Two nights after what we have starting referring as 'the accident', when Hutch kicks me off his couch, and out of his house.

"I am tired," he says, and I have no problem believing him. His face still reflecting the dark circles of exhaustion.

Of course he's tired. I'm tired too.

Hutch hasn't slept a wink since I brought him home, and know this because I've been sleeping on that damn couch of his.

Sure, he'll go to bed at a normal time, and he'll try real hard to not toss and turn. But, eventually, once 3 am rolls around, he'll quietly slip outta bed. And then, he just paces.

He spends hours just pacing and pacing around his small one room house. Not really doing anything. Not really even seeing anything. Just lingering.

And me? What am I doing while he's lingering around his house silently?

Well, I pretend like I'm still sleeping from my post on the couch. But I don't get a wink of sleep, either, because I'm too focused on waiting for him to come wake me up and tell me he needs to talk about it.

Not that Hutch and I do much talking anymore. We used to talk all the time, but a man named Ben Forest and little, white powder called heroin , changed all that.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" I try one more time, mostly because if Hutch does happen to sleep tonight and the boogeyman by the name of Ben Forest makes an appearance in Hutch's dreams, I kinda wanna be there for that.

"Starsky," he says, with a grin. "I am fine. I will be fine. Please go home. Sleep in your own bed."

I look at him and I really don't want to leave. So, I say the one thing I have been waiting to say ever since I first saw him in that ally next to the uniform cop.

"I can't help but worry about you."

He smiles at that and moves his arm across my shoulder to guide me to the door.

"Thanks, pal." he says. "But I'll be fine."

After he pushes me out and closes the door, I stand silently outside. Still wondering if I should really leave him. He's only been back for a couple of days, and I can't shake the feeling that something just isn't right.

XX

The squad room is packed today and the distraction is terrific.

Hutch is back at work; only five days after being found, strung out on the street. Dobey was against it, and so was I, but Hutch said he needed something to do. He pushed and Dobey caved, so he is back at work, despite how I feel about it.

Hutch turned down Dobey's suggestion that he do a couple sessions with the department psych. He said he didn't have anything to talk about. The whole thing was over and he was fine. He just wants to move on with his life.

I am still trying to decide if I believe him or not.

But, of course, I'm not supposed to know about any of that, and the only reason I do, is because Dobey told me. Now, I'm not real sure how I feel about talking to Dobey behind Hutch's back, but it was nice to hear that someone else was sharing my apprehension about Hutch jumping back in to work so soon.

In the end, Dobey just told me to keep an eye on him and to let him know if Hutch starts acting weird. Dobey also told me to be ready to talk about Forest, when Hutch was ready. I didn't need that particular reminder, but I think it made Dobey feel better just to say the words.

Hutch still hasn't told me a damn thing, about his time in Forest's custody, and I have a sneaking suspicion that if it weren't for the two days we spent in the little apartment above Huggy's, drying him out, I probably wouldn't know anything at all.

I think Hutch is ashamed and that's why he's doesn't want to talk about it. And even though, not a damn bit of it is his fault, I suppose I can understand where he's coming from.

I also suppose, that's what keep me from pushing at him to talk about it. Well, that the fact that the whole situation was just so traumatic; for both of us. I am ashamed to admit that maybe, just maybe, I don't really want to know all the details, because what I already know is breaking my heart.

That doesn't keep me from noticing his eyes, though. There is a level of sadness in those eyes that I am not sure I've ever seen before. It's just so haunting.

He's still not sleeping good either. Although, if you ask him, I'm sure he'd lie about it say he's sleeping just fine. I would know, I asked him this morning. But the permanent dark circles under his eyes and the way he's always yawning is a dead giveaway of lack of rest.

Then there's his problem focusing. Or maybe he having the opposite problem. Because he's been staring intently at the same page of the same file for the last 90 minutes. I wonder if he knows it and if his concentration is on the case file or something else completely.

"Hutch."

"Hmm?" He doesn't look up. He just keeps staring at the papers.

"You okay?" I make sure I ask softly. I don't want to be overheard.

He sighs, looks up, and then gives me a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes.

"Fine."

I am not convinced. People who claim to be fine, rarely ever are.

"I can't help but be worried about you." I say, quiet once again.

"I'm fine, Starsk." Hutch says a little firmer this time, but he's returned his gaze to the riveting page of the case file, and I don't get an expression to go with the statement.

I look at him for a second longer, deciding whether to push for more information or to let it go. In the end, I give up on probing him. He'll be okay. He just needs more time to sort through it all.

He's silent for the rest of the day.

XX

We are working a crime scene at the warehouse district, when it happens again. I reached my hand out to try to grab Hutch's arm, but he just pulls away. Like my hand will burn him or something, if he allows the contact.

He's been doing that a lot lately: avoiding physical contact. Which is weird, because Hutch an me are normally pretty touchy feely. It makes me feel like I did something wrong. But to also makes me anxious.

I finally got up enough nerve to ask him if Forest did something besides shoot him up; something that would make him want avoid physical contact. I didn't use any specifics, but he knew what I was really asking, because he glared at me and growled "no", followed by a "fuck you". I didn't really think that the profanity was necessary, but it's nice to know that he can still get angry about something.

Hutch hardly ever gets angry anymore. In fact, I don't think he feels much of anything these days.

I've tried just about everything to get him to talk about things. I've yelled and screamed. I've been silent and supportive. Nothing works, and I've finally just settled on waiting for him to come around, although, now I am starting to wonder is that is ever going to happen.

I try not to notice when Hutch moves from my side and filters his way through the uniformed cops, before finding himself a nice quiet corner of the room to stand in.

Hutch is so uncomfortable these days. At any given moment it's like he could just crawl right out of his skin. No matter where we are or who is around us, he seems to be waiting for some unseen enemy to make their move.

Things are starting to change, and I am not sure what I should do about it. Hutch's behavior is starting to seem a little strange, but I don't feel quite right about running to Dobey about it, at least not yet anyway.

He's isolating himself. Hutch never wants to hang out after work anymore. And the few times that I have tried to get him to go to Huggy's for a beer, he's turned me down. Hutch loves beer, and he loves Huggy's, so of course, I think this is a little weird. But he always says he's tired, and that he wants to go home and rest. Which I believe, because I can tell he still isn't sleeping.

Some nights I still bully myself into sleeping on his couch, so that I can keep watch over him. Sometimes I don't, because I know that he really doesn't want me there. His silence and lack of interest over my presence is proof of that. He doesn't say anything about it, though. He never says anything.

I look up from the boot tracks that one of the uniformed officers pointed out to me, to locate Hutch. He doesn't seem to be doing much investigating from his corner. I sigh, and make my way over to him.

I want to ask him what's going on, but don't want to come off as prying. I am so sick of hearing him say he is 'fine'.

Normally, I would be in his face. Demanding to know what happened, but this isn't a normal situation, and this isn't a normal kind of hurt. Hutch isn't broken, he's shattered, and I don't know what to do to fix him.

My head tells me to push. To bully him into disclosure, but I know now that I can't do that, for fear that he will pull away from me completely. I am starting to feel like I am walking a tight rope and Hutch is sitting on my shoulders, while I try to keep us both from falling off.

There is nothing fine about him, and it's starting to worry me. This isn't the bounce back that Hutch promised, when he kicked me off of his couch three weeks ago.

"Hey, Hutch," I say softly. "I'm done here, how about you?"

"Yep."

And just like that, Hutch leaves the safety of his corner, and we make our way outside.

When we are almost to the car and away from the other officers, I finally voice my concern.

"I can't help but be worried about you."

Hutch doesn't look at me when he replies.

"I'm fine."

But nothing seems fine, because that that last thing he says to me for the rest of the day.

XX

The second I walk through the door of his apartment, I am assaulted by the smell of air fresher and Marlboros. Hutch has started smoking, again. And, apparently, he's been smoking in his house, a fact that the cheap drugstore air freshener is doing a horrible job of hiding.

I haven't asked him about it, though, and I don't think that I will. I figure that with everything he's been through, at the very least, the guy deserves to sneak a pack of smokes, without his partner getting all up on his shit about it.

Besides, it isn't like he's hiding a secret drug habit. Believe me, I would know. I know enough about the physical and behavioral warning signs to write a book about them. And Hutch's behavior isn't that, it's something else.

Hutch is seated at his kitchen table nursing half a glass of bourbon. God only knows how much he has already had.

Stopping in front of the table, I put my hands on my hips, and I brace myself for another one-sided conversation.

"What are you getting day drunk now? Christ, Hutch, it isn't even noon!"

When I say the words, they come out angry, arrogant, and judgmental. I mean them to challenge. Maybe they can crack that apathetic shell of his and force some anger. Or at least something.

But I'm left hoping, because Hutch isn't taking the bait. He just shrugs and takes another drink.

Little by little, Hutch has stopped talking. He barely says anything at all, outside of the general expected niceties, and it scares the shit out of me.

And all I can do, is watch him pull away from me, slowly. I try my best to act supportive; like everything is a-okay. Like this whole situation of him not talking, not eating, and not sleeping, isn't killing me.

Like it doesn't kill me to see him struggle, holding all his hurt and torment inside.

I want to scream in his face and shake some sense into him, but I hold myself back. I am afraid of saying the wrong thing, or pushing too hard. Instead, I drop myself on his worn couch. Leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees, I rub at my temples.

I am at a loss. I don't know what to do. What can I possibly do?

"I can't help but worry about you," I say. Pushing down my anxiety; my face still covered by my hands.

And Hutch says, nothing at all.

XX

The silence in the car is deafening; despite the noise of the traffic on the highway and the purr of the Torino's engine.

I look to my partner, and I want to say something, anything. But I can't. I'm too stuck between my own fear and the awkwardness of today's silence.

It didn't used to be like this.

There was a time when the silence between us could be welcome. There were even days where it had been a comfort; a safe place to takes refuge from the cold world.

It isn't like that now. Now our silence is the silence of strangers; awkward and cold. And now, this new kind of silence seems to settle between Hutch and me more often than not.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit next someone who is completely silent, but still be able to hear them scream?

I do. And it is about the worst thing I've ever had to do; sitting here, being a spectator while my best friend looks like he's ready to jump off a bridge.

He fakes it okay in front of rest of the world. Does what he is supposed to do; says what he's supposed to say. But when it's just two of us, alone, that's when the truth shines through.

I want to ask him a million questions. Things like: how are you doing? And why can't you talk to me about what happened?

But I don't; because I can't.

Hutch is like a turtle who is hiding in his shell. You can't force him out; you have to let him come out in his own time.

I was never any good at waiting, and I hate it now.

I can't help but think that Hutch has given up on getting better, and I am scared to admit that maybe I have too.

I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help him. But even so, a silent shell of Hutch sitting in the passenger seat, is better than no Hutch at all.

I sneak another peak at my partner, through the corner of my eyes. He has himself shoved so far against the passenger side door, it makes me think that if there were a way for him to crawl into the window slit and hide completely, he would.

I find myself breaking the silence. I just can't handle it anymore, and words tumble out before I can stop them.

"I can't help but worry about you."

And at that, Hutch doesn't even look at me. He doesn't even respond. He just keeps his mouth shut in a familiar, tight line, and his eyes set in the road ahead of us.

I find myself wondering whether he is just ignoring me, or if he really is so lost in his own world, that he can't hear me at all.

I sigh and give up on conversation. For today.

XX

Well, here we are, Hutch and me. On this beautiful, Wednesday morning, siting in the front seat of my car. But despite the weather, my mood is serious.

This isn't a normal Wednesday. And we aren't working a beat or killing time on a stake out.

Nope.

We're parked in front of an inpatient treatment center.

Dobey finally got involved, and he's making Hutch do a 60 day stay. I think we are all hoping that some time and some therapy will bring the old Hutch back to us.

I wonder if Hutch thinks that it was me who ratted to Dobey. It wasn't, but sometimes I wonder if maybe I should have. Instead of sitting on my ass, watching Hutch drown in his emotional whirlpool for the last six weeks.

I agreed to drop Hutch off, and I'm planning to be right here to pick him up, the second he gets discharged. He didn't ask me to, but I think by now that's the kinda thing that's just assumed. I want to make sure he knows that I'll be back to get him, so I tell him anyway.

"I am gonna be here, when you get out," I offer him a smile and continue. "Right in this very spot. In fact, I may just sit here the entire time you're in there."

My joke earns me a quarter smirk, and I take that as a win. But my joy is short lived, because Hutch pushes out a heavy sigh and opens his door to get out of my car.

I find myself doing the same.

He stands awkwardly, while I pull his beat up, green duffle bag from the backseat. What someone packs for rehab, I don't even know.

I hand it to him and he slings it on his shoulder, and shoves his hands in his pant's pockets.

I find myself fighting tears, as I look at him. Jesus, I feel like I'm cutting off my left hand, leaving him here like this.

"I'm gonna miss you," I whisper, my voice heavy. And the moment that I say it, I realize, I have been missing Hutch for a while.

I decide to take a chance and pull him into my arms for a goodbye hug. I don't know if the hug is more for him or me, and I can't help but be a little surprised when he doesn't pull back from me.

In fact, he does the opposite; throwing his arms around me and clinging hard. Like he might never let go.

It makes happy and sad at the same time.

"I can't help but worry about you," I find myself whispering the same old line, but it's the response, thick with tears, that shocks me.

"Me too."

END