Author's Note: Big thanks to Silent Train Conductee, not for help with the story, but for remembering my birthday and making me a wonderful gift. Thank you.

Starsky stomped up the stairs to Hutch's apartment. "This is getting really old," he muttered over the echoing scrape of rubber on concrete.

After leaving the bus barn and its shaken employees yesterday, he and Hutch had retreated to Huggy's, and things just seemed to go downhill from there.

Hutch had clamed up again, and despite all of Starsky's best tricks, the blond spent the majority of the night staring at the bottom of his glass. His dinner went just as untouched as his lunch, and for once Hutch had ordered more beers than Starsky. Not that that was a lot, mind you, but still. Hutch never out-drank Starsky.

Starsky grabbed the cool metal railing and hauled himself up over the last step. This was the second morning in a row that he had to leave the protection of the air conditioned Torino and retrieve his partner by hand. And it was getting old.

He had dropped Hutch off last night and returned to his own apartment for a little peace and quiet, where things still made sense. Trying to get Hutch to open up had proved exhausting, and fruitless. Quite frankly, Starsky was glad for their time apart. It gave him some much-needed time to recharge before attempting to open the Pandora's box that was Ken Hutchinson. After all, Starsky was not a mind-reader. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't help unless he knew exactly what was haunting his partner. Hutch was overreacting to an event that should have only caused some minor heartache and empathy- not full blown grievance and depression. Starsky had been there too, and he wasn't shook so badly. It's not like Hutch had a child on that bus.

Starsky reached the door and grabbed the handle with one hand and pushed his key into the lock with the other. He pushed open the door.

"Hutch, buddy, I'm gonna get you a new alarm clock for your birth-" he froze, taking in the scene before him. "…Holy…"

Bottles. Liquor bottles- not the cheap stuff- were scattered over the coffee table, uncapped, at different volumes of fullness, and glistening in the morning sun like a small crystalline city. Two empty shot glasses sat balanced on the edge of the table as if they were thinking about jumping, falling to the carpet below and reuniting with a larger glass that lay on its side. And all alone, an overseer and silent watchman to the ruins before it, sat Hutch's guitar. It was propped up against the corner of the couch cushions and looked for all the world like it had a story to tell.

"Uh…" Starsky began, suddenly remembering that he had a voice, "Hutch?"

A jolt of awareness prompted Starsky. He moved away from the open door and started for the most likely place his partner would have dragged himself- the bathroom.

Starsky's heart began to beat faster and a tingling of fear raised the hair on his arms. Images of Hutch, dead from choking on his own vomit, assaulted his mind before he could stop them. He passed through the bedroom, seeing but not seeing the drooping fern and discarded clothing, and approached the open doorway to the bathroom.

Yellow light poured over the small white tiles and Starsky couldn't hear anything from within. His heart was in his throat.

"Hutch?" he called, grabbing the doorjamb to remind himself that this was all indeed real. A second later, Starsky filled the doorway and found his answer.

"Hey," he breathed in relief as he moved forward. Hutch was crumpled in the corner, in between the sterile white toilet and the unforgiving wall. He was shirtless, his hair was disheveled, and he was clearly passed out. His legs were sprawled on the floor, his shoes were missing, and only one foot was wearing a sock.

Later, after many years down the road, Starsky thought that he might look back at this and laugh.

"Hutch, wake up," Starsky spoke, his voice loud and more sure of itself than he was. He moved forward and dropped to a crouch in between Hutch's spread legs and reached forward, landing a gentle slap on Hutch's cheek. "Come on, Hutch, time to get up."

Hutch winced and turned his head into the wall, bringing a small smile to Starsky's lips. "Morning sleeping beauty. You have a party without me last night?"

"Starsk?" Hutch mumbled, his voice gravelly and hoarse. His frown deepened, then at last, his eyes opened.

Starsky dropped a hand onto his shoulder. "How you feeling?"

Hutch licked his lips and groaned.

"Stupid question. Let me rephrase that- how many Tylenol shall I get?"

Hutch raised a hand to his pale face and rubbed his eyes. "The whole bottle."

Starsky snorted and pushed himself upright. "How bout we start with a few and see where that takes us?" He pulled open the medicine cabinet and grabbed what he was looking for. "Think you can get up?"

Like a newborn colt, Hutch gathered his legs and arms and slowly pushed himself up, using the wall behind him for support. A whimper escaped him and he tilted forward, slapping his hands to the wall to catch himself. "This sucks," he murmured, staring at the floor as he panted through an apparent dizzy spell.

"Well, my empty-headed friend, judging by the scene out front, I'd say you deserved it." He handed the pills to Hutch and caught his red-rimmed eyes. "Why didn't you call me?"

Hutch tossed the pills in his mouth and accepted the glass Starsky held out. He took a big swallow, then lowered his hand and pinched his eyes shut. "Cuz I wanted to be alone."

Starsky removed the glass of water before it fell from nerveless fingers and set it on the sink. He began steering his partner towards the bed. "But misery loves company, Hutch, everyone knows that."

Hutch's eyelids were at half-mast when they reached the bed, and he nearly collapsed onto the blanket. He promptly turned his back to Starsky and curled into a ball, effectively shutting off communication.

Starsky straightened. "Yeah, well. I guess I'll just go call Dobey and let him know we'll be a little late this morning."

He walked to the doorway and grabbed it, then turned back to his partner. A soft, steady snoring filled the air and Starsky knew he could do no more. With a sigh, he headed towards the mess in the living room.

o0O0o

"Starsky… what do you mean he's 'under the weather'?"

Starsky pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he snatched a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels from the coffee table. "Just that, Cap. I got here and he was a little… sick. Just give us a couple hours and I promise, we'll make up for lost time."

Dobey's growl rumbled over the phone line and echoed in Starsky's ear. "Fine. But do it fast, detective. We need this case cracked yesterday!"

"Yes sir, Cap'n." Starsky let the phone drop into his hand and hung up with a small sigh of resignation. He found each bottle's corresponding lid and screwed them on before placing them back on the shelf. "The things I do for you…" he mumbled to the empty room. He had made progress. The bottles were cleared and the guitar was in its normal place against the wall. Discarded clothing had been gathered and the mail straightened. But still… something seemed off…

Then he noticed it. He moved forward, hand out and open to touch the delicate, drooping leaf of some vine-like plant, and heard the soft crunch of brittle leaves underfoot. He stopped, and looked down.

Brown, dried leaves lay shattered on the carpet in front of his shoes. A few sickly yellow leaves lay closer to the bookshelf, collecting dust.

Huh.

This wasn't right at all.

Starsky looked up, his gaze darting from one dying plant to the next, and the images of sickly, naked plants burned in his mind. This worried him more than the table covered in alcohol… this was serious. Hutch loved the plants- he talked to them for God's sake- and now they were all dying? Starsky reached up and felt the soil of the plant in front of him. It was bone dry.

He drew his hand back slowly. Plants don't just die over night. It had to have been days since Hutch cared for them last. Days gone by while Hutch was too wrapped up in whatever was haunting him, hurting too much to throw some water on some dirt. He truly had been alone, with misery as his only company.

And suddenly Starsky felt very, very guilty.

o0O0o

Hutch glared at the person beside him from underneath his hand. His head was resting on the car window and his conjoined fingers were blocking the harsh sun from his eyes. Although the pain in his head had dulled, each jolt in the car's frame sent splinters of pain through his skull. Plus, Starsky was giving him the look.

"Would you quit?" Hutch growled, pressing himself closer to the passenger door. A hint of nausea found his stomach floating around in his rib cage and his neck ached from the awkward position he had slept in. Not to mention the yesterday's deep purple, elbow-sized bruise he found on his side was constantly nagging him.

At least he smelt better.

He had been able to make it through a shower on his own, and by the time he was finished, Starsky had a simple breakfast waiting on the table. Unfortunately, one sight of the scrambled eggs sent him running back into the bathroom, but it was the thought that counted. Now they were on their way to see Tom Bandy's family and hopefully get some much-needed answers.

"Quit what?" Starsky retorted, straightening a little.

"Quit staring at me," Hutch shot back. "You're looking at me like I'm made out of glass. I'm sorry about this morning, and thank you for what you did, but stop now."

"It's not that easy, buddy," Starsky said with a hint of malice that made Hutch feel guilty. "I'm worried about you."

Hutch wanted to keep arguing, to tell Starsky that he was fine, but he saw the rigidness of Starsky's jaw and respectfully kept quiet. Last night had been hell. He'd trudged upstairs, alone and in the darkness, and sat in the stillness of his apartment until the ringing in his ears nearly drove him crazy. He grabbed his guitar and a bottle of something, felt a little better, and ended up feeling pretty good and with lots of bottles. The bloody faces of dying children swirled around him, shrieking in the shadows of his apartment, and tormented him until he was so full of alcohol that he was completely numb. It all sounded so outlandish now, as he recalled the events in his memory, but he had been so terrified last night that he was driven to the corner of his bathroom, clutching the toilet like a lifeline as he loudly expelled the contents of his stomach. He remembered the full body tremors, the paranoia that told him each whispered creak and groan of the building was the voice of a tormented soul… until finally, when the shadowy fingers could stretch no further into the light, he had passed out with exhaustion.

"Hutch!" Starsky shouted and Hutch jerked. "We're here."

Hutch turned away from Starsky's concerned gaze and peered outside. They were parked in front of a modest little white house, decorated by large shade trees and blooming flowers. A birdfeeder hung in the middle of the yard, drawing a crowd of fluttering songbirds. The roof was new and dark, the shutters were nicely painted, and a small red dog house sat cattycorner to the front door. The perfect American dream house. Hutch could almost smell the fresh apple pie.

And it made him sick.

"Let's go," Starsky said as he opened his door and got out.

Hutch followed suit. He stepped out into the too-bright sunlight and the choking heat and started through the green grass up to the house. Starsky joined him and as they drew close to the bird feeder, the birds took flight in a flurry of wings and chirps.

Hutch almost felt bad. Probably would have if not for this behemoth of a hangover.

A bouncy Golden Retriever came bounding around the corner of the house and greeted them enthusiastically. "Hey doggy," Starsky said nervously as the animal's tail swished wildly and its tongue scraped their hands frantically.

Hutch made a face and drew his hands away, wiping them on his shirt as they continued towards the house. The dog silently danced around their feet as it searched them with a black nose.

Hutch pushed it away and rang the doorbell.

"Some watchdog," Starsky muttered behind him. They stood together in the small vestibule, surrounded by concrete and potted petunias. A few seconds went by, and the dog threw itself down in the shade, then finally there was movement in the house.

The door swung open quickly. "Can I help you?"

The woman before them was plainly pretty. She was close to her forties, but needed little makeup to bend that truth, and had shoulder-length blond hair. She was dressed casually and in her hand was a feather duster, slightly gray with use. Her brown eyes regarded them closely as Hutch reached for his badge.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson, this is Detective Starsky," he introduced them, already putting the badge away. "We're-"

"You look terrible," she said bluntly, her gaze traveling down and up Hutch's body quickly. "Big party last night?"

Hutch was taken aback. "No… uh…"

Starsky stepped forward. "You're Mrs. Bandy, right? We're here to ask you some questions about your husband's accident."

Her face clouded over. "I was Mrs. Bandy and I've already talked to the police."

"I'm sorry," Starsky said, "But we've got some more questions now. This may not have been his fault."

She stopped whatever she was going to say and stared at them. "Well, then," she stuttered, backing away from the doorway, "You'd better come in."