Title: Thanksgiving a la Starsky
Author: CC and Marcy
Type: Slash
Summary: Thanksgiving is approaching, and Starsky pulls out all the stops to prepare a special holiday dinner. Unfortunately, events at work and home threaten to spoil his plans.
Notes: Many thanks to Lorraine Brevig for the wonderful artwork she did for this story.Thanks also to Barb D. and Keri for their patience, great editing and putting up with our (well okay Marcy's) idiosyncracies and for giving in on the cap'n issue.
This story originally appeared in the zine Venice Place Chronicles, Volume V.
Format: Story
Categories: Starsky Angst, Committed Relationship, Hutch H/C, Post-SR, Thanksgiving, Zine Story
Rating: R
Size: 142K
Date Added: 2006-11-28

Thanksgiving a la Starsky
by CC and Marcy

"Oh, my God."

"What?" Hands on hips, Starsky peered at the steaming bowl he had just placed on the table.

Hutch covered his nose and mouth and leaned forward in his chair for a closer look. "What the hell is this?"

Giving the bowl's contents a final stir, Starsky snorted. "English peas, dummy. Don't tell me you've never had them."

"Not like this, I haven't." Hutch reached out tentatively to retrieve a sample for closer scrutiny. "What are those wormy-looking things?"

"They're fried onions." Starsky grinned, extraordinarily pleased with himself

"Starsk, why can't you just open a can of peas and slap some butter on 'em like everybody else?"

Snatching the morsel from Hutch's fingers, Starsky replied. "Well, I suppose I could do that if you wanted bland, ordinary peas for Thanksgiving dinner, but I'll have you know that in addition to imparting a unique flavor, these onions provide a nice texture. You'll see; try some." He gestured at the bowl with his wooden spoon.

Hutch leaned away from the table. "Starsk, you know I love you, but I'm— Ow! Why'd you do that?" he yelled, rubbing the back of his hand where Starsky's spoon had left its mark.

"Don't you dare," Starsky ordered, pointing his spoon menacingly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't you dare say 'I love you' and then take it back by saying 'but.' Like loving me's dependent on something dumb...like peas."

Hutch sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay."

"Okay...?"

"Okay. I love you and I'm not eating any wormy peas," Hutch said, making sure his hands were safely tucked under the table.

"Dammit, Hutch, you promised." Starsky plopped into his chair with a sigh.

"You tell me when I promised to eat worm peas."

"They're not worms; they're fried onions, I told you. And you know what you promised."

"Starsk, I didn't promise—"

"Yes, you did. You took an oath."

Hutch laughed. "An oath? I'd hardly call it an oath—more like extortion if you ask me. As I recall, you had me at a distinct disadvantage at the time. I'd've promised you anything at that particular moment."

Smiling despite his irritation, Starsky said, "Yeah, well, let me tell you something. You wanna be at a 'distinct disadvantage' again any time between now and Christmas, I suggest you eat your peas. Pick the worms out if you don't want 'em." He speared a piece of chicken before passing the platter over to Hutch. "Eat some chicken, too. I'm cooking another one tomorrow night."

Hutch's fork clattered to the table. "Damn, Starsky. How many of these things are you gonna cook? We've been eating chicken every night for over a week." Retrieving his fork, he stabbed at the platter until he secured a small slice of breast meat.

"This should be the last one. I've got my basting technique pretty well down pat. Tomorrow night, I'm mostly practicing on the stuffing," Starsky replied matter-of-factly.

Hutch groaned. "You are the only person I've ever met who felt it necessary to 'practice' cooking one simple meal." When Starsky merely shrugged, Hutch continued, "You're a good cook, Starsky. I don't see the point in all these practice runs for one dinner."

"It's not just one meal—it's Thanksgiving dinner. You want it to be good, don't you? Besides, I thought you'd enjoy trying things out."

Glumly chewing on his chicken, Hutch grumbled, "Starsky, I've been trying these things out for almost two weeks. By the time Thanksgiving gets here, I'm gonna be clucking."

Starsky smiled. "Hang in there. Tomorrow night's the grand finale. You're gonna love it, too. Chicken, stuffing, and a special surprise."

"What kind of special surprise?"

"Well, I wasn't gonna tell you, but since you're mostly being a good sport about this, I'll give you a clue." Holding Hutch's eyes with his own, Starsky took a long, slow drink of milk, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin, as if to draw out the suspense. "Tomorrow night, you will be treated to the first ever...Sweet Potatoes a la Starsky!"

"What's in it?" Hutch asked suspiciously.

Starsky grinned and shook his head. "Nope, that's the surprise—my own special recipe!"

"Oh, my God."

~*~*~

"Where the hell have you two been?" Dobey thundered as soon as they entered the squadroom. "You're almost an hour late!"

The partners exchanged glances that lasted no more than a few seconds, yet carried a telepathic discussion of whose turn it was to deal with Dobey. Starsky lost.

"Cap, we called it in," Starsky said over his shoulder as he followed Hutch to the coffeepot. "On our way in, we stopped off at Jepsen's Jewelers to pick up that inventory list we asked him to put together." Left unsaid was the fact that the Jepsen's detour had taken a total of fifteen minutes and was only undertaken at that time to give them an excuse for being late.

Hutch chimed in before Dobey had a chance to do the math. "Whatever these guys are, they don't know jewelry. Jepsen said most of what they grabbed was low-end stuff." Hutch pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and extended them to his captain.

Whether or not they fooled Dobey wasn't known, but they clearly hadn't impressed him. After giving the papers a quick perusal, he gave them back to Hutch. "I want to see you two in my office," he growled.

When Dobey was out of earshot, Hutch leaned in close as he handed Starsky his coffee cup. "Told you we didn't have time for it this morning," he whispered.

Starsky grinned. "'S funny," he said in a low voice. "I do remember you saying that before...and I remember you complaining about it after, but you never said a word about it during. In fact, I distinctly remember you yelling 'don't stop' right before you—" The cup he had raised to his lips was rudely snatched from his hand. Starsky was still smiling when he followed Hutch into Dobey's office.

"Wipe that smile off your face, Starsky," Dobey commanded from behind his desk. "I just spent a half-hour on the phone with the commissioner. He got a call at home this morning from the mayor. Neither one of them is smiling. In fact, they aren't very happy with you two at all."

"What've we done now, Captain?" Hutch asked.

"It's more like what you haven't done," Dobey snapped. "And what you haven't done is find out who these bozos are, running around town holding up every third store they see. They've hit six stores in three weeks—"

"Cap, it's only a matter of time," Starsky interrupted tiredly.

"The mayor and the commissioner aren't interested in hearing that, Starsky. The only thing they want to hear is that you've caught these guys."

"With all due respect, Captain," Hutch said. "We've had cases a lot worse than this one and never heard a peep out of either the mayor or the commissioner. What's so special about this one?"

"I'll tell you what's so special about it, Hutchinson," Dobey responded, rising from his chair and moving around his desk. "Have either of you heard of the BCMA?"

Hutch thought a minute. "It's familiar, but I can't place it."

"The Bay City Merchants' Association," Dobey explained. "It seems they had their regular monthly meeting last night, and the lead item on the agenda was your case."

"And?" Hutch slipped into a chair, and Starsky promptly claimed his spot beside him.

"And the merchants are making noises about forming their own 'patrol force.' I don't have to tell you what that means." The captain looked up at them expectantly.

"Vigilantes." As he spoke, Starsky looked down at Hutch as if for confirmation. In their psychic shorthand, each reminded the other of the last group of vigilantes they'd faced. They'd both been stunned to learn that a few renegade police officers, including an IA lieutenant, were enforcing their own brand of justice in Bay City. Hutch rubbed his jaw, bringing a slight smile to Starsky's face.

Dobey brought them back to the present. "With the holidays coming up, the stores are going to be more crowded than ever, and the last thing we need is a bunch of overly excited shopkeepers waving guns around." Dobey's voice had increased in volume so that when his phone rang, his normal "Dobey here" was at full pitch. The partners watched as he listened for a moment before turning to scribble on a notepad. "Okay, I've got people on the way."

Dobey tore the sheet of paper from the notepad before returning the handset to its cradle. Turning back to face his detectives, he held out the paper. "It looks like your guys found out yesterday's haul was worthless. They just hit Singh's Mini-Mart over on Pico. Shots fired."

Both detectives were immediately on their feet, Starsky grabbing the paper from Dobey's hand.

"Singh's?" He and Hutch were very familiar with Singh's Mini-Mart, a combination deli, convenience store, and self-service laundry not far from The Pits. The partners stopped in at least once a week.

"Was anyone hurt?" Hutch asked, already headed toward the door.

"I didn't ask, but the owner is the one who fired the shots," Dobey responded. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded of Starsky, who still stood in front of him.

Startled, Starsky fumbled the piece of paper in his hands. "Um, yes, sir." After picking up the paper from the floor, he hurried through the door Hutch held open. At his captain's puzzled look, Hutch shrugged his shoulders. Dobey slowly shook his head as Hutch closed the door.

Hutch waited until they were in the parking lot before asking Starsky what had happened in Dobey's office.

"What?" Starsky looked puzzled.

"You faded there for a few minutes."

"Oh, that. It's nothing, really. I'd planned to stop by there on the way home today, so when Dobey told us it was Singh's that got hit, I was surprised." Starsky shrugged.

"Oh." They were approaching the Torino, and Hutch held out his arm to stop his partner. "Tell you what, I can pick up whatever you need on my way home from the gym. Unless, of course, you want to go to the gym with me."

"Nah, last year's visit is still holdin' up pretty good." Starsky made a show of flexing his muscles. Hutch laughed and slapped him lightly on the back.

"Let's go, turkey."

~*~*~

Love at first sight was an apt description of Starsky's first visit to Singh's Mini-Mart. The small dark store, crammed floor to ceiling with food products and other incidentals, reminded him of the corner stores of his youth, yet the intoxicating aroma of curry and other spices and the tantalizing sound of sitar music floating in from the back room spoke of exotic faraway places. The store's owners were also interesting. Initially reserved, once Mr. and Mrs. Singh determined the two detectives were trustworthy, Starsky and Hutch were warmly welcomed on each visit. While Hutch and Mr. Singh discussed their common interest in music, Mrs. Singh regaled Starsky with tales of her childhood in India. Yet, even though the detectives visited the store regularly, they couldn't stop the couple from addressing them so formally. The closest they had managed was an abbreviated "Mr. Hutch."

On a normal visit to Singh's, Starsky often needed a few minutes to adjust to the cadence of Mrs. Singh's speech. On this day, when she was so visibly upset, he wasn't able to make the transition at all.

"Mrs. Singh, I need you to calm down," Starsky admonished for the third time, trying to corral the diminutive woman's flailing arms. He finally managed to get a firm grip on one of her elbows and led her to a table and two chairs located at the entrance to the laundromat. A neatly hand-lettered sign proclaimed it the "Dining Area." The action surprised Mrs. Singh into silence. "Rest here for a minute, okay? Maybe take a few deep breaths and then we'll try again."

Mrs. Singh nodded and sat quietly, her hand pressed to her chest as if to will her heart to beat more slowly. Starsky used the break to peek in the store where Hutch was interviewing Mr. Singh. He smiled as he noticed his partner close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Mr. Singh was apparently oblivious to Hutch's discomfort and continued his story in a high-pitched rat-a-tat-tat delivery that began to give Starsky a headache even from a distance.

"I am ready now, Mr. Starsky." Turning, Starsky was relieved to see that Mrs. Singh did appear calmer.

"Feeling better, Mrs. S.? Would you like me to get you a soda?" Starsky raised his eyebrows invitingly.

"Mr. Starsky," said Mrs. Singh, sitting up a little straighter. "I am having the fright of a lifetime. I do not believe a refreshing beverage will make me feel any better."

"True enough, Mrs. Singh." Starsky sighed. "Why don't you start by telling me where you were when it all started happening?"

"I am telling this already to the teenager in the uniform. He wrote it in a tiny notebook; why do you not ask—" A light flickered in Mrs. Singh's eyes, and she placed her hands primly in her lap. "I see. You are verifying my story to see if I am lying."

"No, no," Starsky assured her, giving her arm a quick pat. "We are...verifying your story, true enough. We like to ask victims and witnesses to repeat their stories after they've had a bit of time to calm down. New details might come up that you didn't think of before."

"Mr. Starsky, I am thinking I am going to need more than 'a bit of time' before I calm down."

Starsky smiled. "I understand. Now, let's start at the top. Slowly. And if you see me raise my hand, it means you're going too fast. Okay?" His grin widened at the pretty blush that crept onto Mrs. Singh's cheeks. "Whenever you're ready...."

Mrs. Singh nodded and took a deep breath. "I am stocking the shelf of medicines when I hear a loud commotion at the front door," she began in a clear and measured voice.

~*~*~

Starsky slipped his sunglasses on as he stepped outside. The thin cloud cover that had blanketed the sky when they arrived at the store had disappeared, leaving only a few stray wisps in remembrance. He rested his arms atop the Torino and surveyed the street. To his right, the last of the tech wagons was pulling away, leaving only a single squad car to finish up with the detectives. Looking to his left, he saw the first uniforms on the scene, Delaney and O'Meara, talking to a man outside the shoe repair shop several doors down. Behind them, Mr. Barrett, the dry cleaner, was sweeping his sidewalk. Starsky pushed away from the car, but as he turned toward them, the conversation broke up and the two police officers began walking in his direction.

"Get anything?" Starsky asked even before they reached him.

"Not much from him...Mr. Torres. He was waiting on customers and ran outside when he heard the shots, but the car had already gone around the corner." Delaney briefly removed his hat to wipe his brow. "Mr. Barrett was also waiting on customers, but he was in the back of the shop pulling an order."

"None of the other businesses were open yet," O'Meara chimed in. "The owners come up with anything else?"

Starsky shook his head grimly. "Mrs. Singh didn't mention anything other than what you'd already told me. Two guys inside, both white, both with shotguns. She was so scared, she couldn't get past the guns. Maybe Hutch will come up with something else from Mr. S."

Delaney nodded. "When Hutch is finished, we'll take them down to the station to look at pictures."

"Okay," Starsky agreed. "None of the other victims found anything, but maybe we'll get lucky this time."

O'Meara elbowed his partner. "Why don't we get started on the forms while we wait for Hutch? Then maybe we can get off at a reasonable hour tonight." Delaney simply nodded and turned toward the patrol car. Starsky smiled, experience reminding him that they mostly wanted the comfort of the air-conditioned car.

He turned at the sound of tinkling bells over the Singhs' door, and tried not to laugh as Hutch tripped over the rubber doormat as he exited. Reaching inside the car, he snagged Hutch's sunglasses from atop the visor and held them out as his partner approached. "Here, Gene Kelly. Maybe these will help."

Hutch gave him the evil eye over the top of the sunglasses before sliding them into place. "Did you find out anything useful?"

"Not really." Starsky sighed, looking up and down the street again. "You?"

Hutch flipped open his notebook. "Nothing more than what he told those guys." He motioned to the patrol car. "Two guys in the store, another one in a dark blue or dark gray 'old car' parked directly in front of the store. Singh was in the storeroom and came out just in time to see a guy shove the barrel of a shotgun in Mrs. Singh's face. Singh grabbed his shotgun from behind the storeroom door and came out shooting. He swears he hit the guy who stood at the door, but no one can confirm it. Guys left without the money. End of report." Hutch slapped his notebook against his thigh.

"That's it?"

"Well, I also learned—in great detail—that Mr. Singh has a low opinion of our justice system and believes these 'robbers' should have their hands cut off, along with other parts of their anatomy. You know, so they don't breed."

"Get real."

"I kid you not." Hutch raised his right hand. "And here I thought he was such a mild-mannered guy."

"Still waters..." Starsky looked up and down the street again. "I can't believe no one saw anything. Especially with Singh's elephant gun going off."

"I don't know, Starsk. Sounds like it went down pretty fast. I'm just glad Singh didn't hit Mrs. Singh or somebody driving by." Hutch leaned against the car. "The canvas come up with anything at all?"

Starsky shook his head. "So what now?"

"How long've these guys been at it—three weeks? The street might have picked up something on them by now."

Nodding, Starsky reached in his pocket for his keys. "And if the street knows, Mr. H. Bear knows. Let's pay him a visit; we can eat while we're there."

Hutch shook his head. "Don't you remember? Huggy doesn't open 'til two now. You'll have to get your poison somewhere else, or wait until this mystery dinner you've got planned for tonight. Hang on a sec, I'm gonna go tell Delaney and O'Meara what's going on."

Starsky watched Hutch quickly update the other officers and turn to come back to the car. He was puzzled when his partner stopped mid-stride to stare at a building across the street.

"What're you looking at?" Starsky asked, his gaze following Hutch's.

"What's that?"

"What?" Starsky looked over the top of the car as he pulled the car door open.

"That!" Hutch pointed to the business across the street.

Starsky lowered his sunglasses. "Well, Detective Hutchinson, the large sign above the window indicates that the business within is 'Ozzie's Organic Experience' and it is 'A Dining Experience for the Whole Person.'" He looked at his partner who was grinning like a kid at Christmas. "Oh, no."

Hutch rubbed his hands together gleefully. "C'mon, why don't we eat there?"

"Over my dead body," Starsky declared, and made a pre-emptive move to the back of the car to block Hutch from crossing the street. "I'm not eating orgasmic anything."

Hutch easily sidestepped his partner and trotted across the street ahead of an oncoming car. "It's 'organic' and you know it, wiseguy. C'mon, let's see what they've got."

"Hu-u-t-ch," Starsky pleaded. He waited for the car to pass and then scooted across the street to stop his partner before he got inside the restaurant. "I don't wanna eat there. They don't have anything I like."

Hutch stopped so suddenly, Starsky bumped into the back of him. "And how would you know that? You haven't even seen a menu," Hutch sneered.

"All I gotta do is look at the name of the place to know I don't like it," Starsky muttered. "Buncha seaweed and crap...."

"Oh, quit griping. Look, they've got a menu posted on the door. I'll bet I can find something you like." Hutch moved closer to the door, effectively blocking Starsky's view of the menu. After a couple of half-hearted attempts to see around his slightly taller and bulkier partner, Starsky gave up and peeked through the restaurant windows.

"It doesn't look too clean if you ask me," Starsky grumbled. "Probably catch gangrene or something."

"Hey, Starsk, tuna burgers! You know how much you like those." Hutch turned to grin at his partner and quickly shifted back a step to avoid Starsky's faked punch. Holding his finger up as a warning, he moved toward the door. "You comin'?"

"Nope." Starsky folded his arms and perched on the brick ledge at the bottom of the window.

"Suit yourself." Hutch disappeared into the restaurant.

"Suit yourself," Starsky mimicked, quickly losing the mocking expression on his face when the door opened.

"How about a compromise? I'll get my order to go, and we can stop at one of your gut-burner places on the way to Huggy's."

Starsky bounced to his feet. "Sounds like a plan. I'll bring the car around." He started off toward the cars but stopped at the curb. "Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah?" Hutch leaned back out the door.

"Eat light, okay? I don't want you to spoil your appetite for our big dinner to—" Starsky was talking to a closed door. He grinned and trotted across the street.

~*~*~

"Oh, God, that was good." Hutch leaned back against the car seat and rested his hand on his stomach.

"If the amount of noise you made eatin' it is any indication, it must've been delicious," Starsky said around a mouthful of burrito. He reached for the soda sitting on the dashboard. "Just in case the insurance company wants to know, what in the hell was that stuff?"

"Bean sprout salad, and don't knock it; you'd love it if you'd ever try it."

"I doubt it," Starsky said before taking a slurp of soda.

Hutch opened his mouth to argue but apparently decided against it. Instead, he held out his hand for the soda, which Starsky exchanged for the empty salad container.

"I hope you didn't get any of this stuff on my seat." Starsky eyed the container for any signs of leakage before placing it back in the take-out bag. He added his burrito wrappings as well.

"Don't start with the seats," Hutch warned and held up the cup. "You want any more of this?"

Starsky shook his head and held out the trash bag, waiting for Hutch to finish the drink and deposit the empty cup. "Hurry up. This stuff is starting to smell up my car."

"Yeah, lettuce is known for its distinctive aroma," Hutch said, tossing the cup in the waiting bag. "Let's go." He opened his car door.

"Wait a minute. Hand me that coffee cup under your feet...and look at all those gum wrappers." Starsky pushed Hutch out of the car and began fishing around on the floorboard. "Dammit, Hutch. You're gonna have to start cleaning out your side of the car once in a while. Look at all this crap." Hutch shut the car door and went to wait on the curb.

After finishing his cleaning spree, Starsky deposited the bag in a sidewalk trashcan and joined his partner.

"Y'know, Starsk," Hutch said, "Someday, we really need to talk about this attachment you have to your car. It's not healthy."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Starsky held open the door to Huggy's. "After you," he said with a small bow.

"Always," Hutch said and then jumped when Starsky goosed him. "I'll get you for that," he muttered.

"What are you two guys doing in here so damn early? If you think you're gonna start my day out wrong, you're about an hour too late."

The detectives looked around the vacant room and then exchanged puzzled glances.

"Huggy?" Hutch called, stepping farther into the room.

"Who else you think is in here this damn early?" Though somewhat muffled, Huggy's voice was definitely close by.

"Where are you, Hug?" Starsky asked, easing closer to Hutch. "We can't see you."

Suddenly, Huggy's head and shoulders popped into view over the top of one of the tables on the far side of the bar. "Some great damn detectives y'all are." He disappeared from view again.

Starsky and Hutch again exchanged looks, then started across the room. They found their friend on hands and knees, trying to use towels and tablecloths to stem the spread of a very large puddle that extended from the kitchen to cover almost the entire back section of the room.

"What happened here?" Starsky asked, grabbing a stack of tablecloths and squatting next to Huggy. "Was there a monsoon we didn't hear about?"

Huggy jerked two tablecloths from the stack Starsky held. "It's that damn Roscoe. He left with the damn dishwasher still running last night. The damn thing plugged up and pumped water all over the damn floor all night."

Hutch whistled under his breath. "Damn."

"My thoughts exactly." Huggy stood and slapped a tablecloth against Hutch's chest. "You gonna stand there and gawk, or you gonna help?"

"Uh, help, of course," Hutch said, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on a table. He took the tablecloth from Huggy, grabbed another one from Starsky, and crossed to the opposite side of the puddle. Following Huggy's lead, he lined the perimeter of the puddle with the cloths, and then began pushing the sudsy water toward the open kitchen door. The three men worked together to slowly ease the water not absorbed by the cloth, into the kitchen where Huggy had opened the floor drain. Soon they were left with only a pile of soggy cloths.

"Thanks, guys," Huggy said in a slightly calmer tone. He moved behind the bar and pulled a stack of soiled bar cloths from beneath it. "Y'all want a soda or something, help yourself." He crossed the room again and added the bar rags to the large pile.

Starsky went behind the bar and opened the small refrigerator under it. "Soda?" Starsky asked his partner, and received an answering nod.

"Starsky, grab me one, too," Huggy called over his shoulder.

The detectives rested and sipped their drinks, while Huggy spread a large tablecloth on the floor and heaped the others on top of it. When he was finished, he pulled the corners together and tied them in a knot. "Soon as Roscoe drags his sorry ass in here, I'm gonna run these over to Singh's. I hope Mrs. Martinez ain't in there. Woman's got more dirty laundry than the rest of Bay City put together," he groused as he plopped onto the bar stool next to Hutch.

"Speakin' of Singh's..." Starsky hoisted himself onto the back counter of the bar and nodded at Hutch.

"The Singh's got held up this morning, Huggy," Hutch said. "They're okay—just shaken up," he hastened to add as Huggy's eyes grew round.

"Some lowlife held up the Singhs? This damn city's going to pot if nice people like them are getting robbed." Huggy shook his head sadly.

"Yeah, Hug, that's why we wanted to talk to you. We thought maybe you mighta heard something. Or somebody you know mighta heard something," Starsky prompted.

Huggy rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. "Nothing's coming to mind. What've you got on 'em?"

"It sounds like the same guys who've hit a half-dozen other places over the past three weeks. It's a different car every time, but the description of the men is always the same: three white guys—one in the car, two inside."

"Different car every time? Wonder if they're hot."

"Nothing reported if they were." Starsky toyed with his soda bottle.

"That's it, huh?" Huggy scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Don't help much."

Starsky shook his head. "Not unless you count 'medium-looking' as helpful. Medium height, medium build, medium weight. The victims can't get past the guns waving in their faces, and there haven't been any other witnesses."

"Sounds like every white guy I know," Huggy joked. "I'll try to find out—" The sound of the screen door at the back of the kitchen slamming shut caught his attention. "Roscoe, is that you? You moron...."

Huggy was off his barstool and moving in an instant. When he got to the kitchen door, he turned around and waved. "Thanks for helping, guys. I find out anything, I'll let you know—gratis."

"Thanks, Hug," Starsky called, sliding off the back counter and leaning across the bar near Hutch. "Well, partner, what next? At the rate we're going, we're not gonna find these guys unless they come up and introduce themselves."

"Sure feels that way," Hutch drummed his fingers on the bar top. "I guess we should head back to the station...see if the Singhs found anything helpful in the mug books." He slid off the stool and ambled to the door, allowing Starsky time to round the bar and catch up to him. As he held open the door and allowed Starsky to precede him, Hutch returned the goose he'd been given when they came in. It was a silly game they played, and while Hutch always jumped nearly out of his skin, Starsky was unfazed. He merely leered at Hutch and kept walking. Hutch shook his head and followed.

~*~*~

Starsky eased the oven door closed and switched the setting to broil. While he waited for his casserole's marshmallow topping to brown, he busied himself slicing the chicken, giving the leftover green beans a final stir before turning off the burner, and nibbling a little more stuffing. Another quick peek into the oven enabled him to pull the sweet potato casserole out just before the topping became too brown. He set the dish on the stove and stood back to admire his handiwork.

"Hey, I'm getting pretty good at this cooking stuff," he said aloud, then looked around sheepishly as he realized he was talking to himself. "Only one way to fix that," he muttered, and went into the living room to get his partner who was watching a PBS special on ice fishing.

As he approached the back of the sofa, Starsky could hear soft snores above the drone of the program's narrator. He smiled. "It would've put me to sleep, too, buddy."

He leaned over the back of the sofa and trailed his fingers along Hutch's jaw and into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Nap time's over, Blondie. Time to wake up." Hutch's nose and eyebrows twitched, but his eyes remained closed. "C'mon, dinner's ready." Starsky brought his hand back to Hutch's jaw.

"Y'know, that might be nice if your hands didn't reek of onions," Hutch mumbled sleepily before his eyes shot wide open as Starsky hauled him upright by his ear.

"Wash up, wiseguy. Dinner's ready." Starsky smacked the back of Hutch's head before returning to the kitchen. Hutch stumbled into the bathroom, rubbing his ear and grumbling to himself.

Busy clearing the counter and filling the sink with dishwater, Starsky could hear Hutch's voice but not his words. He smiled and hummed to himself, knowing the grumbling would fade away by the time Hutch finished washing up and waking up.

As if on cue, two arms wrapped around Starsky's waist from behind, and warm lips pressed against his neck.

"Here's what I don't understand," Hutch murmured in Starsky's ear.

"What's that?" Starsky dropped a bowl in the water.

"I halfway understand the need for the practice runs—well, maybe the first two." Hutch rested his chin on Starsky's shoulder. "What I don't understand is why you have to destroy my kitchen twice a week to do it." He kissed Starsky's neck again as Starsky eased out of his embrace.

"That's easy." Starsky reached up into the cabinet for two plates. "Since we're having Thanksgiving dinner here, I need to do all my testing with your stuff."

"We're having Thanksgiving dinner here?" Hutch looked around his tiny kitchen.

"Well...yeah." Starsky looked puzzled. "I thought you knew that."

"Why would I know that? This was your idea, you're doing all the cooking, you invited all those people..." Hutch looked around his kitchen again. "All those people. Starsky, I have four chairs. Where the hell are six people supposed to sit?" Hutch asked accusingly.

"Eight people," countered Starsky. "I forgot to tell you, I invited Simmons and his girlfriend."

Clearly exasperated, Hutch turned in a full circle, arms spread wide. "Where are we going to put eight people for dinner?"

"Will you calm down?" Starsky patted Hutch's shoulder. "Helene said that since they're closed, we can use some of their chairs."

Hutch stared glumly into the living room. "Great, we'll put them in a circle and we can eat off our laps. Maybe I'll get a pretty centerpiece and put it on the floor. Then they probably won't notice there's no table."

"Hey, give me some credit, why don't ya?" Starsky's voice carried a sharp tone that turned Hutch's head. "Huggy's bringing one of those folding banquet tables and a tablecloth, and Helene said we could also borrow some of their dishes as long as we wash them before we bring 'em back. I've got it covered, Hutch," he finished quietly before turning back to the stove.

The plaintive note in Starsky's voice didn't go unnoticed by his partner. After only a moment's hesitation, Hutch crossed the room and once again wrapped his arms around Starsky's waist. "Sorry. Should've known you'd have everything worked out," he whispered.

Starsky briefly leaned back into the embrace. "'S all right." He held up a plate and eased out of Hutch's arms. "Go ahead and fix your plate."

"No, after you. You did all the work. Besides, if I'm hungry, you must be starving." Hutch stepped around Starsky to get to the refrigerator, where he grabbed a couple of beers. When he turned back to the kitchen, he found Starsky, hands on hips, staring at the stove top.

"What?" Hutch stepped closer and looked at the stove also.

Starsky waved his hand over the assembled dishes. "All this food and I'm not even hungry," he said forlornly.

"You're not hungry?" In jest, Hutch put his hand on Starsky's forehead. "Are you sick?"

Starsky managed a weak smile. "No, just full. I might've nibbled too much while I was waiting for everything to get ready."

Hutch looked at the dishes in front of him and pointed to the bowl of stuffing that contained a mere serving or two at the bottom. "Nibbled?" he snorted. "I think you did more than nibble, my friend. What else did you 'nibble'?"

Starsky crossed to the table and sank into his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Well, I had a half a chicken sandwich...and then another half. And that leftover pizza from Saturday. And some olives..." He smiled sheepishly and lifted his bottle of beer. "Oh, and a couple of beers, too." He slid the bottle to the middle of the table.

"And almost an entire bowl of stuffing," Hutch finished helpfully, putting one of the beers he held back in the refrigerator.

"Thanks for reminding me," Starsky said, before using the back of his hand to mask a somewhat discreet belch. "You'll have to tell me how everything else tastes...especially the sweet potato casserole. I forgot to stop at the store on the way home, so I had to fudge a little on the recipe."

Hutch peered closely at the casserole. He turned to Starsky to ask a question, but swallowed it when he saw the anxious expression on his partner's face. "Looks good," he said, smiling, and began filling his plate. When he got to the green peas, he joked, "One thing I'll say in favor of the sweet potatoes, at least there're no french-fried onions in them." He sobered and turned to Starsky once again. "Right?"

Starsky smiled. "Right. No onions in the sweet potatoes. I'm thinking there won't be any onions in the peas on Thanksgiving either. They don't reheat too well." They both laughed.

Finally, Hutch sat down, and Starsky watched expectantly as Hutch took his first bite of the casserole, his head nodding in tandem with Hutch's chewing. Hutch glanced up, saw his partner watching, and swallowed carefully.

"Well?" Starsky's eyes looked worried.

"Not bad," Hutch said. "Kinda tangy, but...not bad."

Starsky's relief turned to elation with Hutch's words. Energy restored, he went to the sink and began washing dishes, warm with the knowledge that his Thanksgiving dinner menu was coming together so well. Starsky enjoyed cooking, but this dinner was the most involved he had ever attempted. Hutch really had been a good sport about eating so many trial dinners. Turning to thank him, Starsky stopped when he saw Hutch sitting back and wiping his mouth with his napkin. The only thing left on his plate was a smattering of peas.

"You want seconds?" Starsky turned off the tap.

"No, no," Hutch assured him, wiping his mouth again. "That was good, thanks. Uh, just out of curiosity, what was the fudging you had to do to the potato recipe?"

Starsky glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "Oh, that. I needed some half-and-half, but you didn't have any."

"What'd you use?"

"Sour cream."

"Oh, my God," Hutch mouthed and placed a hand over his stomach.

~*~*~

Starsky shivered and tried, without waking up completely, to scoot to the center of the bed in order to mooch body heat from Hutch, but somehow he kept missing him. He slowly fought his way to consciousness and discovered that, not only was the other side of the bed empty, but the comforter had been carelessly left to expose his backside to the cool night air. After yanking the cover into place, he was almost asleep again when he heard muted voices coming from the living room. His sleepy mind considered who might be visiting at this hour, and curiosity finally propelled him out of bed. He was halfway across the room before he noticed the gray and black shadows dancing along the wall. The television. Mystery solved, Starsky turned and headed back to bed, only to turn back around when he saw that the time was two-fifteen.

What the hell is he doing up watching television in the middle of the night?

The living room was empty when Starsky stumbled through on his way to the kitchen, but a glance over his shoulder at the sliver of light peeking from beneath the closed bathroom door told him Hutch's whereabouts. Starsky poured himself a glass of milk and wandered back into the living room. The bathroom door opened just as he finished retrieving an afghan that had fallen to the floor.

Starsky knew at first glance that Hutch was sick. His face was pale, his eyes watery. The hand he used to push away sweat-dampened hair from his forehead was trembling.

"Hey, you okay?" Starsky held up the afghan until Hutch was back on the sofa, and then tucked it in around him. "What's wrong?"

Hutch's voice was raspy. "I must've picked up some kind of virus or something...."

"You want some water or some ginger ale?"

"Tried both already," Hutch said, pointing to a glass sitting on the coffee table next to the television. "This...virus or whatever it is, doesn't like either one of them."

Starsky perched on the edge of the couch and felt Hutch's forehead. "No fever. I would've thought you'd have a fever."

"I'll try harder," Hutch grumbled. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

Starsky smoothed Hutch's hair off his forehead. "And leave you out here sick? What kind of partner would I be if I did that?"

"The kind that wanted me to get some sleep?" Hutch smiled weakly.

"I guess I can take a hint," Starsky pretended to huff. "But you should take the bed. I'll bunk out here." He tugged on the afghan.

"Maybe later. Right now I don't wanna move."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, go on. Go back to bed." Hutch's knee gently nudged Starsky's hip.

"Okay," Starsky reluctantly agreed. After leaning over to drop a kiss on Hutch's forehead, he warned, "You call me if you need me."

"Yeah, okay. Go." Hutch's eyes drifted closed.

Starsky grudgingly returned to bed, but sleep was in short supply. He was constantly on alert for sounds from the living room, waiting for a call for help. Twice he tried to get Hutch to trade places with him and take the bed, but each time Hutch declined. By sunrise, Starsky was feeling the effects of a lost night's sleep. He was glad he had clothes at Hutch's place and could go straight in to work from there. He staggered into the living room, just as Hutch was coming out of the bathroom.

"Damn, you look awful," Starsky said. Hutch's eyes were rimmed with dark circles, and his skin was pasty gray.

Easing onto the sofa, Hutch ran a hand over his eyes. "One thing's for sure, I can't look any worse than I feel."

"Don't be so sure about that." Starsky sat down beside Hutch and began lightly rubbing his back. Hutch groaned his approval. "Think you're done yet?"

"God, I hope so," Hutch said, the misery in his face painful to watch. "I don't think I've ever thrown up so much. Except maybe when..." He waved his hand dismissively.

Starsky sat quietly, trailing his hand slowly up and down Hutch's spine. He could feel the tension in the muscles of Hutch's back and knew his neck and shoulders were likely in the same condition.

Hutch shifted. "If you want a shower, now might be a good time to grab one—while I'm between rounds," he said with a pat to Starsky's leg.

"Okay." Starsky rubbed Hutch's back a half-minute longer, and then held up the afghan while Hutch settled down on the sofa. "I'll be quick, just in case."

"Good idea."

True to his word, Starsky showered and shaved in record time. Even so, he barely made it out of the bathroom before Hutch needed it again. Giving his partner his privacy, Starsky went into the bedroom to get dressed. The muffled sounds of Hutch's dry heaves brought Starsky's hand to his own stomach.

Wanting to help and knowing nothing else to do, Starsky changed the bed linens. Once the bed was arranged to his satisfaction, he pulled the cord to let the rarely used bamboo blinds fall to the floor. Maybe the thought of climbing into bed with crisp, clean sheets in a cool, dark room would lure Hutch away from the sofa. It sure sounds good to me, Starsky thought.

Hutch emerged from the bathroom just as Starsky finished. "Hey," he called softly. "Come in here. I've got the bed all ready for you." He didn't have to ask twice. Hutch turned and stumbled into the bedroom, sliding into the bed with a half-groan, half-sigh. As he pulled up the covers, Starsky couldn't resist putting a hand to Hutch's forehead again. "Still no fever."

"Could've told you that." Hutch pulled the blanket up tight around his chin. "I kinda wish I had one. A fever, I mean. At least then I might be delirious and not know how bad I feel. Hell, it might even be fun. I could—"

"Don't." Starsky's voice was sharper than he had intended. He waited a beat before continuing in a milder tone, "I've seen you delirious a few times and believe me, there wasn't anything fun about it."

Hutch rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Sorry...wasn't thinking."

"Yeah," Starsky said as he sat on the end of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. "Listen, why don't you let me call and make a doctor's appointment for you?"

With his teeth clenched together as he rode out another cramp, Hutch could only shake his head. Watching Hutch hurt had always been more than Starsky could bear, and this time was no different. Seeking distraction, he went into the living room and snagged the afghan from the sofa, then stopped to grab a crossword puzzle book and an atlas from the basket under the coffee table, along with a Sports Illustrated, two pens, a pencil, and a calculator from the end table.

"'S all that?" Hutch stared as Starsky tossed the afghan on the foot of the bed, then placed the rest of his collection on the nightstand.

"Just some stuff I thought might come in handy today. You know, so you don't have to get up."

Hutch raised his head and tried to focus on the stacked display. "A calculator? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"

"You never know. You're probably gonna be in bed all day."

Starsky couldn't interpret the expression on Hutch's face as he lay blinking up at him for a moment. Finally, Hutch shook his head. "Okay, sure. If I get bored, I'll add up some numbers or something." His lips started to curl into a smile, but just then another cramp seized him and the little color he had faded from his skin. Starsky was left to stand impotently aside and wait for the pain to go away. He reached out to stroke Hutch's forehead, feeling a mixture of relief and concern at the damp, cool skin beneath his hand. After several minutes, Hutch finally relaxed and rolled onto his back.

"You sure this is just a virus? What if it's your appendix?"

"It's not my appendix."

"How do you know? I've heard some awful stories about appendicitis. There was this one guy—"

"Starsk."

"Huh? Oh." Starsky patted Hutch's arm. "I'm sure it's not your appendix."

"Thanks." Hutch rolled over onto his side. "This feels better."

"So what do you think it is?"

Hutch yawned. "Starsk, I don't know. If it's not a virus, it's probably just something I ate. If it doesn't get better in a few days—" He yawned again. Only then did Starsky notice the drooping eyelids signaling Hutch's imminent departure into slumber.

"I'm going to work." Starsky bent over to brush a kiss across Hutch's forehead. "You sure you don't want me to scramble you an egg or make you some toast?"

"'M thinkin' I've had enough of your cookin' for this week," Hutch said drowsily. "That's prob'ly what got me into this mess." His eyes drifted closed.

Starsky's flash of indignation faded quickly when he saw a half-smile on Hutch's face. Leave it to Hutch to make lame jokes even when he's sick. Shaking his head, he slipped on his jacket and eased to the door. "Sorry, pal. That don't fly. We ate the same thing last night and I'm not sick."

"Starss...."

Starsky turned around at the sound of Hutch's voice. "Change your mind?"

"No...I was wondering, though." Hutch was so close to sleep, his voice was barely understandable.

Starsky crossed back over to the bed and leaned closer. "Wondering what?"

"Mmm?" Hutch blinked a couple of times before slowly rolling over to his other side. "Oh, I was wondering...you know, what was...for that...casserole thing." Hutch finally gave up the battle and succumbed to sleep, leaving Starsky staring into space.

"Oh, my God. He's right, I didn't eat any of the sweet potato casserole," Starsky mumbled as he looked down at his sleeping partner, whose pale countenance and shadowed eyes were now magnified a hundredfold. "My Sweet Potatoes a la Starsky did this to Hutch?" Starsky's own stomach pitched and rolled at the thought.

~*~*~

"Starsky! Hutchinson! I'll see you in my office!"

Although he was sitting five feet from Dobey's office door, the command didn't penetrate Starsky's thoughts.

I poisoned Hutch. Those three words had replayed themselves in a maddening litany since he'd left Hutch's apartment. The part of his brain reserved for logical thought knew the absurdity of blaming himself, but given his lack of sleep and concern for Hutch, his emotional mind was doing his thinking.

"Starsky!" Dobey's entrance to the squadroom brought Starsky to full attention. "Why didn't you answer me? Where's your partner? Find him and get your cans into my office." Before Starsky could do more than blink and open and close his mouth like a guppy, Dobey was back in his office. Starsky had no choice but to follow him, his brain in overdrive as he tried to think of a way to tell Dobey he'd poisoned Hutch.

"I thought I told you to bring Hutchinson with you," Dobey groused when Starsky closed the door.

"The...uh...the thing is, Cap, he's not exactly here." Starsky scratched his jaw. "He's out sick today."

"Sick," Dobey snorted. "Hungover's more like it."

"No, really, he's sick. I saw him."

"What's wrong with him?" Dobey still looked doubtful.

Starsky shrugged. "I dunno. Might be a virus," he took a deep breath, "orfoodpoisoningorsomething."

"Food poisoning! What happened? Did you drag him to one of your burrito dives again?"

"No, we ate at his place." Starsky scratched his jaw again. "Like I said, it might be a virus or gout or appendicitis or—he's gonna go to the doctor tomorrow if he doesn't feel better."

Dobey shuffled some papers on his desk and looked generally unimpressed. "Well, see that he does."

"Did you want something, Cap?" Besides the chance to bust my balls a little. Starsky tried to look helpful.

"Yeah, uh..." Dobey scanned the scattered folders on his desk until his eyes landed on one in particular. "These robberies."

"What about 'em?"

"No, that's my question. What's going on with the investigation? It's hard to tell from reading this report of yours, but it doesn't look like you're making any progress."

"We're working on it." Out of habit, Starsky glanced at the chair that would normally hold his lanky partner. You picked a good day to be out, buddy boy. "It's not like we've got a lot to go on, Cap. None of the victims have given much in the way of a description, and we're not turning up anything with the cars."

"Nothing has turned up as stolen?" Dobey grunted when Starsky shook his head. "But you're sure it's the same guys." To his credit, Dobey offered it as a comment and not a question.

"Sure, we're sure. Besides the MO being the same, we can't find anything that says it isn't the same guys. You know, there's not suddenly only two guys, or two white guys and one black guy, or two women and a guy, or—"

"I get your point, Starsky." Dobey put down the folder and rested his interlaced fingers on the desk. "My question is what are you doing about it?"

Starsky picked up the folder and studied the cover sheet. "Well, we were gonna go back and talk to the victims again. Maybe one of 'em remembered something. Plus, we thought maybe hearing their stories back-to-back might show us something we're missing. I can do that even with Hutch out."

Dobey nodded. "Makes sense. Do you want me to get someone to go with you?"

"No way." Starsky tried not to let his indignation show. "I think I'm capable of talking to people without help. I am a pretty good detective, you know."

"I know, I know." Dobey stood and leaned over his desk. "But you listen to me, Starsky. There's a lot of pressure coming downhill right now. The chief is ready to set up a task force and—"

"Ah, shit. That's not gonna—"

"Don't argue with me. I don't want a task force either; I'm just telling you how things are." Dobey sighed and sat back down. Picking up his pen, he pointed it at Starsky. "I'm counting on you, Starsky. Now, go on. Get out there and find these guys."

Starsky couldn't believe he'd gotten off so easily. Unwilling to tempt fate, he slowly backed toward the door. "Right, Cap. I just gotta make a quick phone call and then I'm outta here." He gently pulled the captain's door closed and hurried to his desk.

On the eighteenth ring, Starsky almost hung up. He was glad he hadn't, when Hutch's mumbled "hello" finally came across the line.

"How you feelin'?"

"Starsky..." Hutch groaned.

"Do you feel any better?"

In the background, Starsky could hear creaking bedsprings followed by a muffled grunt. "You've been gone an hour."

"Well, I thought maybe you got it all out of your system."

"I wish. I think it's gonna take a while." Hutch's voice sounded mournful.

"Oh." Starsky searched for something else to say. "What took you so long to get to the phone?"

A faint snort reached his ears. "Well, I looked for it in this tower of stuff you put on the nightstand—nice touch adding the phone book and the JCPenney catalog, by the way—but as hard as I looked, I couldn't find the phone." A pause. "It was in the living room." Another snort. "Isn't that a kicker? The one thing that would've come in handy..." Hutch's teasing tone faded away, and Starsky heard a sharp intake of breath replace it.

"Another cramp?" The hushed panting in his ear was the only answer Starsky needed. "Hey, this is kinda nice. You sound like an obscene phone caller."

"Don't!" Hutch groaned, and Starsky felt a smidgen of remorse. He remembered all too well the many times during his recovery when he'd had to laugh around a spasm or cramp as a result of one of Hutch's lame jokes. "Gonna get you for that."

"I'm not worried; I can take you."

"In your dreams."

To Starsky, it sounded as though Hutch was speaking through clenched teeth. He pressed the mouthpiece closer. "You're a dream," he said in a low voice, glancing around the room and registering a flurry of activity coming from Dobey's office. "I'd better go so you can get some sleep."

"Okay. See you tonight." Hutch's voice faded, then came back. "Hey...."

"Yeah?" Starsky thought he heard Dobey yelling for him, but he made no move to verify it.

"Don't go being a hero today." Hutch's voice was slower now, and Starsky knew he was fighting off sleep again.

"I won't, Mom."

"Wait'll tomorrow so I can get my name in the paper, too."

"Okay." Starsky snickered. "Gotta run. Get some sleep." He waited until Hutch hung up before slowly replacing the receiver.

"They hit again."

Coming from directly behind him, Dobey's voice made Starsky jump. He whirled around to see the captain struggling to get his shirt tucked in while putting on his suit coat at the same time. "Robertson's Stop-n-Shop over on Fourth. Sounds like a firefight."

"Anyone hurt?" Starsky pulled his jacket from the back of his chair.

Dobey nodded. "Store manager's dead."

"Damn, they raised the bar." Starsky held out his hand for the notes Dobey had scribbled upon receiving the call. "I'll get on it."

Dobey tucked the paper in his pocket. "Not so fast, there, Starsky. I'm going to take this one with you." He grabbed his hat from the top of a file cabinet and headed to the squadroom door, leaving a stunned and suddenly queasy Starsky frozen in place.

"You?" Starsky squeaked. "You're riding with me?"

Starsky's expression must have betrayed his thoughts, for Dobey's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Any reason why I shouldn't?"

"Well, yeah—I mean, no, of course not—but don't you think maybe you should stay here and...I dunno...read some reports, or make some charts, or—"

"Can it, Starsky!"

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. I'll have you know..." Dobey hitched his belt closer to his waistline. "...that I was conducting investigations while you were still chasing schoolgirls around the playground. Besides...I am a good detective, you know."

Although inwardly seething at having his own words thrown back at him, Starsky merely shrugged and slowly made his way to the door. Dobey wasn't fooled; he laughed out loud at Starsky's reaction. "C'mon, partner, let's roll."

Brushing past his partner/captain, Starsky could stand it no longer. "I want one thing clear up front." He tapped his index finger against his chest. "I'm driving."

Dobey's mustache twitched, but he didn't say a word.

A sizable crowd of onlookers had gathered by the time Starsky and Dobey arrived at the scene. While uniformed officers held the spectators at bay, a team of police technicians swarmed the area around the store. Starsky noticed more than one interested glance as he and Dobey approached the scene together.

"Inside or outside?"

"Huh?" Starsky looked at Dobey and tried to suppress a smile. The big man had only walked a block but was already sweating buckets.

"I asked if you wanted to cover the inside or the outside," Dobey said from behind the oversized handkerchief he used to wipe his face.

"Oh. Outside's good for me." Eyeing the sweat already beading on Dobey's forehead again, Starsky didn't have the heart to make Dobey stay outside. Even if the interior of the store didn't have air conditioning, it would at least be shaded and cooler.

"Right." Dobey seemed relieved. He stuffed the handkerchief in one pocket and retrieved a notebook from the other. "Where's yours?"

"Where's my what?"

"Your notebook. Where's your notebook?"

"Uh, Hutch usually does the notebook." Starsky pulled his collar away from his neck.

"The notebook? You only use one notebook between you?" Dobey shook his head. "That explains a lot. Now I know why Hutchinson's reports read like detailed police investigations, and yours read like something out of Modern Detective." Dobey turned and walked away, leaving a stormy-eyed detective behind.

"Who do you think gives Hutchinson at least half of those details?" Starsky grumbled when Dobey was a safe distance away.

"Got yourself a new partner there, Starsky?"

Turning, Starsky saw Jim Keyes, a uniformed officer, regarding him with amusement. He'd known Jim since joining the force, so Starsky decided to let the comment pass. "Yeah, smart ass, I do. Why don't you save my life and tell me someone got a license plate, a social security number, and a full set of fingerprints from these guys."

While he spoke, Starsky's eyes never stopped scanning the activity around him. Four small yellow flags sat atop chalk circles drawn on the pavement in front of the store. The spent shells lay glittering in the sunlight, like scattered jewels among the shards of broken window glass.

"What happened?"

Keyes pulled out his notebook. "According to the one reliable witness we have, three guys in a maroon Chevy pulled up here." Keyes indicated a spot a few yards west of the store. "Two white males got out of the car, went inside, and came running back out a couple minutes later. The store manager," Keyes consulted his notebook, "Randall Lockley, appeared in the doorway with a shotgun and opened up. One of the suspects turned and got off four shots before he jumped in the car. That's when Lockley got it. Oh, and we've got a small amount of blood on the ground near one of the casings. Could belong to one of our guys, but there's no way of knowing why it's there. Lockley could've got him, or it might just be from broken window glass."

"Damn." Starsky kicked at the ground. "What about this witness? He get a license number?"

"It's a 'she' and, no, she didn't. She has her little boy with her, and she was trying to get the two of them out of the way."

Starsky nodded. "Thanks, Jim. She inside?"

"Yeah." Keyes replaced his notebook and turned to walk away. "Hey, where's Hutch?"

"Home with f—" Starsky caught himself just in time. "—the flu."

"Oh. Well, tell him I hope he feels better soon." With a wave, Keyes was gone.

After talking with several of the other technicians working the scene, Starsky decided to check in with Captain Dobey.

"Like I said, it all happened so fast," a young black woman was saying to Dobey as Starsky entered the store. Beside her, a little boy Starsky guessed to be four or five years old impatiently tugged on her hand. "I wish I could tell you more, but I only saw—Darrin, be still!" she admonished the little boy. "Are we almost done? I need to get him home."

Dobey spotted Starsky just then and called him over. "This is Detective Starsky. Why don't you let him see to Darrin while we finish up here?"

After giving Dobey a measured look, communicating just what he thought about being relegated to babysitter status, Starsky squatted down beside the little boy. "Hiya, Darrin, pleased to meet ya. How 'bout we treat ourselves to some juice while we wait for your mother to finish talking to the captain?" Starsky looked up at the boy's mother and then to Dobey. For a split second, Dobey's eyes held a message and then Starsky understood. He was supposed to find out what the little boy might have seen. Taking Darrin's hand, Starsky led him over to the drink cooler. "What's your pleasure—orange, apple, grape, or pineapple?"

"Apple!" A shy smile lit up the child's face. "Please," he added.

Starsky pulled two bottles from the cooler and shut the door. Kneeling, he opened one and gave it to Darrin, and then opened the other for himself. "Cheers." He held out the bottle and grinned when Darrin clinked his against it. Sitting down fully, he leaned against the cooler door and pointed to the space next to him. "Floor looks clean enough. Take a load off."

As Darrin joined him on the floor, Starsky noted with a barely checked smile that the little boy stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle in perfect imitation of Starsky's position.

He let a few moments pass before breaking the silence. "Quite a day today, huh? Bet you were scared. I woulda been."

"You're a po-liceman. You're not 'posed to get scared."

Starsky shrugged and smiled. "Maybe so, but I do. Some of these guys are just plain scary looking. Like the men today. Were they scary looking?"

Again imitating Starsky, Darrin shrugged. "I didn't get to see very much. Mommy put me behind her."

"What about the car? Did you see that?"

"Sure. It was kinda brown and big."

"Did you see the men inside the car?" Starsky sipped his juice nonchalantly.

The boy frowned. "No, I'm too short." He tilted his juice bottle, too, eyes scanning the store just like Starsky's. Just when Starsky was ready to conclude the child hadn't seen anything, Darrin piped up again. "But I saw them outside the car."

Starsky lowered the bottle. "But I just asked—" He thought about his original question and realized the four-year-old had taken a very literal interpretation. "Okay, so you saw the guys. Could you describe them for me; you know, tell me what they looked like?" He turned and sat cross-legged in front of Darrin.

Darrin, of course, wouldn't speak until he had his legs crossed, too. After Starsky helped him get into position, he asked again, "What'd they look like?"

"They were big—and I mean BIG!" Darrin raised his hand high above his head to demonstrate.

"Did you notice what color hair they had, or maybe if they had mustaches, or beards, or something really weird about them?"

Darrin shook his head. "Mommy's purse was in the way. I couldn't see past here." He drew an imaginary line high on his chest.

Spirits deflating, Starsky searched for another question that might be answerable by a four-year-old.

"One of 'em had a cartoon on his arm." Starsky looked up to see Darrin pointing to his forearm. "It was Yosemite Sam. I don't like him; he's grouchy."

"I'm a Foghorn Leghorn fan myself," Starsky agreed. "So if you were looking at this guy with the tattoo—the cartoon—which arm would it be on?" He held out his arms for Darrin to choose. "This one, the left one?"

Darrin nodded. "The one closest to the door. I saw it when he pulled Tony's jacket."

"Good." Starsky made a mental note of this addition to their limited information on the suspects. Then Darrin's comment fully registered. "Who the—? Who's Tony?"

"The other bad guy," Darrin said matter-of-factly. His expression showed Starsky should have already known this.

"You know him?" Starsky fought the instinct to lean forward and grasp the child's shoulders.

"No." Darrin shook his head. "I don't think so; I don't know many white people. Daddy says—"

"But you called him 'Tony'," Starsky interrupted. "Why did you call him that?"

Darrin shrugged and held out his hands, palm up. "'Cause that's the name that was on his shirt."

Certain he would have an ulcer before the morning was over, Starsky leaned forward. "You sure about that?"

"Uh, huh. My Uncle Tony has his name on his shirt, too. He taught me how to spell it: T-O-M-Y."

"That spells 'Tomy'."

"Oh." The little boy's face fell for a moment, then he looked up excitedly. "N! It's T-O-N-Y."

Starsky chuckled and began the arduous process of untangling his legs. "Good boy. Let's go tell the captain and your mommy what we figured out."

Hopping to his feet in one fluid motion, Darrin held out his hand. "Need some help?"

~*~*~

"This is how it starts, you know," Hutch said with an undertone Starsky couldn't identify.

Starsky half-lowered the beer bottle from which he'd been about to drink. "How what starts?"

"First, you're just partners. The next thing you know, you're inviting him to meet you at Huggy's for pool and a beer or two. Then, maybe you ask him to go to a wrestling match or a ballgame. Before you know it, you're lying in his bed, drinking his beer—"

Starsky cut off Hutch's teasing by clamping a hand on his partner's mouth. "If you weren't so sick, I'd slug you." Starsky tried for menacing but didn't come anywhere close. Considering that, when he'd arrived at Hutch's apartment a half-hour earlier, he'd been greeted by the sounds of Hutch dry-heaving in the bathroom, Starsky was thrilled his partner even felt like joking. He stroked the back of the blond head resting on his chest.

"Do you have any idea how many times I heard 'that's not proper procedure' today? Guess."

"I have no idea. How many?" Hutch rolled onto his side and again rested his head on Starsky's chest.

"I don't know. I lost count by noon," Starsky said into his beer bottle.

"Poor baby," Hutch murmured. "Maybe tomorrow—"

Starsky felt the hiss of indrawn breath against his skin and winced as Hutch clutched his stomach again. "You gonna hurl?"

He felt Hutch's head move against his chest. "False alarm," he said through clenched teeth. "Talk."

"About what?"

"Anything that'll take my mind off this..." Hutch's words faded away on a hiss as another cramp attacked.

Starsky put his beer on the nightstand and picked up a washcloth he'd used earlier to cool Hutch's face. After dipping a corner into the glass of ice water Hutch wouldn't drink, Starsky patted his partner's forehead and then along the hollows of his throat where beads of perspiration proved the intensity of Hutch's pain. "Feel good?"

Nodding, Hutch turned his face up to give Starsky full access to his throat. This simple act of giving comfort brought a smile to Starsky's face, and he leaned forward to press his lips against Hutch's forehead. Hutch sighed and opened his eyes. "That felt even better. Thanks."

"Least I can do." Starsky tossed the cloth onto the nightstand and reasserted his hold on Hutch's upper body. "Now, where were we?"

Hutch's head dropped onto Starsky's chest again. "Tony."

"Oh, yeah. Well, when I convinced Dobey that the kid might be on to something, he radioed in and got R and I to start pulling together a Tony and/or Anthony roster."

"You never had a partner with clout before."

"That's 'cause I'd rather have a partner who can run farther than a block without having to sit down and rest." Starsky squeezed Hutch's shoulder.

"So, how big's the Tony list?" Hutch yawned and shifted a little.

"Two-hundred-and-eighty-three, but when you take out all those who're accounted for, it's less than half that. Dobey's got some guys working tonight, trying to whittle out the cream of the crop to start with in the morning. Gonna try to cross-check with Probation to find out if any of them work in garages or car repair shops."

"Long shot."

"Better 'n no shot." Starsky rubbed Hutch's arm. "Hey, you up for a shower?"

"Am I that bad?" Hutch yawned again.

"Getting there." Starsky smoothed Hutch's hair. "You got that Dennis-the-Menace thing happening with your hair."

"Okay, jus' gonna rest my eyes...first." In less than a minute, Hutch was sound asleep.

~*~*~

"I'm not eating that." Hutch's voice sounded weary but certain.

Starsky stirred the tomato soup he was heating, and turned the flame off. "That's good, because it's my dinner."

"Oh." Hutch stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking so lost and miserable that Starsky put down his spoon and crossed the kitchen to him. Wrapping one arm loosely around Hutch's middle, he used the other to pull Hutch's head onto his shoulder.

"Feel like shit, don't ya?" Starsky stroked the tangled blond hair and tried to quell the guilt he felt. Hutch had awakened from "just resting his eyes" after a couple of hours, and Starsky, just coming back into the apartment after throwing out all the leftovers in Hutch's refrigerator, had almost been steamrolled by his partner's dash to the bathroom. "You wanna lay out here on the couch for a while?"

"No," Hutch answered into his shoulder.

Starsky lowered his hand to rub Hutch's neck. "Wanna go back to bed? I'll tuck you in again."

"No."

"Wanna sit here and watch me eat my soup?"

"No."

Leaning back and gently pushing Hutch away from his shoulder, Starsky tried to keep his tone light. "I'm all out of options. What do you wanna do?"

"Jump off a pier. Will you drive me down to the harbor?" Hutch's plaintive expression was so pitiful, Starsky was half-afraid he meant it.

Reaching up to cup his partner's face in his hands, Starsky said, "No, I will not take you to the harbor. Don't talk like that." He moved his hands to Hutch's shoulders. "How about a compromise? I'll run you a nice hot bath instead, and you can pretend."

Hutch's wan smile was the only answer Starsky needed. He wrapped one arm around Hutch's shoulder and turned him toward the bathroom.

"Can I use some of your Mr. Bubble?" Hutch leaned his head onto Starsky's shoulder.

"Sure, seeing how you're sick and all, but I really shouldn't let you, since you made fun of me when I brought it over here."

Hutch stopped at the sofa, teetered, and sat down. "I took it back—"

"Once I showed you how to use the bubbles properly," Starsky finished for him. He squatted down to Hutch's level. "You doin' okay, here?"

"Yeah, just need to rest a minute." Hutch waved his hand toward the kitchen. "Go slurp your supper, I can run my own bath."

"I don't mind—"

"I know you don't, but there's something I have to take care of first." Hutch lumbered to his feet, using a hand on Starsky's head as leverage while the other clutched his stomach. "Thanks anyway," Hutch muttered as he made his way clumsily to the bathroom.

Starsky returned to the stove and stood staring at the pan of soup. Replaying all the times he'd felt guilty through the years, his mind settled on the time Hutch had been infected with the plague. Starsky hadn't been able to stay at the hospital because he'd been out leading the manhunt for Callendar. Not a tick of the clock passed that he hadn't felt guilty for not being there with Hutch, like his presence would have made a difference. God, what an idiot. I'm right here with him now, and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. He shook his head and slowly poured the pan of soup down the drain.

"Starsk, I need..." Hutch's voice filtered into his thoughts. He dropped the pan and dashed into the bathroom where his sudden entry startled Hutch so badly, his foot slipped from its prop on the edge of the tub, and he almost slid under.

"What's wrong?" Starsky gasped, grabbing Hutch's arm and holding him steady. "You're not about to pass out, are you?"

"I am if you come barreling in here like that again." Hutch righted himself and squeezed the water from the ends of his hair.

Starsky sat on the edge of the tub to catch his breath. "I heard you call...."

A smile flickered across Hutch's face. "And you came in to rescue me. I swear, Starsky...."

"Okay, next time I'll just let you— Never mind; that's not even funny, considering." Starsky looked down at the water. "What happened to the bubbles?"

"I decided to wait until I have someone to show me how to use them properly," Hutch said, leaning back against the tub. "Listen, I thought of something about that Tony guy."

His adrenaline still not under control, Starsky stood up and began straightening the bathroom. "Tony who?"

"Tony, one member of our serial 211 trio?"

"Oh, yeah, him. What about him?"

"I don't think he works for a car repair shop."

"Why not? I mean, he may not, but considering they use a different car every time, he's got to have a lot of cars at his disposal." Starsky leaned against the doorframe. "What're you thinking?"

"Something doesn't make sense. The robberies always happen in the daytime hours, right? That's when the car repair shops are open. Don't you think a shop owner would miss a car that had been brought in for repair? Don't you think he'd miss Tony if he kept disappearing?"

Starsky thought it over, then shrugged. "Maybe, but who else has access to so many cars?"

Hutch idly ran the washcloth across his chest. The look on his face was one Starsky saw a dozen times a day: Hutch was thinking. Starsky could almost see the filters in his mind working. It always amazed him that, no matter where they were or what was happening, Hutch could block it all out and let his mind run logically over the problem.

"A parking garage attendant," Hutch said quietly, and Starsky noticed his eyes darting over, looking to evaluate his reaction.

"Too risky. The owner could come to claim the car at any time."

"True." Hutch leaned forward and held up the washcloth. "Will you get my back?"

Starsky smiled. "I've always got your back, partner. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

He sat on the edge of the tub, took the cloth from Hutch, and began gently washing the pale skin. Although he now knew Hutch's body as well as his own, Starsky suddenly found himself unable to remember if Hutch's shoulder blades had always protruded so much, and if the lines of his ribs had always been so visible. Surely he can't have lost that much weight in a day.

"Hutch, I want to apolo—"

"Long-term."

"What?"

Hutch half-turned, sloshing water dangerously close to the top of the tub. "What if the guy works for one of those long-term car storage places?"

Turning the possibility over in his mind, Starsky could see Hutch's logic. "Worth looking into."

He splashed water across Hutch's back and handed over the washcloth. "I'm gonna call in and make sure they cross-check storage garages, too. You need anything else?"

"Nah, I'm fine." Hutch leaned back again and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Looking over his partner's body from head to toe, Starsky smiled and winked. "Yes, you are."

Hutch groaned and closed his eyes, but Starsky noticed the smile that toyed with the corner of his mouth.

~*~*~

"Mildred, patch me through to Hutch again." Starsky leaned against the Torino and rubbed his eyes.

"Negative, Starsky."

Starsky keyed the radio again. "What do you mean 'negative'?"

"Just what I said. Hutch called and told me not to patch you through again until this afternoon. He's trying to get some sleep. He said he'll call you when he wakes up."

Starsky raised the microphone again to give Mildred an earful, but quickly gave up the idea. Mildred had always had a soft spot for Hutch, and there was no way Starsky was going to be able to argue his way past her. He'd just have to wait until he could call from a landline. "Out," he muttered.

"Oh, and Starsky? He said don't call him from a pay phone either."

"You two are a couple of regular comedians, you know that?" Starsky slammed the microphone into its holder.

A movement in front of the apartment building across the street caught his eye, but it was just an elderly woman shaking out a mop. Starsky was watching for Tina Latham, ex-wife of Anthony "Tony" Latham, who was now officially wanted for questioning in the armed robberies. Hutch's bathtub brainstorm had paid off when the department's computers spit out Latham's name matched with his place of employment: the long-term storage lot at the airport. A quick trip to the airport had turned up three of the cars used in the robberies. The car used in the previous day's robbery should have been in slot 14-E, but was nowhere to be found. Neither was Tony.

Not enough for a conviction, but it's a start. Starsky drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and mentally reviewed Latham's rap sheet. The guy only had one conviction—for fencing stolen goods—and he'd served his entire sentence in the city jail. There wasn't anything in his background information to indicate a history of violence, but Starsky knew that didn't mean anything. When presented with the right circumstances, some people would do anything for easy money.

Starsky's fingers drummed to a halt as a young woman in a waitress's uniform rounded the corner and approached the building. In her early twenties with long brown hair, her physical description matched the one he'd gotten from Latham's manager. He eased out of the car and across the street.

"Ms. Latham?" Starsky held up his shield. "Are you Tina Latham?"

The young woman nodded and smiled tiredly. "What's he done now?"

Starsky urged her closer to the building, out of the way of passing pedestrians. "Who?"

"My ex. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Starsky said. "Has he been in touch lately?"

"Hardly," Tina scoffed. "He knows better. My brother had a...discussion with him, and he knows better than to show up here now. Besides..." She looked up at Starsky. "What's he done?"

"Maybe nothing, maybe armed robbery. He hanging out with anyone in particular these days?"

Tina's face had paled when Starsky mentioned armed robbery. "Oh, my God, I had no idea he would go that far. I mean, he's always been looking for an easy way out, but he never did anything really bad." She pushed her hair away from her face with a trembling hand. "It's his cousins, I'll bet, that put him up to it."

Starsky put a comforting arm on her shoulder. "His cousins?"

"Ray and Steve Henderson. They're from Fresno, and let me tell you, they're nothing but bad news. Tony's always been infatuated with them for some reason."

Newfound energy coursing through his tired body, Starsky took down all the information the woman could provide. When he was finished, he not only had names and addresses of their suspects, but the names of other possible contacts as well. After thanking her, he rushed back to the car to radio in to Captain Dobey, who assured him he'd have everything Starsky needed by the time he got downtown.

~*~*~

As it turned out, Ray and Steve Henderson had full rap sheets and were well-known to Fresno police, who wondered where the pair had disappeared to, but were in no hurry to see them return. Starsky had spent the afternoon with Simmons, checking out Latham's known hangouts, but returned to the station empty-handed.

"You look awful," Dobey had said upon finding Starsky splashing water on his face in the men's room. "Why don't you knock off and let the new shift keep looking?"

"No, Cap—" Starsky began.

"I'll rephrase it then. Go home. Simmons will stay on a few more hours and get a fresh team going."

Although he was tempted to argue, Starsky was eager to get to Hutch's apartment and check on his ailing partner. He stopped to check in with Simmons, who assured him he would take care of everything, then left before Dobey could change his mind.

Starsky took the steps of Venice Place two at a time. He'd been so busy all afternoon, he had only checked on Hutch once, a few hours earlier. Hutch assured him he was getting along fine, although his raspy voice wouldn't have proved it. With the hunt for the Hendersons and Latham in full swing, Starsky had to accept Hutch's assurances and keep on working. He pushed the nagging sense of dread to the back of his mind and tried to stay focused on the case.

Easing into the apartment, Starsky was relieved to find it dark and quiet, and he intended to take full advantage of it once he'd made sure Hutch had everything he needed. Slipping out of his jacket, holster, and shoes, he made his way to the bedroom and found Hutch curled up into a ball of misery on the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and laid his hand on Hutch's back, rubbing in smooth circles. Hutch raised his head and looked at Starsky for a second, then weakly dropped it back on the bed.

Starsky was alarmed at Hutch's appearance. His face was chalky white, even his dry, cracked lips were pale. Starsky moved his hand up to stroke his partner's hair. "Hutch, why didn't you tell me you were this bad off? I would've come right home."

"I know you would," Hutch murmured. "Didn't want you to. I think I'm getting better. I haven't thrown up in a couple of hours."

"You don't look better." Starsky brushed the back of his fingertips across Hutch's cheek. "I'm so sorry. I never meant...if I ever thought you would get sick from my..." Starsky stammered.

"I know." Hutch uncurled himself and laid his head against Starsky's thigh, then a shaky hand came up to cover Starsky's and squeezed it for a moment. "You can make it up to me when I'm better."

Starsky laughed. "I'm impressed. I wouldn'ta thought you had the energy to even think about that stuff right now."

"Why not? Since I'll be regaining my strength, you can do my laundry and maybe a little cleaning. I'm sure the bathroom will need it after the past few days..." Hutch smiled at Starsky, but the effect was lost when he doubled over again, grabbing his stomach and letting out a soft moan.

"Oh, Hutch." Starsky started rubbing Hutch's back again, wishing he could do something more to make him feel better. "Why don't I take you to the doc? Maybe he can give you something to make you feel better."

"These things just have to run their course. Food poisoning only lasts a day or two."

"But it's already been almost two whole days and you're not lookin' much better."

Hutch started to reply, but his response was cut off by another moan, and then he was up and staggering to the bathroom. Starsky followed but was met by the door closing in his face. "Hutch, are you okay in there?"

He started to open the door but was stopped by a weak yet indignant "Starsk!" After another moment came, "There are some things a guy needs to do alone," followed by more soft groans and other sounds Starsky really didn't want to think too hard about. At least he hasn't thrown up for a few hours. I need to get him to try and drink something.

After a few minutes, Starsky heard water running in the sink, and soon Hutch emerged, hunched over, from the bathroom. Hutch held one hand across his midsection and reached the other out to steady himself against the wall. Apparently intending to head for the sleeping alcove, he instead made it as far as the couch. He faltered for a second, then dropped gracelessly onto the cushions. After sitting there for a moment, he gave up the struggle fully and collapsed to the side, positioned awkwardly, half-sitting and half-lying and breathing heavily. He closed his eyes as Starsky eased into the space next to him.

Hutch shifted a bit and leaned into Starsky. Starsky automatically began rubbing Hutch's side, which was nestled against his thigh. He was alarmed to feel Hutch's heart pounding at a worrying rate against his hand. Starsky turned Hutch onto his back and looked into his pale face. "Babe, why don't you let me take you to the ER? It's bad enough I got you sick. I can't stand watching you hurting like this."

Hutch was silent for a few moments, thinking, and Starsky girded himself for the argument he was sure would follow. He was more worried than surprised when Hutch simply looked back at him and breathed in a quiet voice, "Okay."

~*~*~

Starsky glanced over to his partner sleeping on a gurney a few feet away. He was relieved to see that Hutch's breathing had slowed and evened out, and the color was coming back into his face. He was still pale, but the gray pallor was gone, probably because he had gotten more uninterrupted sleep here in the past three hours than he had in the past two days.

When they had arrived at the ER a few hours earlier, the triage nurse had taken one look at Hutch—who was having a hard time even sitting up—taken his blood pressure, and gotten him onto a gurney in a little curtained-off cubicle immediately. Before Starsky could worry about what the speedy service meant, a doctor was in the room, asking them questions, examining Hutch, then ordering tests and IV fluids.

"Mr. Hutchinson, we're going to check a few blood tests and give you some IV fluids to replace what you've lost with all this vomiting and diarrhea. Oh, and since this does look like food poisoning I'll need you to give me a sample." She handed a large plastic cup to Hutch.

Hutch had turned pink as he accepted the cup. It was the only color Starsky had seen in his face all day. "A sample?"

"A stool sample. We need to see if we can isolate the cause of your illness. I'm required to try and determine the causative agent if I can, and report it to the health department."

A nurse came into the cubicle, drew some blood, and started IV fluids running. Hutch had fallen asleep on the gurney almost as soon as she left and had been sleeping ever since, although he was now showing signs of stirring. Starsky walked over to his restless partner and brushed a few stray blond hairs off his forehead, just as Hutch's eyes popped open. "Hey, how ya feelin'?"

Hutch looked around a minute, as if taking stock of his surroundings, then sat up. Starsky put a supporting hand on Hutch's back, remembering how unsteady he was a few hours before, and repeated, "How ya feelin'?"

"Better. Much better." Hutch started to get up but was stopped by Starsky's hand on his shoulder. He looked questioningly at Starsky.

"Do you think you should be getting up so quick? You were awful unsteady when we got here. And what does 'better' mean?" Starsky squeezed Hutch's shoulder gently, letting him know his questions were fueled only by his concern.

Hutch smiled at his partner and briefly covered Starsky's hand with his own. "Better means that sitting up doesn't make me feel dizzy, and I'm pretty optimistic about standing. It also means my head is no longer pounding. And as far as getting up goes, I'm ready to provide that sample the doc wanted. Now." Hutch laid a hand on his abdomen to emphasize his urgency, and then hopped off the gurney, standing very steadily to Starsky's relief. He left the cubicle in search of a bathroom, pulling his IV pole with one hand and clutching the plastic specimen cup in the other.

~*~*~

When Hutch returned to the cubicle, he found Starsky talking to the doctor who had examined him earlier. She turned at his approach and gestured to the gurney. "Mr. Hutchinson, why don't you hop back up there so I can take another look at you? Though, I can see you're much improved."

"I just left that sample you wanted with one of the nurses, Doctor...um..." Hutch stammered as he climbed back on the gurney.

The doctor flashed a huge smile at him. "Dr. Evans. I introduced myself earlier, but I don't think you were in any shape to notice." She clearly was impressed with the tall blond, now that she had an improved view of him.

Hutch smiled back. "I'm feeling much better now. Can I get rid of this and go home?" He waved his left hand with the IV catheter in it.

Dr. Evans listened to Hutch's chest and abdomen and rechecked his blood pressure. "You're definitely doing much better. Your heart rate is down and your blood pressure is up. However, you were pretty severely dehydrated when you came in. Your blood pressure was dangerously low and your blood work was very abnormal. I'd like to give you another bag of fluid," she pointed to the near-empty bag hanging on the IV pole, "so you'll do okay, even if you have some more problems tonight."

Hutch protested, "But I feel totally fine now. I'm not dizzy at all. I'd really just like to go home and—"

Starsky put his hand over his partner's mouth and looked over at Dr. Evans. "We'll stay." He then turned to look at Hutch. "I'm not going through another day like today. We're already here, you've already been stuck—twice I might add, since you were so dehydrated they couldn't get that IV in you at first." Starsky removed his hand from Hutch's mouth and gestured around the ER. "We're gonna take full advantage of the wonderful facilities here."

"You should," Dr. Evans agreed. "It's rare for us to have a night this quiet. It's nice to have the opportunity to actually visit with a patient." She rubbed Hutch's arm and smiled prettily before heading out toward the main portion of the ER, calling out something to one of the nurses who came and connected a new bag of fluids to Hutch's IV.

Even after the doctor had left, Starsky continued to stare at the spot on Hutch's arm where her hand had been. If I didn't know better....

"What's the matter with you?" Hutch followed Starsky's line of sight with his own eyes.

Starsky shook his head and nodded at the nurse's back. When she had gone, and before Hutch could ask again, Starsky burst out with, "Didja see that doctor? She was flirting with you!"

Hutch threw his head back and let out a loud laugh. Then, after looking around to make sure the curtains were closed, he pulled Starsky toward him and gave him a quick kiss. "You're cute when you're jealous." He laughed again when Starsky blushed. "Thanks for taking such good care of me, Starsk, and don't worry about the lady doctor. She is definitely not my type. I wish we were home so I could show you my type." Hutch ran his fingers though Starsky's dark curls, then looked up at the full bag of IV fluids. "So, how much longer do you think I'll be stuck here?"

~*~*~

Hutch's ambitions were short-lived, and he was soon asleep again. Starsky stood beside the bed, watching him sleep for a while, letting the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest supplant the more recent memories created earlier that evening. Finally assured that Hutch was on the mend, he straightened and stretched his arms and shoulders. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see it was after 10:00. Damn, if this IV takes as long as the last one, it'll be after midnight before we get home. He sank wearily into a chair and, after a good deal of shifting and squirming, found some semblance of comfortable. He was just dozing off, when a soft moan from the bed brought him to his feet again.

"Help me up." Hutch was struggling to get the sheet off and sit up.

"What's wrong?" Starsky untangled the sheet from Hutch's ankles and let Hutch use his arm to pull up on.

"Gotta go." Hutch almost made it around the curtain without catching the IV stand on the cubicle curtain, but not quite.

Trying not to laugh, Starsky peeked around the curtain. "Need some help there?"

"Shut up and give me a hand. I don't have time for this shit."

"No pun intended, I'm sure." Laughing outright now, Starsky easily pulled the curtain away from the stand and looked up in time to see Hutch break up with laughter, too.

"Go to hell." Hutch turned and pulled the IV stand the remaining few feet into the bathroom. He did his best to slam the door, but once again, the IV stand got in the way. Among more muttered curses, he slipped the stand free just as Starsky reached the door.

"You okay in there?" Starsky couldn't make out the response, but since it sounded angry, he was certain Hutch was all right. "I'll be right back. I'm gonna go get something to drink."

With a heart considerably lighter than it had been when he'd walked down that hall a few hours ago, Starsky went in search of a soda machine. He thought he remembered passing one in the lobby near the nurses' station. With any luck at all, there'll be a snack machine, too.

"Get some help in here now, or I'll break your neck in one snap!"

The harsh words stopped Starsky in his tracks, and he instinctively reached for his gun. Belatedly, he remembered removing it at Hutch's apartment. He was near the intersection of two corridors and took a step closer, trying to place the origin of the voice.

"Okay, calm down. I'm a doctor; I can help you."

Dr. Evans' voice was clear and strong and coming from somewhere in front of him. Starsky took another step forward. Then he spotted a convex mirror mounted on the corner just ahead, and pressing close to the opposite wall, he eased closer. After giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the distorted images, he recognized Dr. Evans but not the big beefy man with his arm around her throat.

"Hear that, Tony? You're gonna have yourself a lady doctor." The man jerked his arm backward. "Maybe after she's got you all fixed up, I'll have me a lady doctor, too."

Starsky's stomach churned when he heard a soft whimper. Terrific. This guy's bad news all the way around.

"There's no need for that. I'll help your...friend, and then you can—" Dr. Evans' voice broke off with a sharp cry as the man's arm jerked her head back.

"I tell you what to do. Got it? You don't tell me what to do," he snarled. "Now, how many patients are back here?"

"Only one. H-he's sedated. You don't have to worry about him."

"Where are the other people who work here? You ain't running this place by yourself."

"No, I'm not, but I'm the only doctor here tonight. One of the nurses just went upstairs with a patient, and the other went down the hall to the cafeteria. That's why I wanted to treat your friend and get you on your way before they came back. I don't want to see anyone get hurt."

Starsky considered the doctor's words. Either she didn't realize he and Hutch were still there, or she had some other motive for not mentioning their presence.

"What do you think, Stevie?" The man's gruff voice echoed down the silent hallway again.

Starsky listened carefully, trying to figure out exactly how many men were present. Okay, we got Tony, Stevie, and Mr. Charm and Personality. How many more of you are there?

"I think we oughta do like she says. Get Tony fixed up and get outta here. We got enough trouble on our hands already, Ray. We don't need no more."

"Ray, please," another man groaned. Starsky assumed it was the injured Tony. "It hurts."

"Okay, calm down. We're getting you some help. Where do you want him?" The last was apparently directed to Dr. Evans.

"If you'll let me go, I'll help you get him on this gurney." Dr. Evans' voice suddenly grew louder. "We'll use Room 4 over here on the right. Please, sir, there are three of you and only one of me. I think you can be assured I'm not going to escape. Besides," her voice returned to its normal level, "I'm obligated to treat your friend and you're holding a gun."

The stilted way her words were delivered, and the loud tone, convinced Starsky that Dr. Evans had seen him and was trying to let him know what was going on. He began easing back down the hallway, ducking into a room when the gurney came into view.

"Stevie, you stay out here and watch for anyone. Is this the only entrance, Doc?"

"Yes," Dr. Evans replied. "This is the only way in." Once again, Dr. Evans raised her voice.

Starsky winced. Enough with the signals, Dr. E. No way we're leaving this place with you still in here. He peeked around the doorframe. The doctor and one man were rolling the gurney down the hallway, while another, gun in hand, walked ahead looking in each of the rooms. Starsky waited until they were all in the treatment room, then dashed back down the hallway and around the corner to the bathroom next to Hutch's cubicle. He rattled the doorknob. "Lemme in," he whispered, praying Hutch didn't yell. To Starsky's surprise, the door opened immediately. Hutch had apparently been on his way out.

"Wha—?" Hutch got out before his mouth was covered with Starsky's hand.

"Shhh. Back up and let me in." Starsky shoved his way into the small room and pushed the door gently closed. "We got problems," he said in a low voice.

"What's going on?"

"Some goons have Dr. Evans and are making her treat their goon buddy. They've got one gun at least, probably two."

"And we've only got yours." Hutch started to pace but stopped when he saw Starsky's face. "Aw, c'mon, please tell me we've got your gun."

"Nope, I took it off at your place." Starsky cracked the door and peered out. No one was in sight.

He pressed the door closed. "How you feelin'?" He turned his attention to his partner.

"I'm okay."

Starsky smiled in spite of the serious situation. Though better than it was a few hours earlier, Hutch's complexion was still on the other side of pasty, and the dark circles under his eyes gave testimony to all he'd been through the past few days. Starsky reached up to rub his thumb along Hutch's cheek. "You are far from okay, buddy boy. You can barely stand up."

Hutch brushed Starsky's hand away brusquely. "Said I was fine. Now, how do you want to handle this?"

"I'll tell you how I want to handle this. I want you to stay right here, while I go out there and figure out a way to get these guys under control."

"Starsk—"

"Don't 'Starsk' me. You aren't in any shape—"

"I'm not staying in here while you go out there—"

"Hutch."

"Starsky."

"God, you drive me nuts. You know that, don't you?"

"Well, I try..." Hutch peeked out the door, then carefully closed it. "Where are they?"

"Other end of the hall. One of them's supposed to be at that nurses' station we passed on the way in here. The other one is back there with their buddy and your girlfriend."

"My girlfriend?"

"Dr. Evans." Starsky smirked. "I think she saw me. Or else she has a really weird way of talking."

"Huh?"

"Never mind, I'll fill you in later." Starsky eased the door open, shutting it again when he was satisfied no one was nearby. "Okay, here's what I think we oughta do. We need to get closer to the room where the doc has...Tony and—" He stopped as the names he'd heard earlier dropped into place. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Hutch moved in closer. "What's wrong?"

Starsky swallowed thickly. "Remember the other day at Huggy's when you said something about those guys pulling all the heists were gonna have to fall in our laps for us to find them?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, I think they just did." Starsky leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. "Tony, Stevie, Ray—I don't know why it didn't click before. That's Tony Latham and Steve and Ray Henderson. Those are the guys half the force is looking for right now."

Hutch stared at him in disbelief. "They're out there now? How many other people are here?"

"Only one, if I heard Dr. Evans right. She said there was one guy somewhere around here, but he's out of it. The nurses are in other parts of the hospital right now. That's why I've gotta act fast. We can't risk them coming back—"

"We."

"Huh?"

"You heard me. We've got to act fast. No way you're going out there without me."

"Hutch."

"We've already done this, Starsky. I'm going and that's all there is to it. Where are my clothes?"

"In the cubicle. Don't you remember taking them off?"

"Run get 'em for me, will you?"

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Sure, Hutch. I'll just saunter out there and get your clothes. Maybe the guy with the gun will think I'm a ghost or something."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about him." Hutch pursed his lips together.

"See, this is what I mean. You're not in any condition to—"

"I said I was going with you." Hutch's voice grew louder.

"Shhh. Okay, you stubborn dumb ass, you can go, but you're gonna follow me, got that?" Starsky held a finger in Hutch's face until he nodded. "Okay, here's the deal. Do you remember the layout of this place?"

Hutch shook his head. "I didn't even know where we were until halfway through the first bag of fluid."

"Figured as much," Starsky muttered. Turning, he moved to the right of the small rectangular sink. Using his index finger, he traced its outline. "The layout's kinda like this. There's a hallway all the way around, with treatment rooms in the center." He pointed just to the left of the corner closest to him. "We're here, and Stevie's here, in the lobby," he tapped the faucet, "and the rest of them are somewhere back here." He indicated the corner just beyond the faucet. The walls on the inside rooms are made of glass starting halfway up, so we're gonna have to stay low to the ground. Those rooms have doors on both sides. We'll work our way down the back hallway and then cut into the room closest to the party."

"Then what?"

"We'll figure it out when we get there."

Hutch peeked out the door again and turned back. "Clear," he mouthed, and started out the door. Starsky grabbed his gown and pulled him back into the room.

"Did you forget something there, Blondie?" Starsky folded his arms across his chest.

"What?"

Starsky leaned forward and picked up the IV tubing that dangled between Hutch's arm and the IV pole. "The guy looks up and sees this rolling along the hallway, he's probably gonna suspect something."

Grinning sheepishly, Hutch lifted his arm. "Disconnect me."

Starsky thought it over, tempted to leave Hutch tethered to the IV pole, but finally opted to disconnect the bag from the pole and hand it to his partner. When Hutch looked at him with a puzzled expression, Starsky shrugged. "I don't wanna have to start over when we're through here."

Hutch smiled. "I guess that's positive thinking." He shifted the bag around, trying to find an easy way to carry it, then held the bag up to his shoulder and pulled the uppermost tie of his gown forward. "Tie it on here, will you? Then I'll have my hands free."

Starsky threaded the bag through the fastening and retied the gown. The bag would probably flop around on Hutch's back, but it would have to do. Once they had Hutch situated, Starsky eased open the door again. He made sure the way was clear, then dropped into a crouch and motioned Hutch to do the same. They crept into the hall and toward the corner that led to the back corridor. Before Starsky could duck around the corner, he felt a tug on his shirt.

"Starsk, wait a minute," Hutch whispered in his ear.

Starsky turned. "What?"

"I've gotta go back for a sec."

"Why?"

Hutch's face had taken on a pained expression. "I've had almost two bags of fluid, Starsk."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, go."

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"I won't."

Hutch turned away, but then turned back again. "Starsk? Don't leave, okay?" His dark-shadowed eyes begged assurance.

"I'll be right here, Hutch. Hurry." Starsky made a shooing motion with his hand and settled back to wait. If I had any sense, I'd go in there and put his lights out. Why am I even letting him out here in the shape he's in? He knew the reason why and, damn him, Hutch knew, too. If the situation were reversed, Starsky would want to be out there with Hutch, and Hutch would reluctantly let him. Neither of them was willing to live with the knowledge that his partner met his fate while the other cowered on the sidelines. If they went out, they went out together.

Starsky grimaced at the unpleasant thought. There's some positive thinking for you, Hutchinson. Looking nervously over his shoulder, Starsky was relieved to see the bathroom door ease open.

He looked up and down both hallways and waved Hutch over.

"Are we having fun yet?" Hutch's breathless whisper brushed across Starsky's neck.

"Yeah, loads. Too bad we can't do this every night." Starsky peeked around the corner, then looked back at Hutch. "You ready now?"

Hutch nodded and shifted forward at the same time Starsky took off. Together, they hurried down the corridor until they reached a connecting hallway, making sure to stay below the windowed walls. After taking a second to listen for any sounds of movement, Starsky eased up to peer over the ledge and through the glass partitions. From that vantage point, he could just make out the image of the gunman patrolling the lobby, who seemed more interested at that moment in what was on the television mounted high on the lobby wall.

"Stevie Henderson," he whispered to Hutch. "Stay down." The blond head was perilously close to the window ledge.

"That's easy for you to say, you're not the one running around here with your ass hanging out of a paper gown."

Hutch had just started to rise for a look when Stevie yelled, "Ray, get out here. We got trouble."

Yanking his partner back down to the floor, Starsky shifted so he was between Hutch and the corner.

"What in the hell are you yelling about?" Ray Henderson's footsteps echoed around the hallways.

"They just had our pictures on television. Tony's, too."

"Shit!" The sound of boots striking metal ricocheted around the corner. "What'd they say?"

"Don't know. The sound was off, and I didn't figure out how to get it on before it was over."

"Damn, we gotta get outta here. Head back to Fresno."

"How much longer is the lady doctor gonna take?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"Well, get her to hurry up!"

"You just see that no one gets in here; I'll worry about the doctor. If she don't finish soon, we'll just take her with us. Hell, we might just take her with us anyway."

Dirty laughter mingled with the sounds of retreating footsteps, then moments later, the muted strains of an advertising jingle from the television. Starsky welcomed the covering noise for the help it would provide in masking their movements, and as a possible distraction for Stevie.

After peeking around the corner, Starsky slowly raised himself to the bottom of the window ledge. At first he couldn't see their guard, but then Stevie emerged from the waiting area, towing a chair behind him. Starsky watched with a thankful heart as the gunman positioned the chair in the middle of the lobby, but with its back to their location. Can't believe we finally caught a break.

"Ohhh...."

The low moan from behind him quickly shifted Starsky's attention. Turning around, he saw that Hutch was on the floor, doubled over in pain. He put his hand on Hutch's sweat-soaked head and leaned down, then had to fight the urge to cry out himself when he saw the deathly pale complexion and the smear of blood on Hutch's lip where he'd bitten down too hard. Starsky pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed Hutch's face. "Hey, partner, having a little trouble there?"

"Just a cramp. I'm...fine," Hutch panted. His eyes rolled back in his head as another wave seized him.

"Yeah, I can see that. Why'd I ask such a stupid question?" Starsky looked around worriedly for a place to move his partner. He was afraid another pain would strike Hutch and cause him to cry out.

"Listen, you think you can help me get you down there?" Starsky indicated a treatment room down the hall a few feet. Its location on the outer wall of the ER would afford them a small measure of insulation from the Hendersons. Also, Starsky noted with relief, the door had a glass insert through which he could keep an eye on what was going on outside until he got Hutch settled.

"Yeah, I can get there...told you, I'm fine." Hutch tried to rise into a crouch, but his legs wouldn't support him. Just as he started sinking to the floor again, Starsky grabbed him under the arms and half-dragged him to the room.

"I can do it," Hutch muttered as Starsky pulled him through the door, then propped him against a gurney while he pulled a blanket from the bed.

"Shhh! You can't even stand up, dummy. Here, lay down on this for a few minutes." Starsky dropped the blanket to the floor, spread it with his foot as best he could, and then lowered his partner to it. "Easy does it. You just need to catch your breath."

A weak smile passed across Hutch's face. "I'm not the one huffing and puffing."

"Yeah, well you ain't exactly light on your feet." Starsky snagged a cloth from a linen shelf and leaned down to wipe Hutch's face again.

"This I can do." Hutch's shaky hand reached out for the towel. "Sit down and rest a minute. They're liable to hear you breathing way out there."

"Yeah, okay." Starsky plopped down at Hutch's side, but he wasn't able to sit still for long. He checked Hutch's IV line, then tugged down the hem of his hospital gown. "You cold?"

"No, the humiliation is keeping me pretty warm." Hutch's attempt at a smile was cut short when he winced and rubbed his stomach. "I think that shot they gave me is wearing off."

"Sorry." Starsky rested his hand lightly on Hutch's abdomen. "Just be still and see if it eases up any." He shifted up to a crouch. "I'm gonna see if I can find anything in here to help us out of this mess."

Hutch craned his neck to track Starsky's movements. "Like what—a shotgun?"

"That'd be nice," Starsky whispered from across the room. "Two would be even better."

After tossing the room as well as any second-story man, Starsky returned to his position next to Hutch. He held up a single pair of surgical scissors. "Not much to work with here."

Hutch raised himself up on his elbows and looked blearily around the room. "In the corner," he said before sagging back down on the blanket again.

Following Hutch's gaze, Starsky spotted an IV stand in the corner of the room. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Gimme a minute." Hutch struggled to sit all the way up, finally relying on Starsky's outstretched arm to pull up on. "I might have an idea." He worked his legs underneath him and rose up enough to see out into the hallway.

"There." Starsky pointed out Stevie's location.

"Where're the other guys and the doctor?"

"Over there." Starsky pointed to a corner area to their left. Three layers of glass made it difficult to tell what was going on, but they were able to just make out blurs of movement in the room.

As he lowered himself to the floor again, Hutch suddenly flinched and pulled Starsky to the ground with him. "Someone's in there!" He pointed to the room immediately to their left, visible through a glass partition.

"What's he doing?"

"Just laying there."

Starsky exhaled and patted his partner's chest. "Calm down. He must be the patient the doctor was talking about. He's out for the count, according to her."

"Oh." Hutch needed a few more seconds before he let go of the handful of Starsky's shirt he held. "Scared the hell out of me, seeing him there."

"So what's this idea of yours?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"Are you kidding? Of course I'll like—" Starsky sat back on his heels and tried to blink away the feeling of déjà vu. The last time they'd had a conversation like this, he'd damn near gotten his lights knocked out. "Let me hear it first."

Hutch's plan was simple; it had to be. They had no weapons and one-and-a-half partners to fight with—their choices were limited. Starsky listened patiently, nodding while Hutch explained his plan, and he continued nodding even after Hutch finally fell silent and lay back, winded and flush-faced. Starsky wasn't sure whether his partner ran out of steam or ran out of plan.

"You okay?" Starsky trailed his fingers across Hutch's forehead, not liking the clamminess he felt there.

"Yeah," Hutch answered, still breathless but bright-eyed, alert, and expectantly awaiting Starsky's response. "So what do you think?"

"I think you oughta lay here and let whatever was in that shot they gave you wear off a little more before you come up with any more plans."

"Starsk—"

"Hutch, that has got to be the dumbest...you don't really expect me to let you walk down the middle of that hallway unarmed—not to mention mostly undressed. Stevie'll likely shoot you before you get around the corner."

"You'll be right there, Starsk. I told you, there's a crash cart about midway down that connecting hallway. I'll wait until you get into place—"

"Why? So I can see the bullets hitting your body close up?"

"No, no." Hutch rose up on an elbow. "All I'm gonna do is get Stevie's attention. He'll probably think I'm this guy over here," he nodded at the room next door, "so he won't feel threatened. When he gets into the hallway, you'll grab that thing," he pointed to the IV pole, "and whack him with it."

"Whack him?"

"Yeah, whack him. Make like Floyd Herman Eckworth and—"

"Lloyd."

"Huh?"

"Lloyd Herman Eckworth." Starsky rubbed his eyes. "What about the other two—Ray and what's-his-name?"

"One bully at a time's my limit, partner."

With Hutch looking at him expectantly, Starsky stalled by first checking the lobby again, then trying once more to see the corner room where the doctor and the other two men were. Finally, he dropped down next to Hutch again. "You're right, I don't like it."

"If you've got a better plan, I'm all ears."

But as hard as he tried, Starsky couldn't come with anything with a greater chance of succeeding. "I wouldn't be so worried if you hadn't been so sick," he said, reaching up to smooth Hutch's hair, letting his hand linger on his jaw.

Hutch reached up to clasp Starsky's hand. "I'll do the best I can—give it all I've got," he whispered. "You know that. If I didn't think I could—"

Starsky's fingers quickly covered Hutch's lips. "None of that." He looked into Hutch's eyes and tried to calm his fears. "I'll take you for a partner any time, any place." Starsky rested his hand on Hutch's bare leg. "Even when you're wearing a dress."

The blond head dipped as Hutch looked down at himself, then back up at Starsky, and for the first time in days, Starsky was relieved to see a full-blown Hutchinson smile. "Not exactly Butch and Sundance this time, are we?"

"Well, at least one of us is butch," Starsky said wryly, then leaned forward and pulled Hutch into an embrace. Hutch's arms felt strong around him, and that gave Starsky hope. Maybe we'll pull this off yet.

It never was much of a plan, really, so Starsky wasn't surprised when it didn't go off as Hutch intended. When he thought about it later, he realized he'd never expected it to work, and he didn't believe Hutch did either. But they'd had to do something.

With Stevie engrossed in the television, Starsky was able to get into his position behind the crash cart without incident. He hunkered down and waited for Hutch to carry out his part of the plan. Long empty minutes went by with no sign of his partner, and Starsky had begun to get worried. Just when he was getting ready to dash back to the room, Hutch entered the hallway.

He spared Starsky only a quick glance, long enough to receive the okay sign, then began slowly moving toward the lobby and the gunman. Starsky might have had a laugh at Hutch's appearance had the situation been less serious. With bits and pieces of his hair standing on end, his long wobbly legs sticking out from a gown meant to reach past his knees, and the bag of IV fluids tied onto the gown, Hutch presented quite an amusing picture. At that moment, though, Starsky's only hope was that he presented a convincing one.

Hutch waited until he was about ten feet away from Starsky before he called out, "Is there anyone who can help me?" He looked around the hallway as if confused.

Partner, you should've been an actor, Starsky thought as he watched Hutch look around the area, appearing weak and feeble. It was only when Hutch drew closer that Starsky began to wonder how much of Hutch's behavior was acting. His partner's face was dotted with sweat, and his teeth were clenched together in a way that told Starsky he was approaching his pain threshold.

"Hello? Can someone help me, please?" Hutch moved haltingly to a spot about three feet away.

Starsky heard a chair scrape the lobby floor before he heard Stevie's footsteps. "What the hell—? Who are you?" Stevie didn't sound like he was moving forward. Starsky wondered whether the wheels on the crash cart were locked as he began formulating a Plan B.

"Are you a doctor?" Hutch asked softly, and Starsky wondered whether the hand he put to his stomach was part of his act or an indication of real pain.

"What'd you say?"

"I need some help back here." Hutch spoke quietly, apparently trying to lure Stevie closer. Starsky heard two footsteps, then Hutch's hands went into the air. "Hey, Mister, I don't want any trouble. I was just trying to find a doctor."

"Who are you? How'd you get back here?" Stevie demanded.

"I've been here all afternoon. Can I put my hands down? You can see I don't have any weapons." Hutch looked down at his hospital gown. "Worst I can do is moon you." He smiled weakly.

"No!" The gunman did move forward then, and the barrel of the gun came into Starsky's view. It was pointed directly at Hutch's chest. "You just keep your hands where I can see them."

Starsky hesitated. He was afraid that if he jumped Stevie just then, the gun might go off. Maybe if he waited....

With his eyes trained on the gun, Starsky sensed rather than saw Hutch's arms begin to drop, at the same time he saw that Stevie's finger was on the trigger and moving. Starsky's world slowed to a crawl. He was aware of standing and shouting, heard the gun's deafening blast, could feel the spots of wetness and other matter he didn't want to think about splattering against his face, and then, the icy fingers of white-hot rage that consumed him. He lunged for Stevie and tackled him, overpowering him in seconds. The gun skittered across the floor out of reach, but Starsky didn't even notice. His hands were locked around Stevie's throat, and vengeance was the only thing on his mind.

"Starsk."

At first he thought he'd imagined it, that the blood pounding in his ears was playing some grotesque trick on his hearing, but then a hand wrapped around his ankle and tugged weakly.

"Starsky." The voice was louder now, and it was definitely Hutch's voice. "Please...."

Starsky's grip on Stevie's throat loosened, but he didn't remove his hand. Slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder. The last thing he expected was to see Hutch whole, the only signs of injury tiny specks of blood dotting his shoulder and neck. Considering Hutch's close proximity to the gun when it went off, Starsky didn't think he would ever hear his partner's voice again.

"I've got him." Hutch's breath was ragged and he was drenched in sweat, but his eyes were clear. "Go get the others." To Starsky's surprise, Hutch held out the gun. Starsky hadn't known, or cared, where it had landed.

He slid back, off of Stevie's chest, and took the gun from Hutch, intentionally brushing his fingers across the back of Hutch's hand. He needed that contact just to convince himself that his worst fear hadn't been realized. Hutch was there beside him exactly as he should be.

"Everything okay out here?"

From his knees, Starsky whirled around, gun pointed directly at the speaker.

Out of breath and slightly disheveled, Dr. Evans held her hands in the air and scuttled back a few steps. The syringe she'd held in her hand clattered to the floor.

Starsky's shoulders slumped as he lowered the gun. "What in the hell are you doing out here? Where's Henderson?"

"Who? Oh, the guy." She bent over and retrieved the needle. "He's napping."

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, then back at Dr. Evans, who smiled and blew on the end of the needle as if it were the barrel of a smoking gun. "Hey, you have your weapons, I have mine."

All three heads turned then as the lobby was suddenly swarmed by uniformed officers. At least a dozen, Starsky guessed. With so many surreal events happening in such a short period of time, he didn't even question it. When an officer tapped him on the shoulder to get to the fallen gunman, Starsky moved aside without comment. He knee-walked across the floor to where Hutch now sat slumped against the wall and collapsed beside him. Dr. Evans slid down the opposite wall.

"I thought you bought it," Starsky said quietly, resting his hand on Hutch's outstretched leg.

"I did, too, buddy. I did, too."

"I mean, how the hell could he miss? He was less than five feet away from you." Starsky waved his hand in the general direction of where the shooting had occurred. Then he looked at Hutch with narrowed eyes. "And what in the hell were you thinking, moving around with a gun leveled at your chest?"

Hutch shook his head. "Couldn't help it." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "I don't know what the hell happened. My stomach cramped again and I started falling. The next thing I knew, the gun was going off."

They sat in silence for a few moments before Starsky suddenly remembered the sensation of splatters against his skin. "Something hit me." He put his hand up to his face. "I thought..." He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes. "I thought it was bits and pieces of you."

Hutch shifted, and Starsky felt the warmth of his partner's hand resting on his arm. Funny how such a small thing can feel so good, he thought. Then Hutch's hand was gone.

Starsky opened his eyes just as Hutch plucked a fragment of something from Starsky's hair and held it up. He twisted his neck for a better look. "What's that?"

"I don't know. Looks like some sort of plastic." Hutch turned the tiny remnant over in his hand and looked closer. "Oh, shit." He reached over his shoulder and pulled the top of his gown forward. All that was left was a tattered shred of plastic "My IV stuff. When I fell, it must've flipped up and gotten in the line of fire."

"What?" Starsky looked at the plastic and swallowed hard. God, so close. He looked up when Hutch suddenly started laughing.

"Mind telling me what's so funny?"

"Think how this is gonna look on our report, Starsk. I got shot in my IV. It sacrificed itself just for me..." Hutch leaned his head back against the wall, still laughing.

"You're weird, you know that?" Starsky shook his head. "Hey, Doc, can you fix that while we're here? You know, make him a little closer to normal?"

Dr. Evans' earlier bravado had evaporated. Still, she managed a small smile. "I'll be happy if I can just get some color back into his face." She appraised Hutch frankly. "How are you feeling, Mr. Hutchinson?"

"I'll be fine," Hutch said quickly.

Nodding, Dr. Evans replied, "That's nice to know for future planning, but I need to know how you're feeling now."

"Get him, Doc," Starsky cheered. "I listened to 'I'm fine' for two days before he agreed to come in here."

"Okay, okay. I know when I'm being ganged up on." He glared at Starsky, or tried to. In his weakened state, the effect was limited.

"Spill it then," Starsky ordered.

Hutch rubbed his face. "I'm just tired mostly."

"Did I hear you say earlier that you were experiencing stomach pains again?" Dr. Evans asked.

"A little."

A snort from Starsky brought another attempted glare from his partner. "A little? Only if you call doubled up on the floor 'a little'."

Even Hutch slipped into a smile at Starsky's exasperation. "Listen, buddy, right now I'm thankful for that pain. If that last one hadn't hit when it did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Starsky looked into Hutch's tired eyes and heard the truth in his words. "Okay, I'm convinced."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Dr. Evans said with an understanding smile. "Even so, I think I'll give you something to take care of that 'little' pain as soon as I get my legs back under me."

Hutch started to argue, then winced and rubbed his stomach. "I think I'll let you, at that." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Fine, I'll restart the IV then, too."

Hutch's eyes popped open. "Wait a minute—"

"Hutch?" Starsky interrupted, raising his voice slightly as the noise level in the lobby increased. "Shut up. You're getting the IV." He turned to see Captain Dobey barreling toward them.

"Starsky! Hutchinson! Are you two okay?" The captain stood above them, his perpetual scowl replaced by an expression of concern.

"I'm okay, Cap, and Hutch will be as soon as the doc gets through with him," Starsky answered. "Hey, how'd you get here so fast?"

"The security guard on duty was making his rounds and overheard the odd confrontation Dr. Evans here had with the friends of her new patient. Once he heard 'gun,' he got on the horn to us right away, then locked down the entrances."

"Get his name," Starsky said. "He's got a dinner coming."

"At least," Hutch added. "Maybe if he doesn't have plans for Thanksgiving, you can invite him to this extravaganza you're having."

"Cap, what I don't—" Starsky turned to Hutch. "Did you really mean that?"

"Mean what?"

"About inviting the guy to dinner. I figured you'd wanna cancel the dinner."

"You can't cancel Thanksgiving, Starsk."

"But I poisoned you."

"Well, yeah, but it wasn't on purpose. Besides, if ever we had anything to be thankful for, this is it."

"That's really nice, Hutch." Starsky patted his partner's arm.

"Knock it off, you two," Dobey ordered. "Did you need something, Starsky? You started to say something before the two of you wandered off on one of your tangents."

"Huh?" Starsky stared into space blankly for a moment. "Oh, I forgot. Listen, I don't know how you knew when to send these guys in..." Starsky waved his hand at the small army of officers around them. "...but I'm glad you did. Your timing, as they say, was impeccable."

"Security camera," Dobey said.

"What?" Starsky and Hutch asked simultaneously.

The captain snickered. "There's a camera in the back here, covering the emergency exit. Almost as soon as we got a look at the monitor down the hall, we saw you two in action." He smiled mischievously at Hutch. "Let me tell you, Hutchinson, watching your bony white ass crawling around a hospital wasn't how I ever thought I'd be spending an evening."

Starsky looked at Hutch and laughed. "Hey, Doc, look at this! He's finally got some color in his cheeks."

"So I see." Dr. Evans was trying not to laugh but losing the battle.

Captain Dobey spun around. "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. I forgot—"

"Don't worry, Captain. I'm familiar with Mr. Hutchinson's—"

"Do you mind?" Hutch looked like he wanted to crawl under the floor.

Still chuckling, Starsky patted Hutch's arm. "I'm sure the guys'll keep what they saw to themselves."

Hutch rolled his eyes and pulled his arm away. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure."

Starsky turned back to the captain. "But if you saw us, what took you guys so long to get back here?"

"You know as well as I do, Starsky, that we couldn't come barreling in here until we knew how many players we had and could sort out the good from the bad. Fortunately for you guys, we caught one of the ER nurses as she was coming back from a dinner break. She was able to tell us who had been here when she left and give us a layout of the place. We had men at the hospital entrance just outside the lobby when all the commotion started."

"Captain Dobey? Sorry to interrupt." A uniformed officer leaned around the corner. "The two guys back here are both unconscious."

All eyes turned to Dr. Evans.

The captain voiced the question they all had. "Would you care to explain, Doctor?"

"I told the guy with the gun—Ray, was it?" She waited for confirmation from Dobey. "I told Ray I had to give his friend three different shots, and he bought it. I drew up three syringes of a sedative. Ray had no clue what medication it really was."

"What were you going to do?" Starsky asked.

"I gave one dose to my patient, because he really was in pain. Then I told Ray I had to space out the others, but really, I was planning to get him with one of them if I had the chance. I was counting on you taking care of the guy out here, but I did have this," she held up the syringe, "as back-up. When Ray was distracted by the commotion out here, I was able to inject him. I didn't use proper sterile technique, but sometimes you have to seize the moment."

Starsky nodded approvingly, then remembered something he'd wondered about earlier. "So you did see me in the lobby mirror, didn't you? Back when these morons busted in here?" Dr. Evans nodded, but Starsky wasn't satisfied. "If you knew I was out here, why didn't you wait for me to get to you?"

Dr. Evans smiled and shrugged. "I figured two heads were better than one. Besides, I didn't know you were dragging my patient around with you." She nodded in Hutch's direction. "I think you wore him out."

Rolling his head to the left, Starsky burst out laughing. In the middle of a hospital ER that was in the middle of a bustling police investigation, Hutch was sound asleep.

"Captain," Dr. Evans extended her hand, "if you'll give me a hand up, I'll go check on the patient in the back, and then come back for Mr. Hutchinson. Thanks, Captain." She disappeared around the corner.

Starsky struggled to his feet as well, nudging Hutch in the process.

"Huh?" Hutch's eyes snapped open. He blinked at Starsky and then looked around the hallway. "We're still here?"

"What'd you think we were gonna do? Click our heels together three times and say 'there's no place like home'?" Starsky stood up and motioned for the captain to get on Hutch's other side. "C'mon, Scarecrow, on your feet."

Hutch slid his legs under himself and tried to stand up on his own. Fortunately, Starsky and Dobey were ready when the attempt failed and he started to slide down again.

"I don't think you're ready to go solo yet, big guy. Let us help."

"Yeah, maybe." Hutch stood on wobbly legs. "Don't know why I'm so weak. I was doing so much better."

"It could be that you've sweated off most of the fluid I managed to get in you," Dr. Evan said as she rejoined them. "Do you need a ride back to your room?"

"No, I can make it." Hutch looked up and down the hallway. "Uh, where's my room?"

"C'mon, dummy, I'll show you," Starsky said, laughing as he threw an arm around Hutch's shoulders and steered him toward the main corridor.

"I'll send a nurse in to restart your IV as soon as I can," Dr. Evans said.

"Hutchinson, I hope you feel better," Dobey called after them. "You can give your statement by phone in the morning. You, too, Starsky. I'll send someone out to get them signed later in the day." He turned to Dr. Evans. "We'd like to get a preliminary statement from you now, if we may, Dr. Evans."

As they walked down the hallway, Starsky could feel his partner starting to sag against him. "Hang on, just a little bit farther."

"Thanks, Starsk," Hutch said quietly, seriously.

Starsky led Hutch through the door into his room and across to the bed. "Glad to help. I couldn't leave you out there in your nightie, could I?"

"No, I mean..." Hutch circled his hand in the air. "You know...everything. All this...everything." He sighed as he climbed onto the bed. "I'm not saying it right. What I mean is...you know...."

Starsky smiled and smoothed the sheet into place. Hutch was crashing hard. "I know what you mean, lover o'mine," he said in a low voice. "And you're welcome. Now, try to get some rest."

A nurse slipped into the cubicle then and quickly had Hutch's IV fluids going again. "Call me if you need me," she whispered. "I'll check back in a little while. Why don't you get some rest, too? You look like you could use it."

Starsky nodded and sank into the chair beside Hutch's bed. He absentmindedly fingered Hutch's hospital ID bracelet while he lay his head down on the edge of the bed. Hearing Hutch's quiet breathing and feeling the pulse beat in the wrist beneath his fingertips soon lulled Starsky into peacefulness and he closed his eyes. We've got a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving, that's for sure.

Starsky's eyes popped open. "Oh, shit, I forgot about Thanksgiving. I've got a dinner to cook."

~*~*~

Hutch was startled to be woken up by Starsky thrusting the morning paper in his face. "Geez, Starsk, let me sleep. I had a hard day yesterday," he mumbled, as he turned away.

"I don't want to hear any more about your 'hard day'." Starsky moved to the other side of the bed and continued to jab the paper at Hutch. "Read this."

"Huh?" Hutch looked at his partner with sleep-confused eyes. "Read what?"

Starsky pointed to a short article in the back of the local section of the paper, and Hutch squinted at the headline. "Sprout Salad from Local Restaurant Linked to Over 30 Cases of Salmonella."

"Huh?" Hutch repeated, the headline not penetrating his sleep-clouded consciousness.

"'A health food salad improperly prepared at Ozzie's Organic Experience has been determined to be the cause of over thirty cases of Salmonella in the past few days. The ingredients for the salad were chopped on the same surface that was used to prepare chicken prior to cooking, and were contaminated with Salmonella enteritidis, the bacteria that causes the illness...'" read Starsky. He dropped the newspaper onto the bed and looked at Hutch. "Didn't you have lunch there on Wednesday? Sprout salad? I seem to remember you lecturing me about my eating habits that day. There's nothin' in this paper about burritos causing food poisoning."

Hutch groaned and covered his face with the blanket. "I'm never going to hear the end of this, am I?" came from under the cover.

"Nah. Would I do that?" asked Starsky. "Even if you poisoned yourself with that health garbage, you did have a pretty miserable couple'a days. I wouldn't wanna take advantage of a sick man. But...."

Hutch poked his head out from under the covers. "But what?"

"But I do expect you to repeat after me, then I'll drop it."

"Repeat? Repeat what?" Hutch looked up at his partner warily.

Starsky cleared his throat. "Starsky's sweet potato casserole with marshmallows and sour cream was delicious, and, unlike a nameless sprout salad, didn't cause me to spend two entire days in the bathroom and make a trip to the ER. I will eat a whole portion of it on Thanksgiving and every day after that until all the leftovers are gone."

"You don't really expect me to eat that stuff all weekend, do you?"

Starsky couldn't help laughing at Hutch's woebegone expression. Picking up the newspaper and tossing it on the floor, he snuggled closer and rested his hand on Hutch's chest. "Nah, you just have to say it."

"Can I just say okay?" Hutch asked hopefully.

"Sure," Starsky agreed.

"Then...okay." Hutch brought his hand up to cover Starsky's. "You're being awfully agreeable this morning." He traced the outline of Starsky's fingers on his chest.

"I'm just glad I wasn't the one who poisoned you."

"Aw, Starsk. Even if you had—"

"I know, but I just feel better knowing it wasn't me who made you so sick." Starsky lifted his head to let Hutch slide his arm under, then lowered it and allowed himself to be pulled closer. They lay like that for several minutes, enjoying the ease of the peaceful early morning.

"You were something this week, you know that, Starsk?" Hutch said quietly. "Doing all that cooking, taking care of me here, working the case, and then everything you did at the hospital—you sure gave Superman a run for his money this week, buddy."

Starsky snorted inelegantly and shrugged away the compliment. "To tell you the truth, I felt more like Jimmy Olsen most of the time."

"I know you did, but that's what made it even more special."

"It's certainly not how I wanted our first Thanksgiving together...you know, like this...to be." Starsky laughed again. "Maybe next year it'll be less...exciting."

Laughing, too, Hutch shifted, and Starsky let himself be pushed onto his back. "I have a feeling Thanksgiving a la Starsky is always going to be exciting."

Hutch looked so happy smiling down at him with eyes full of both mischief and intent. Starsky wanted nothing more right then than to flip the grinning idiot onto his back and show him the meaning of exciting, but the same bright blue eyes that shone with life and love also carried faint gray shadows, as lingering reminders of all that had happened the past few days. He could already feel Hutch starting to sag against him. He smiled and reached up to smooth Hutch's pillow-mussed hair, loving the feel of Hutch's bristly cheek against his wrist. "Now who thinks he's Superman? You're not ready to leap tall buildings yet."

"Don't flatter yourself," Hutch muttered, then slid down to nuzzle Starsky's neck. "Besides, this may be the last chance we have for this kind of 'exciting' for a while."

"Why?" That was a stupid question. With his lover's tongue now tickling the back of his ear, Starsky didn't really care why.

"In case you've forgotten," Hutch whispered. "You're cooking Thanksgiving dinner for eight people."

"Oh, yeah...about that...."

Hutch stopped his assault on Starsky's neck. "How many?" He sighed and flopped back onto his own pillow.

"Ten." Starsky rose up on his elbow. "Forgot to tell you, I invited the Singhs."

"Ten."

"Eleven, if that security guard shows up." Starsky shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "Okay, maybe twelve. Dr. Evans said she'd stop by if she gets a break in the ER. What can I say? I was feeling thankful."

Starsky waited for the inevitable outburst, which he hoped would be minor and token, at best.

"What, you didn't think to invite the entire Osmond family—all thirty of them?"

"Think they'd come?" Starsky quipped. "I never told you, but I've always had a thing for that Marie Osmond. I realize I'm more the rock—"

Starsky couldn't finish his sentence with Hutch's hand over his mouth. He tried biting it, then licking it, which always grossed him out when Hutch did that, but Hutch's hand didn't budge. Starsky probably could have knocked his hand away, considering all that Hutch had been through the past few days, but then the game would be over.

Hutch rose up and pushed Starsky to the mattress. "Repeat after me," he ordered. "I will never again mention Marie Osmond while in this bed...ever." He lifted his hand.

"What'd Marie Osmond ever do—?"

Hutch's hand clamped down on Starsky's mouth again, and Starsky half-heartedly tried to dislodge it by squirming and wriggling around. Only when he noticed Hutch getting winded did he finally give in.

Hutch lifted his hand again. "You ready to say it?"

"Can I just say okay?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

Hutch fell back on his pillow again, looking smug in his victory, if a bit pale from the effort. Starsky gave him a minute to catch his breath.

"So, I suppose that makes Donnie off-limits, too."

Starsky was ready for him and easily deflected the pillow targeted for his face. They wrestled a minute, kissed and wrestled for a few more minutes, and then gave up and just kissed. Eventually, even that proved too much for Hutch, and he broke away with a loud yawn.

"Damn, sorry." He rubbed his eyes and tried to fight off another yawn.

"Like I said, you ain't ready to leap tall buildings. Why don't you grab a nap, and when you wake up, we'll try some eggs. See if we can start building you some staying power."

Hutch smiled sleepily—a soft, sweet smile that brought Starsky's fingers up to trace his lips. "Think it'll work by tonight?"

"I'm counting on it." Starsky lowered his hand to Hutch's chest. "Get some sleep."

Hutch's eyes were already closed, but he moved his hand to cover Starsky's, squeezing gently and then linking their fingers together loosely. Starsky had been planning to leave Hutch to his nap, but decided he might just stay put.

"Hey..." Hutch's lashes fluttered and his eyes squinted open. "Did I ever thank you? Because I meant to."

"You did, and then some." Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand. "Now, go to sleep," he whispered, and then closed his eyes and did the same.

The End

~*~*~ ~*~*~ ~*~*~ ~*~*~ ~*~*~

Note from Marcy:

This story began life as an episode of the Slash Virtual Season being written by Paula Wilshe. I got involved with it as a "medical consultant" and wound up writing scenes for it, after much encouragement and cajoling by Paula. When Paula became ill the story was put aside and she never had a chance to finish it. After Paula's death I wanted to finish the story as a tribute to her and her constant encouragement of new writers. However I only had the scenes I had written and had never even read her parts of the story.

Enter CC to the rescue. Without her, this story would have languished on my hard drive forever in disconnected bits. She took my bits and weaved them into the final story. This is no longer the story Paula was planning, but it does have some of her in it. It's fitting that CC is the one who finished this, because she reminds me a lot of Paula with her generosity, humor, and most of all, her nurturing of budding writers.

I'm proud to have this story in a Venice Place Press zine. Since it originally was Paula's story, there was no other place it could go, other than to the publishing company started by Keri and Paula.

For Paula. We miss you.

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