Starsky was humming. It was a song he'd learned at the age of three and he'd never once had trouble with the lyrics. They'd come in handy from time to time, when he was playing silly games with his mother or his brother, or finding where his seat was in the classroom, or finding the right file in a drawer full of identical manilla folders.

He'd never sung it so much though. The lyrics were starting to lose their meaning, becoming pointless sounds that had a corresponding symbol and no other purpose. He was afraid that, by the end of the week, the song would be haunting him in his sleep. Along with lines of little numbers and letters, years of unswept dust that he'd been sneezing on for a month and that horrible grimy, smell…

It was a combination of dried cat urine and stale cigarette smoke. Every once in awhile one of the books would reek of it and he'd have to fight the desire to douse the book in kerosene and light it. Starsky was no longer fond of cats, cigarettes or the people that kept them around library books.

He hated the alphabet song with a crimson passion, but couldn't very well dispense with it. How else was he going to remember that H came before I, and P before R...V before W?

And the numbers were worse. Yvonne, the mean, diminutive old woman who ran the library, squinting through outdated spectacles that perched on her nose without need for ear pieces. She had hounded him for three days, trailing behind him as he put books back on the shelves and making him take down and reshelve every book she found out of place.

It was hard! .001 came before 1.001, 2.001 before 2.100 and 2.010… He'd spent half a day trying to find the biography section and instead ended up in the vinyl records, most of the items pulled from the shelf so that he could organize them by artist the way they should have been in the first place.

Yvonne had been especially vicious about that, driving him from the section like he was an unwanted seagull.

It wasn't fair that he didn't get to work with Hutch, just because his typing speed and accuracy left much to be desired. Hutch wasn't a speed typist necessarily himself, and Starsky had begun to suspect that the woman who was in charge of the typewriter room had specifically requested Hutch because of a tendency towards blonde men.

She certainly spent enough time fawning over him, bringing him homemade cookies and cakes. The two cavorted about, cooing over type sets and ribbon types and key strokes. He'd gone in once, fed up with the smell and sneezing in the stacks, to find Hutch and Dorice nearly cheek to cheek over the open face of a magazine salivating on, of all things, pictures of fountain pens.

Pens!

Starsky had angrily slammed the door to the room shut, alarming both the patrons inside the room as well as the librarian at the front desk, before storming out of the public library all together. Hutch had found him an hour later, napping in the driver's side of the Torino, a tissue clutched in one hand prepared for the next sneeze.

That had been the first week of their odd little stakeout.

The second week Starsky made a friend.

She was cute. Reddish-brown hair in tight curls around a pale face with grass green eyes. A few inches shorter than he was, perky and a little bit liberal. She was a college student, and a writer, she said when they bumped into each other in the stacks.

"I'm in this library practically every day. I met the blonde guy Dorice can't get over. Did they hire you at the same time?" She asked one day, leaning against a shelf full of romance novels with a casual sort of grace that Starsky could only remember seeing in the movies.

"Probably." Starsky said, shrugging. "Who knows? That guy's a schmuck anyway."

The girl laughed at him, a bright sound that he couldn't help but smirk at. "Schmuck huh?" She asked.

Starsky shrugged. "Caught him and Dorice the other day drooling over typewriter fonts. The guy probably can't even set a watch alarm."

The girl flashed him a look that seemed a little dangerous and a little sexy all at the same time. "Sounds like you're jealous."

"Of blondie? Hardly." Starsky had said, then squinted hard at the spine of the book that he'd been holding for the past ten minutes and hunted for the right spot, still feeling like any wrong move would bring Yvonne raining down on him.

"Third book in from the outside." The girl said, waited for him to place his book, then winked. "Catch you around, Schmuck."

She was attractive and smart, if a little young. A pleasant reprieve before Starsky went back to his business, faking the job of library page while actually hunting through the stacks and watching the patrons for a different kind of business.

The three long, boring, dust filled days of sinus headaches and watering eyes that followed were a little brighter with Clare around. She popped in and out of the stacks every other hour, claiming the need for a break from her typewriter. They talked about movies and magazines and books and comics. She told him a little of the novel she was writing and Starsky modified a few of the more creative reports he'd given Dobey, turning the stories into a strange detective comic he claimed to be writing.

Clare ate it up, eagerly listening to each tale.

By the start of the third week Starsky was beginning to really like Clare. It'd been a struggle to stay focused on his part of the job. He and Hutch were there to catch a drug dealer and any part of his mostly underaged crew. The remote, quiet self-maintained nature of the library had turned out to be the perfect place for drug or money exchanges. The building was public access, there were multiple entrances and exits, and the place so chronically understaffed because of government cutbacks, much of the illegal activity was likely to have gone unnoticed.

Drugs and money were being exchanged via books hidden throughout the stacks, under tables or inside the working parts of the typewriters, the record players or the card catalogue. Rumors had been flying through the library staff about the increasing drug activity but none of it had been substantiated until the day a cleaning lady walked into the women's restroom to find a fifteen-year-old girl passed out on the floor, a needle still in her arm.

The ambulance arrived too late, and the girl had been declared dead at the scene. Another OD in a world full of them, but it was the first to have happened in the library. It had been enough to garner the attention of the homicide and narcotics divisions. Since the man suspected of running the ring was wanted by both departments, Starsky and Hutch had partnered up with Kline and Granger of narco.

The two homicide detectives were to work from the inside and Kline and Granger from the outside. Their goal was to see just how big the ring was, and try to take down as many of the pieces as possible, at the same time.

That meant long covers, boring hours, days stretching into weeks. Stacks of reports. After the first two days both the blonde and brunette partner had begun to whine, explaining to Dobey all the reasons why they weren't, after all, best suited for the work.

Dobey had sat in his chair, hands folded on his desk, glaring them into silence before he told them, in no uncertain terms, that they were going to stay at the public library until hell froze over, or they caught the leader of the ring and put him away with good solid evidence. Whichever came first.

Now in week 4, after almost a month of humming the ABCs and washing his hands and face until they were red and raw, Starsky was hoping that hell would freeze soon, and kept an eye on weather reports that dipped below the 50s. The only bright spot had been the oddly familiar Clare.

The problem was, he was fairly certain that Clare was onto him. She'd been dropping hints here and there, about his familiarity with the legal system despite his claim that he had no legal degree or college training.

"I read a lot." Starsky had said with a shrug, but Clare had pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes.

With a shake of her head she'd said, "Nobody gets what you got out of a book. You get that kinda smarts by bein' a cop...or a criminal." She said poking Starsky's arm pointedly.

Starsky had tried to go with it, capturing the hand and pulling Clare closer to him. "You got me. I'm a criminal. I steal books from the library and give them to the poor."

"Oh!" Clare had cooed, letting herself be drawn in. "Robin Hood? How Arthurian."

What followed had been a beautiful moment during which, under any other circumstances, Starsky would have kissed her. When he didn't he could tell Clare was disappointed. She drew back claiming she had another chapter to finish. Starsky was trying to decide whether or not he could pull off asking her out on a date.

He desperately wanted to justify the risk, to both the case and his relationship with Clare, and was opening his mouth to ask, when his hand brushed against the inside of her elbow. He felt instantly the hardened scar tissue peppering her skin there and ducked his head, catching a glimpse of needle tracks. Some of them fresh.

"I got this whole cart to finish." He'd told her, a sheepish look on his face that he hoped explained the rush of red to his cheeks.

She gave him a sad, red faced look of her own then rallied admirably and turned on the hundred kilowatt smile. "And I've got the world's next great novel to finish." She said, then pecked at the side of his mouth and disappeared.

It took Starsky twice as long to finish the cart. He kept finding himself distracted by book titles.

The first had been "The Seduction Trap" by Sarah Wood. A story about a young girl with alarming maturity and a dark past. It'd been a chore, putting the Harlequin novel back on the shelf without cracking the cover. The needle tracks had turned Clare's bright future into a tragedy waiting to happen in Starsky's mind.

Worse yet, his observation of the track marks technically made her a suspect now. It was the book "The Kidney and Hypertension in Diabetes Mellitus" by Carl Mogensen that got him thinking maybe he was overreacting. He'd cracked the cover of that one, hunting through the dense index, then put it back and chose another book on the same disease, then another, until he found something about needle tracks. Insulin, or multiple hospital stays or...or any other of thousands of reasons for Clare to have used the same vein so many times.

She hadn't looked strung out, or hollow eyed and over-thin the way junkies did. She'd looked healthy and fresh faced and bright and attractive.

It was Starsky's plan to tell Hutch about it that night, and maybe try to figure out who Clare was the following morning. To that end he figured he might be able to get her last name out of her, maybe even a phone number. The part of him that wanted to save lost kittens, rescue sweet old ladies and do everything to keep innocence and wonder alive, desperately hoped that he was wrong.

The pit of his stomach and the cop senses he had, the vague characteristic that Clare had spotted early on, were telling him he'd be arresting Clare and trying to turn her against her boss, before he ever had a chance to date her.

His suspicions were heightened when he ducked into the typewriter room that same day and found it empty but for Dorice. Hutch was using the restroom she said, and Clare had left early for the day. Even Dorice seemed surprised at Clare's rapid departure.

That evening, as the librarians were closing the building down around five pm, Starsky and Hutch did their normal sweep, checking the nooks and crannies of the building for drug paraphernalia. They found a few baggies, a needle and a spoon, crooked dramatically at the handle.

Hutch found a beer can that had been cut in half, the bottom of the can tarnished by soot from a flame. They were standing outside the men's restroom bagging the evidence when Starsky cleared his throat.

"What?"

"S'nothin'."

Hutch waited, sealing the evidence bag and writing on the front of it. He'd recapped the marker before Starsky cleared his throat again. "You want a lozenge or you gonna spit it out?"

"You know Clare?"

Hutch smirked. "Yeah, nice girl. Seems to like you."

"I like her too." Starsky mumbled, distracted. "I uh...noticed some funny little scars on her arm though."

Hutch straightened almost immediately, his eyes honing in on Starsky's even in the darkness of the mostly vacated library.

"I figure maybe she's diabetic. Maybe...there's some other kinda medicine she's got to take all the time."

"She doesn't look like a junkie." Hutch said.

"No, she doesn't. She's smart, too."

"And talented, I've read some of her novel." Hutch said casually.

Starsky's eyes opened a little wider at that and he glared, a pang of jealousy hitting his empty and growling stomach. "She won't let me near it, why did you get to read it?"

"Relax, Starsk, I read some of the pages she tossed in the trash."

"What are you hunting through the trash for?"

Hutch lifted the baggie and shook it. "Needles."

"Oh."

"Did you get her last name?" Hutch asked.

"She left before I could. She told me she's a student. I figured I'd go by the university tomorrow morning, see if I can't get anywhere with a description in the registrar's office."

"Want some company?"

"I'd hate to tear you away from Dorice." Starsky snarked, following his partner through the darkened stacks, and toward the central staircase that was always locked to everyone but staff. The staircase ran the height of the building, emptying into the basement where the library had public use meeting rooms and staff offices.

"Tear me away from Dorice." Hutch said, flashing his partner a look of terror that was only partially faked.

Starsky snickered leading the way through the basement door that serviced staff only and locking the library up behind them. The exit emptied into the subterranean garage, normally only occupied by the library bookmobile at that hour. Both men slowed their steps when they spotted the dark green sedan idling a few feet from the garage entrance. The harsh, halogen lights reflected off the slanting windshield, obscuring their view of the driver, but they could plainly see the pale faced, rail thin man leaning into the car.

Starsky could also see the curly headed girl in the passenger seat. She spotted him in almost the same instant and they stared at each other for only a second before Clare leaned toward the driver. The business transaction ended abruptly, the thin man jerking toward the staircase that led to street level. The sedan squealed its tires, hastily storming out of the garage.

Starsky was in the Torino a second later, Hutch taking off on foot after the buyer. Hutch was on the street a full minute before Starsky could navigate the garage, keeping the green sedan in sight. It turned off the main drag seconds before the blonde slid into the passenger seat.

"Turned right on High Street!" He shouted, slapping the Mars light onto the roof even before he'd latched his door.

The tires spat smoke and Starsky took the first right, crossing parallel to the green sedan.

"You catch the license plate?"

Hutch already had the mic in his hand and responded with a "Zebra Three to central, Zebra Three to central, I need an APB on a green sedan, Chrysler, license plate HLO3092. Repeat Hotel Lima Oscar 3092."

The sound of Mildred responding was lost under the growl of the engine as Starsky floored the accelerator getting the car through an intersection before the light turned.

"Still see it?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah, we're keepin' pace. I'm gonna try to get ahead of 'em."

"Following from in front. Neat trick, given that we don't know who they are or where they're going?"

"One of 'em was Clare." Starsky said, his face grimly focused on the driving.

Hutch braced his hands against the dash and sat back, not sure how to respond. They crossed a few more intersections before Starsky veered to the left, drove a block then jagged to the right again.

Hutch caught sight of the Chrysler through a clutter filled alley and shouted, "We're still with 'em."

"Zebra Three, Zebra Three, your Chrysler has been spotted exceeding speed limits on West High Street. Responding officers in pursuit."

"Central, patch me in to that unit." Hutch called, then waited, watching each alley they passed.

"Chrysler's pickin' up speed." Starsky said, his voice reflecting the danger that kind of speed threatened.

"They're heading west, they've only got so many options." Hutch scanned the part of the city they were racing through, knowing that eventually the roads would thin out into suburbs and smaller bedroom communities. Parents and kids out and about on an early Friday evening. Targets for a criminal driving a speeding car, trying to evade the police.

The radio crackled a second later and a voice familiar to both popped through the speakers.

"Zebra Three this is Adam 16, go ahead."

"That you, Kyle?*" Hutch called, smirking at the thought of the once clumsy rookie who had saved his life in the halls of the Bay City 9th precinct building once.

"In the flesh, Detective Hutchinson. Wanna tell me who you've scared off this time?"

"Not really sure. But we need to get ahead of this guy. Try to cut him off before he can disappear into the housing units."

"We've got a solid tail on this guy, if those of you with a higher pay grade would like to do the- Jesus Christ!"

Both heard the terror in Kyle's voice before they heard a staticky screech that vibrated through the paneling on the doors. Then the radio went silent.

"Adam 16." Hutch called into the handset, even as he was positive they wouldn't respond.

A second later they passed the intersection that had stopped Adam 16 in its tracks, the cruiser pinned against a telephone pole by a garbage truck.

"Dispatch we need ambulance and black and whites to the corner of West High Street and Mulberry. Officers down." Hutch breathed, one hand clutching the handset, the other bracing himself against the back of the seat to keep from landing in Starsky's lap as they turned the corner onto Mulberry.

They ran three lights before Starsky slid the car into place, blocking two-thirds of Mulberry street south of the accident.

There was blood on the shattered windshield of the cruiser, specks of it somehow scattered across the hood as well. Starsky ran for the driver's side, and Officer Kyle, while Hutch checked on Kyle's newest partner, Officer Logan.

Hutch knew Logan was dead even before he got there. Necks didn't bend that way and still allow air through the windpipe. He checked for a pulse anyway and could have sworn that, for a brief second, he felt one fluttering under his fingertips. There were no breaths, however, and after Hutch had reached into the car to kill the ignition on the other side of the warped steering wheel, his second check told him he was wrong. No pulse. No breath. Officer Logan was gone.

"Starsk?"

"He's alive. He's broken up bad, but he's alive." Starsky said, then glanced up at the pale, haunted look on his partner's face. He didn't have to ask. "Check on the garbage truck driver. See if you can't back his rig up, huh?"

"Yeah." Hutch said, then ran from the car, scanning the mess of vehicles, onlookers and trash that the accident had created. He could hear more sirens in the distance and rushed to the garbage truck, yanking the driver's side door open and leaping up onto the step.

There was no driver. Hutch stepped down and stared around the crowd looking for someone with a possible head injury, wearing a Bay City Dump badge, or the distinctive gray coveralls. When he finally found his man he was astonished to see him charging toward the dump truck at full speed, completely uninjured. Hutch didn't wait.

Pulling himself up into the seat Hutch hit the warning lights, leaned on the horn and started slowly backing the dump truck away from the cruiser it had rammed, apparently, unmanned. The cruiser shook and groaned, then settled against the asphalt, bits of glass, metal and plastic falling off as the two vehicles separated. Starsky tried the driver's side door, just to prove to himself that he couldn't open it with his own strength. To his surprise it moved, groaned, held fast for a long moment, then gave, the whole door coming off its hinges.

Starsky leapt backwards, stumbling onto his ass on the pavement, but managing to avoid the door landing on him.

Hutch parked the garbage truck, set the brake and turned off the engine before he jumped down from the driver's seat and slammed the breathless garbage man against the side of the deadly vehicle.

"What's your name?"

"H-h-harry."

"Is this your truck?" Hutch demanded, jabbing the side of the bucket.

The man barely managed to swallow.

"You just killed a cop and obstructed officers in pursuit of a suspect. I'd think real hard about the consequences you're gonna deal with if you add deserting the scene of an accident to the list. Hear me?"

The man nodded, trembling, his eyes filling with tears. He was genuinely afraid, genuinely aware of what he had become responsible for...genuinely sorrowful. Hutch let him go, forcing himself to breathe twice before he gritted his teeth and said, "Sit down. Don't move."

Then he was headed for the Torino, getting out the word and watching his partner as Officer Kyle regained consciousness, launching into a world of pain that hadn't existed before.

Thanks to a review from a friend I have realized that I'm in the bad habit of referencing my own stories. For that reason, I ask that you indulge my record keeping. I will * the references that are not canon/part of the show and list the stories that are referenced here.

*The Hurt Lesson