Part 3

"You've lost weight." Starsky's tone was concerned as he observed the drawn and sunken features of his partner later the following morning. "When was the last time you had something proper to eat?"

"Oh I don't know…" Hutch shrugged matter-of-factly, "Yesterday sometime maybe."

"You've not been eating properly." The curly haired detective scolded as he aimed a knowing glare in Hutch's direction.

"So what am I supposed to do?" Hutch suddenly snapped as he turned vehemently towards Starsky before appearing to soften slightly at the sight of his partner's sky-blue eyes looking back at him.

Starsky sighed, seeming pained. He should have seen this coming; it was so like his best friend to start blaming himself for something which wasn't his fault. The truth was that everybody had been so focused on his own recovery over these past few weeks that they had failed to recognise the adverse effect that the shooting had had on Hutch, and it was now his partners welfare that Starsky was beginning to fear for, lest he should soon be receiving first hand experience of the city infirmary, on the other side of the hospital bed – not that it would be the first time.

"EAT!" Starsky's tone was firm and he looked at Hutch disapprovingly, eyebrows raised. "Here." He said as he handed him the untouched bowl of porridge from his breakfast tray. "You can start with this."

"Hospital food not appeal to your taste then?" Hutch smiled with forced cheer.

"I have my own personal catering system." Starsky laughed as he pointed to a small brown paper bag, which until now Hutch had not observed – grease stains were already beginning to gather at the bottom making him feel queasy at the sight of it. "Courtesy of 'The Pits'." Starsky smiled.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "You know Huggy will expect you to pay him for that mess don't you?" He asked him.

"So, he can add it to my tab." Starsky grinned. "I'll get back to him."

"Yeah, if the contents of that bag don't kill you first." Hutch muttered.

"Huh?" Starsky frowned absentmindedly as Hutch's words failed to reach him, but even as the words left his lips his partner had suddenly gone silent, taken aback by the painful significance of what he'd just said.

"Nothing." The blond shook his head as he rose from his seat. "It doesn't matter." He continued as he made his way over to the window, proceeding to gaze absently out at the sight of the city below.

Starsky attentively observed Hutch's unmoving form for a moment, the soft rise and fall of his rib cage the only thing separating him from an ancient stone immortalisation, wearied through age and by the unforgiving hands of time – but to his dismay Starsky realised that in this case it wasn't time that had had such an unkind effect on his friend, and equally it would take more than a decent meal and a good night's sleep to help fix it.

"How's the wrist?" He asked at last, referring to the injuries Hutch had sustained in the hospital parking lot on the day of his shooting, as he searched around for something matter of fact to say in his desperation to curb the uneasy silence which had elapsed between them.

"I wouldn't know." Hutch sighed. "With the painkillers they've still got me on for it, I can't feel it." Hutch had developed a serious infection in the wound just a couple of weeks before, whilst Starsky had still been in the ICU, and was still recovering from it.

"You were lucky you avoided a punctured vein." Starsky pointed out. "You got off lightly with just a flesh wound."

Although perhaps not quite so lightly, he thought, remembering how the infection had left him with a raging fever and had led to a short stay in the hospital himself.

"Lighter than a gunshot wound to the chest in any case." Hutch muttered in response to this, before continuing in a whisper. "Although sometimes I almost wish I hadn't."

Starsky gave his partner a perturbed look, raising his eyebrows perceptively as the silence immediately resumed. "Hutch, please, just talk to me… tell me, what are you feeling? What's going on in that mind of yours?" He pleaded.

"Nothing Starsk." Hutch replied, his tone conveyed that he'd rather his friend drop the subject. "You're the one confined to a hospital bed. You should be resting, not spending all your time worrying about me." He sighed. "You could have died."

"Although it's always toughest on the one's left behind." Starsky reminded him.

"Pardon?"

"Your words not mine partner." Starsky shrugged as he re-called his partner's reaction to the news the first time he had almost lost his life in the line of duty. "I'm worried about you Hutch." He continued gravely. "You're not eating, you're not sleeping… all that time I spent in the ICU on life support I was completely oblivious to everything going on around me… a pain free, fear free existence, understand? The hell you lived through during those terrible few days… that was your hell Hutch, not mine."

Hutch didn't respond, instead he turned his back to face his partner. "I'm sorry I've gotta go." He said hastily, forcing a smile, but Starsky could see right through his friend's facade. "I'll be back later." Hutch promised.

"But you've gotta eat Hutch." Starsky called after him as he observed the untouched bowl of porridge, still sitting cooling on the breakfast tray in front of him where it had remained since he had offered it to him.

"I'm not hungry." He heard Hutch mutter, before closing the door behind him – leaving Starsky to contemplate what was to possibly be done.

He recalled a conversation he'd shared with his suffering friend just a few days after he'd initially regained consciousness.

"Hey," Hutch had smiled as Starsky had opened his eyes. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I've just had three chunks of rusty metal taken out of me." His best friend had smiled. "How about you?"

"I've had both better and worse days." Hutch had admitted to him. In hindsight Starsky thought this had probably been the last time his partner had been honest with him about how he'd been feeling. "Better for not being in here, but worse because there was a time, only a few days ago when I thought I was going to lose you."

"You look tired." Starsky had observed with a frown.

"I thought you were dead Starsk!" Hutch had sighed, he'd rubbed his hand over his face and had let his head fall until it had come to rest in his hands. Starsky had been right, he'd been exhausted, and he just didn't seem to have had strength enough to raise it again once it had settled there.

It had been the touch of his partner's fingers against his elbow which had eventually made him look up again.

The two had shared a look of mutual love and understanding. They'd worked together for so many years. The streets were busy and frequently dangerous for two cops. It had always been their special bond which had seen them through so much trial and heartache in the past. Hutch was as close as a brother to Starsky, and he to Hutch.

"Nah," Starsky had winked at him playfully, lightening the sombre mood. "Not a chance… besides, I knew you weren't." He'd told him.

"How?" Hutch had asked.

"I could still feel you in here…" He'd explained, pointing to the area of his chest where he knew his heart was. His torso had still been swathed in bandages and the medication he'd been on had made him feel a little woozy but he'd thought he'd accurately located the general area, and he'd thought he'd noticed a tear escape from one of Hutch's bloodshot eyes and roll down his blanched cheek. "I wouldn't have left you alone blondie." He'd reassured him. "It's me and thee remember. That's a bond. A promise. Do you really think I'd renege on that?"

Outside in the hospital parking lot Hutch sat behind the wheel of Starsky's restored Ford Gran Torino, or 'Stripped Tomato' as he'd so often referred to it – his face pale, eyes dormant as they reflected the hollowness which had settled in his own heart.