Author's note: I am working on the next sections of this now. This story has proven difficult to get out, but I'm getting it...slowly but surely. Thanks for all previous and future comments. They mean a lot!

Chapter TWO

Starsky knocked softly. There was no answer at first, then as he knocked louder, he heard Hutch call from inside. "It's open, Starsk."

It was dark. That was the first thing Starsky noticed. Only one sallow bulb from the living room threw off a feeble, sickly light. The second thing he noticed was Hutch lying on the couch. There were at least six empty beer bottles on the table and one half-empty bottle of scotch cradled in Hutch's arm.

Shit. He thought. Something just smelled wrong here, and it wasn't the scent of alcohol. He tried to remain casual. "How could you tell it was me? It's kinda dark in here." Starsky said, reaching casually down to flip on a lamp by the door. It cast a weaker, but friendlier glow across the room.

"Who else would it be, buddy?" Hutch was slurring his words, and his eyes were dark in the faint light. "Want a drink?" He held out the bottle of scotch.

"Yeah, sure." Starsky took a large swig from the bottle and set it on the coffee table. The burning in his gut from the liquor didn't quell the anxiety of seeing Hutch out of sorts. The two of them knew how to party, but had always kept it within bounds. This was different—Starsky knew it was different the same way he always knew what Hutch was feeling. "What's up? I was waitin' on you at Huggy's."

Hutch sighed and focused his gaze on Starsky. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't think I'd be very good company this time." His gentle blue eyes were watery and sad. "I meant to call. I just…didn't."

Starsky sat down beside the couch, feeling a pain in his heart from seeing his best friend driven so low. "Tell me about it." He put his hand on Hutch's arm, both comforting him and urging him to talk at the same time.

"What's to tell?" Hutch asked. "Just when I think I've seen the worst, some bastard comes along and shows me I was wrong." He held out his hand and Starsky reached out to grab the bottle and return it to him. The alcohol had loosened Hutch's tongue and Starsky wanted to keep him talking, if he could. A talking Hutch was good. "That kid yesterday." Silvery tears trembled in Hutch's blue eyes as he shook his head, unable to say more.

Neither one of them had handled the situation with the little girl very well. Starsky had more of a visceral reaction—seeing the dead child in the grass had turned his stomach inside out and he'd barely made it to the other side of the lot before he lost his lunch. Cursing, Hutch had punched and kicked the trunk and rear quarter panel of his car until there were several giant dents and his knuckles were bleeding. They had been so sure they would find her in time. When they had discovered that the killer was a caretaker of a church on 12th and Oak, they had sped, only to find the little broken body lost in the vacant weeded lot next door to the church. They had been too late only by mere hours.

"Yeah. I know. It's a goddamned shame." Starsky could still see the little girl—the flash of her little floral dress among the weeds still standing out in his mind. He knew with a certainty he would be tormented by the image for a long time to come. He'd known Hutch felt the same way by seeing how he had gone after the caretaker when they'd finally found him. The blond had tackled the fleeing murderer and, once the man had a bloody face and certainly a broken nose…then and only then had Starsky pulled Hutch off of him. He'd had to use every bit of his strength to hold Hutch back from completely pulverizing the man's face.

When Starsky shook off that memory, he saw that Hutch was wiping his face with the heel of one hand. Given some time, the anger had changed, morphed into frustration and depression. Starsky glanced down to give his partner some privacy for a moment. It wasn't the first time that either one of them had unabashedly shown emotion in front of the other. Some detectives were able to do their job and cut off all the feelings and emotions, but that process had always been an enigma to Starsky and Hutch.

Starsky leaned his head against the sofa and closed his eyes. He couldn't see how to help his friend and he didn't like it. Not a bit. After a moment, he felt Hutch's head lean against his own and they stayed that way for a long time, reveling in the company of the only one who completely understood the other.

"Maybe we need some time off…" Starsky began. "Dobey owes us for that overtime we put in on those gas station robberies."

Hutch shook his head. "It wouldn't make any difference. There will still be dead kids, dead hookers, dead junkies on the street…just another beautiful day in the neighborhood." The tone in his voice challenged Starsky for an answer, a resolution that couldn't ever be. Evil was a fact. Evil thrived in the shadows, and it would always be there, no matter what they did, Hutch realized.

Starsky's face was tight with worry. "Look. I know how you feel. You know I do, Hutch. But…we gotta be there for those dead kids, dead hookers and dead junkies. Who else is gonna make sure that the people responsible pay? You can't expect the DA to help—he just wants to take cases he can win or get good publicity for. You can't expect their families to be strong enough to do that. That's us—WE have to be strong enough to see the ugliness and turn it into justice 'cause no one else is gonna do it." His hand squeezed Hutch's arm and he lifted his head to meet Hutch's eyes. They stayed that way for long moments; Hutch's cornflower blue eyes met Starsky's faded denim blue ones, and they each silently drew strength from the other.

"Yeah," he breathed. "You're probably right." He didn't sound convinced, however.

"I'm worried about you, Hutch."

"I'm worried about me, too, Starsk." Hutch admitted with a wretched laugh. "But you know, life goes on. It's gotta."

"Yeah." Starsky murmured. "I'm here for you, partner. Just don't forget that."

The tide of emotion affected them both again and Hutch struggled, trying to fight the tears. He simply nodded-it was all he could do-and leaned his head back against Starsky's and they sat that way for a long, long time.

Finally Starsky stood up, stretching to work the kinks out of his back. "Let me get you some water before you go to bed. It'll help with the hangover."

Hutch made a sound of assent; his eyes had gotten heavy as the alcohol continued to catch up with him. "Thanks." He set the scotch on the table, swung to a sitting position on the couch and ran his hands through his hair.

Starsky noticed fragments of broken glass in the kitchen, shining like diamonds in the semi-light. There were a few dents in the kitchen wall above the wreckage. When he opened the cupboard, he noticed that there were no glasses. It didn't take a detective to figure out what had happened. He grabbed a mug from the dish drainer and filled it with water. "Hey, was there an earthquake or something and I missed it?" He raised an eyebrow as he handed the water to Hutch.

"Nope. Just a double dose of that ole' Hutchinson temper." The blond finished the water and allowed Starsky to help him up and towards his bed. "You stayin'?" Hutch asked sleepily as he tugged off his shoes and curled up against the pillows.

"Yep. You need anything, I'll be right on that couch over there." Starsky just didn't feel comfortable leaving Hutch alone just yet. "Just call for me." He reached out and tugged a blanket over Hutch before placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"You betcha." Hutch's breathing was already slowing, "Glad you're here." The blond murmured as sleep claimed him.

"Me too, blintz. Sleep now." Starsky reached up and smoothed Hutch's unruly hair back absently. He turned the lights down and went to find the blankets and extra pillows for crashing on the couch. It wasn't the first time he'd stayed and it wouldn't be the last. Hutch was going to be ok; Starsky would see to it personally.