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"The diamond dogs are vultures
and they hide behind trees;
Hunt you to the ground, they will."
     —David Bowie, Diamond Dogs

They had stopped to grab a quick lunch before heading back to the station in a futile attempt to dent the paperwork-that-wouldn't-die. Starsky had only been back on the line for a week and hadn't seen their in-box since before the incident/accident/whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it-that-wouldn't-make-Hutch-edgy thingie.

He was trying to return to his junk-food diet and Hutch had acquiesced to indulge him this once, knowing the urge wouldn't last long. But as they settled into the Torino's front seat, (Hutch no longer allowed his partner to drive), Starsky seemed preoccupied and fidgety.

Early that morning Bachermeyer in Homicide had been slyly informative. "Hutchinson's acting like a real cop these days."

"Whadaya mean by that?" snapped Starsky, defensively. "He's always acted like a real damn fine cop."

"Read the Gunther case files. You'll see."

"Don't play games with me, Bach. I don't have the time."

"Games? With you? Never. But you guys used to be so goddamn goody-two-shoes. Maybe it took you an' the Tunnel of Light for him to see. This is a private club. We stand up for our own. No one walks through those doors unless we want 'em to. And we're pretty fucking picky." He smiled, cruelly, and tilted his head in Hutch's direction. "Talk to your diamond dog, Starsky. And read those transcripts."

The Torino was starting to heat up in the noonday sun, and Starsky found the smell of their lunch suddenly and inexplicably nauseating. He rolled down a window to cool the interior off, and noticed Hutch's gaze was darting everywhere, but pretended to ignore the action. It took a couple seconds for him to actually say anything, and by that time Hutch had already laid his meal out with his usual effete flourish.

"Hey, you know, I've been wantin' t'ask you somethin', Hutch, an' it seems like we never have time t'talk anymore."

It appeared that Hutch really wasn't paying that much attention. He bit into his tuna fish sandwich hungrily but carefully. "M'not busy now," he mumbled, concentrating on the food—and the street.

"Yeah, well . . . is this a good time?"

Hutch still wasn't looking at him. "Mmmffhh," he managed, not very enthusiastically. He placed the sandwich down on the paper bag lying in his lap tidily, picked up a napkin and patted at his mustache fastidiously.

"Uh . . ." Starsky stumbled, wincing at his own hesitancy.

Hutch swallowed and reached for the sandwich again.

In Starsky's head, Bachermeyer gloated, "Read the damn files, Starsky."

Starsky cleared his throat self-consciously. "I just wanted t'ask you some questions about the Gunther thing." When he finally said it, the words rolled out in a rush, jumbled and almost breathless.

Hutch froze, the sandwich in mid-air. Then he closed his mouth, put the sandwich back down, and turned to regard Starsky intently.

"Uh . . . ah," said Starsky, locking his gaze on his double cheeseburger, which was, as yet, untouched. "The file . . . was a little unclear on a coupla things."

Hutch's lids lowered and his chin tilted upward just the smallest fraction. "Such as?" The words were cold and clipped.

"Such as the arrest scenario. Like, it sounds awful funny."

"I can assure you, no one was laughing."

"Uh, yeah, well . . ." Starsky glanced up at Hutch apologetically, then turned his attention immediately to the cooling burger. "I didn't mean funny like 'ha ha,' Hutch. I meant funny like hinky."

Hutch didn't move.

"I mean, like, seriously, Hutch . . . they gave you a warrant without basin' it on much."

"That was Dobey and the D.A.'s call, not mine. I didn't question it."

Starsky nodded; glanced out the window and gnawed momentarily on a nonexistent hangnail. Then he began to watch the burger again, as though he expected it to burst into an impromptu rendition of Halva Nagila.

"The SFPD was sure cooperative—y'know, lettin' you serve the warrant an' all."

"They knew he'd killed—" Hutch caught himself. "They knew he'd tried to kill my partner. In the Metro parking lot, yet. With guys dressed as cops. That's getting awfully personal, Starsky. Yes, they let me serve the warrant."

Starsky half-grinned, squinting out over the hood of the car through the glare on the front windshield. "So . . . you just walked into his office and served him?"

"I believe he attempted to shoot me. I think I remembered to write that part down."

Starsky tried to chuckle but it came out stilted. Hutch wasn't smiling at all.

"Oh, sure . . . I mean, yeah, I saw that part . . . but . . . they let you just walk in there and everything? Nobody tried t'stop you?"

"People tried to stop me. I put that in the report too, if I remember correctly." The chin had gotten just a tad higher; the lids a touch lower.

Starsky smiled. The smile looked forced because it was. He kept hearing Bachermeyer's voice: "Read real careful, Starsky."

"I read that stuff, too, Hutch. I know you hadda shoot three people to get inta the house. But then . . . he just let you stroll inta his office?

"I think he was kind of counting on killing me. And I don't seem to remember strolling. But that might be a matter of semantics, so I won't argue it."

"Mmmm." Starsky looked back at the burger and began to tear his napkin into infinitesimally small pieces. After a moment, he managed to meet his partner's gaze again. "The report said you cuffed him and read him his rights."

"I did."

"Hutch, how come it took you twenny-five whole minutes t'do that?"

"I don't know what you're referring to. I didn't do a timeline."

("Read the file, Starsky.")

Starsky continued with the demolition of the napkin. It seemed as though he was on very dangerous ground, here. "I read the statement Gunther's manservant gave . . . uh, whatshisname? Thomas?"

Only rigor mortis could have gotten Hutch's muscles any stiffer. Suddenly it seemed as though there was no air in the car.

"Hutch, d'ya remember what Thomas said? 'Member he told the cops he heard the gun go off; he heard you read Gunther his Miranda? But that only took a coupla minutes, Hutch. Thomas said you were in there for almost a half-hour."

"And what was he doing, timing us?" Words as frozen as a Norwegian pond in December.

"Well, uh . . . no, no. But he was wond'rin' what was happenin'. He did look at the clock. And Hutch . . . he said he heard other sounds . . . some real strange sounds. Like Gunther . . . was in pain, maybe. Like you . . . like you were . . . " Starsky looked very uncomfortable. "Not in pain. Or somethin'."

Finally, Hutch reacted. In an instant, his beautiful face went dark and ugly with anger. "And you wanna believe what he said?" Hutch snapped, losing control. "Some worthless, ass-kissing, servant?!"

"Hutch!" exclaimed Starsky, truly stunned. "What the hell're you sayin'?"

Hutch averted his face; crossed his arms over his chest. Starsky could see his shoulders shuddering with rage.

"Hutch?" he said, softly. "Hutch, babe . . . can we jus' . . . Hutch, can't we jus' . . . talk? Hutch?"

But Hutch was really simply beyond that. After a moment, the quaking stopped, but he remained hunched over, every inch of flesh tense and guarded. His voice didn't even quiver as he spoke, but now it was laced with an uncharacteristic sarcasm.

"And just what did Mr. Gunther have to say about that little time gap?"

The sight of the cold cheeseburger made Starsky want to vomit. He stared down at his lap again, barely able to hide his trembling.

"Aw, Hutch, you were there . . . he didn't take the stand. He was pretty messed up, Hutch. You know that."

Suddenly Hutch swung around to face him, his eyes cold and hard as the blade of a scythe; hooded like a snake's. The gold mustache hitched back on one side to reveal a nasty-looking incisor, white and sharp. Starsky was so startled he actually drew back, fractionally, against the door. The words of one of the men who had attacked Hutch in the hospital garage came bubbling to the surface of his memory: "Like a damn devil, or somethin' . . . you could see Hell burnin' in his head."

The blond's voice was low and soft and deadly—a razor's edge of hurt and fear and fury. "Let me tell you something, you idiot," he hissed. "The next time you think you can pull your hot-shot antics and go gunning for someone when I've ordered you to get down, don't even think before you give my decision the benefit of the doubt. Because I'm usually right. And know this—if some motherfucking slimeball wants to try and screw my life and my head up by killing my goddamn partner, he'd better keep his eyes on me, 'cause I'll be on his tail faster than a robin on a june bug and I 'ain't going outside the letter of the law but that sucker's gonna wish I had, okay?"

Starsky blinked.

"Are we done, now?" Vehemence fading like an orgasm. Like anger.

"Yeah."

"Good. Can we go?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna crash here tonight?" asked Hutch, hanging both gunbelts over one of the headboard's filials.

Starsky huffed, a little exhalation of scorn. Like Hutch would even consider "no" as an answer. "Thought I might."

"No more twenty questions, all right?" A statement, not a question.

Starsky let it be. He shrugged.

"Sleep with me?"

Starsky recognized that as a statement, too. "Should I feel safe anywhere else?"

Hutch didn't notice the tremor in the harmless words.

"I hope not, goddammit." Hutch sat down on the edge of the bed, arms on knees, and hung his head, shaking it slowly. "Oh, jeez, Starsk." He buried his face in his hands. "And you think I went nuts when Gillian got shot."

Starsky stood very still. After a moment, he crouched down in front of Hutch and looked up into his face, brushing the shining hair and the hands gently back. Hutch was crying. Starsky sighed and put his dark head down on his partner's knees. For a moment they just stayed that way.

Suddenly Hutch pulled away, literally quaking with grief, holding his head and doubled up with agony.

"When I saw you go down—" His voice vibrated with the memory. "When I saw you lying there, not moving, bleeding; when Dobey called to tell me the EKG went flat . . . I felt . . . I . . . felt as though someone had driven a spike through my heart. Oh, God, oh God. I wanted that fucking bastard to feel what it was like to be violated, to feel insignificant, to feel so . . . much pain . . . he would just want to die. Like I had, like you had, over and over and over again—"

Starsky made a leap for his partner, pinning him against the headboard, not letting him move. "I didn't die. I'm here. I love you."

Hutch sobbed once, a great gasp. Tears streaked his cheeks and every muscle quaked; the man was enraged beyond reasoning, almost overwhelmed.

"I died, every time you did. I died. That insect almost robbed me of the only thing I've every truly loved. And the suffering you endured . . . if you had been any less of a man, any weaker, any less brave; if your heart had been smaller and your will to live any more fragile . . . "

Starsky grabbed Hutch around the shoulders and cradled his own head against the heaving chest. He could hear the blond's pulse racing, his heart thumping so hard it sounded like a kettledrum.

"Two wrongs don't make a right, babe," Starsky murmured. "I'm alive. You're alive. Gunther's alive. We're all hurt but we're alive. Let's learn. You and me . . . we'll be better cops, better humans for it."

Hutch began to rock slowly, lowering his face and burying it in Starsky's curls.

"Oh God, I love you. Oh God, I'm sorry. Forgive me, forgive me . . ."

"God's already done that. I don't know about me, but I'm workin' on it. I think it's got . . . okay . . . prospects." His voice was so soft. "Now, Blondie, comes the hard part. The part where you forgive yourself."

Hutch kept rocking, but hugged Starsky so closely it felt he'd never let go, ever. "I'm not worthy of you," he breathed, eyes shut tight.

Starsky drew as much of a breath as possible. "This is gonna sound dumb," he whispered.

Hutch sniffled and eased up, recognizing, in the most amazing way, he had received a kind of acceptance.

"Yeah?" he managed, "So what's new, moron?" The "moron" was said with great affection, the way Hutch usually said it. Starsky didn't want to hear the same endearments, ever again, uttered with the terrifying pain and aching fear Hutch had twisted into the word "idiot" earlier that day.

"I love you somethin' awful, babe," Starsky murmured. "But I swear, I ain't never had anybody love me the way you do. Like, with more than your heart an' soul. Never. Sometimes I don't know what to do with it. It really scares me."

Hutch by no stretch of the imagination minimized what Starsky had said. Especially the last part. Instead he sighed, "Not supposed to scare you, mushbrain. Just every other dumb fuck out there."

Much later they lay laced together, pillows and down comforters gathered about them like a warm nest. Their breathing had calmed down and evened out and was growing deeper.

"Hutch."

"Hmmm."

"Next time you go provin' somethin' to the world, d'y'think you might pass it by me, first?"

"I'll make sure to do that. If you come out of the coma long enough." A pause. Then, softly, "And . . . try to realize how . . . angry and . . . and scared I was." It had taken a lot of strength to say those words. "Please."

Starsky had the wherewithal to sigh. "Go to sleep, fool," he whispered into Hutch's bright hair, tenderly.

So Hutch did.

Starsky figured redemption would come later, and watched over his partner while he slept.

The End

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