in the chair.

"He had some p-papers for me."

Starsky sat up, alert. "Papers for what?"

"Money," Hutch replied. "They want to g-give me my back pay for while I was gone, since it turns o-out that m-my d-disap-pearance was j-job-related after all. I-I was supposed to sign ..."

"Did you sign, Hutch?"

Hutch shook his head. "C-Cap said not to yet. He said I sh-should talk to a lawyer f-first." Hutch looked up at Starsky, who was sighing in relief.

"I think the Captain's right. We should probably get a lawyer to read through it. Those them?" He pointed to the wad of papers clutched in Hutch's hand.

Hutch passed them over, saying, "Y-you know, m-my d-dad's a l-lawyer."

Starsky narrowed his eyes and looked up from scanning the documents. "Do you want to get your dad involved in this?"

Hutch lifted his thumb to his mouth and bit the nail, then shook his head. "N-noooo," he said slowly, "but if I-I d-don't, h-he'll be m-mad."

Starsky touched Hutch's shoulder. "It's okay, Hutch. He's not going to be mad. And if he is, it doesn't matter. You're a grown man. You can handle this any way you want to."

Hutch nodded once, but didn't speak.

"They're offering you a lot of money," Starsky said after he finished a quick read-thru. "You may be entitled to more, but, Hutch," he waited until the blond met his eyes, "however you want to handle this is all right. If you want to see a lawyer, we can do that. If you want to call your dad, we can do that, too. And if you want to take what they're offering, that's okay as well." He passed the papers back to Hutch, then let his hand rest on the other man's arm, gripping him firmly. "This is your life, and you are in control. So whatever you want to do, that's okay, you understand?"

Hutch nodded. "W-want to think a-about it," he said softly.

"That's okay, too," Starsky replied, releasing Hutch and moving over to his desk. "What do you want to do for the rest of the afternoon?"

Hutch's voice was small as he said, "W-wanna g-go h-home."

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

Day 107 - Saturday, July 4, 1981 - Fourth of July Police Picnic

"I love this," Hutch said quietly as he lay on his back and stared up at the cloudless blue sky.

"I know," Starsky said, laughing, "but you're going to burn if you stay out here much longer." He tossed a tube to his partner. "Put some more sunscreen on."

"Yes, Mother," Hutch said good-naturedly, opening the tube and squeezing the lotion into his hand. He rubbed it on his exposed arms, then around his neck and face. "Happy?" he asked when he was done.

"Ecstatic," Starsky replied dryly. "Give that back now, so I can put it back in the bag for DK."

"They're all as fair as me," Hutch said, rolling over to watch Pete and Betsy take turns pushing DK in a swing on the tot lot portion of the playground. He eyed Starsky and added, "You're the only one who doesn't have to worry about burning today."

"What can I say? It's that Italian ancestry coming out. Guaranteed to be quick of temper, fleet of foot, and safe in the sunlight."

"Starsky -- you're Jewish."

"What, Jews can't be Italian?"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. Jews can be Italian -- you're just not."

Starsky shrugged. "Italian fit better," he said with a grin. "Maybe I'm being an honorary Italian today."

Hutch rolled his eyes, then sat up and tossed a wadded up napkin at this partner. "You -- are nuts," he said with a laugh. "Certifiable."

Starsky just grinned. "Hey, Hutch. A few of the guys were trying to get enough people together for a softball game. You up for that?"

"Softball? Ah, Starsky, I don't know ..."

"Aw, c'mon, Hutch. It'll be fun. You know, like old times -- normal. I'll be batting a thousand and you'll be tripping over your laces." He swatted Hutch on the back gently. "It'll be great."

Hutch snorted, then laughed and nodded. "Okay -- but if I get in trouble for too much 'strenuous' activity at therapy, I expect you to write me a note telling Mark it was all your fault."

"Done," Starsky said, rising and pulling Hutch up with him. "Let's go get Pete and see if we can't get this game going."

It took a while to get organized, but in the end they had two teams -- detectives versus uniforms. Pete was particularly looking forward to playing against his old buddies and some friendly wagering was occurring.

Cal Dobey was playing with the detectives, and a couple of the uniforms' older boys were also playing. Dobey himself had been drafted to umpire, along with a desk sergeant named Kowalski.

It didn't take long before the game was in full swing. Wives and girlfriends surrounded the field, smaller children and babies playing on blankets as their fathers played ball. The uniforms took the field first and a short, squat man named Deavers approached the pitcher's mound. Keith Torrance stepped up to the plate for the detective squad. Tall and broad, he muttered to himself as the first two pitches went wild and were called balls. The next one was straight and he swung hard, connecting with a low hit to left field that bounced once before being scooped up and thrown to the first baseman. It was close, but Torrance made it.

The next batter struck out, and Hutch was up. He walked to the plate nervously, then lifted a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes. "Hutchinson!" Deavers called. "Good to see you, man!" Hutch raised his bat in a half-salute to acknowledge the man's words. When Deavers tossed the ball, it flew straight and even, right through the strike zone, and Hutch swung, connecting hard with a pop fly into center field. He heard Betsy's scream first, "Run, Ken!" followed by a cacophony of male voices.

"Go!"

"Run, Hutch, run!"

"Way to go, Hutchinson!"

"Move, move, move!"

"Good one!"

He made first in time to see the ball fall between the left and center fielders, and took off for second, sliding onto the base just ahead of the ball's arrival. He stood amongst rampant cheers and managed to bow with a flourish before the next batter stepped to the plate.

The game went on, the detectives scoring two runs before their third out, then the uniforms tying the score during their turn at bat.

Second and third innings were draws -- both sides striking out without scoring.

The fourth inning saw three runs for the detectives, including a home run by Starsky who danced his way around the bases. The uniforms scored two at their turn at bat, and then it was time for the detectives to bat again. But as they were going over the batting roster, Pete called Starsky aside. "He's beat," the redhead said, pointing at Hutch who was sitting on the ground, flushed and panting.

"Shit!" Starsky said, heading back to the group by the designated 'dugout.' "We're done," he said, with a general wave in Hutch's direction. "I gotta take him home."

"Sure."

"No sweat."

"He okay?"

"Drive safe."

The calls followed Starsky as he jogged over to Hutch and held out a hand.

" 'm s-sorry," Hutch said as he let Starsky pull him up.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Starsky said as they walked slowly toward the Torino. "I'm worn out, too."

Hutch snorted. "I *hate* this," he said passionately. "Every time I think things are getting back to normal, something comes along and reminds me how far from normal I am!"

"I keep telling you, Hutch," Starsky said as they climbed into the car, "you're doing great. Mark at PT tells you how good you're doing, Dr. Patel and Dr. Barot tell you. The nurses and the techs all keep telling you that you're doing fantastic. You're the only one who's not happy."

Hutch shook his head. "I'm happy," he said softly. "I'm so happy to be here, to have this much of my life back ..." He lifted a hand and wiped his face. "I'm just -- greedy. I want it all. I want my job. I want my energy, my stamina. I want to be able to play a whole game of softball without breaking down halfway through."

Starsky started the car, then cocked his head as he looked at Hutch assessingly. "You're what, 155 now?"

Hutch nodded. "About. 156."

"That's halfway, Hutch," Starsky reminded him. "You're halfway there. You made it through half the game today. By the time you're back up to your fighting weight, you'll be able to last the whole game -- no trouble."

"It's frustrating," Hutch said. "I want it all."

"And you'll get it," Starsky told him reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "God, Hutch, there were times when I didn't know if I'd see you again," he ran his hand up Hutch's arm, cupping the other man's neck lightly, "didn't know if I'd ever be able to touch you, be with you. And now," he shook his head, "well, I know you're frustrated, but I'm just so fucking grateful you're here, it's hard for me to complain."

Hutch covered Starsky's hand with his own. "You're a softy, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," Starsky said with a laugh. "I know. But you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you." He put the car in gear and headed for home.

"I heard from the lawyer," Hutch said.

"Oh?"

"He says the department offered another ten thousand."

"And?"

Hutch shrugged. "He thinks they'll offer more. He wants to wait a little then talk to them again."

"You're gonna end up rich," Starsky teased.

Hutch turned his head and looked out the window. "It's not enough," he said, the bitterness in his voice like a sour taste in the air. "Whatever it works out to, it's not enough.

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

Day 140 - Thursday, August 6, 1981

"Oh, my God," Betsy gasped into the phone. "Where is she? Is she all right?"

"What?" Hutch asked, getting up from the floor where he'd been playing with DK, and coming to stand beside the petite brunette.

She waved him silent. "How long ago?" she asked. She listened, then nodded. "I'm on my way." Hanging up the phone, she raced to the hallway and got DK's diaper bag. "Ken, my mother was in a car accident. She's at Memorial and I need to go."

He paled and she raised her hand to her mouth. "Oh, Ken! I'm so sorry." Her hand rose to card through her hair. "Let me think a minute. I can call Pete."

"Betsy," Hutch said, "it's okay. Just go."

"No, no, that's okay," she said, tapping her fingers against her lips. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"I'm better, Bets, really. It's okay. You go. You can even leave DK here with me. It'll be all right."

"No, Ken, that's too much for you. I tell you what, you come to the hospital with me."

Hutch shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I don't think I could handle the ER. But I'll be fine here, really I will."

"I can't leave you, Kenny."

"Look, this is important. It's your mom -- you have to go. And I'm a grown man. I can handle staying here for a little while with DK. We'll call Starsky and Pete. Pete can meet you at the hospital and Starsk will come straight here." He gave her his most charming smile. "How long can it take?"

"Are you sure?" she asked, fear and concern in her voice. "What if you ..." she shrugged helplessly.

"Flip out?" He grinned again. "I won't, I promise. And I'll take care of DK. If I think there's going to be a problem before Starsky gets here, I'll take the baby and go over to Mrs. Leonard's, okay?"

"It would be such a help if you could keep DK, just till I know what's going on."

He reached out and gently took her by the shoulders. "It's been almost five months, Bets," he said seriously, "I'm okay. I can do this."

She looked at him carefully, then nodded and patted his cheek. "Of course you can," she said firmly. "I'm sorry if I made you doubt yourself."

He took a deep breath, then let her go. "Go get your purse and whatever else you need; I'll call dispatch for Pete and Starsky."

She disappeared into the back of the house and was back in a minute, just as he hung up the phone. She swept by DK, kissed his head, then stepped over to Hutch.

"If you feel -- upset -- just put DK in the playpen, or in his crib, okay? He'll be okay."

"We'll be fine, Betsy -- I promise. I won't let anything happen to him."

"I know," she said, smiling up at him through her concern. "Did you reach Dispatch?"

"They'll radio -- have the guys call me." He looked at her, then asked, "Are you going to be okay to drive?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine."

He pulled her in for a quick hug, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "Go. Take care of your mom." He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder. "Don't worry about the munchkin -- we'll be fine."

She got to the door, then turned and looked back at him. "I can see why Davey loves you so -- you're strong and you have a way of rising to every occasion. I'm so glad you're in our lives."

Hutch dropped his head for a moment, then looked back up at her. "I'm the one who's grateful. I don't know what I would've done without you and DK lately." He shook himself and smiled. "Enough of the mutual admiration society -- go see about your mom."

She nodded and darted out the door.

Hutch turned around and looked at the baby, who was still busy trying to put Big Bird's head into Ernie's belly on the puzzle he was playing with.

The phone rang and he snatched it up.

"Starsk?"

"Ken? Oh, God, Ken! What happened?"

"No, Pete, it's okay. Betsy and DK are both okay." He heard the other man take a deep breath and swallow. "What happened?"

"Betsy's mom -- she was in a car accident."

"Oh, my God! Is she all right?"

"I don't know. Betsy went to the hospital; you're supposed to meet her there."

"Where's DK?"

"I've got him -- and before you panic, Pete, it's okay. Just go be with your wife and let me talk to Starsky, okay?"

"Uh, yeah," Pete said, and Hutch could hear the indecision in his voice.

There was a muffled conversation in the background, then Starsky came on the line. "You okay, Hutch?"

"I wish everyone would quit asking me that," Hutch grumbled. "Did Pete leave?"

"Yeah -- he's going to the hospital and I'm coming there as soon as I hang up with you." It was Starsky's turn to take a deep breath. "Hutch -- I'm sorry to do this to you, but -- are you sure you're going to be okay? I can get a uniform car over there in just a few minutes ..."

"Starsk ..." Hutch's voice was strangled. "Please ... I can do this."

"It's DK, Hutch. He's so ..."

"Did Pete tell you to send the uniform?" Hutch asked.

"Nooooo," Starsky answered slowly.

"Then if Pete was okay with me being here, and Betsy was okay with it, don't you think you can trust me, too?"

"I'm sorry, Hutch, I'm sorry. I'm just thinking -- the baby ..."

"Shhh, Starsk," Hutch said softly, "I'm all right." He took a deep breath. "Now -- are you coming over to help me babysit, or what?"

"Thirty minutes," Starsky said, and the phone went dead.

Hutch hung up the phone and looked over at the baby who was still working diligently on his puzzle. He walked over, then sat down and turned the puzzle piece around, handing it to DK who happily stuck it in the correct slot, then promptly pulled it out and turned it upside down and went back to trying to make it fit. He pounded on it with his little fist, then picked it up and studied it, then tried again.

Hutch laughed and leaned back on his arms, watching the baby. "Just you and me, kid," he murmured softly. "We can do this."

It wasn't long before DK lost interest in the puzzle and was back at the shelf dragging a bin of blocks out. Hutch spent another ten minutes building towers for DK to knock down before the baby's attention once again wandered.

Hutch was getting antsy, too. His eyes had been darting to the clock twice a minute for the last five, and he could feel the tension creeping up his spine. He'd been rocking in place and hadn't even realized it until he rose to his feet to follow DK into the kitchen. The baby was going to each cabinet, trying to open it, and growing increasingly frustrated as the child locks thwarted him.

Hutch was rocking again, his arms wrapped around himself, clinging to this reality. What was it Betsy had said? If you feel like you're getting upset, put the baby in the playpen. Hutch looked at the clock again. Where was Starsky? How much longer?

The baby smacked the last cabinet with his fist, then began to cry and the sound cut through Hutch's mind. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he rapidly pattered his left palm with his right fist. " 's okay, DK," he murmured, trying to keep his voice calm. Couldn't little kids sense it when you were upset?

He stepped over to the baby and reached down, waiting for DK to open his arms to be picked up. When the baby did, Hutch lifted him, settled him against his shoulder and crooned, "It's okay, baby, it's okay."

He began to walk, the kitchen shifting in and out with the little white room. He looked around again. Where was Starsky? Why was he alone? He shook his head and soothed the baby again, "Don't cry, DK, it's all right. I've got you."

The baby was settling now, thumb in mouth and the fingers of his other hand were twisting in Hutch's hair. Hutch stopped his pacing and began to rock in place.

"Starsky, Starsky, Starsky," he chanted and the baby echoed, "Deh-deh, Deh-deh, Deh-deh," his own version of Davey.

"You want him, too, eh?" Hutch asked, the panic growing within him, his chest tight. It was getting hard to breathe. "Let's go outside and wait, okay?" he said to the baby and he turned and headed for the front door. "And if he doesn't get here soon, we can always go over to Mrs. Leonard's," Hutch told DK, reassuring and reminding himself in the process.

Once in the front yard, he could breathe better. There were people out here. Cars went by. Across the street, Mr. Patterson watered his roses, and two doors down, Mrs. Leonard was on her porch. She waved when she saw Hutch with the baby.

"I can do this," Hutch said to himself. "I am *not* in that little room. I'm here. I'm outside, in the sun, and I am safe. No one is ever putting me back in that room." He looked at DK, who was watching him seriously and said, "Right?"

"Wite," DK replied with a nod, wriggling to be put down.

Hutch set him on his feet, following him closely as the headed out into the yard. He stopped at a patch of dirt not covered in grass and leaned over to look at something, then fell backwards onto his butt. He rolled over smoothly and crawled forward, picking up the stone and slipping it into his mouth before Hutch could stop him. A second later, Hutch's long finger was probing in a very annoyed toddler's mouth, and the stone was removed, much to DK's irritation.

"My," he said huffily, and Hutch laughed.

"You can't put it in your mouth," he replied, but by then a stick had caught the baby's attention and he was happily digging in the sandy patch.

Hutch picked up another stick and began to help him, but looked up as the familiar sound of the Torino turned a corner and drew near. Starsky parked quickly, then jumped out and ran across the yard, slowing as he took in the scene.

"You guys okay?" he asked, not looking at Hutch as he squatted down and held out his hand to DK. The baby solemnly picked up a handful of dirt and deposited it there.

"Yeah, Starsk," Hutch said quietly, "we're fine."

Starsky nodded and let the dirt dribble from his hand, making a little hill which DK promptly demolished. "You, uh, have any problems?" he asked nonchalantly.

Hutch shook his head. "We were good," he said, reaching out to tickle DK, "weren't we, big guy?"

The baby squealed, then giggled, then went back to digging with his stick.

"I should go call the hospital," Starsky said. "Find out how Betsy's mom is."

"Let them know their kid is okay," Hutch said, no rancor in his voice.

"It's not like that, Hutch ..." Starsky began, but Hutch cut him off.

"Of course it's like that, Starsky," Hutch said, "and that's okay. I'm not exactly known for my stability right now."

"But you were okay here, weren't you?" Starsky said, letting his hand rest on Hutch's arm.

Hutch nodded. "Yeah. I was." He smiled and pointed at the baby. "Why don't you take him back inside and call his folks?"

"What are you going to do?"

Hutch smiled and looked up at the sun. "I think I'm just going to sit out here by myself for a while." He shifted on the ground till his long legs were extended and he lay half-reclined, leaning back on his elbows. "Just gonna sit here alone," he said, eyes closed as he turned his face up toward the sun.

Beside him, Starsky's eyes filled as he picked up the baby and headed into the house.

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

Day 162 - Friday, August 28, 1981 -- Hutch's Birthday

Hutch parked the car and got out, patting it on the hood as he walked past and headed up the sidewalk to the building.

He weighed 172 pounds now, had been cleared to start working out on his own, and the counseling sessions had been cut back to once a week. He'd slept in his own bed -- alone -- for the last two weeks and hadn't had the first nightmare. He'd passed his driver's test, had a license and had the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Today was the fourth day he'd come home after his morning at the hospital instead of going over to the Ferguson's or Dobey's.

He passed his physical and was cleared to return to work on Monday. It was desk duty only, until he passed the psych screen, but he was sure that was just around the corner. Dr. Barot told him he could expect to be cleared to full duty by the end of the year. In some ways, it seemed like a long way off, but when he thought of how he had been gone for over two years, but would be back in less than one, he found he could be patient and give himself just a little more time.

He still had nightmares, but he was learning to keep them from Starsky. He didn't always wake up screaming anymore. He still had some problems with his memory, still got confused, but he was learning to compensate, learning to cover. And he still got scared and had the occasional panic attack or flashback, but again, he was better able to cover it up, to work around it and keep it from everyone, and that was what it was all about, right? Getting back to normal.

Starsky used those words all the time. "When things get back to normal, Hutch ..." "When you're your normal self ..." "When we're together on the street, like we normally are ..." Everything to Starsky relied on normal. And Hutch was determined to be as normal as they come. He was going to be so damned normal, people would look in the dictionary and see his picture. He was not going to let Starsky down -- not when the man had put his whole life on hold for three years -- first searching for Hutch and waiting for him to come back, then nursing and supporting him. There was no way he was letting his partner down.

Hutch sighed happily. He was so content right now -- things were going so well. The only shadow on the horizon was the knowledge that he was going to have to move out and get his own place. He and Starsky hadn't talked about it, but he knew it was coming. And he was sure he could handle it -- the being alone -- but he wasn't sure he wanted too.

Still, it wasn't happening today, so today he was just going to enjoy. After all, not only did he graduate from PT and get his therapy sessions cut back, today was his birthday. He was 41. He'd missed both 39 and 40 while he was in the little room, but tonight was his to celebrate.

Hutch unlocked the door and dropped his keys on the table, then jumped as the phone rang. He stepped quickly across the room and answered.

"Hello?"

"Ken? This is Pete ..."

"What happened?" Fear laced his voice.

"He's okay, Ken. He was shot, but it's not critical. We're at the hospital -- he's going up for surgery soon. I've already dispatched a uniform to pick you up."

"I won't be here," Hutch said, dropping the phone and racing for the door.

He was in the car, the bubble light slammed onto the dash this time, and throwing it in gear before the words began to sink in.

"He was shot."

"At the hospital."

"Going up for surgery."

"Shot."

"Hospital."

"Surgery."

Hutch screamed his rage and slammed his fist against the roof of the car, pounding repeatedly as he slid through a red light, turning left.

Starsky had to be okay. All those feelings of success and triumph from just a few minutes ago were suddenly eclipsed by doubts and fears. He forced himself to focus on driving, focus on breathing, focus on getting to the hospital. Siren wailing, lights flashing, he roared through another intersection, narrowly avoiding two cars, and made yet another turn. The hospital was at last in sight.

The ragged old car slid to a stop outside the emergency room, and he hopped out, leaving the engine running and the door still open.

"Starsky?" he asked as he ran to the desk. "David Starsky? A cop -- just brought in." He was panting, working hard for each breath. "I'm his partner..."

"Oh," the girl said, "He's in the back. Through those doors," she pointed, "but I thought his partner was already with ..."

Hutch tuned the rest out as the doors swung shut behind him. He didn't see Betsy rise and follow him back. He listened for a moment, then heard Pete's voice.

"Shit! I'm sorry, Davey."

Hutch moved swiftly to the curtained area and stepped inside.

"Hutch!" Starsky said, smiling.

"Get away from him!" Hutch said to Pete, stepping forward.

"What?" The younger man looked confused, for a moment, then angry.

"Where the hell *were* you?" Hutch demanded, shoving Pete to the side, away from Starsky. "What good is it if you ride with him and you don't watch his back?"

Pete's anger flared. "I was where I was supposed to be!" he snarled, shoving Hutch back. "*He* was the one that went racing out into the open!" He circled to the other side of Starsky's bed, sidestepping the IV pole to take up a post there.

"Stupid fuck!" Hutch cried, clutching Starsky's hand. "You stupid, stupid fuck!"

"Leave the kid alone, Hutch," Starsky said, biting his lip in pain. " 's not his fault."

"Fuck that!" Hutch replied, dropping Starsky's hand in order to pace. "He rides with you -- he damned well better know your moves."

"What?" Pete exclaimed. "Now I'm not good enough to ride with your partner? Two years, *Hutch,* two fucking years I've ridden with him! I know him better than you do now!'

A nurse stuck her head into the curtained cubicle. "Excuse me ..."

"Out!" roared Hutch.

"Not now!" ordered Starsky.

"Give us a minute," Pete said, in an only slightly more contained tone.

"And like hell you do!" Hutch responded to Pete's words.

"Stop it! Stop!" Starsky cried, fighting to pull himself up.

"Shut up!" Hutch ordered Starsky, before turning back to Pete. "If you can't keep him in one piece, and avoid letting people put holes in him, then no, God damn it! You're not good enough to ride with him!"

"And I suppose you are?" Starsky panted, grabbing at Hutch and yanking him back to his side. "You're so fucking worried about me -- get your shit together and get your ass out on the street!" He gasped, releasing Hutch and dropping back into the gurney.

The curtain flew open and Betsy stood there, her face red, her eyes filled with tears. DK was perched on her hip, eyes wide at the scene before him. "Stop it!" Betsy demanded. "All of you -- just stop it!"

"Bets ..." Pete said, reaching out to her.

"Don't you touch me, Peter Ferguson," she said, staring at him, her eyes blazing. "How could you say that to Ken? How *could* you?"

She whirled on Hutch. "And you!" she snapped. "How dare you accuse *my husband* of not watching out for Davey? How *dare* you? You know how much we love him -- how could you say that?"

Hutch wilted visibly under her onslaught.

She turned on Starsky. "Don't you close your eyes, David Starsky," she ordered. "You're the cause of all this."

"I'm the one got shot," he offered in weak defense.

"Yes, and how? Did I hear something about going out in the open? Davey -- what were you thinking? Do you know what it would do to Pete if you were killed? What it would do to Ken? You can't take stupid chances..." She drew a deep breath, then went on, "And how can you tell Ken to get it together? He's done so well -- come so far. It's not fair, dumping this on him."

"And you," she looked at her husband in exasperation, "Same thing. You know how hard things have been for Ken. And you may have been riding with Davey for two years, but Ken's been there for a lot longer than that."

She turned to Hutch. "And you there -- don't you turn away from me. You're strong now -- strong enough, well enough that you should damn well know it's not fair to blame this on Pete."

She hitched the baby up on her hip, then pursed her lips and fixed each of them with a stare in quick succession. "Sort this out," she ordered. "Fix it now, before Davey goes up to surgery." She whirled on her heel and was gone.

Silence echoed in the tiny space and then Starsky said in a small voice, "But I was the one who got shot ... How come I'm in trouble, too?"

Hutch snorted, then choked back a laugh. He stared at Pete over the gurney Starsky lay on, saw the smile creep across the redhead's lips, and just gave in. In seconds, the three of them were laughing, Starsky gritting his teeth and clutching his shoulder, but unable to stop despite the pain.

"Damn," Hutch said at last, "I used to think I envied you, Pete, but now I'm not so sure."

Pete nodded, then sobered and reached out, and Hutch took his hand halfway across the bed. "Look, Ken, about what I said ..."

Hutch waved it away. "Forget it. Me, too."

Starsky's hand rose, covering the other two men's. "I, uh, well, I didn't run out there with the intention of getting shot," he said sheepishly.

"You never do," Pete and Hutch said in unison, and they all laughed again.

Hutch patted Starsky's hand, then lowered it to the bed and released Pete's with another smile.

"What's the verdict?" he asked, looking from Pete to Starsky.

"Clean shot to the shoulder," Starsky replied. "Minor damage."

"Why surgery then?"

"Get the bullet out," Pete replied. "It won't take long." He looked down at the dark-haired man with affection. "Gonna ground you for a few weeks."

Hutch smiled. "Perfect."

"Perfect?" Starsky asked in alarm. "Why the hell is that perfect?"

Hutch shrugged. "I got cleared to return to desk duty. Start on Monday."

"Congratulations, man!" Pete said, hand coming out again to shake Hutch's warmly. "That's great news!" His smile lost a tiny bit of its luster as he added, "Guess I better start looking for a partner in earnest now."

"Oh, hey, Pete, I didn't mean ..." Hutch floundered, at a loss for words.

"Nah, man, it's okay. We've known this day was coming -- this is a *good* thing."

Starsky reached up and laid a hand on the younger man's arm. "It's not immediate," he said, looking at Hutch, "is it?"

Hutch shook his head. "Barot says I should be ready for psych clearance by the first of the year, maybe sooner. Desk work only until then."

"First of the year," Pete repeated. "Ken -- you know what that means? You'll beat them -- you'll beat them by a full year! That's -- incredible." He took Starsky's hand from his arm, holding it for a moment as he leaned down to speak to the man in the bed. "Look -- I need to go talk to Bets, or I'm gonna be sleeping on the couch for the next month. You guys okay in here?"

Starsky nodded, and Hutch said, "We're good."

"I'll see you when you're bullet-free, okay, Davey?" he said as he stepped to the curtain and pulled it back. "You rest easy."

"He's a good kid, Hutch," Starsky said when Pete was gone.

"Shit, Starsk! I know that. I don't know what got into me." Hutch ran his hand through his hair.

Starsky reached up and grabbed his right hand. "You were worried about me."

"Yeah -- yeah, I was." He scrubbed his face with his left hand, then rested it on the bed rail. "Did you really run out in the open without cover?"

Starsky flushed. "I, uh, -- oh, shit! I don't know what I was thinking."

"Starsk," Hutch said softly, "promise me you won't do that again. I mean, I know we have to take risks -- it comes with the territory. But promise me -- no unnecessary ones, okay?"

Starsky nodded and Hutch released his hand.

"Does it hurt?" Hutch asked solicitously.

"Like a bitch," Starsky replied, nodding. He craned his head to look around Hutch and stare at the closed curtain. "Wonder what's taking so long?"

Hutch snorted. "All that yelling we were doing, they may be afraid to come in here."

Starsky laughed. "Nah -- that can't be it. Betsy was the only really scary one, and she's back outside."

"She's something," Hutch agreed. "If I'd ever met someone like her ..."

Starsky nodded, then shrugged and immediately winced as the movement sent daggers of pain through his damaged shoulder. "Me, too," he said almost wistfully, but then he reached out and gently touched Hutch's arm. "But we do okay, don't we, Blondie?"

Hutch looked down into those trusting blue eyes and nodded. "Yeah, babe, we do okay."

A nurse came in, paused by the curtain and asked, "Is it safe now?"

Hutch flushed and murmured, "Sorry about earlier."

Starsky nodded and added, "Yeah, me, too."

"I've got a shot for you, Mr. Starsky, to relax you prior to going up for your surgery." She moved over to the IV and slipped the needle into the injection port. "You'll be getting sleepy, so don't fight it. The surgery won't take long, and when you're done in recovery, you'll be taken to a room."

She turned and looked at Hutch. "You and your friends out there can all go up and wait in the surgical waiting room. The doctor will come out and talk to you there when she's done." She moved to the curtain and added, "The baby won't be able to go into Mr. Starsky's room after surgery."

Hutch nodded. "We'll take turns," he assured the nurse and Starsky, whose eyes were already beginning to close. He sat with his partner until they took him up, then went slowly back out to the waiting room to face Betsy.

"Hey," he said as he walked over to where Betsy and Pete sat, the baby balanced in Pete's lap.

"Keh, Keh!" DK cried, reaching out excitedly.

Hutch looked at Pete, wondering how much damage his outburst had caused, but the younger man just smiled and passed the baby over. "See if you can settle him down. He's like a little wild man."

Hutch nodded and began to jiggle DK up and down until the baby was laughing. He pulled him close and cuddled him against his shoulder, then reached down with one hand to pull Betsy to her feet. " 'm sorry, Bets," he said softly, "we're all jerks, you know." He went to pull his hand back, but she followed it, settling against him for a hug.

"Oh, Ken," she said with a sigh, "things can't ever be simple, can they?"

He laughed and hugged her, then nudged her gently toward Pete. "Never. That would be too easy." He shifted the baby to his other arm, then said, "There's a surgical waiting room on the sixth floor. Shall we go up?"

They were almost at the elevator when Hutch smacked his head and said, "Damn! My car!" He passed the baby back to Betsy and turned, but Pete grabbed his arm.

"I moved it, Ken," he said, holding out the keys. "It's out in the back lot with ours." He shook his head as the elevator dinged and they all filed in. "Man, Davey said you drove a clunker but ..."

"Don't you start in on my car," Hutch groaned, clutching his head as if in agony. "I don't think I can take it from both of you."

Betsy laughed and led the way out of the elevator and down the hall to the waiting room where they spent a fairly relaxed forty minutes watching DK toddle about and fly paper airplanes his dad and 'uncle' made from pages torn from three year old magazines. Betsy pretended not to know the men while they were vandalizing the hospital's property.

When Hutch went to tear up yet another magazine, she leaned over and hissed at him, "Will you *stop* that? You're a *cop!* You're not supposed to tear things up."

Hutch looked at Pete who burst out laughing, leaving Hutch on his own to try to look sufficiently repentant. Betsy finally threw up her hands in disgust and gave up. "Fine," she said. "Great role models you two turn out to be."

Hutch was about to apologize again when a woman in green surgical scrubs walked in and said, "David Starsky?" Hutch and Pete both rose.

"I'm Doctor Hampton," the woman said. "I just finished removing the bullet from Mr. Starsky's shoulder. There was minimal muscle and tissue damage; it went straight in and lodged about three-quarters of the way through. He's in very good shape; tolerated the anesthesia well. He's in recovery now, but should be moved to his own room in the next hour or so." She looked over at Betsy and DK and smiled. "Any questions?"

Hutch shook his head and Pete said, "No, thank you."

"I'll have someone come and tell you when he's settled; you can see him then."

"Thank you, Doctor," Hutch said and the woman nodded and left.

"You guys wanna go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat?" Hutch asked.

Pete looked at Betsy, who nodded and they made the trip down, eating a quick meal. Hutch bought a couple of deserts, some cookies, chips and juice to take back up for Starsky.

Once back in the waiting room, it wasn't long before someone came and gave them Starsky's room number. Hutch waited with DK while Pete and Betsy went in first, then when they came out, he said his good-byes, kissing Betsy and the baby, and finally went in to sit with his partner.

"Hey," he said softly as he slipped into the room, his arms full of goodies.

"Hey," Starsky replied. "Whatcha got there?"

"Enough junk food to last even you," Hutch teased. He dropped his supplies on the table and stepped to the bed, reaching out to touch Starsky's brow. "How you feeling?"

"Like I got shot."

"Putz."

"No, really, I'm okay. Not feeling too much pain right now." He pointed to the IV. "I think I'm on the good stuff."

"God, Starsk," Hutch breathed softly, "you can't do that to me. I can't take it."

Starsky reached out and took Hutch's hand. "Yeah, you can." He waited until Hutch met his eyes. "You're strong."

Hutch shook his head. "Not that strong. I'm the one who's unstable remember?"

Starsky squeezed the hand he held. "You're *strong,* Hutch. You can take anything."

Hutch shook his head again, dropping it to hover over their clasped hands, then resting his forehead there. "Not strong enough to face losing you."

"Shhhh," Starsky whispered. "Not gonna happen. I told you I wouldn't leave you alone. I promised, remember?"

Hutch nodded and drew a shaky breath. "Holding you to that promise," he whispered back, as he lifted his eyes to stare into Starsky's smoky blue ones.

There was a knock at the door. "Excuse me?" the nurse said. She walked in holding out a cupcake with a single candle stuck in it. "A man named Pete Ferguson asked that I bring this in. You can't light the candle, though. Sorry," she said with a smile as she walked out.

"Pete ..." Hutch said softly.

"He's a great kid," Starsky agreed.

"Wanna share, you old fart?" Hutch asked as he lifted the cupcake and broke it in half.

"Hutch?" Starsky said, holding his hand up to accept his half.

"Mmmm?" Hutch mumbled, mouth filled with cake. He looked over to see Starsky staring at him, eyes full of love and satisfaction.

"Happy Birthday, babe."

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

Day 165 - Monday, August 31, 1981

"This is it," Starsky said as they pulled up outside the Metro Division building. "You ready?"

Hutch wiped sweaty palms across his jeans, then nodded. "Ready as I'll ever be." He looked over at Starsky and added, "Partner."

Starsky smiled and reached out to touch his arm quickly. "Always."

Hutch nodded, then opened the door and stepped out. "Let's do it."

They walked in and were immediately mobbed. Everyone wanted to know how Starsky was doing, but more importantly, people were going out of their way to welcome Hutch back. As it had the last time Hutch had come in, it took over thirty minutes to make it to the elevator and both men were laden down with food by the time they reached the seventh floor.

"Gotta love cops' wives," Starsky said appreciatively, as he sniffed a pie that balanced precariously at the top of his pile of loot. "Wonder if good cook is a job requirement to marry a cop?" He looked over at an elaborately braided loaf of bread that Hutch carried. "That's Polski's wife. She makes these incredible breads ..."

"This one won't last to get home. I intend to have it for lunch," Hutch said as they reached the squad room.

The other detectives burst into cheers as Hutch walked in, and Starsky quickly deposited his 'stuff' and joined them. When the noise and catcalls calmed, Dobey slapped his hands on his hips and said, "You're late! My office!" before turning and vanishing through his door.

"More things change ..." Hutch started.

"... the more they stay the same," Starsky finished.

Hutch dropped his burdens on his desk and followed Starsky into Dobey's office.

"Hutchinson? Legal wants to know when you're going to make a decision on their latest settlement offer."

"I didn't know they made one, Cap," he said with a shrug. "The lawyer deals with that."

"I don't give a damn one way or the other," Dobey said gruffly, "but I had to ask." He pointed to two stacks on his desk. "That's your assignment for the next few weeks.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance.

"Assignment?" Hutch asked.

"I thought we were on desk duty," added Starsky.

"If you think I'm going to waste two of my best detectives answering phones ..." Dobey shook his head. "Cold cases. You two settle in one of the interrogation rooms and go through these with a fine tooth comb. Anything you develop, you feed to the guys in the squad for follow-up. Any questions?"

Both men shook their heads.

"Good." Dobey picked up a pen and signed a sheet of paper, then looked up and scowled. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get outta here!"

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

Day 179 - Monday, September 14, 1981

Hutch stood outside the door to the apartment as he rubbed his face nervously. He'd just taken the biggest step yet since he'd been back, and he'd done it without talking to his partner. He looked down at the key in his hand, sighed then opened the door and entered.

Starsky was in the kitchen, pulling a casserole out of the oven. "Where you been, babe?" he asked as he moved the hot dish to the stovetop and turned off the oven.

"Had something I had to do," he said. At Starsky's puzzled glance, he added, "Tell you about it after dinner, okay?"

Starsky's brow was furrowed but he nodded slowly and asked, "You wanna wash up? This is ready."

When Hutch came back and they were seated, the casserole dished up with fresh, hot bread and a salad, Starsky sighed, then said, "I could get used to working cold cases."

Hutch nodded. "It's more interesting than I thought it would be," he agreed. "Imagine what we could do if they'd let us do our own investigations, instead of handing it off."

"You thought about it, too?" Starsky asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

Hutch shrugged. "I want to get back on the street, but I'm not sure I'm up for the kind of life we were leading. I'm older ..."

"Me, too," Starsky added, the words mumbled around a piece of bread.

"... and while I know I *can* make it on the streets, I'm not sure I *want* to." He looked at Starsky. "Know what I mean?"

Starsky nodded vigorously. "Some of the big cities -- they have full-time cold case detectives. It's a regular assignment, not busy work for the sick, lame, and lazy."

Hutch chewed thoughtfully, then forked up another bite of his salad. "What do you want to do?"

"Talk to Dobey?" Starsky suggested.

Hutch shook his head. "I think we should write a proposal." He put his fork down and grabbed a pen, then began to scratch on his napkin. "What's been closed since we started?"

"The Benson rape, and those liquor store robberies."

Hutch wrote. "And the string of car thefts from out in the Hills."

"Pete and the new kid are close on those home burglaries from out on the West Side," Starsky added.

Hutch looked up and smiled. "New kid's working out, don't you think?"

Starsky shrugged. "She seems okay." He shook his head. "God, Hutch! Were we ever as young as those two?"

Hutch raised his eyebrows, then shook his head. "It sure doesn't feel like it, does it?"

Starsky took a last bite of the casserole, one of Edith Dobey's that had become a favorite of his, then dropped his fork and wiped his mouth. He pointed at Hutch's impromptu list. "We got half a dozen more that have active investigations now, even if they're not closed or as close as the one Pete and Allison are working on." He cocked his head. "You think it's enough?"

Hutch nodded. "I think it's enough to make a strong case for a new, permanent division. I'll get it written up, then we'll see if we can't get one of the girls in the typing pool to type it up for us."

"Think this is going to fly?" Starsky asked as he cleared the table.

"Only one way to tell," Hutch said as he plugged the sink and began to run the water.

When the dishes were done, they moved into the living room. Starsky settled in a chair with Shel Silverstein's bestseller -- A Light in the Attic. Hutch was stretched out on the couch with a pad and his notes from earlier.

"Isn't that a kid's book?" Hutch asked.

Starsky shook his head. "It's great," he said, smiling over an illustration. He looked up and nodded in Hutch's direction. "What were you going to tell me after dinner?" he asked. "About the cold cases?"

Hutch shook his head. "Nooooo," he said slowly, swinging his feet down and sitting up. "Not that." He placed his papers on the table, then looked down, rubbed his face and rose to his feet. Walking over to the table by the door, he fumbled with his key ring for a minute, then came back and dropped something in Starsky's lap before resuming his place on the couch.

"What's this?" Starsky asked, holding up a key.

"Your key."

"To what?"

"My place."

"Your -- place?" The words were croaked out, and Starsky had a decidedly sick look on his face.

Hutch scrubbed his face again, then nodded. "Yeah, my place. I move in the end of the month."

Starsky looked lost. He gestured around the room, then looked back at Hutch. "But I thought ..."

"I'm happy here, Starsk, really I am, but don't you think ..."

"But ... But ... You're ... I'm ..." Starsky gave up and just stared.

"It had to happen, Starsk," Hutch said gently. "You're the one who keeps talking about when things get back to normal. Well," Hutch spread his hands, "I'm getting my own place again. That's normal, isn't it?"

Starsky stared at him, then nodded slowly. "I, uh, guess so."

"Look," Hutch said, suddenly irritated and rising to pace to work off his agitation, "I'm not going far." He snorted. "All the way across the hall, actually."

"Yeah?" Starsky asked, perking up. "You got the Hill's place?"

Hutch nodded. "Yeah, and since Bobby's transferring overseas, and Amy is going home to live with her mom, they're gonna let me have most of the furniture as well, so it's basically furnished." He looked over at his partner and smiled. "I'm just gonna leave my stuff," his hand waved around the room, "here."

Starsky rose and went to stand in front of Hutch. "We'll move your bedroom over," he said softly. "It'll be more familiar. We can bring their stuff over here for the second room." He looked around. "Your record cabinet, too." His voice broke as he added, "And the bookcases."

"Shhh," Hutch said, reaching out to pull the other man into a hug. "I'm just going across the hall, not across the country."

"I know," Starsky said softly, his head nestled against Hutch's shoulder as he hugged him hard. "I'm just -- gonna miss you, is all."

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

Day 198 - Saturday, October 3, 1981

"That's it," Starsky said, wiping his hands in satisfaction. "Everything's moved. All that's left now is unpacking your boxes and putting stuff away."

Hutch collapsed on the couch. "All that's left?" he said with a sigh. "Starsk -- I'm exhausted! That's gonna have to wait till tomorrow."

"Nah, man," Starsky said enthusiastically. "It's only ten. We can get it done tonight." He popped open the tape on one of the cartons, and looked up expectantly.

Hutch groaned. "Starsk -- I'm *tired.* I just want a hot shower and bed."

Starsky was busy pulling out books and stacking them on the floor by the bookcase. He looked up absently. "Go take a shower then, Blintz. I'll be here."

Hutch stared at Starsky quizzically, but rose and padded down the hall to his bedroom. He stood in the doorway, studying the room for a moment. Everything was the same, only in reverse. The apartments were identical in layout, the only difference being that where Starsky's was furnished with gold carpet and Harvest Gold appliances, he got the variegated green carpet and Avocado Green appliances. He shrugged. It was neutral enough -- he could live with it. And with his settlement, he was going to look for a house and buy. He smiled to himself. That would take some getting used to -- thinking of himself as a homeowner.

He stripped down and showered quickly, then dressed in a pair of cut-off sweats. When he wandered back into the living room, Starsky had the bookcases almost filled. He grabbed a beer, passed one to his partner and sat back to watch the other man work.

At midnight, he rose. Starsky had made no move toward slowing. "That's it," he said, walking to the door and opening it. "Go home."

Starsky looked up from where he was connecting speakers to the stereo. "Huh?"

"Home," Hutch repeated. "I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

"So go," Starsky said with a wave as he returned his attention to the wires.

"Starsky ..." Hutch said warningly.

Starsky dropped the wires and rubbed his face with his hands, then rose to his feet. "All right, all right," he grumbled. "Geez! Try to do a guy a favor." He grabbed his jacket from the chair and ambled to the door. "You gonna be okay tonight?" he asked softly, his hand on Hutch's arm.

"Is that what this is about?" Hutch asked with a smile.

"I worry," Starsky said, his eyes averted.

"Don't," Hutch said. "I'll be fine. And it's not like I'm all that far away. If I have a problem, I'll be over in a heartbeat."

"You better," Starsky growled, looking at Hutch with a smile. "Wonder if this is how moms feel when the kids leave home for the first time?"

Hutch snorted. "I'm hardly your kid, Starsky."

"No," Starsky replied gently, one hand running up Hutch's arm to gently fist and then sock his jaw. "You're not."

Hutch smiled, then nudged the other man forward. "I'll see you in the morning?" he asked.

"Early," Starsky said. "You wanna go get breakfast or something?"

"Or something," Hutch agreed.

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

"Well."

"Well?"

"Okay, then. Good night."

Hutch smiled again and patted Starsky arm. " 'night, Starsk," he said softly. "Sleep well."

"Yeah," the other man replied. "You, too. And lock the door," he added as the door shut. He waited for the snick of the lock, then trudged across the eight feet to his doorway and let himself in. "Be safe," he murmured as he locked his own doors and readied himself for bed.

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

"Starsk?" Hutch asked, opening his eyes sleepily to see his partner standing by the bed. He squinted at the clock. "It's 3:15."

"I can't sleep," Starsky said softly.

Hutch nodded and pulled back the covers, waiting for the other man to slip in. When Starsky was settled, Hutch leaned up on one elbow and looked down at him. "You all right?"

Starsky nodded, then shook his head. "I'm not sure this was a good idea."

Hutch raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," Starsky started, "you moving. I keep thinking ..." He closed his eyes and rolled on his side, turning his back to Hutch.

Hutch rubbed his back. "Talk to me, babe," he murmured.

"God, Hutch!" Starsky exhaled. "I lost you! The last thing I said to you ..." He rolled over again and looked up at Hutch. "Do you remember the last thing I said to you?"

Hutch frowned, thinking, then shook his head.

"Well, I do!" Starsky exclaimed. "Every last word! I said, 'You're on your own.'" He shook his head. "Can you believe that? I fucking said, 'You're on your own.'" He swallowed hard, choking back a sob, then added, "And you were gone, Hutch. That was it -- you just fucking disappeared!"

Hutch dropped onto his back and pulled his partner close, his arm wrapping around him to hold him tight. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered. "It wasn't your fault."

Starsky clung to the other man, his face buried in his chest and let the tears come. "I just -- can't," he said with a sob. "I can't face it again, Hutch, I can't. I'm not that strong."

"Not gonna happen," Hutch promised. "Never. It's all going to be okay."

"It's just -- I woke up -- I dreamed ... You weren't there. Before, I could get up and walk across to your room, and you would be there. I knew you'd be there." He sniffed and shook his head. "But this time, you weren't there."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having nightmares?" Hutch asked gently.

Starsky sniffed again and sighed. "You had enough of your own shit to deal with -- you didn't need mine, too."

"This partnership works both ways," Hutch admonished him.

Starsky snorted. "I see that." He pulled away and lay on his back, arms under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Hutch said. "You gotta believe that."

Starsky shrugged. "I can accept that here," he touched his head, "but here," the hand moved to his heart, "it's a little harder."

Hutch took Starsky's hand, holding it over his heart and said, "We'll just have to work on here then, okay?"

"We don't talk about it," Starsky said, rolling onto his side again.

Hutch spooned up behind him, wrapping his arm around him. "There's not much to talk about."

"You talked to Barot for months," Starsky said.

Hutch nodded. "Okay, so maybe there was some stuff to talk about."

"Can ...?" Starsky's voice was soft, tentative. "Can you talk to me?"

Hutch took a deep breath. "I think I went a little crazy," he said at last. "At first, I didn't know what was going on. I kept thinking they were going to come in and start beating me, or knock me around and question me." He shook his head. "I was sure they wanted *something.*"

"But they just wanted you," Starsky said quietly.

"Yeah." Hutch was silent for a long time, then he said, "I broke my wrist at one point. It's the only time they did anything for me, but even then they drugged me and I didn't see anyone."

"How?" Starsky asked, his voice choked.

"I beat on the door."

Starsky lifted the hand that lay over his waist. "This one?" he asked.

Hutch nodded against his neck.

Starsky kissed the wrist bone gently, a belated benediction. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

"It wasn't your fault," Hutch repeated insistently. "Starsky, it *wasn't.*

At last, the dark-haired man nodded, and relaxed against Hutch. "I don't know if I can handle this," he confessed. "I don't know if I can deal with not knowing where you are."

"We have to get back to normal," Hutch said. "You've been saying that for months."

"Maybe I've changed my mind," Starsky said stubbornly. "Maybe I don't want normal after all."

Hutch chuckled. "No problem there. You've never been very normal to begin with."

Starsky snorted. "Thanks," he said sarcastically, then in a serious tone, "I really need to know where you are, Hutch. I'm not ready to give that up yet."

"I can live with that," Hutch said agreeably. "It'll come in time."

Starsky nodded and said, "Guess it's your turn to be patient with me, eh, partner?"

"Seems only fair. You've been mighty patient with me lately." He rubbed Starsky's shoulder for a few minutes, then asked, "You think you can sleep now?"

Starsky nodded, warm and drowsy and comfortable now that he knew where Hutch was, and that he was safe. "I'm good," he mumbled, drifting off to sleep.

Hutch listened to the even breathing, felt the steady rise and fall of the furred chest, then kissed Starsky's shoulder and whispered, "Yeah, you are that."

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

Day 232 - Friday, November 6, 1981

Hutch opened the door and gaped, then said, "Dad?"

Elliot Hutchinson pushed past his son into the living room, then turned and said, "What's this I hear about you in an action against the police department?"

"Good to see you, too, Dad," Hutch muttered as he shut the door. He turned and followed his father then stood by the couch and gestured for the older man to sit. "How'd you hear about it?"

"I'm here for a conference -- met your man Allman in the bar tonight." He sat and pulled open his briefcase, dragging out a yellow legal pad. "Tell me about it," he demanded.

"No," Hutch said with a glance at Starsky, then the phone.

"I'm on it," Starsky said as he went back to the bedroom to track down Hutch's lawyer and get him the hell over there.

When he came back, nodding to Hutch to indicate success, the room was filled with a stony silence. Then the elder Hutchinson asked, "Are you -- all right?"

Hutch laughed bitterly. "Yeah, Dad. Just peachy. Thanks for asking. I've only been home, what? Eight months?"

The silence resumed, and this time it was Hutch who broke it. "How's Mom?"

"Your mother's fine."

"Good."

Starsky watched the two, then rose and went into the kitchen. He puttered, filling the coffeepot with water, adding the grounds and turning it on. He waited where he was, leaning against the counter and watching the two men sit in the living room and not speak. He shook his head. He didn't understand Hutch's family at all.

When the coffee was done, he filled mugs, then set them on a tray along with milk and sugar and carried it out. He set the tray on the coffee table, saying, "Help yourself."

Hutch reached out and took a cup. "Thanks, Starsk."

Hutch's father also took a cup, sipping before he said, "Contrary to what my son has told you, Mr. Starsky, I am not a monster."

Starsky shrugged. "None of my business."

The silence stretched again and then Hutch put his cup down and asked, "How's Patricia?"

"She's fine, too. So are Thomas and the children." Hutch's dad looked at Starsky. "Patricia is Kenneth's sister."

Starsky 'hmmmed' noncommittally.

"His *younger* sister."

"Dad ..." Hutch growled warningly.

His father ignored him. "She's been married for fifteen years. Two kids."

Hutch looked at Starsky. "*Thomas* works for Dad's law firm."

The silence crashed down around them again.

At last, the doorbell rang and Starsky and Hutch both jumped up to answer it. Starsky made it, leaving Hutch standing in the living room.

"Mr. Allman," Starsky said, reaching out to shake the lawyer's hand.

The lawyer came in, passing a folder over and Hutch opened it. "Is this it?" Hutch asked, holding up several sheets of paper that were stapled together.

The man nodded. "That's it, but ..."

"Where do I sign?" Hutch asked roughly.

"Kenneth!" his father exclaimed.

"Mr. Hutchinson," the lawyer said, looking from Hutch to his father, "I'm sure we can get them to raise the offer if you just give me ..."

"Where do I sign?" Hutch asked again, flipping through the pages.

"Kenneth ..." his father said warningly. "Be reasonable."

Hutch gave a grunt of satisfaction, then leaned over and scrawled his name across the bottom of the last page. He passed it back to the lawyer and ordered, "Witness it."

Allman looked from father to son, then shrugged and signed.

"Get it to the department. Tell them I've accepted their offer." He glared at his father.

"This is absurd, Kenneth," his father sputtered. "You could have easily gotten three times that -- quite possibly even more."

"It's not about the money, Dad," Hutch said, running his hands through his hair. "There isn't enough money in the world for what happened to me."

"They're responsible," his father insisted. "They should pay."

"No, Dad," Hutch replied. "They're not responsible. They made some bad decisions, cutting off my pay, forcing me to lose my place, but they're not responsible. The man responsible is rotting in a jail cell, and a hundred thousand dollars, five hundred thousand dollars, a million dollars -- none of it will ever erase the memory of what he did to me!" He sagged in exhaustion and Starsky stepped over to him, leading him to the couch and settling him, then standing over him like a mother lion over her cubs. Hutch dropped his head, cradling it in his hands.

"You should go, Sir," Starsky said, amending it with, "You both should."

"Are you sure about this?" Allman asked.

"File it," Hutch grated out without looking up.

Hutch's father stared at him for a moment longer, then stalked away, muttering, "Stubborn bastard," as he went through the door and slammed it behind him.

Hutch's lawyer followed more slowly. "Tell him I'll send him copies," he said, looking over his shoulder at the man who sat dejectedly on the couch, "and he should have a check in a couple of days."

Starsky nodded. "Thanks for coming over so quickly."

"Is he okay?" the lawyer asked.

Starsky nodded. "He will be."

"I was just talking -- in the bar. It's an interesting case. I didn't mention his name." The man dropped his head in embarrassment. "I had no idea they were related," he said. "I'm so sorry."

Starsky chuckled at the unintentional double meaning. "Yeah," he agreed, "we're all sorry Hutch is related to that son of a bitch."

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

Day 252 - November 26, 1981 - Thanksgiving

"David?" Deborah Starsky called as she knocked on his bedroom door. "Go get Ken and see if he wants to eat something before I start cooking again. I'm gonna be busy and there won't be any space to make something later."

The door opened and Starsky peeked out, his hair sticking out in all directions. "Ma, if we want to cook, we can use Hutch's kitchen."

"I don't think so," his mother said, rolling her eyes, as she began to press his wayward curls down. "I'm using it, too."

"Quit," Starsky said, pulling away with a smile. "You've already made enough food to feed an army, Ma." "We are feeding an army," Deborah Starsky answered. "Harold and Edith, Cal and Rosie, Pete, Betsy, and the baby, Huggy -- I don't believe that man doesn't have a real name -- and you and Ken. That's an army."

"And you," Starsky said, wrapping his arms around his mother's plump waist and dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"And me," she agreed contentedly as she leaned against her son. "Now," she said, straightening, "go see what Kenny wants to do and let me get to work."

"Shower, Ma," Starsky said. "I need a shower. And coffee."

"Ken first, then you can shower. I'll make coffee, then I've got work to do."

Starsky rolled his eyes but padded obediently to the door and crossed the hall, knocking once, then letting himself in. He was back in a minute. "He's asleep, Ma."

"Well, wake him, David! I don't have all day. It's already 7:30 and we have to be there at 2:00."

Starsky gave up and went back across the hall. When he returned this time, he was towing a still-yawning Hutch, who was barefoot and bare-chested, only a robe thrown over his shorts.

"Morning," Hutch said, accepting the cup of coffee Starsky's mother pressed on him.

"How come he gets ..." Starsky whined, only to be interrupted by his own cup of coffee and gentle smack on the cheek.

"I thought something light," Deborah said. "We don't want to do more than take the edge off our appetite." She looked around, then spied a loaf of homemade bread made by Officer Polski's wife. "How about some cheese toast?" she asked, grabbing the bread and beginning to slice. She turned and looked at her son. "Get the cheese out Davey, and you, Ken, find a cookie sheet."

Both men put down their cups and followed orders and were then shooed out of the kitchen for the few minutes the actual toast making required. After they'd eaten, Starsky looked at Hutch and said, "She wants your kitchen, too."

Hutch looked at Starsky's mother and said in concern, "My kitchen? Why?"

Starsky snorted. "Why? She's cooking and it's available, that's why." He rose and scratched his chest, then said, "I'm gonna shower." Wrinkling his nose in mock disgust, he added, "Maybe you should, too."

Hutch flushed and rose, "Cute, Starsk. Very cute." He walked into the kitchen and grabbed Starsky's mom in a hug. "Your son's picking on me," he complained, laughing when she pushed him away.

"Stop, the two of you." She looked at Hutch, taking him in from bottom to top. "You're bigger than him. And it looks like you're ready to take him on if you had to."

Hutch flushed again, but smiled. "Yeah." He glanced over at Starsky, then looked back at his mom. "Glad I don't have to."

Deborah reached out, took both of Hutch's hands in hers and said, "I'm so proud of you, Kenny. You've come so far. It's just -- incredible."

Still flushed, he ducked his head, but she reached up and nudged him, waiting for him to look at her. "Today is Thanksgiving, a time to give thanks, and I am giving thanks that you are here, with us, adding joy to every day of our lives."

Starsky's voice was rough as he said, "Amen."

Hutch closed his eyes, then reached out blindly and pulled the woman into his arms. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I'm so glad you're here."

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

Dinner was at Huggy's and it took two trips to bring in all the food Deborah had prepared. It was added to the staples already supplied by Edith and Betsy. The Bear himself had prepared the turkeys and a ham.

Once all the food had been spread out, once everyone was seated, Dobey rose and said, "It's long been a tradition in our family that on this day, each of us share at least one thing that we have in our lives for which we are grateful. Today, I feel my cup runneth over. There are so many things I could list." He turned and looked at his wife. "My beautiful and loving wife, my children," he looked around the table, "good friends, good health, a good job. I am truly blessed. But I think we can all agree, that the greatest thing we have to be thankful for this year, is that our good friend, Ken Hutchinson, has been returned to us." He cleared his throat and paused a moment, then lifted his glass and said, "To Hutch!"

The cry was echoed around the tables as glasses clinked and hugs were exchanged.

Hutch rose. "I ..." He cleared his throat and began again. "I -- Sometimes I can't believe I'm here." He looked at the smiling, expectant faces. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for all you. Cap'n -- you made 'em keep a job for me -- you wouldn't let 'em write me off. Hug -- I know what you did for Starsk, making him eat, making him sleep. Making him take care of himself. And Pete -- you kept Starsky safe, you took care of him for me." He wiped his face, then looked at Edith, Cal, and Rosie. "You welcomed me into your home, made me comfortable, made me feel I belonged. And someday, Cal, I'm gonna figure out how to beat you on that game," he added with a grin, before turning to Starsky's mom.

"Mama Starsky," he said, smiling gently. "Long distance love. I've never had that, you know?" She nodded and reached up to take his hand for a moment.

Hutch paused again, then sipped from his glass before he reached across the table and touched the baby's hand briefly. "Betsy, you and Pete named your son after me -- I am still so in awe that I am even a tiny part of this wonderful little person." He looked at Betsy. "You were as much my babysitter as the Dobey's, and you didn't even know me."

"Not babysitter," Betsy said softly, "friend."

Hutch nodded. "I needed friends so much." He looked at Starsky, his eyes shining with tears. "I don't even have words for you, babe," he said quietly. "You are just -- everything." He dropped his head, lifting his napkin and wiping his face. "Not friends," he said softly, looking around the table. "Not friends at all." His voice broke as he said, "Family."

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

"Damn!" Starsky sighed, rubbing his full belly. "This is the life!" He leaned against the back of the couch and stretched his legs out, propping them on top of the coffee table, his feet crossed at the ankles.

"I know what you mean," Hutch agreed as he settled next to his partner. "Good food, good friends." He turned and looked into Starsky's eyes. "Good -- company." His legs stretched out as well, his thighs pressed tightly against Starsky's, feet resting on the table. He leaned to his right slightly, his shoulder brushing up against Starsky's and cocked his head at an angle.

Starsky's head moved left slowly, until he touched Hutch and dark hair mingled with silver-gold.

Hutch sighed, poised on the edge of the moment, then closed his eyes and murmured, "Life is so good."

End

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