"Hey, Starsk, were Paulson's eyes blue or green?"  Sgt. Ken Hutchinson paused in his two-fingered typing with a puzzled frown.  What would you call that color? It had been a strange, milky hue, hard to pin down.  As a matter of fact, the whole man had been unobtrusive enough to be colorless.  A grey mouse, so unremarkable as to be invisible.  It hadn't saved him from being picked up, but it had certainly made identification difficult afterward. 

Hutch sat back, scratching his head in thought and relishing the unusual quiet of the squad room that morning; except for themselves, the room was quite deserted.  For a while, at least, he'd be able to concentrate, maybe even make some headway on the never-ending stream of reports Dobey had made very clear he expected before the day was out.  Sure, they'd been piling up recently, but blast it all, they were street cops!  Their real value lay in their presence  on the outside, rousting bad guys and keeping a lid on potentially explosive situations.  And where are we?  Sitting here on our butts playing secretary ... we NEED a secretary!  He reined in his annoyance, his lips twisting into a little moue of disgust.  No sense starting that again.  Dobey had overruled that particular request that morning; his disbelieving sneer still made Hutch squirm.  He sighed, returning to the report.  Sooner we get done, the sooner we're out'ta here.   Now about Paulson's eyes....  "Starsk?"

A significant silence from across the desk snapped his attention away from the report and to his partner; his observation went unnoticed.  Chewing on an eraser, long fingers of his left hand tapping idly on the phone, Detective Sergeant David Starsky's expression held a semi-blank scowl manifesting a mind far removed from the shabby team room.  Knowing an opportunity when he saw one, Hutch picked up his coffee cup, peering over the top  to study the man openly.

Sharp, Jewish features and dark curly hair provided solid contrast to Hutchinson's Nordic blond looks.  Where Hutch sat ramrod straight,  Dave Starsky lounged in the chair on the other side of the desk him in that peculiarly boneless sprawl imitatable, Hutch was certain, only by five-year olds and corpses.  A thick file lay open before him, papers fluttering faintly in the draft from the air conditioner; the folder contained Paulson's entire arrest record, from the time he'd been picked up for stealing hubcaps at four, to the second time he'd served hard time in Quentin for raping a teenage girl.  Starsky was supposed to be going over it for any information which could conceivably strengthen their already solid case against him.  At least, that was what he'd started out to do fifteen minutes ago.  But although he was ostensibly pondering the wasted life of a two-bit junkie-purse snatcher, it was apparent to anyone who cared to look that his mind was quite distant from the piece of paper in his hand.  Blue eyes, usually clear, had that clouded, shuttered look of a man who had seen far too much in his lifetime.   Exhaustion hung heavily upon the lean frame, dragging the shoulders down into a weary slump.  No doubt about it, Starsky looked rough and had all morning.

Hutch reached across the desk and gave  him a sharp rap on the arm.  "Earth to Starsky.  You in there, buddy?"

The darker cop came to with a start, quickly schooling his features into the neutral mask Hutch had learned to distrust over the years.  "Huh?  Whaddaya want?"

Two stares contested briefly before the darker one slid away.  He lifted the file again, suddenly finding the story of Paulson's sexual deviations a fascinating read; the manila almost -- but not quite -- hid the slight flush suffusing the pale cheeks.   "Starsk?"   One eye peeked around the side, fixing itself on the blond.  "What's wrong?"

  "Ain't nuthin' wrong." 

The eye vanished behind the white barrier again, but Hutch was not so easily dissuaded -- or deceived.  Very deliberately he placed his cup down on a pile of accident reports.  "Starsky," he spoke gently, "you're still thinking about those men you had to  kill, aren't you?"

The guilty wince provided all the answer he needed.  It had been an odd case two days past now when a self-professed psychic going by the unlikely appellation of "The Great Collandra" had provided the first tie in between a grisly murder investigation and the kidnapping of a young girl named Joanna Haymes, daughter of one of Los Angeles' most prominent citizens.  Thanks to Collandra's assistance, the girl had been rescued only seconds from a most unpleasant death, and restored to the security of her family's bosom.  There had been, of course, effusive praise lavished on the two detectives, genuine gratitude from the heart.  Thus, everything had ended happily for all concerned ... except maybe the kidnappers.  ... Hadn't it?

Hutch had noticed even then that Starsky was acting strangely -- strangely even for Starsky.  Oh, he'd been happy enough when Joanna and her family had been reunited, sharing the collective pleasure in the fact that she'd escaped alive and unharmed.  But there was something....   Hutch could even put his finger on the exact moment all that had changed, too -- it had been when Haymes had begun inquiring as to the fate of the kidnappers. 

"There was some trouble at the ransom drop, Joe."  Dobey had cleared his throat nervously.  "It was necessary for one of my men to fire at the car to prevent the kidnappers from escaping.  I'm afraid the gas tank was struck and...."

"They burned?"  Haymes seemed supremely undistressed by the deaths of the criminals, far more comfortable, in fact, than were the police.  "Good.  Which one of you did it?"   Starsky shifted uncomfortably, drawing attention.  "You, huh?  Good shooting, detective."  The man had done all but crow at the news, paunch jiggling with his nod.  "I'm glad you managed to kill them."  He leaned closer conspiratorially.  "You never know which of these bleeding-heart judges are gonna let crud like that back on the street.  Blow 'em all away and sort 'em out later, that's what I say."

"Joe!"

"Daddy!"

Haymes' wife and daughter had been quite shocked by the sentiment and had managed to convey that thought in no uncertain terms.  Hutch had attempted to exchange an amused glance with his partner, the amusement fading away at first sight of the expression on Starsky's face ... or rather, the lack of expression. There was no humor there, no amused tolerance at the exaggerated repartee; as a matter of fact, there was no expression whatsoever, except in Dave Starsky's eyes.  Deep, wide; gaze into those eyes and one could see reflected there a blazing car and two men burnt beyond recognition.

Hutch had cursed himself for a fool for momentarily forgetting that Starsky had had to kill two men that afternoon.  He'd reached out, squeezing his friend's shoulder.  "Let's get out of here, okay?"  A nod and a grateful smile had been his only reply, and they had departed that cheerful house without a backward glance, content in the company of the Two.

There had been little time to reflect on the incident since then, however.  The next two days had been a flurry of activity concentrating on a multiple homicide, a break-in and an attempted suicide.  Soon enough, the case involving "The Great Collandra" had faded into a blurry background that no longer impacted their immediate lives.

Or  did it?

So tightly tuned was Hutch to his partner's every nuance of thought or mood that even through the last forty-eight hours of barely-controlled chaos, a portion of his cognizant essence had noticed Starsky to be unusually quiet and distracted.  He'd been tempted to mark it down to post-assignment fatigue at first.  It was a common enough affliction.  Riding an adrenalin high honed a man's thinking and reflexes to razor edged perfection, each muscle alert, each nerve tingling its own song.  A warrior achieved his absolute apex of efficiency and effectiveness then, ready to face any crisis life could discharge at him.  But this relatively short burst of superhuman might exacted a high price on the frail human body. It drained a man's reserves, leaving him awash in fatigue and an ennui which often required several days to recover from. Heaven knows I feel limp enough myself, Hutch reflected.

But the distraction  his partner suffered reached deeper than that -- more than Hutch had seen before. The reason was ridiculously easy to fathom, but Starsky resolutely refused to talk about it, and this worried Hutch most of all.  Starsky had erected concrete walls about himself, posted "NO Trespassing” signs designed to discourage even the most solicitous of inquirers -- even his partner.

 At least, that was the theory.  Hutch was a man of unusual patience and tolerance, but now he'd  decided things had gone on long enough, and resolved on the spot to get Starsky alone at the first opportunity and do a little gentle probing, confident in his ability to get his partner to open up eventually.  Whatever it took, he'd help his friend through this.  As always. 

"Starsky!  Get in here!"  Two heads, one dark, one light, snapped up to stare at the open door filled by Captain Harold Dobey's plaid-suited bulk. Hutch felt a knot tighten in his gut.  Not that the summons was totally unexpected; it had been less than ten minutes since Lieutenant Kowalski had stomped into Captain Dobey's office, and it had been impossible not to hear the raised voices which had emanated from within.  Though unable to make out the words, it had not been hard to guess what the man from Internal Affairs wanted: Starsky's badge -- or his head, whichever was easiest to remove.

It was over the kidnapping, of course.  True, it had ended with Joanna Haymes being returned to her family safely, but the nightmare of the ransom drop would live with the detectives for as long as breath remained in them.  Hutch, elected to deliver the money, had been gunned down from the moving car by the kidnappers, and that was when Starsky, driven by rage and grief, had given chase over six city blocks before loosing a single shotgun blast at the fleeing car; the shot had hit the fuel tank, reigning fiery judgment on those who had felled his partner.

 But Hutch had not died.  In the horror of the moment, Starsky had forgotten that the blond had taken the precaution of donning Kevlar before taking to the street.  It wasn't until Starsky had literally battered his way through the gathering crowd to Hutch's side, that the sight of his relatively unscathed partner had recalled to mind the defensive measure taken earlier.

Hutch's eyes sought his partner's, reading the apprehension in that tense stance. Great, this is just what you need right now, buddy, he thought, feeling as weary as the other looked.  First the shooting and now Kowalski.  He looked closer.  New lines marked the boyish features, long lashes drooped, shadowing the eyes and making a dark crescent against bloodless skin.  No question but that it was all because of the shooting.  And what was going down next wasn't going to help matters, either.

Starsky squared his shoulders and stood up, looking more like a martyr attending his own execution than a police officer meeting with his fellows.  Hutch caught his eye and winked encouragingly, receiving only a resigned shrug in reply.  He followed his partner into the office, fully aware that Dobey had pointedly not requested his presence, only Starsky's.  Well, let them throw him out -- if they could.  He wasn't about to let Starsky face the two of them unsupported.

The office seemed bereft of space thanks to the solid bulk of  the investigator situated dead center on the worn carpet.  Lt. Oliver Kowalski was a large, florid-faced man who boasted 25 years with the LAPD, the last ten of which had been spent in the Internal Affairs Division.  Kowalski was a humorless man, known as a hard taskmaster.  His "by-the-book" mentality had brought him into conflict more than once with Dobey's two most unorthodox detectives, and a mutual animosity had blossomed full-grown from the initial meeting.  Since then, Kowalski had been at pains to scrutinize even the slightest hint of infraction, looking into any possibility of indictable behavior with all the tenacity of the bulldog he so resembled, waiting for any opportunity to eliminate Starsky and/or Hutchinson from his own personal rogues gallery.  If Kowalski was here, then it meant bad news for Starsky and, by association, Hutch.

Hutch strolled casually through the door, entering an office aswirl with the pungent smoke of the cheap cigarettes Kowalski favored.  He sniffed as a whiff tickled his nose, and wondered why the non-smoking Dobey had allowed his airspace to be so violated.  It was a bad sign if Dobey had been distracted enough to permit that.

 No one, it seemed, was feeling inclined to sit down.  Dobey stood behind his desk, casting disapproving glares in Kowalski's direction, worried ones in Starsky's.  He had to turn his head to accomplish this, as neither of the men had approached each other closer than the width of the large desk.

Kowalski stood his usual belligerent self, feet apart, jaw jutting truculently in the direction of the dark-haired detective.  He was in the process of lighting yet another of his interminable chain of cigarettes, striking the match with short, jerky movements that bespoke an inner agitation fueled by the purest hatred.

In contrast, Starsky stood quietly, meeting the angry glares directly enough but looking oddly vulnerable next to the behemoth from IA.  Hutch had to stop and look again -- at five-foot, ten inches and one hundred sixty-five pounds, Starsky wasn't that much smaller than was Hutch himself, and there were very few people in this world Starsky couldn't take one-on-one.  He could wipe the floor with the older Kowalski given suitable provocation, but this day it was obviously the other who dominated the situation.  Hutch was suddenly very glad he'd decided to deal himself in on the game;  from the looks of things, Starsky was going to need a little backup.

"Starsky, Lt. Kowalski has some questions to ask you about yesterday's shooting." 

Dislike fairly dripped from Dobey's lips, but Kowalski was impervious to offense.  His attention riveted on Starsky, then slowly widened to include Hutch, who'd stopped only feet across the threshold.  "No one asked you in here, Hutchinson," he growled, puffing on his cigarette. 

"No?" Hutch replied mildly, leaning back against the closed door.  "I'm here now.  Might as well stay."

"This has nothing to do with you."  The beefy IA agent emitted a cloud of white smoke, his face attaining a mottled, purplish hue. "You're dismissed, Sergeant."

Hutch's voice deepened, attaining a silky tone in contrast to his icy blue eyes.  He took a step further into the room, shoulders drawn belligerently back.   "This is my partner, Kowalski.  You want me out, you can try to throw me out personally."  Suddenly, they were nose to nose, both shouting at once.  Starsky watched silently, almost impassively, not joining in.  Dobey tried to break in twice and was soundly ignored, even his impressive girth not enough to push between the soon-to-be combatants.  Hutch only saw him peripherally, his focus on the upcoming battle.  With a disgusted expression on his face, the black man drew in a deep breath....

 "THAT'S ENOUGH!"   The  bellow effectively silenced both men, who turned to gape at him in surprise.  He lowered his voice only a few decibels before continuing, "Hutchinson stays, Kowalski.  Now ask your blasted questions and get  out of my squad room."

Kowalski controlled himself with a visible effort, throwing Hutch a final venomous glare before turning his attention back to Starsky, suddenly all business.   "You're aware, Sergeant, that a hearing has been scheduled for this afternoon to investigate the shooting yesterday?"  He paused, obviously wanting a response, but Starsky only watched stonily until he continued.    "IAD thinks..."  You mean you think, Hutch filled in silently, "...that you stepped out of bounds with that shooting.  You are aware that that girl might have died because you decided to go for the big hit, aren't you?"  He paused again, then spat into the silence, "You weren't doing your job, Sergeant, which is to save lives, not to rack up kills.  That is what you were going for, wasn't it, hot shot?  A couple more notches on that Beretta of yours?"

Hutch caught the tiny muscle  leaping in Starsky's jaw and tensed.  His partner had been walking a thin emotional tightrope for days. He would complain about the most minor irritation for days on end, but with something like this, he could be withdrawn and explosive.  And dangerous.  Seeing the signs, Hutch assumed he was just waiting for a suitable target to take his frustrations out on -- a target with which Kowalski was gleefully presenting him.  Not giving him the opportunity, Hutch stepped in first.   "You listen to me, Lieutenant."  The blond's voice was low, quiet, and all the more menacing because of it.  "Starsky took out two murderers carrying high-powered weapons who had just opened fire on a police officer.  What  did you expect him to do -- let them escape?"

Kowalski's reply was that much louder by contrast.  "I expected him not to throw away the only chance you had to find that girl alive."  He turned abruptly back to Starsky, jabbing in his direction with the diminishing cigarette.  "You do realize that that girl might have died because you weren't doing your job, don't you?"

"She ... didn't die."  Starsky's tone was subdued, almost hesitant.  He sounded more as if he were trying to convince himself than Kowalski.

"She didn't die only because you brought in some psychic -- a psychic, for heaven's sake! -- to find her.  That's one lousy lead to risk a child's life on, Starsky."  Kowalski seemed reluctant to ask any of those 'questions' he was so eager for earlier; now he was simply determined to pummel at the more vulnerable member of the team, ignoring Hutch completely.

This goaded the blond into a hot resentment against the insufferable man, but it was his partner's involuntary flinch at that last statement that drove him back to his nose-to-nose stance with the other.   "You listen to me, you low life.  That girl didn't die.  She's alive, well and home with her father.  And thanks to my partner here, two armed killers are not going to snatch any more children off the streets."  Eyes like chips of arctic ice bored holes into the other man.  "Now if you have a problem with that, Kowalski," Hutch's lips parted in a feral smile, "I'll be glad to discuss it with you.  Off duty."

"That'll be enough of that," Dobey snapped, giving the blond a push back -- something Hutch had to force himself to permit..  "Kowalski, if you have any accusations to make, do it at the hearing this afternoon.  Until then, get out of here."

The IA agent finally broke eye contact with the blond and stomped for the door.  He paused in the entranceway to add, "I'll be there this afternoon, Starsky," and then he was gone, leaving behind a palpable aura of tension and a stifling silence.

Sweat beaded his brow; Hutch swiped it away on his blue cotton shirt sleeve, then took a deep calming breath before daring to look at his partner.  Starsky was just standing there, staring at the desktop with wide, unreadable eyes in an expressionless face.  Always -- always -- Hutch could read Starsky's eyes; but now they resembled nothing so much as black holes, empty, releasing no light, no clue as to what was going on inside that curly head.  Hutch stared for a long moment, mesmerized by the suddenly unfamiliarity, before becoming aware that Dobey was speaking to them.  "Both of you, get out of here.  Go home and cool off."

Hutch nodded absently, never taking his eyes off his partner.  "Right, Cap.  Come on, Starsk."  He put a hand on one slumped shoulder, giving it a gentle shove.  "Let's get out of  here for a while."  Starsky sighed, slowly getting to his feet and allowing Hutch to shepherd him to the door.

"You be sure you're back here by four o'clock for that hearing," Dobey called to their backs.

"We'll be here, Cap," Hutch assured him.  He paused in the act of shutting the office door to send his superior a grateful smile.  "And thanks."

"G'wan, get out'a here," Dobey ordered gruffly, but an answering smile softened the harsh planes of his face.  "And don't worry about IA.  It was a justified shooting.  They're just going to have to live with it."

"It's not whether IA can live with it that worries me, Cap," Hutch muttered pensively.  "It's whether Starsky can."

***

"Want a beer?"  Taking the noncommittal grunt for assent, Hutch selected two Schlitz from the refrigerator and carried them back to the sofa.  The partners had maintained an uncomfortable silence during the drive home, and it stretched on even here in Hutch's living room.  It was a cheerful place, with green plants hanging from all corners and the merry gurgle of the canal without adding a distinctive ambiance.  Here and there the decoration still betrayed  a feminine hand -- Vanessa's hand -- but on the whole, the house reflected the warm, caring personality of its owner.  Today, however,  tension dampened the atmosphere like a pall, muting the sunshine that cascaded in between yellow drapes.

Hutch popped the tab before handing a beer to the dejected figure beside him,  shoving it into a slack grip.  "Here."  Uncomprehending eyes locked on the frosty can for a moment before Starsky turned his hand, accepting the offering.    Hutch's fingers brushed those of his partner's in a silent gesture of comfort, before relinquishing his hold; it brought a ghost of a smile to the pale face, the barest lightening of the cloud which shadowed the blue eyes, but no more than that.

The two men sat side by side, sipping beer for what seemed an eternity, neither wielding the sheer strength of will necessary to break that conspiracy of silence  that held them in thrall.  Finally, though, it was the silence which reigned unbearable, and Hutch could stand it no more.

"Starsk."  Starsky jumped, startled out of his brown study by that quiet voice, unnaturally loud in the stillness.  "You've gotta talk to me, man.  If you don't, it's going to eat you alive."  Hutch cocked his head  but his friend was studiously avoiding the gaze.  "Talk to me, buddy," he repeated.  Starsky swallowed another mouthful, risking a quick glance at the other man, and the blond caught a glimpse of eyes no longer unreadable.  Pain and anger shadowed the gemstone blue, turning them black with emotion.  "It's about the shooting, isn't it?" Hutch prodded.

"Blast it, Hutch," the darker man exploded without warning, "You know it's about the shooting!"  He pulled up short, controlling himself with an almost Herculean effort.  "I-I'm sorry,"  he stammered.  "I didn't mean...."  He stopped and set the half-empty Schlitz on the coffee table,  carefully wiping away the resultant drop of condensation that fell onto the sofa arm.  "It's just that ... it's never easy to have to kill anyone.  You know that."  The words were correct, but there was an elusive quality to them that told Hutch his partner was not being completely open with him.

"I do know that, Starsk.  I also know that's not all that's bothering you."  When that failed to provoke a response, he tried another tack.  "I was a little worried about you, buddy.  When Kowalski started in, I expected you to shove his teeth down his throat."  Again that significant silence.  "Why didn't you?"

"I never thanked you for being there, did I?" Starsky shot his friend a quick, shy smile.  "You waded right into him.  Thought you were going to take him out for me."

"Tell you a secret," the blond chuckled, "so did I."  He paused, scrubbing awkwardly at a spot on his brown slacks.  "You were awfully quiet in there this afternoon, Starsk.  Why did you let Ol' Ollie get away with what he was saying?"

The shy smile faded  His voice was so low that Hutch had to strain to hear the reply.  "Because Kowalski was right.  I wasn't doing my job, and that girl could have died."

Hutch attempted a reasonable approach, ignoring the fact that a reasonable approach had never worked with his partner before.  "You'd just seen what you thought was your best friend being blown away."  Starsky flinched at that, but Hutch doggedly pursued his point.  "It's only natural that you would forget the girl and--"

"But I didn't forget about her!" Starsky blurted.  "I didn't forget.  God forgive me, I just didn't care!"  He bowed his head again, ashamed at the admission, both hands tightly clenched in his lap "I didn't care.  I was willing to let that girl die and I'd do it again." 

He choked off as the memory of the moment replayed itself in both men's minds as it had so often since the incident.  Hutch heard again the shots that had rung out from the speeding car, felt the impact as they flattened themselves against his Kevlar vest, then the almost unfelt secondary thud as he'd gone through the plate glass storefront. He blinked as he saw again the look that had been on his partner's face when he'd broken through the crowd and come into view -- the terror, the grief that went beyond numbness.  Starsky's touch had been fleeting, almost disbelieving, and  Hutch had reached out himself, moved to offer what reassurance he could despite the pain it had cost his bruised ribs. He'd stroked the dark curls once before Starsky had slipped from his knees to the ground, leaning his back against the building.  It had been a long time before either had had the strength to move again.

It had been nearly a half hour before two uniformed patrolmen had given them a ride back to the van where the ransom money was returned to Dobey and explanations given.  Actually, it had been Hutch and the patrolmen who had given explanations -- Starsky had answered monosyllabically, standing rigid, fists clenched to control the trembling which afflicted both men and which neither could seem to stop.

Dobey had accepted what answers he'd gotten then, mercifully dismissing them after a few moments with the knowledge that a young girl's last hope lay in what those men could accomplish out on the streets.  They'd left at little less than a dead run, gaining the privacy of the Torino before collapsing.

Hutch had leaned his head back, attempting to force taut muscles to relax slightly.  He held one hand up, pleased to see the quivering in it was abating, adrenal rush fading.  "That was close," he'd said softly.  "Saw St. Peter's whiskers that time."  The attempt to lighten the mood fell flat as he knew it would.  Starsky still lay against the steering wheel, head buried in his arms.  "Starsk?  You all right?"

The reply came low, muffled, but no less anguished.  "I thought you were dead."

"Hey, buddy," Hutch tugged gently on tense shoulders.  "Starsk?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Starsky allowed himself to be pulled from the concealing shelter of his arms and around to face his friend. He met Hutch's eyes almost timidly, as though afraid of what he might find there.   But when their eyes met, neither man was able to turn away.  A spark, sharp as a laser, burned between them, riveting both into immobility.    Finally, Hutch, with a strength he wasn't aware he possessed, had broken the mesmerizing spell, concern coloring his speech.  "Starsk?  Are you going to be all right?"

"Am I--?"  The liquid eyes widened, encompassing the blond in a wave of purest emotion.  "I wasn't the one just... sho--"  He choked on the word, closing his eyes briefly.  A shudder ran through the slender body.  "I thought you were dead!" And then he'd thrown one arm around Hutch's neck, pulling him close in a choke hold.  "I thought you were dead," he repeated the phrase in a quivering whisper, voice and body trembling with not-so-delayed terror.

Hutch winced slightly at the extra twist put on his bruised ribs, but hadn't hesitate to wrap the other man in his own embrace.  "Hey, easy, buddy, it's all right."  And only his own renewed shaking belied the comfort in those words. He'd looked down the muzzle of a gun and known he was going to die right there on that squalid inner city street.  The belief had been mercifully brief before giving way to the wondering joy of the realization of continued life, while the glass from the shattered window tinkled down around him and pain erupted across his chest.  Pain -- welcome pain -- for the dead did not hurt at all.  His terror had lasted a fraction of a second before life had reestablished its hold on him.  For Starsky, the terror and the grief had been drawn out long minutes before he could return to his partner's side.

Until now he'd assumed that this was the source of his partner's continued distress.  Now he  hesitated, stunned by the revelation.  So this was what had been bothering him!.  It wasn't only having had to take two lives.  He blamed himself for the extra risk to Joanna and for being human enough to allow shock and emotion to overreach his training.  Hutch sighed.  This kind of self-doubt could be a staggering burden for him to shoulder, but, if it was Starsky's burden, then it was his as well, for he well knew the priorities that Starsky put on his -- Ken Hutchinson's -- life.

"Starsk?"  Hutch reached an arm around his friend's shoulders.  "Come here, partner," he offered gently, and Starsky allowed himself to be pulled close into that comforting embrace.  Hutch wrapped both arms around his friend, feeling Starsky's arms tighten around his own waist.  The curly head settled against his chest, face buried in the soft folds of the old flannel shirt Hutch was wearing, and then Starsky's control lapsed and the tears began to flow in earnest.  He didn't sob -- didn't make a sound -- simply let the tears gather and fall with an unnerving silence which told Hutch more than anything just how badly this incident had shaken him.

 Hutchinson held on tightly, offering what consolation he could. "You're not alone, Starsky," he added as firmly as his shaking voice would allow, but it was enough, for the burden was too heavy for one man to bear -- for this man to bear.  Alone, it would crush him.  But he was not alone and the burden was not a solitary one.  It was shared -- must be shared -- for it had been for HIM that Starsky had offered up everything: his honor, the life of an innocent child, even his own life, all on the altar composed in equal parts of grief, vengeance, and friendship.  Offered everything -- as Hutch would have, had the situations been reversed. 

The tears were few and soon Starsky sat quietly, slumped in Hutch's arms, wrung out emotionally and physically.  But it was a long time later before he made an effort to pull away.  Hutch gave the curly head a final pat before releasing him.  "You okay?"  A nod was the only reply, but Hutch judged his partner calm enough to reason with.  "Ready to listen to me, now?" he questioned mildly.  Again, no reply, only that silently bowed head. Hutch turned slightly, catching his partner by the shoulders and giving him a little shake "Are you ready to listen to me, now?"

Blue eyes met concerned blue eyes before darting away.  A half-hearted nod, which Hutch took as inducement to go on.   "You're blaming yourself, Starsk, and you've no right."  Starsky's eyes widened slightly at the seeming incongruity of the statement. Well, at least he was listening. "You're a cop, Starsk, and a cop acts on instincts  a lot more often than he does by reasoning things out.  That's what keeps us alive in situations like that."

"But--"

"I'm not finished."  He waited until Starsky had leaned forward,  his arms crossed on his knees.  The blond took a deep breath, his own fist clenched very tight. "You're too close to this thing to see the big picture.  Your instinct -- your gut reaction -- told you that these men were armed killers who would probably have cost a lot more lives than just one.  They had to be stopped, and you did just that -- in the only way you could.  Instinct, Starsk, a cop's instinct."

Starsky considered this for a moment, then shrugged it away.  "It doesn't wash, Hutch," he said wearily.  "I wasn't thinking about stopping a criminal.  I wanted them dead and ... they're dead."  He sighed deeply, eyes fixed on the faded blue denim of his jeans.  "Ain't nothing noble about that.  And that girl..."

"...could have died," Hutch finished.  "But do you think she'd have been any more alive if her kidnappers had escaped?"

The dark-haired man was forced to concede the principle.  "No, I guess not."

"No, she would not have."  Hutch drove the point home with a jab to his friend's ribs.  "She would have been dead and those men would have been free to put another family through that same type of torture."  The jab turned into a playful tap on the arm.  "Gut instinct, Starsk."

It took a visible effort for Starsky to raise his head and meet his friend's eye.  When he spoke, his voice was desperate for both understanding and comfort, yet not quite ready to accept either.  "Hutch, I didn't care about them or the girl.  Can't you see that?  I didn't care."  His voice rose on that last.  "I was willing to let three people die because..."  He broke off, horrified of what he was about to say, but the blond picked it up without hesitation.

"...because of me.  It's all right to say it, Starsk.  I ... know."

"I wasn't tryin' to blame you, Hutch.  My problem.  And what kind of a cop do you think that makes me?"  He hung his head again.

"You idiot."  Hutch gently ruffled the dark curls.  "Do you honestly think I wouldn't have done the same thing?"

Jaw firming, Starsky met Hutch's gaze without hesitation.  "No.  I don't think you would have."

"Trouble with you, buddy, is that you don't think," Hutch retorted, not unkindly.  "You feel.  Too much, sometimes."  He paused.  "Why don't you think I'd've done the same thing?" he added curiously.

Upholstery creaked when Starsky stirred uncomfortably.  "I just ... know you.  You wouldn't have gone off half-cocked like that."

"No?" disbelievingly.

"No."  The dark head bowed again, almost but not quite hiding the tear-stained face from view beneath a curtain of dark curls.  "You don't ...  freak out like that, Hutch.  You're always in control.  Always.  You wouldn't'a risked that girl's life for ... for....  You just wouldn't have, that's all."

Hutch laughed slightly, a husky sound full of tenderness.  "You're describing a perfect man, Starsk.  I'm not perfect -- you of all people know that.  I'm human, too, just like you, and humans are forced to do things they have to live with sometimes.  And you're wrong," he added cryptically.  He waited until the puzzled eyes met his own. "I would have done the same thing.  Exactly.  And I would've felt lousy about it afterward, but I still think it was the only thing that either of us could've done."  That simple statement, sincerely made, seemed to have the desired effect on the other man.  Starsky ran a shaky hand across his tear-streaked face, brushing away the last of the wetness there, and took a deep breath.  Hutch placed a warm hand on the other man's shoulder and shook him gently.  "You okay now?"

"Yeah.  I think ... maybe I am."

"Good.  There's one more thing, buddy.  I want to know what you're going to tell the Review Board this afternoon."

Starsky clapped his forehead with his palm. "Oh, no.  The Board," he groaned.  "I forgot about them."  He sighed., studying his clasped hands for a while before answering.  "I'm going to tell them what happened."

Hutch was not about to let it go so easily.  "And what did happen?" 

"That..." Starsky swallowed.  He drew a deep breath.  "The kidnappers opened fire on a police officer when it appeared they couldn't collect the ransom at the drop point, and I-I had to shoot at the vehicle to prevent their escape.  There was  no other way to stop them."

"There wasn't, was there?" Hutch prodded gently.

"No."  Starsky shook his head decisively and held Hutch's eyes easily for the first time in almost two days.  "No, there  wasn't."

"And you're not going to bring up anything we've talked about?"  He pressed the advantage, leaning forward and tapping the other's jeans clad knee.   "I don't want you to bring up anything else except the facts at the Review Board hearing.  No motivations, no guilt, no feelings.  Only what happened.  If they ask you for more, you tell them what I told you.  Do you understand me?"

Starsky studied him for several long minutes, but whatever it was he needed to see in Hutch's face must have been there, because he acquiesced without argument.  "Yes, I understand."

"Good!" Hutch clapped him on the back.  "It was a righteous shoot, Starsk, and the board will let it go at that."  A beat.  "It will work itself out for you, too, partner.  I promise it will."

"Yeah."  Starsky shot him a shy smile and patted the hand still absently resting on his knee.  "It'll work out."

And they both knew it would work out, because whatever happened, they'd face it all -- together. 

Finish