Author's Note: This story was written as a gift story for Sue D. Last year, I began a different story for her, but creative production stalled, and I wasn't able to complete it. Therefore, I asked her a while back what she'd like to see me tackle if I were to begin a new story. She requested a post-SR recovery story in which the events of the May 15^th shooting force Starsky to revisit Vietnam in his dreams—potentially dangerous for someone in Starsky's condition. While pondering just what aspect of Vietnam Starsky might revisit, I was seized with the idea I present in this story regarding a secret in his past. I know many wonderful stories out there have explored Starsky's possible involvement in 'Nam, and I haven't read all of them by a long shot, so I can only hope that what I offer here might, at least in some ways, be new ground. In any case, I'd like to thank Sue for inspiring me, and I'm posting the story exclusively at her home list in her honor. Also, this story does not take place in Vietnam. The action occurs in LA, July 1979.

Thanks to my editor/consultants: Karen-Leigh, Ellis Murdock, and Sue D.

Special thanks to Ellis for uploading the story files—you're such a tremendous help, soul-sister!

For feedback or critique, feel free to e-mail me at kam2003sh@excite.com

Revelation

by Kaye Austen Michaels

First Posted December 10, 2002

July 1979

Hutch watched Starsky eat. He couldn't help himself; every little move was a small miracle to be savored—Starsky reaching for the salt unassisted, lifting his spoon back and forth between the beef stew and his mouth without hunching over and breathing like a freight train…even his closed-mouth, less-enthusiastic-than-usual chewing fascinated Hutch. He knew that Starsky's lack of enthusiasm didn't stem from an objection to the menu. Eating too quickly or eagerly now meant extended periods of short, painful breathing later, and Starsky had learned the hard way.

No doubt aware of his captive audience, Starsky looked up from his bowl and flashed a glimpse of teeth that blinded Hutch. Smiles meant ten thousand times more than they did before May 15^th.

"Those potatoes lose some appeal after you peeled 'em?" Starsky asked with a straight face that shouldn't have been possible in combination with the outrageous play on words.

In another time, another place in his life, Hutch might've framed a sarcastic, condescending response. Not now. Never again. Instead, he gave a sincere bark of laughter and reached over to tousle Starsky's hair. "Sorry, buddy, you caught me looking at you like that nurse who insisted on supervising your meals."

Starsky snorted. "Hate to break it to you, but you are not like that nurse."

"Oh, really?"

Winking, Starsky nudged Hutch's bowl closer to him. "Nope. You look better."

Hutch took the hint to resume his own meal, and hoped the activities of eating would camouflage his reaction to Starsky's remark. It was nothing new for David Starsky to flirt unabashedly with his partner as if Hutch were a supermodel blonde, but while Starsky's intention was the same as always—to see Hutch flushed and momentarily at a loss for a comeback—Hutch locked away moments like this in a brand new place in his heart.

Conversation lagged by necessity. Eating and carrying on verbal repartee simultaneously didn't fit into Starsky's first-week-out-of-hospital list of milestones to achieve. However much Hutch missed Starsky's chatter, he didn't mind the quiet: somehow it enabled him to soak Starsky's presence up like a sun-parched sponge introduced to water for the first time.

Finishing the bowl of stew, Starsky patted his stomach and grinned. "Ma couldn't possibly make better, partner."

Hutch smiled. He grabbed Starsky's bowl with his own and nodded firmly for Starsky to stay put when the former patient rose to help with cleanup. "Time for dessert," Hutch announced on his way to the sink.

"Whatcha got?" Starsky sounded all of ten-years-old, and the return of the simple joy in his voice made Hutch's heart perform all sorts of acrobatic impossibilities.

"For you I have a piece of caramel cake, and for me I picked up some European-style rice pudding." Hutch delved into the fridge for the pudding, precariously balancing the saucer of cake and two spoons in the right angle of his bent arm. He carried the treats to the table and made a great show of presenting the cake to Starsky with a flourish.

Starsky didn't pounce on the sweet cake like a man starved for decent dessert. He glanced between the saucer in front of him and Hutch's deli container of rice pudding. Hutch paused with his spoon halfway to its destination. "What?"

Starsky smiled, leaned forward, and opened his mouth, eyeing Hutch's spoon.

Hutch gawked at him. "You hate rice pudding."

Starsky's open smile threatened to turn down at the corners, and Hutch would've cheerfully dumped the whole container of pudding on Starsky's head to prevent that. He extended the laden spoon so Starsky simply had to close his lips over it.

"Um, stuffmfbetternthoughtmfiwas," Starsky said incoherently, but full of appreciation judging from his tone.

"Now I've seen everything," Hutch said, shaking his head, and spooned a mouthful of rice pudding for himself.

Wisely swallowing first, Starsky then laughed. "What, a guy can't decide to try new things? Or maybe change his mind about things he wasn't too crazy about before?"

Hutch choked on the bite of pudding. Excusing himself quickly, he hurried to the sink for a glass of water and paper towel. While Starsky was in the hospital, surrounded by medical professionals and machines, subject to someone else's schedule and barely in command of his own body without the permission of some doctor, Hutch had been able to silence the flowering emotion within and concentrate on being the pal and partner Starsky needed desperately in those conditions. Now, just four days into the two-week leave granted for him to help Starsky acclimate at home, Hutch didn't know how to conduct himself.

"Hutch, you okay?"

"Yeah," Hutch answered loudly over the running water.

"Well, get your tail back in here. Patton's on the tube at 8."

Hutch turned off the faucet and drained the glass of water. He didn't particularly like the somewhat biased, Hollywood-style biography of General George S. Patton, but the movie was long—a good three hours including commercials—and the thought of not having to convince Starsky to rest quietly on the sofa during the evening had its merits.

On returning to the table, he found that Starsky had polished off both the cake and rice pudding. Hutch stared at the empty saucer and container. "Are you all right?" He meant Starsky's still fragile lung-capacity, but his partner interpreted the question another way. Frowning defensively, Starsky eased out of the chair and straightened to every centimeter of height.

"Yes, I'm all right. I was hungry, but not anymore." A sheepish smile of apology softened the recovery-roughened features. "Sorry about the rice pudding, I couldn't help myself."

Hutch was so thrilled over the display of healthy appetite he would've sacrificed each and every one of his plants to Starsky's desire for food had they been of nutritious value. But Starsky would think such a thing too sentimental, so Hutch let it go with a shrug. "I can always pick up more tomorrow. Ready for your meds?"

"I can get 'em," Starsky said immediately, already heading for his bedroom.

Hutch scratched at his forehead. "Starsk—"

"I hear you!" Starsky glanced over his shoulder, the defensive frown back in full force. "Jeez-us, you really took that nurse at her word. She blew it all out of proportion, and she had no right to rat on me to you, the fink."

"You told her you weren't about to take the anti-inflammatory and end up looking like a chipmunk."

Starsky pivoted fully now, face animated, hands waving as enthusiastically as his healing body would allow. "You saw the poor kid in the respiratory therapy room. He looked exactly like a chipmunk with full cheek pouches!"

Hutch winced. The memory of Starsky's shared pain and sympathy, as well as fear, upon realizing some of the side effects of the steroid meant to help his lungs heal sufficiently, weighed on Hutch even now. He sought refuge in argument. "That poor kid has been on the drug for a year, and he's on a far higher dose every day than you are, believe me!"

"Hmph," was Starsky's eloquent response. "Fine, I'll bring the meds in the kitchen so you can make sure I'm taking every single one."

"No, you're an adult, you don't need me looking over your shoulder. I'm sorry, I—"

"Hutch. Yes, I'm an adult, with a brain large enough to know you'll worry yourself an ulcer unless you have eyewitness proof I'm swallowing every ounce of chemical prescribed to me. 'Kay? Back in a sec." Starsky started toward the bedroom but turned again, and his lifted fist carried a formidable threat despite the obvious weakness in his arm. "However, if you ever—even once!—call me Chip or Dale, I'll bust you one."

Hutch laughed in spite of himself. Starsky might resemble a lot of things, including every fantasy Hutch never knew he had until recently, but the dark-haired wonder would never call to mind a Disney character. "Deal, Starsk. No Chip or Dale jokes. I'll have your glass of milk waiting."

Starsky joined him moments later and lined an impressive row of tablets on the counter. Hutch set down the glass of milk beside the medicines, but Starsky pointedly ignored it.

"Now explain somethin' to me, genius. Pill number one here--" Starsky indicated one of the white steroid tablets, "is supposed to keep my lungs from pitching a fit, right?"

"Yes, so?" Hutch had a feeling Starsky was building up to something against which both of them were helpless.

"Right, but it causes fluid retention, sleep disruption, and digestion problems, among other stuff. So I take three more medicines. One to keep me from holding fluid, which incidentally makes me piss all the time and that's no fun. One to help me sleep. And an antacid. All of that to counteract the first damn pill.

Then, there's the nifty antibiotic here, which I need, granted, but it causes nausea, so I hafta take this other fun-filled pill so I can keep all my other medicines down. Now, doing the math, I only really need two of the pills, but how many do I have here besides those two kinds? One, two, three, four."

Already feeling helpless, just as he thought he would, Hutch nudged the milk glass closer.

Again Starsky ignored it.

"Tell me the logic in that, Hutch."

Hutch brushed itchy fingers through his hair, ostensibly to keep the longish blond strands from sliding into his eyes. Those fingers itched to rub against Starsky's cheek-- if Hutch could only safely cradle that stubble-rough cheek in his palm. He decided he'd better move on to another train of thought or his lips would be itching, too. He sighed. This was obviously a night when Starsky needed to air his grievances, of which he had many legitimate ones, certainly. And Starsky had admittedly been a saint compared to some of the patients Hutch had encountered while following Starsky around to various appointments and treatments-- not that those problem patients didn't also have ample room to complain.

"Starsk, there is no logic. The drug companies are all conspiring against us, but until I have the time to invent you a medicine with no side effects, all I can do is offer you vanilla milk to help the first troublemaker go down easier."

The wind left the sails of Starsky's tirade in a whoosh that could practically be heard throughout the kitchen. "Vanilla milk?" Starsky grinned.

"Just the way you like it," Hutch said, also smiling, and pushed the glass closer one final time. Starsky suddenly took notice of the milk's existence and seized the glass. Hutch watched him methodically swallow every tablet followed by a greedy gulping of the remaining milk.

Adorable with a milk mustache, Starsky licked his lips. "Man, Hutch, cake and vanilla milk—you're spoilin' me."

Hutch tried to think of a non-sentimental, snappy retort, but words failed him. The truth pounded in his heart. I'm trying to balance all your pain with all the simple pleasures I can give you…so maybe you won't ever regret fighting to stay here on this planet with me. Aloud, he said, "Movie's on."

He expected to take the armchair and give Starsky full possession of the new sofa. A deep blue in comfortable, plush material that blended well with Starsky's furnishings, this sofa's main purpose in life was to fold out into a bed so Hutch's back wouldn't suffer from his prolonged stay during Starsky's recovery.

He was surprised when Starsky steered him away from the chair, nudged him down onto the sofa, and plopped an end cushion in his lap prior to stretching out and laying his curly head on said end cushion.

This occurrence, though pleasant, presented a difficulty in the safe placement of Hutch's hands. He wanted to rest one in the dark hair splayed over the cushion and use the other to knead Starsky's shoulder, but that arrangement seemed fraught with danger. Eventually he settled his right arm along the convenient sofa arm and gently rested his left hand halfway between Starsky's shoulder and bicep. Perfectly appropriate man-to-man touch, especially for them, considering they'd always been more touchy-feely than most.

Starsky didn't move a muscle during the first hour or so of film, and without his occasional soft-spoken commentary Hutch would've thought the movie buff had fallen asleep. Consequently, Hutch let his guard down and relished his partner's obvious comfort. So rarely did Starsky enjoy extended pain-free moments. During one simulated sequence of heavy M-Browning machine gun fire, however, Starsky's entire body went as rigid as the board-like manner of trauma patients on the verge of "posturing."

"Turn. It. Off." Starsky's voice trembled violently.

"Buddy?" In his alarm at Starsky's physical reaction, Hutch barely comprehended his words.

"Turn it off now!" Starsky shouted.

That got through to Hutch's worried brain. Cursing himself for eighteen kinds of fool as he registered the import of the soldiers falling under rapid, automatic fire, he eased from beneath Starsky's weight and switched off the offending images. He turned, eyes closed in shame at his own stupidity. "Starsky—" Slowly, he opened his eyes, outright afraid of what he would find.

Starsky sat upright against the sofa cushions and the effort of his change in position told in his face and droopy shoulders. "It's okay," he said distinctly though with a breathlessness that frightened Hutch. "Most of the time I don't remember."

"I know!" Hutch groaned. "I should've—"

"No! I wanted to watch it. If you'd tried to talk me out of it, I would've hounded you for being a security blanket."

That much was true, Hutch acknowledged to himself. Even in the hospital Starsky had established limitations on Hutch's protective powers. Right now Starsky looked ashamed, no doubt of both his reflexive, normal fear and equally instinctual outburst. The effect of that emotion on Starsky's face was all too much like a well-trained dog that has been unable to hold in an "accident" in the wake of its owner's late return.

Hutch wished desperately, achingly, for just five minutes worth of permission to prove to his partner that his tough, virile, inner strength hadn't suffered a whit from the shooting. Not through sex, which Starsky's body wouldn't allow at this point in the recovery anyway, but through a man-to-man discussion that Starsky would unfortunately shy away from just as quickly as he'd run from a man-to-man romantic encounter. Since waking in the ICU, there were some realities Starsky simply preferred to battle in restrictive silence.

Always in tune with most of Hutch's unspoken reflections, Starsky had switched from ashamed to wary. When Hutch covered half the distance from TV to sofa, Starsky moved jerkily from his perch and headed for his room.

"I'm—I'm gonna turn in for the night, maybe read for a while." Back turned, he conveyed a smile through his tone of voice. "Doncha be out here worrying about noise bothering me. You make yourself at home, partner. This is your home, just as much as Venice, and you know it. More to the point, you know I'm-- damned grateful for it." With that cracked-voice admission, Starsky shut the door to a mere slit of opening and sealed off any chance for Hutch to offer comfort.

Gritting his teeth, Hutch considered the empty living room. Under the current circumstances, it was a barren wasteland requiring liquid fortification. He allowed himself exactly half a beer, which he poured precisely from the can into a glass—something to at least pretend to take the edge off while leaving him sufficiently alert to any hint of distress from Starsky's room. For sheer distraction, he washed the dinner dishes and tossed a salad, which he closed away in a Tupperware bowl in the fridge for the next day's lunch. Three magazines later, their content blurred and uninteresting, Hutch deemed it late enough to move the coffee table and unfold his sofa bed.

The sounds filtered through his sleep fog in snatches. Somewhere, impossibly nearby, someone fought a battle complete with comrades-in-arms and every unseen but real danger imaginable. Hutch could almost hear the odd squish-crunch of jungle undergrowth, smell the presence of soulless, mangled flesh, sense Death's twisted, seductive vicinity…. Hutch shot straight up in bed; these were not his memories or the subconscious rewind of a bad Vietnam film. This was his partner's past reality come viciously back to life. Awake now, he heard the restless tossing and muttering of a Starsky nightmare in progress.

He didn't waste time. The physical movements of a bad dream could inflict too much damage. Stumbling off the bed, half-tangled in sheets, he was off his knees in a burst of motion and nearly knocked the door from its hinges on his way into the room, calling Starsky's name.

In the softly moonlit bed, Starsky slept as if he'd punched a one-way ticket to his nightmare destination. Reluctantly, Hutch scrambled across the foot of the bed and grabbed his partner as gently as possible by the shoulders. Warm touch and light shaking did nothing, and Hutch started formulating a desperate plan that involved a glass of water from the bathroom.

Fortunately for Starsky—and his sheets—the dream grip loosened before the frantic blond could put the plan into action. Blinking, grimacing, eyes wild and haunted, Starsky slowly returned to present day.

"Starsk? Do you know where you are? Who I am?"

Starsky eyed him critically, attempting, Hutch assumed, to figure out who was clutching his shoulders like a maniac and shouting questions at him. Starsky's dream-altered gaze slid from Hutch's face down his bare shoulders and chest, fleeting over the thin boxers, and for a crazy instant it looked like the gleam in Starsky's eye brightened; then, Hutch could see the detective in his partner tallying up the situation.

"Dre-eam-ing?" Starsky wheezed.

"Yes, you were having one mother of a nightmare. Fighting a major battle all on your lonesome, but it's over, you're awake, I'm here."

"Battle? 'Nam?"

"Sounded like it," Hutch said, concerned.

"Damn."

Starsky's face darkened, the light in his eyes focused inward, and Hutch knew, insanely, that the shoulders he held belonged to a stranger. The painful thought forced Hutch to release his partner and sit back on his heels. Probably with sleep in mind, Starsky tried to adjust his position, but his body rebelled. The grayness around his lips and the manner in which he favored his chest muscles revealed the agony he wouldn't acknowledge verbally.

"Starsk?" Sounded odd, calling this stranger by a shortened name.

"I'm fine. Go'n back to bed, Hutch."

The invisible shroud lifted and Starsky returned to him. Hutch caught his breath in almost childish relief. "How long've we been partners? I'll tell you. Twice as long as it took me to figure out exactly when you're hurting. Let me get you something."

"No, just need to sleep."

"Right," Hutch persisted. "And you won't with the kind of pain you're experiencing. If the pain worsens, it might tighten your chest and impact your breathing. Just one pain pill, Starsky—"

Starsky grunted, a definitely negative sound, and attempted rolling over, away from his "nurse." This effort was no more successful than the others; he stopped short, breathing harshly.

"Dammit, Starsky, I told you in the hospital, there's no shame in pain. There's no damned glory either. It's just an enemy we have to fight like any perp on the street. Don't make me start shoving medicine down your throat. I will, by God." Hutch didn't linger on the thought that he had a neon sign of hypocrisy hanging over his head, he of the refusal to take anything stronger than Tylenol.

"Don't…I…know…it!" Starsky managed a feeble grin. "Fine. One pill. Then you're getting some sleep."

Hutch conceded with a smile. He didn't bother with lights, rushing and tripping through the apartment in his hurry to fetch the tablet and glass of water. Still wincing from a banged shin, he carted the prescription pain tablet to Starsky and watched him swallow it. "There. You'll be feeling much better shortly. Why don't I stick close for a little while? Until all the cobwebs clear?"

"Go back to bed. You lost too much sleep in those hospital torture chairs. Now you got a halfway decent bed in there and won't even take advantage of it."

Hutch shrugged. "I could just sit here a few minutes—"

"No."

Feeling his whole face turning by increments to stone, Hutch knew his voice would sound just as hard. He had his own defense mechanisms. "Is that a dismissal?"

Starsky frowned at him.

"Loud and clear," Hutch said coldly, nodding. He left the room, pulling the door shut to a crack, and stretched out in the very center of the sofa bed.

And lay awake.

>>>>>>

Hutch spooned chicken-and-noodles onto the plate already heaped with green beans. Part of him wanted to stand in the kitchen and eat his meal alone. He'd be alone at the table anyway—alone with a stranger. The day could have been termed chilly by an Eskimo's estimation. Hutch would have preferred blaming it on a record-setting July cold snap in Southern California, but the relentless summer sun made a liar of him. The cold didn't extend beyond the apartment and Starsky's sullen, barely communicative attitude.

The convalescent had wandered the apartment aimlessly since breakfast, finally settling down with a brand new model ship. His weakened upper body couldn't sustain the tedious work for long; holding his arm aloft for minutes on end as he "melded" tiny pieces into perfect placement left him gasping and cringing in pain. But he threw warning looks out the instant Hutch neared within three feet-- except for the time Hutch brought him a glass of ice-cold ginger ale. That offering initiated a quirk of Starsky's lips at least on the right road to a smile.

Hutch refused to leave the apartment during Starsky's post-lunch nap, fearful of the dream's return, but later, Starsky situated comfortably and safely on the sofa in front of an afternoon baseball game, Hutch left to run necessary errands. The reprieve felt like a dash through sprinklers during a heat wave. He picked up laundry, checked on his mail and tended his plants, collected a few books that might help him weather the silence, and stopped by The Pits to give Huggy an update on Starsky's progress. By the time he pulled up outside Starsky's place it was time to start dinner.

Now, standing in front of the stove with two plates piled high, Hutch tumbled to an impressive truth. Even if he'd been grateful for the break from Starsky's foul mood, he'd missed his partner terribly while away from the apartment. Even now, the part of him that wanted to hide away in the kitchen was easily silenced. He loved Starsky. He loved him. He loved him cold and sullen as much as he loved him effervescent and full of light. Hutch carried a lighter heart to the table along with the plates of food.

He came close to dropping the plates on sight of the smile Starsky offered him--it was so wide Hutch wanted to ask him if it hurt. He set the plates down and pulled out his chair.

"It's just chicken, pasta, and beans, not filet mignon," Hutch said experimentally.

Starsky eyed him, the smile replaced by a pensive stare. "I beg to differ."

Hutch looked away, afraid of his tendency to flush. The instinct to turn away bothered him. Starsky had seen him scarlet-faced dozens of times. His averted face must have been a signal, because Starsky said nothing else. They ate in silence, but the quiet was now warm and embracing.

After dinner, Starsky insisted on doing the small number of dishes and threatened Hutch with a swift kick in the ass if he didn't leave the kitchen and relax instead of hovering, expecting immediate injury. It was clearly something Starsky needed to prove, some gesture he felt obliged to make, so Hutch did his best to retreat and hover by the sofa. Still, he poked his head around the corner several times, trying to gauge by Starsky's stance and movements if his breathing and energy level were in line. His motives were partly selfish. Even in sweats baggier since the shooting and the old, zipped blue warm-up he usually reserved for running in the park, Starsky cut a tantalizing figure.

Finally Starsky joined him in the living room, but didn't linger. Trying to hide the hitch in his movement, he vanished into his bedroom, and when he returned, Hutch knew his tough partner had resorted to pain relief along with his evening meds. He left off pondering Starsky's medicine, because a brightly wrapped present was being wagged right beneath his chin.

"What's this?" Hutch asked, reaching for the gift.

Starsky snorted. "That's the second stupidest question people ask when they get handed a wrapped present."

"Oh, yeah? What's the stupidest?"

Imitating a gift recipient, Starsky feigned surprise, clutching at his chest and batting his eyelashes. "'Is this for me?'"

Hutch laughed. "I'll give you that. No, seriously, what's the occasion?"

Starsky sat down beside him. "I picked that up before—uh—few months ago, and I planned on it being part of your birthday stash. But, I've been an asshole today, so I thought—"

"Buddy, no—"

Starsky grinned at him.

Hutch smiled. "Okay, you're right about the asshole part. But it's understandable. Things are rough right now; you had a bad time last night."

"Open the present, Hutchinson."

The wrapping paper was left over from Christmas, but Hutch didn't care. The thought behind the gift—and the wrapping of it—warmed him inside until he was sure he had to be turning pink. He tore through the paper and stopped, astonished. At first glance, it was simply a framed picture. A beautiful, exotic, strangely soothing Amazon Rainforest scene centered on an elegant waterfall with its naturally emerald pool beneath and colorful, varied foliage filling the background.

Starsky stood up and moved, but Hutch didn't watch him. He stared at the picture, mesmerized by the tranquility. When the lights went out, and the room dimmed to moonbeams filtering through from the glass deck doors, Hutch gasped. He rubbed his eyes one-handed, but the illusion didn't fade. "It's—It looks like it's raining—"

Starsky was beside him again. "Yeah, it's specially blown glass. In dim lighting, it gives the illusion that rain is falling in the scene. Neat, huh?"

Hutch looked up and into a smile that vied with the moonlight. He wanted to kiss Starsky deeply, to thank him the way his heart most wanted, but he satisfied himself with sliding closer and bumping shoulders. "Thanks, Starsk. It's creative, gorgeous. I love it."

Happiness brightened Starsky's face. "Oh, you know you're missing your own rainforest—"

"It's hardly a rainforest," Hutch laughed.

"I don't know; you do use that mister liberally." Starsky smiled. "Now you have a rainforest here for when you feel homesick."

Hutch shook his head. "I'm not homesick. Like you said last night, this is my home, too."

"I meant homesick for your plants, dummy." Starsky briefly tickled Hutch in the ribs. "Feel like reading tonight?"

By that, Starsky meant reading aloud. Hutch nodded. "Sure. You want me to pick up where we left off in Destruction of Quasar Colony X?"

A toss of curls signaled a negative. Starsky rose, flipped the lights, and scanned his bookshelves. Hutch watched him. Starsky might buy the latest boilerplate sci-fi off the drugstore display, but his shelves housed mostly hardbacks, and primarily books the outside world wouldn't readily associate with his partner's tastes. If Starsky were an onion, he'd be the size of a small house with all his layers.

Hutch was still chuckling over that image when Starsky dropped a book in his lap.

"Something funny, Blintz?"

"Nah," Hutch's laughter subsided as he caught glimpse of the book's title. He picked the tome up and flipped through it. "Paths of Glory, Starsk? You sure you're up to a war novel? I mean, after—"

"Nag, nag. I'm gonna get a kick out of you pronouncing all those French names. Besides, this is World War One, Blondie."

Right, and World War II last night initiated a rewind of both the police garage and then the Tet Offensive in your bedroom, partner. What are you trying to do, purge your system somehow? And am I really going to play into your hands like that?

Starsky moved the Amazon picture to the coffee table and stretched out on the sofa, not bothering with an end cushion this time. Hutch had to hold his breath at the feel of Starsky turning his head back and forth on the lap "pillow" until he found the most comfortable position.

Antarctica, Duluth in January, cold windy rain in Chicago, glaciers, ice floes. Hutch sighed with relief as the heat in his groin eased without triggering a tangible, visible reaction. He read slowly, naturally, not trying to give the characters different voices or emphasize emotion. While reading, Hutch let his free hand drift down to Starsky's hair and stroked through it in an accompanying cadence to his speech.

Soon Hutch heard the rhythmic breathing associated with deep sleep. The combination of pain pill and steady voice had lulled Starsky into the slumber he so badly needed. There was no thought of waking him--deep sleep was too precious to risk. Slipping cautiously out from under the curly head, Hutch bent over to ease Starsky into his arms. His back and shoulders screamed murder and reminded him that even the lighter Starsky was no waifish female. Hutch struggled with his valuable armful into the bedroom and lowered him gently to the bed. Just as gently, he divested the sleeper of his outer wear, leaving him in a t-shirt and his bikini briefs. Tucking him under the covers filled Hutch with tenderness that ached.

"I don't think I can breathe under the weight of this love," Hutch whispered into the nearest curl-covered ear, simultaneously embarrassed and thrilled at his foolishly sentimental lapse.

That night Hutch dreamed of jungle. Not Vietnam with its sweltering, muggy death and destruction, but the cool Amazon of his picture.

Starsky-- shimmering in his former vigor and pristine body, wet, drops of waterfall dotting his muscles, threading through his soft, dark pelt like a string of diamonds--poised at the top of the falls, arms outstretched, lifting above his head, perfect arrow formation, giving an animal cry followed by a knife-precision dive into the emerald pool below.

Hutch woke hard and trembling. He poised-- like Starsky on the cliff-- tantalizingly close to diving off the edge. Just as his hand reached to deliver relief, driven by the impulses in his waking consciousness, he heard the sounds from the bedroom.

Another nightmare.

Throbbing need forgotten, Hutch rushed from the bed and burst into Starsky's room in a dizzying rewind of the previous night. Starsky thrashed in apparent delirium, and Hutch cringed, knowing the pain Starsky would feel on waking. Steeling himself to witness that agony, he clambered onto the bed and reached for his partner. To Hutch's astonishment, breath knocked from his chest by shock more than physical contact, the sleeping man rose like a whale breaching water and flipped him into a pinned position, pressing two fingers against his trachea. Hutch moaned helplessly at the weight of Starsky's lower body against his groin. Unable to breathe, dizzy with pleasure, he closed his eyes and arched his hips, fighting the urge to scream as tepid wetness spread across the front of his boxers. Aware that he'd reached the point of no return, Hutch opened his eyes to face the inevitable.

Starsky's eyes opened, too, and his face paled to a frightening ashen. Hutch winced. Excuses crowded his mind—I was having a wet dream…sudden close contact in a strategic location…surprise…no big deal, Starsk, really…never mind the dream was about you diving naked into an Amazonian pool. Freud would have a picnic with that one.

Starsky apparently didn't notice Hutch's embarrassed distress. He removed his fingers from Hutch's throat, and his arm shook. "God, I could've killed you."

Oh, well, I guess that answers my burning question. How do I get out of this without having my ass kicked down the apartment stairs by a convalescent? "Starsk," Hutch heard his voice, strangely hoarse. "I'm--I--"

"I could've killed you." Starsky shuddered all over, his face scary with what looked like remorse and disgust. "You. Could've killed you."

Two critical questions infiltrated Hutch's orgasm-clouded brain: How in the hell did Starsky manage in his current condition to overpower his healthy partner, and what the hell was Starsky talking about—because he sure as shit wasn't referring to finding his best friend had gotten off beneath him.

He didn't have the chance to voice his questions. Starsky's body rebelled and mercilessly exacted its due. Muscles seizing, Starsky exhaled a horrendous, wheezing scream. Hutch reacted instantly, cradling Starsky's upper body and helping him into a propped position against pillows braced on the headboard shelves. "Easy, easy, Starsky, breathe deeply, slowly." He brought the covers up to Starsky's chest and tucked them carefully around him. "I'll be right back. Less than two minutes, partner. You've got your watch on--time me if that'll help take your mind off the pain."

Rapidly Hutch gathered hot water bottles, towels, and the oxygen tank, which he dragged clumsily behind him to Starsky's bedside. Starsky turned eyes damp with tears of pain and tried to smile. "One minute, fifty-four seconds."

"Am I good, or what?" Hutch said, smiling. "Would've been quicker than that, but I had to fill the water bottles." He uncovered Starsky and lifted his t-shirt to examine the incision sites carefully. "You didn't tear anything externally, thank God, but I can't tell about the internal. So after I get you set up with the oxygen and some pain relief, I'm calling an ambulance—"

"NO!" Starsky's shout broke into ragged coughing.

"Starsk, you could've—"

"No…ambulance…no hospital!"

Hutch reached over and smacked the oxygen mask over his partner's mouth and nose. He adjusted the tank dial as the nurse in the hospital had demonstrated. "Sorry, Starsky, just breathe and listen to me. You flipped me like a rag doll. That takes some doing when you're in top form, but in your condition--!! You should be on Ripley's for God's sake. There's absolutely no way I can tell if you're bleeding inside, and if I don't get you to someone who can, you could bleed out in this bed. If you think I'm letting that happen, you're senile."

Deftly, quickly, Hutch applied the warm water bottles where they could do the most good, and wrapped them in place with towels. Starsky lifted the oxygen mask and said, "Just take me in your car."

"No can do, Starsk, I don't trust her. She was acting quirky this afternoon and I'm not having her conk out on us halfway to Memorial."

Starsky's face was a picture of Torino homesickness. Hutch frowned in sympathy and guided Starsky's hand and the oxygen mask back to proper placement. He grabbed the phone and dialed emergency services.

As soon as the heaving of Starsky's chest eased, and his pain tightened expression relaxed, Hutch spared a moment to change clothes, but he didn't take any longer than pulling on fresh underwear and clean jeans—his t-shirt, though wrinkled, would suffice. Starsky needed him. Slipping into his mocs, he hurried back to his partner. After he'd helped Starsky back into his sweats, Hutch climbed on the bed beside him.

"Would an arm around your shoulders do you any good?" he asked.

Starsky lifted the mask. "Hold me." Unequivocal, no embarrassment, honest need.

"That I can do." Hutch slowly pushed Starsky forward, slid partially behind him, and eased Starsky back against his chest, holding him in a loose circle of arms careful not to disturb the water bottles.

They stayed that way until the paramedics knocked on the front door.

>>>>>>

A yawning Huggy Bear dropped off two extremely weary men in the wee hours of the morning. Waving and calling out get-well wishes, he sped off in a squeal of tires as soon as Starsky and Hutch reached the top stair and turned around to give him the home free signal.

"Huggy is burning rubber back to his pad before he has a chance to fall asleep at the wheel. He couldn't have been home from The Pits more than a couple hours when I called him." Hutch turned his attention to Starsky, who leaned against him. "How about we get you reacquainted with that nice, comfy bed of yours?"

"Sh'oundsgood," Starsky mumbled through a yawn.

"What sounded good was the trauma doc telling me you hadn't ripped anything up inside. You had good surgeons. I'm sending every one of them flowers and fine chocolates."

"Th'besht," Starsky agreed, sounding drunk from the pain meds.

Hutch laughed. "Right now if I said the Yankees are the worst team ever to play baseball, you'd agree with me, you're so stoned."

"Umm…." Starsky grunted.

Once he guided the medicated man to bed, Hutch helped him out of the sweatpants for the second time that night. Starsky didn't put up even the most token protest. But his stupor faded with Hutch's announcement to stay close until the medicines kicked in fully.

"No—go back to bed." The unnamed fear shadowed Starsky's face while he arranged his pillows to his satisfaction.

"Starsky, I'm just gonna sit here for a little while—"

"It's not safe!"

Hutch sighed. So his indiscretion hadn't gone unnoticed. "You don't have to worry about me doing anything to make you uncomfortable. I'm too damned tired, even if I thought that little of you."

"Not—not what I mean," Starsky argued through an enormous yawn. "Lookit, it's not safe…'cause of me…promise me you'll go back to that sofa bed."

"I'll go back to the sofa bed," Hutch said solemnly.

"A'right." Starsky closed his eyes and snuggled down beneath the covers. Exhausted, drugged, he was almost instantly asleep.

Hutch sat on the edge of the bed, holding vigil against nightmares, until the first golden fingers of dawn reached through the window.

>>>>>

Hutch was buttering toast when Starsky's voice from the kitchen entranceway caused him to jump and drop the butter knife. He bent to retrieve it. "What?"

"I asked you how much sleep you've had." Dressed only in his blue and white robe, Starsky leaned against the wall, his arms folded against his chest.

"Enough." Hutch dropped the knife in the sink and pulled the utensil drawer open, rummaging through it.

"You stayed on the bed last night."

"Yes."

"You promised you wouldn't!" Starsky's voice was frozen, strange. Hutch didn't like the sound, and he swiveled to see what expression accompanied it. The face of yesterday's stranger greeted him.

"No, I didn't say 'I promise.'"

"You said you'd go back to bed!"

"I did go back to the sofa bed-- about six this morning. I didn't specify when I'd go back."

"Dammit, Hutch, I toldya! I told you it wasn't safe, and you wouldn't even listen to me."

"Holy Christ, Starsky, what the hell's so dangerous about me sitting on the edge of your bed?"

"I came within seconds of crushing your windpipe last night, you beautiful blond innocent!" Starsky shouted. "Hell, I'm grateful you creamed your shorts against me. It saved your life."

"What!?" Hutch struggled to remember when such a ludicrous event had taken place. He remembered being flipped…Starsky's hand…fingers against his throat. Oh! Surely not—

"With two fingers!?"

The stranger said nothing, but his face answered for him.

"Who the hell are you?"

The stranger's heavy sigh sounded almost like a prelude to tears. "Forget the breakfast, Hutch, we need to talk. Make me a cup of coffee, willya? The real stuff, black and strong, no sugar, not that decaf nonsense."

Since when do you drink it black and strong without sugar? Stunned, tossed at sea, Hutch resorted to protecting his partner's interests—familiar territory. "You shouldn't be having caffeine."

"Jesus, Hutch, I'm about to change the way you think of me forever. I need a little backup. I know I can't mix alcohol with these meds, but don't deny me a cup of coffee."

Watching him walk stiffly into the living room and suddenly freezing cold despite his jeans and button-up shirt, Hutch decided coffee was a good idea for more than one reason.

The time it took for the coffee to percolate seemed an eternity. But when Hutch had both mugs prepared and was ready to face the stranger in his best friend's body, he thought eternity short-lived. Unable to sit side by side with Starsky on the sofa until he had a better grasp on the vortex he'd fallen into, he stopped at the armchair and sat down heavily. Starsky accepted the coffee and drank it in silence.

"You were dreaming of Vietnam again last night," Hutch said needlessly after a fortifying sip of his own coffee.

"Yeah."

"Night before last, when you wouldn't let me stay, and I asked if you were dismissing me, it was because you didn't want me close by-- in case you started dreaming again. Same thing when I got you home from the ER."

"Right."

"Is this the first time you've had those dreams?"

Starsky shook his head. Shoulders hunched, he hovered over his mug, letting the steam bathe his face. "No, but the first time in years. That gunfire in the movie brought back what I remember of the—the garage, and from there it was like dominoes. I fell asleep thinking about 'Nam; kinda natural I'd end up back there in my dreams."

"Starsk, what's this all about?"

Starsky lifted his head and stared straight ahead as if gazing down the corridor of the past. "The Viet Cong had a nasty but effective habit of infiltrating American-friendly villages close to field hospitals. The infiltrators would slip past security, move around the hospital area as South Vietnamese, and when they left an entire section was burning. Nurses, docs, and wounded soldiers all got blown to bits by hidden grenades. 'Nam might've been the television war, but this was stuff Cronkite couldn't talk about, I can tell ya that."

Words failed Hutch.

Starsky issued a bark of dead laughter in the silence. "Yep. That was the military's reaction, too. Bad enough for our hands to be tied officially and our boys ambushed, booby-trapped, and cut down out in the jungle. A damn different matter when wounded, helpless men and especially female army nurses and aid volunteers were gettin' shipped home in steel boxes. Halfway through my tour I got recruited into a special team formed to track the VC plants and deal with 'em."

"You mean kill them."

The ex-GI turned anguished eyes on Hutch. "Yes, dammit, we killed them. Once we had infiltrators tracked to a specific location, we went in by cover of night and took them out. Silent, quick, hand-to-hand. We couldn't go in there shooting American weapons. Plus, gunfire and explosives threatened innocent civilians, which we didn't want. I was trained to kill a man fifteen different ways with my bare hands."

"No…no," Hutch whispered, colder inside than he'd been in the kitchen. "No."

Starsky's eyes were now blank, their usual sparkle and life gone. "We were special operatives, working with the official but unofficial blessing of Uncle Sam. My name was Silent Death. We had names based on our initials. Starsky, David became Silent Death. I didn't choose the name—my teammates picked it because I was the quietest. And effective. I had twelve kills, second highest in my team."

"You kept count!" Hutch felt the cold shifting into appalled numbness.

"Hell yes, we kept count, Blondie! We knew every one we stopped wouldn't walk into a Red Cross sponsored orphanage someday and blow the place to ashes. You gotta understand, over there it was kill or be killed. The VC agents we killed were the same ones who cut Saigon prostitutes to pieces for sleeping with American GIs. And when I say pieces, I mean literally! It was estimated that every VC infiltrator would kill at least ten non-combatants if he or she wasn't stopped."

"She!" Overloaded, Hutch snatched only one word out of the entire speech.

"I was lucky. I didn't have to take out a female Cong operative. I don't think I coulda done it. But one of the other guys in my team dealt with a nineteen-year-old girl who looked all of thirteen. She was responsible for the deaths of three Red Cross volunteers, two Western reporters, and six wounded GIs bound for a rear echelon surgical unit over the course of her 'career'."

"Sweet Jesus." Hutch set his mug on the coffee table with trembling hands. "I just can't believe—"

"That's the whole point. The only way I'm here telling you this now is because we were good at what we did; there weren't traces to pin the kills on American soldiers. We were never caught, seen, or exposed. The South Vietnamese were even better at that sort of thing than us, so a lot of what we did was attributed to them. If one of us'd come home and tried to spill the beans, he would've been locked away in a government home for crackpots. He wouldn'ta been believed, or acknowledged."

Staring at the man on the sofa, Hutch tried to reconcile him with the David Starsky he'd known for ten years. The man who'd eaten his heart out over every deadly draw of his weapon on the streets; the man who went undercover to nail vigilantes; the man who showed his gentleness in subtle but meaningful ways every day; the man who loved more than one kind of music, pottery, playful dancing, comic books and good books, photography, peanut-butter-and-jelly burritos, Hanukkah and Christmas. The man Hutch loved first and fell in love with second.

A man trained to hunt and kill in ways Hutch probably couldn't imagine if he put his mind to it. No wonder you showed such sympathy for Alexander Drew.

"I know what you're thinking," Starsky said, his entire voice and posture hollowed out.

"I didn't say anything—"

"Over there," Starsky interrupted, "we followed the only law that existed. You lived by the sword, because you—and your buddies—died without it. We couldn't round those VC killers up and turn 'em over to some court to stand trial. It didn't work like that. We couldn't turn 'em over to the South Vietnamese, because we never knew who might be a VC or North Vietnamese sympathizer in disguise. And the legitimate South Vietnamese army would've tortured them to death in ways you'd need therapy if I told you about 'em. We positively identified VC responsible for specific atrocities, and then targeted them, and the deaths we delivered were quick and merciful in comparison."

"They were human beings! You just refer to them as targets, kills, a damned quota!"

Starsky visibly flinched. "If you'd been in country instead of at a comfy college walking around with picket signs, you couldn't sit there and be so damned self-righteous about it. If you'd seen identification crews sorting through pieces of nurses. If you'd seen little Vietnamese girls slit in two because they'd told American soldiers about seeing VC setting up booby traps in a 'friendly' zone. If you'd seen--" Starsky choked and looked away.

The images were meant to be brutal. Hutch put his hand over his mouth and stood, legs trembling beneath him. "I—I need some air. I need to think."

Without looking at him, Starsky waved. "Sure. It's been nice knowing you. Hell, it's been nice falling in love with you, too, but you probably don't want to hear that either right now."

Hutch left the apartment at a brisk stride.

>>>>>>

He walked aimlessly, not paying much attention to the world around him.

What was his problem? Twelve kills. If Starsky had flown a Corsair in WWII and chalked up twelve kills, he would've come home a celebrated ace and hero. The result would've been the same—twelve people dead. So, where was the difference? Was it that the enemy fighter pilots in WWII had a chance to defend themselves, dogfight for survival, while the VC who fell at Starsky's hand died under cover of night? Who was to say how much resistance they put up? Starsky hadn't elaborated on details. And the VC hadn't given their American non-combatant targets a chance to fight for their lives, so why should they be given that opportunity?

Hutch frowned, remembering the times he'd heard cops bounce the same argument back and forth.

Here, in 1979 Southern California, murderers were given more rights than they gave their victims, but Hutch didn't quibble with due process. The legal system might be flawed, but it was the law he'd sworn to uphold. But in the jungle, far removed from civilization, war was a different animal. Not just Vietnam. George Washington's famed Delaware crossing resulted in a bloody ambush of unprepared Hessians in Trenton. The French Resistance in WWII depended on secrecy and "guerrilla" warfare to take out Nazi strongholds, sometimes one Nazi soldier at a time. Hell, American fighter pilots ambushed and shot Japanese Admiral Yamamoto's plane out of the sky without warning-- amid high applause across the seas on Main Street America. Surprise and siege were key ingredients of successful warfare.

In fact, couldn't Starsky's team be credited with greater concern for mankind? Risking their lives to engage in targeted hand-to-hand combat rather than blowing entire villages sky-high. Wasn't Vietnam the first major conflict in which collateral damage was avoided at all costs? Often, deadly costs to American soldiers.

Hutch shivered despite the adamant midmorning sun.

In his opinion, war was inherently contrary to mankind's welfare, and he didn't regret holding up signs that begged for peace and an end to mass death and bloodshed. But he had no right to judge the reality Starsky lived with in the middle of Vietnam's hell. It was easier to point to other wars in American history as necessary, or right, or unavoidable. In much of society's estimation, Vietnam fit into none of those categories. But Starsky fought the unpopular war, and he'd carried old-fashioned ideals into the muck of the jungle—innocent life shouldn't be taken, wrongs should be righted, fighting to protect the helpless is justified. Where in all that was cause to be angry with him?

Hutch stopped cold and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Was he angry because Starsky waited a decade to tell him about this aspect of his past? Was that what propelled him out of the apartment when Starsky needed his understanding and unconditional love most of all?

This wasn't something a man pulled out of his scrapbook over bottles of beer and Huggy's nachos. Starsky had chosen to share this painful, controversial time in his life for the sake of his best friend's safety-- risking, as he'd said, changing Hutch's view of him forever. And his courage and concern had been rewarded with holier-than-thou condemnation.

Hutch knew he had to get back to Starsky. He just had one errand to run first, and he turned to head back to the apartment for his car.

>>>>>>

Closing the door quietly behind him, he found Starsky still on the sofa. He wondered if the man had moved during the intervening hour. Hutch sat on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of Starsky and tried to force eye contact.

Starsky's eyes were wet. Their lashes glistened making the dark blue of his irises seem twice the usual size. Hutch felt pain serrate his chest. Starsky wasn't known for racking sobs, but this was the equivalent. Finally, Starsky looked squarely at him. "I suppose you're thinking what happened to me was poetic justice. An assassin taken down by one of his own kind."

Hutch felt tears pricking his eyes. "Babe, no, you—God! You know I'd never think that, regardless. More importantly, you have to know—you know it's not the same."

Starsky remained silent.

Hutch brushed away the tears still lingering beneath the large, candid blue eyes and drew his hand down to cup Starsky's stubbly cheek. "You and I've seen our fair share of assassins, partner, and you're nothing like them, so don't hang that label on yourself. You didn't kill for sport, or for personal or monetary gain. You were a soldier, exacting wartime justice and trying to protect the lives of your innocent countrymen over there. I can see that. I can't understand what you went through, but I know the difference between a soldier and a murderer."

"Didn't sound like it earlier," Starsky said quietly.

"I was shocked, thrown off guard. It's been a long time since you could surprise me quite that much, Starsk, after all the roads we've been down together. I have a hard time equating the guy I've known for ten years with the stuff that went down over there. What you're capable of—I mean, oh, hell, that doesn't sound right. Your training, I'm saying. It doesn't show."

Starsky smiled, but the expression wasn't happy. "It's been heavy weight to carry around. When I came back stateside, I promised myself I wouldn't use that training. Ever. I wanted to be a cop, and I wanted to succeed like any other cop, with the training we got at the Academy. What I'm capable of is too dangerous to play with. Every time you and I wrestled or mock-fought, I always held back." Starsky's smile briefly looked genuine. "A little more'n I should've, probably-- you're a rough-and-tumble guy, Blondie."

Hutch dropped his hand from Starsky's cheek to squeeze his shoulder. "Those times when we 'fought' to a draw or I won, you were holding back, then. I never really 'bested' you, did I?"

Slightly embarrassed, Hutch remembered a wrestling ring in which he'd pinned Starsky with seeming ease. Starsky could probably have shattered his shin if he'd wanted. Hell, with the flick of a wrist if he could crush a windpipe two-fingered.

Starsky patted the hand on his shoulder. "Hutch, you're tough as nine-inch nails, tough as any guy on my team in 'Nam, but you don't have the same training. You haven't learned to use your body, your hands, the way I did. If I'd let myself go, fought to win all the time, I might've slipped and hurt you. I slipped once on the streets and it was a real wake-up call for me."

"When!" Hutch said loudly, shocked. He hadn't seen any evidence of excessive physical force on Starsky's part.

Starsky frowned, revisiting unpleasant memories. "You probably won't remember this. The only reason I do is because I've had to remind myself of it through the years. An example of what I can't afford to do. You do remember the stripper murder case, though, busting Delano…."

"Of course. He's one of our big fish."

"Remember us going to talk to Lou early in the case? We had to get through two of Delano's 'reception committee' members."

"Yeah, I'm following you." Hutch grinned. "I remember you disposing of one in a dumpster. Thought it was a nice touch, personally."

Starsky shook his head, face grim. "I came close—too close-- to really disposing of him. I bent his hand back before I pushed him down in the dumpster. I caught myself just in time. One inch farther down and using my trained force, I'd've broken the bones in his wrist and severed the artery."

"Holy--!" Startled, Hutch couldn't even supply the expletive.

Starsky sighed. "Nothing holy about it. Like I said, a heavy weight to carry around. They trained us well, but un-training yourself really ain't an option. Believe me, I've wanted to wipe my slate clean."