Rating: PG

Comments: Starsky and Hutch aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I love these guys and I love feedback.

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He was having a bad day today. It happened occasionally, even though he had been back on active duty now for over four months. The damage done by those bullets had been extensive. The miracle of timing, excellent trauma and surgical care, and my partner's abiding indomitable spirit brought him back. I suspect some luck was involved there, too. And if my thoughts over the course of those first few days had anything to do with Starsky still being here, well, then I'm happy to accept my role in his survival.

When the doctors declared him fit for active duty, and he'd passed the review board with flying colors, we celebrated, reveling in my partner's love of life and his assurances, more than anything the doctors or therapists had said, that he would be back.

But the doctors were clear on one aspect of his recovery that we should watch out for. The multiple surgeries that Starsky had endured would inevitably result in some scar tissue, both internal and external. And these are just the physical scars we're talking about here. The psychological scars -- we were both still working on them.

As far as the external scar tissue was concerned, we continued to work on it with regular massages that I would give him, not as frequently as we would like. Working the scar tissue was painful, something that Starsky never complained about. The problem was finding the time to do the job properly. To really make them effective, at least an hour-long massage a few times a week was what he needed. We were lucky if in the last month we'd managed one a week.

The internal scarring was the problem today. The tissue where they had to suture on the inside was also susceptible to scarring, and when these started acting up it felt like a really bad stomachache. Not as bad as the pain he suffered from the professor's poisoned cocktail, but bad enough that it took his breath away and cramped him up pretty bad for the day. The doctors had also said that if the scar tissue built up too much, then they would have to go back in to fix it. They said it wouldn't be something they'd have to do immediately, but potentially at some point.

A heating pad and some gentle massaging of his stomach and chest usually did the trick, and we would do that as soon as we finished for the day. But Starsky is stubborn, and he refused to let these occurrences stop him from the work at hand. He knew that Dobey would understand if we called out for the rest of the day, but there was nothing you could say to my partner that would convince him to call it a day when this happened.

"Hey, you want to take a break? We could take an early lunch." I looked at him, hoping that the pleading in my eyes would convince him. I hated to see him go through this. He had driven in this morning, but it was obvious from his pale, sweaty face that it was a struggle for him to make it to headquarters. I took over the driving duties once we hit the street, and Starsky had spent much of the time cramped and uncomfortable up against the passenger side window.

"Nah, not hungry." This was another side effect of this scar tissue thing. He pretty much felt sick all day, and refused to eat. He didn't really feel nauseous, he'd say, just not well. It was such an understatement, and just like Starsky when he was really, really sick. He always kidded me about my stoicism when I was sick. I had nothing on my partner where stoicism was concerned.

"Hey, I know you don't wanna eat, but you can watch me, or just lay down for a while. We can go to my place and you can put some heat on it for a while." By the time we got to Venice Place it would probably only give him thirty minutes on the heating pad, but that was better than nothing.

"It's okay, Hutch. I'll be fine. Let's get this interview with Marty over with first, then we can take a break." We were headed to the state pen to visit with our old friend Marty Simon. He was the crook who had broken our cover during our stint on the cruise ship. Marty's lawyer had called us and said Marty had some information we might be interested in regarding a big drug deal going down soon, and his lawyer thought this information might help Marty's parole hearing go better for him. Marty had plea-bargained a bleak seven-year sentence in connection with the cruise ship case, and had served almost four of those seven years. He was willing to do anything he could to be in a better position for his hearing in three weeks.

I looked at Starsky closely. He was in obvious pain, holding his stomach with his left hand, crouched down in the seat. He had been rubbing his right hand in circles on his chest for a while as well. I was glad that he didn't feel he needed to hide the fact that he was hurting. I'm sure the effort it took to continue working was as much of a facade as he could manage. Plus, we had gone through so much during his recovery. We both learned the hard way the negative side of hiding symptoms. He was lucky he was still alive, really, from some of the games he tried to play during that time. There were a few times where he was hiding his symptoms from me and it ended up costing him dearly in pain and extended suffering. I wanted to kill him myself, except his actions were doing a good enough job of heading him in that direction.

"Okay. We'll do it your way." I smiled at him. He looked back, grinning, and said, "I knew you'd see it my way, Blondie." I laughed. He really did know just how to play me.

We continued to the prison in silence. Starsky seemed to nod off on the way. I let him sleep; he didn't seem to be in worse pain than when he was awake, and most likely he wasn't feeling it as bad while he was sleeping. I wondered if he had any of his pain pills with him. He had two different kinds of pain medication during his recuperation. One knocked him out; the other helped take the edge off but didn't have any adverse effects, like drowsiness. He really hadn't needed any of the pain stuff for some time now and most likely didn't have any with him. I'd ask him when he woke up, though.

The drive to the prison gave me a chance to think. Time to think these days was precious to me. Along with everything else these days, it seemed like there just wasn't time enough to breathe, and this chance to just drive and think was a needed break. Starsky would tell you that the reason I felt like there was no time in the day anymore was because I spent too much time thinking about him. When he was recovering we had long hours to think and talk about what happened, what would happen once he was healthy again, what it would be like to be back working as a team. He said if I acted anything like how I acted during his recovery then we were going to have a problem.

Starsky's a smart guy, and the problems that started early in his recovery did trickle into our work on the streets. I found that while Starsky was in the hospital I was not able to focus on anything else. Well, I knew I had one thing that I had to take care of. Getting Gunther consumed me more than anything, even more than Starsky's getting better, at least for those few days following the shooting. Although being there for my partner was important, I knew what my most important job was.

Revenge is an ugly emotion. Starsky and I have seen what it does to people first hand, from Professor Jennings and Vic Bellamy, to Forrester and Prudholm. Diana Harmon. And many, many more. I didn't, I don't put myself in their league, but I felt what they must have been feeling when I found out who was responsible for putting Starsky on the ground next to his car in that parking garage. I knew my reasons for wanting, needing revenge were good, just as they had convinced themselves that they were justified in their actions.

I was lucky in many ways those first hours after Starsky got shot. The all-consuming need I had to revenge what I was sure was ultimately going to be Starsky's death was kept in check by two men who I can never thank enough for their support, concern and level-headed thinking when mine was anything but. Captain Dobey and Huggy are the main reason I'm not in prison now. I know that's true. They and Starsky tell me that I would never have gone so far as to kill Gunther. They say my training, my conscience, would never have allowed it. To this day I am not convinced of that, and it haunts me to think of how very close I was to taking Gunther out that day Dobey sent me up to San Francisco to bring him in.

A groan to my right quickly took me away from these disturbing thoughts. Starsky changed position slightly, I could tell by the way his head was resting that his neck was going to be sore if he didn't move. But moving caused his aching stomach to flare up, and he was looking pale and uncomfortable in sleep.

We were running about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, so I decided to take a quick detour and found a small pharmacy off the exit. I pulled into the parking space slowly and exited the car as quietly as I could. Starsky was still asleep. I found what I was looking for and asked the pharmacist if he could put some hot water into it for me. He was a sweet old fellow, and when I explained what I needed, he was more than happy to help me out.

I eased back into the car and placed the hot water bottle on Starsky's stomach. The stomach seemed to be bothering him more than his chest. The heat woke him, which I was sorry for, but I figured in the long run it would help more than the extra fifteen minutes of sleep.

"You're predictable, Blintz," he said groggily as he pressed the heat into just the right area.

"Well, you're stubborn, so I guess we're even," I replied as I steered us back onto the freeway.

"And you're a mush ball, but I'll accept that we're even," he replied, smiling as he blinked his eyes, trying to wake up.

"How much longer?" He asked, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his tired eyes.

"We're almost there, no more than a half hour out."

"Good. Hope Marty's got something for us. I'd hate to have made this ride for nothing." Starsky was yawning, trying to wake himself up in preparation for the meeting.

"Yeah, well I'll be more sorry about it than you, because I'm doing all the driving here." As soon as I said it I regretted it, because I knew my partner would start to feel guilty. Starsky had been extra sensitive about doing his share since returning to active duty, as if he owed me for all his downtime during his recuperation from the shooting. It was so illogical, the way he felt. It made me mad, and we had gotten into some serious arguments over the course of the last eight months about him hiding his 'weakness' as he called it. It took a severe infection caused by his refusal to seek help to get him to understand that what happened to him was serious; that he was susceptible to illness during the recovery period. We finally came to an understanding about that when he was healing, but he'd lapsed back into similar behavior when he returned to the force.

At first, he wouldn't admit that a regular workday tired him out a little more than it used to. He had passed the review board with no trouble, but the fact is that the tests he went through couldn't possibly be representative of what our days were really like.

I remember one day during his second week back, we'd had a killer of a week and that Thursday was a really long day. Starsky was driving me back to Venice Place. I couldn't ever remember being so tired and I knew Starsky had to be beat. I tried to keep my eyes open during the ride home, but gravity was beating my eyelids to a pulp and I dozed off. I don't know what it was, but something woke me and as I focused my eyes I realized that Starsky was parked on the sidewalk, about three blocks from Venice Place.

I looked around, still a little disoriented and called to my partner, "Starsky, what're you doing?" He was out, dead to the world, snoring peacefully. "Starsky!" I called louder, this time shoving his shoulder a little to try to wake him. It felt like trying to wake the dead, except that I suddenly panicked and thought that maybe he'd hit his head.

I checked to make sure the car was in park, which it was, and leaned over and checked for any bruises, bumps or lacerations. Satisfied that there was nothing wrong except that Starsky was sleeping with his car running on the sidewalk, and realizing that at some point he had to have been a little awake to get the car in park, I got mad and I yelled, truly loud enough to wake the dead, "Starsky! Wake up!"

My partner jumped, knocking his head hard into the visor. "Ouch. Hutch, what the hell?"

"What do you mean, what the hell? Wake up and take a look around, buddy." I couldn't keep the anger out. I was so mad I couldn't see straight, and I definitely wasn't tired anymore.

"Hey, how'd we get here?" He asked, chuckling.

"Starsky, you think this is funny?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, I think it's a little funny. I musta been sleepdriving. You know, like sleepwalkin??" He yawned and I swear I heard his jaw crack.

"And you think that's funny?"

"Hutch, you need to calm down. You're gonna have a heart attack." I was fuming at this point, I was developing a killer headache, and I was gonna kill my partner.

"Get out of the car," I said as I opened my door to get out.

"What for?" Starsky asked, not moving from the driver's seat.

I looked back through the window and said as evenly and calmly as possible, "Get... out... of... the... car."

Our eyes locked, a tug-of-war beginning that I had no intention of losing. The fact was that I needed to get out of the car, because my proximity to Starsky was too convenient for me to slug him one. It's the only thing I wanted to do at that moment, and I needed some time to cool down and let that feeling pass.

"Okay." Starsky got out of the car and waited on his side, sensing probably that he was safer with the width of the car between us.

"Come over here," I said, so softly that I could hardly hear it.

"What'd ya say?" Starsky asked. I think he heard it, but he didn't like that it was more of a command than a request. He was starting to dig in, but I was itching for a fight.

"I said come over here."

"Hutch, look, I'm tired, you're tired. It's late. I'm sorry this happened. I can tell you're really mad about it, but do you think that maybe you're going a little overboard?"

I couldn't believe it. And I should have recognized that he wasn't thinking straight, he was so tired. But I had to set him straight on just what happened that night. Maybe I was overreacting. I mean things turned out all right. Nobody got hurt. But I needed him to know why this incident was pissing me off so much.

"Starsky, do you understand what a miracle it is that we're doing this. Back doing the work we love, partner? Do you realize it could have all been taken away just like that?" I snapped my fingers as I made the turn at the back of the Torino. I got right in his face for the next part. "You know that you died eight months ago, right? You came back to... you came back, but you did die. You realize that you could have died tonight? What? Do you think I like watching you die? Is this some sick game you're playing with me? Let's see what it takes to put Hutch over the deep end?"

I stopped to catch a breath. I wasn't finished, but my anger was briefly suspended by my need for air, and as I breathed in heavily I looked up and saw Starsky's face. I realized there was no need to go on. I didn't need him to tell me that he understood what I was saying, how I was feeling. I think the word that best described my partner's demeanor at that moment was devastated. And he seemed to be shaking a little; I think probably from him building his reserves to come back at me with his own excuse and then having it deflated by the reality of the situation. And his exhaustion was more evident at that moment than it was even one minute earlier.

He tried to say something, but no words were actually voiced. I could read his lips, though, "I'm sorry" was what he tried to say, but Starsky was done in for the day, and I reached him just in time to ease him down on the seat, his legs giving in to the terrible shock of his realization.

I reached in and cupped his cheek in my left hand. "It's okay. You're right. It's late. We're both tired."

"No, no, no. You're right. I coulda killed us both." Those deep blue eyes were pooled with tears. Damn.

"Okay, so we're both right. Come on." I steered him to the passenger seat. No struggle, no attempt to drive the three blocks himself. It was a bad sign, but not something that we wouldn't overcome. The one thing that we'd learned during that period just before the shooting was how critical it was to keep communicating. We'd lost our way for a while, due in no small part to my own problems that I refused to let Starsky help me through. No matter what was happening in our lives since, we knew the best way through a problem was communicating. Our communication skills came in many forms; and we'd mastered all of them. We would manage our way through that night's turmoil.

"That's all right, Hutch. I'm not going to ride that guilt trip today. You can relax." He smiled, seeming more relaxed than he'd been all day.

"How about you? Is that hot water bottle helping?" It seemed like it was, Starsky's face clearly less pained than earlier in the day.

"Yeah, I think so. I'm gonna have to pee like hell when we get there." He whined. The whine was a welcome reminder that he was feeling better. We could see the prison up on the rise to the left. It looked like Starsky was putting on his game face for the bad guy. Like so many times before, Starsky had held on and made it through to the other side. As he stepped out of the car, there were definitely shades of the swagger that had been missing earlier in the day. In fact, he seemed almost back to his old self.

"Hey, Starsk, you really feeling better?" I called, trying to keep the worry out of my voice, keeping the tone of the question light.

He turned, and I could see a different look of pain on his face, a very familiar one. I hurried to catch up with my partner. I sure didn't want the blame for THAT mess.

The End.