Author's Notes: The end is here. sigh. Thanks to everyone who's reading, even if you're not reviewing. Although I wish you would. grin.

Now I present Chapter 12 and the Epi. And please, don't forget to check the song that inspired this fic, by Rob Thomas.

'And if I stand here silent
I almost start to feel you fading in
Telling me hold on
Cuz it's gonna be alright'

Starsky eased the Torino to a halt under the streetlight and cut the engine. Thick silence filled the air in the absence of the car's deep rumble, causing Starsky's ears to ring.

Hutch's LTD was parked along the sidewalk up ahead, in its customary place over the oil stain on the street. The sun was just barely resting on the horizon now. Vibrant neon orange stained the sky and tinted the cars, obscuring their true colors. In the distance, dark clouds loomed leeringly and ominously, like tangible feelings of foreboding.

Yeah, this was gonna be miserable.

With a nerve-steeling sigh, Starsky pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the street. The temperature had dropped considerably and was no longer unbearable as it had been earlier. Grateful for that small reprieve, Starsky rounded the hood of the Torino and jumped up onto the sidewalk. As he passed the LTD, he heard the engine pinging and realized that Hutch couldn't have arrived much earlier.

Starsky grabbed the metal door handle and yanked it towards him before ducking inside. He was a man on a mission, and he ascended the stairs with grim determination. Dobey was right, this had to stop tonight. Hutch was drifting away and Starsky could no longer accept it. If Hutch wouldn't open up, than Starsky would handcuff him to a chair and torture it out of him.

Well, maybe nothing that drastic.

Starsky reached the landing and stopped. He was tense, expecting a very hard teeth-pulling session waiting on the other side of the door. He didn't know what Hutch's problem was, but as his best friend and partner, it was Starsky's duty to find out and help. If Hutch was short on money, Starsky could loan him some. If Hutch was having girl-problems, Starsky could lend his expertise. If Hutch simply needed someone to talk to, Starsky could sit very quietly and just listen. He'd do anything to get the old Hutch back, but first he had to find out what had happened to him.

Starsky rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath, set his jaw, and knocked.

He was met with silence, so in typical Starsky fashion, he knocked louder.

"Go away, Starsky."

Starsky frowned at the closed door. "No. Let me in. We need to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"I don't care, lemme in. It's stuffy out here."

"This doesn't concern you, Starsk."

Starsky huffed. "That's where you're wrong, pal. This does concern me. It concerns me a lot."

He was again met with silence. He remained still for a few moments, trying to listen for any movement from within the apartment, then grew impatient and stepped forward, grabbing the doorknob.

He turned it, and the door opened.

Starsky raised one eyebrow in mild surprise, then stepped into the dark apartment. "I'm a little worried about you," he said, closing the door behind him. "We all are. You know you can tell me anything, right Hutch?"

He turned and faced the dimly lit room. The sun had sunk further into the horizon and the Starsky had to let his eyes adjust in the poor lighting. He spotted Hutch at the kitchen table, backlit from the greenhouse windows. As his eyes sharpened their focus, he noticed a bottle on the table before Hutch, its amber liquid distorting the light that passed through it.

"Whatcha doin'?" Starsky asked, his voice shattering the uneasy silence in the room.

"Sitting," Hutch replied curtly, not breaking his intense stare from the bottle.

Starsky sighed inwardly and began to creep forward, clicking on the lamp as he passed it. "Sitting?"

"And thinking."

"Thinking's good, unless you've been doing too much of it. Then you can hurt yourself."

Hutch snorted softly. Starsky made it to the table and slid into the chair across from his partner. Okay, now what? He studied Hutch, noticing for the first time how tired his friend looked. Worry lines looked permanently etched in his face and bags were hanging under bloodshot eyes. When had Hutch started looking so rough, and why hadn't Starsky seen it? Hutch looked almost… lost.

Hutch finally lifted his gaze from the bottle. An empty tumbler sat on the table by his limp hand. His other arm was on his lap, moving up and down as Hutch bounced his leg.

Make that lost, and… in conflict?

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Hutch said too quickly, too easily.

"What's this for?" Starsky asked, flicking his hand towards the bottle between them.

Hutch's eyelids lowered as his gaze fell back to the bottle and Starsky could no longer see those pained blue eyes. Hutch spoke softly, his leg still bouncing, and said, "I don't know."

There was a short, desperate laugh in the words and Starsky's concern increased. Hutch was breathing heavily, and his fingers began tapping on the table. Starsky had never seen Hutch in this state of constant, compulsive movement before.

He gasped quietly, and sat a little straighter.

Yes he had.

He had seen Hutch like this before, but the memories were so painful that they had been buried deep and he was reluctant to dig them up again. Images of bruises and blood and vomit and Huggy's spare bedroom came flooding through his mind before he could stop them, and Starsky's blood ran cold.

"Hutch," he said quietly, as you would talk to a spooked horse. He hated this, this feeling of complete helplessness, that he was being kept in the dark by his own best friend. How was he suppose to help if he didn't understand the problem? "What's going on?"

"I don't know!" Hutch exploded, pushing away from the table and standing in a movement so fluid, Starsky's head was spinning. Hutch began pacing the length of the couch, his shoulders impossibly tensed, his head down, arms wrapped around himself, and completely ignoring Starsky. "I just want to be left alone, okay? Can you do that for me? Will you just leave?"

Starsky rose as well, the fear of the unknown kindling a fire of determination within him. "Not until you tell me what's happened to you."

Hutch shook his head and continued moving, muttering to himself just low enough to irritate Starsky.

"Alright then," he said, taking a step forward and leaning against the edge of the table. "I'll just come right out and ask you." He swallowed something bitter and continued, "Are you shooting up?"

Hutch stopped dead in his tracks and looked Starsky dead in the eye. "No. Never."

Starsky hid his smile of relief. "What then?" he prodded.

If he hadn't turned the lamp on earlier, he would have missed it. Hutch glanced at the table behind Starsky with an unreadable expression, then turned and began his agitated pacing. Confused, Starsky looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a red-colored demon with horns and a pitchfork, but instead only saw the bottle of brandy.

The click was so sharp that Starsky felt it.

"Alcohol?" he questioned, turning back to Hutch. "You're… drinking?" It was more serious than that, of course, but each of them understood the deeper meaning.

"God I want to," Hutch said in a rush, as if he were relieved that Starsky had figured it out.

Maybe he was.

"I didn't though- not tonight… not yet."

Starsky's shoulders slumped in fatigue. "Hutch…" he started in sympathy. Questioned raced through his mind that he wouldn't dare speak out loud: Why didn't you tell me? How long has this been going on? Why didn't you come to me? He looked good and hard at the man he knew better than anyone else and felt pain. Why didn't you come to me? Hutch needed his help, that much was clear, and Starsky didn't want to alienate him further. Hutch was a bundle of nerves.

Raw, exposed nerves.

The apartment was quiet except for Hutch's shoes on the rug, and Starsky began forming a plan of action.

"Okay," he sighed at last, pushing off the table. "I'm here for ya. It'll be okay." He turned to grab the bottle, looking at Hutch as he did so. "First thing's first," he said, and headed for the sink.

"No!" Hutch practically yelped, and he left his track by the couch and launched himself in Starsky's direction.

Starsky danced out of Hutch's reach, the alcohol sloshing musically in the bottle. "Hutch, you don't need this! You have a problem, and I'm helping you with it."

"I do not have a problem," Hutch retorted and the look on his face told Starsky that neither of them believed that line.

"Look around you!" Starsky exclaimed, sweeping his free hand about the room. "I mean I know you're not the neatest guy on the planet, but come on!"

Just as the other day, dirty clothes lay in piles in the corners, dirty plates littered most of the surfaces in both the kitchen and front room, and as before, the neglected plants were clearly on their last leg.

Or root. Whatever.

In fact, the evidence was so glaringly obvious that Starsky was angry that he hadn't noticed it before. Some detective he was when he couldn't see the slow demise of his own partner.

Starsky made it to the sink and upended the bottle before Hutch could stop him. The liquor glugged and bubbled as it splashed down the drain, and the smell of alcohol filled the air.

Hutch watched with a glazed expression, then his eyes snapped to Starsky, glinting of pure hatred. "You idiot," he growled, then moved towards the cupboards.

A low, deep rumbling sounded from outside and it took Starsky a second to recognize the sound as thunder.

He waited until Hutch pulled out another bottle, then darted forward and snatched it from Hutch's hand. "Don't do this to yourself, Hutch," he said, quickly unscrewing the cap and upending it as well.

Hutch made a noise of frustration and quickly retrieved another bottle.

Starsky grabbed that one as well, a little surprised by his multiple successes. Hutch stood in place, utterly seething with anger. He was tense and panting and looking for all the world like a bull before a matador.

Starsky stood his ground.

"Drinking won't help, Hutch," he said calmly, and finally the last the bottle was empty. "You know it wont. You're addicted, just like you were with the heroin. I can-"

"It's nothing like that!" Hutch shot back. "I drink because it makes me feel good- it takes away the pain of remembering those kids in that bus. I don't need your help, I can take care of myself. Now get out!"

"And for how long, huh?" Starsky pushed. "How many bottles does it take? How good do you feel in the morning? Come on Hutch, you're better than this."

Hutch lowered his head and his panting slowed. He seemed to grow larger in the shadows, and another roll of thunder boomed outside. Hutch waited one, two breaths before stating quietly, "Go home and leave me be. You were there that day, you know what it was like. I have every right to take a drink now and then."

"Every right?" Starsky asked, narrowing his eyes in challenge.

"I was inside that hell hole while you were parading around outside, playing traffic cop to all those mothers-in-distress. I held a girl with no teeth in my arms, Starsky," he spat the name like a curse, "so you tell me I didn't earn anything."

So here was the heart of the matter, Starsky realized. This went beyond what Terry Gray did- this was Hutch's failed attempts to cope with a tragedy and the alcohol's distorting effects on his feelings.

Oh, Hutch. What a tangled web we weave, huh buddy?

Starsky sighed and undaunted- familiar enough with addicts to know when they weren't in their right mind- he said, "You don't deserve to throw your job- your life down the john for a few drinks."

"Oh go to hell!" Hutch shouted, and he swept an arm over the counter, sending plates and glasses and empty bottles shattering upon the floor between them. The broken glass sparkled as a flash of lightening illuminated the sky.

Hutch had turned away, his shaky hands running through his hair, pulling roughly at his scalp, when Starsky spoke again. "What's the matter, Hutch? You can't face what you've become? You don't think I care about you?" he pressed, seeing the tension building in his partner but not daring to stop now, "You don't think I got my own eyeful that day? I saw you, remember? Puking your guts out on the side of the road. You don't think I wanted to be right beside you, doing the same? Get your head out of your ass for a minute, will ya?" Starsky took a breath. "This stops tonight."

Before he knew what was happening, Hutch had crossed the broken glass and landed a solid right hook to Starsky's jaw, sending him stumbling back against the counter. More glass fell to the floor as Starsky's hands shot out to catch himself, and another flash of lightening pierced the darkness.

Starsky brought a hand to his aching jaw and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other in broken silence and realizing exactly what had just happened.

"Starsk, I-"

Starsky shook off his stupor and pushed off the counter, launching himself at Hutch before the taller man could even blink. He crashed into his partner, momentum carrying them out of the kitchen and into the front room, and subsequently into the small wooden table holding the solitary lamp. Hutch fell as the object took his legs out from underneath him, landing on his back amidst the debris of wood and porcelain. Starsky fell to his knees over him, straddling him and pinning both arms to the floor by the wrists, rendering Hutch immobile and overpowered.

And the thunder rolled.

He stayed there for a moment, catching his breath and his emotions and essentially sitting on Hutch as the two panted and searched each other's eyes in the darkness. Starsky remained where he was, leaning onto his partner as Hutch bucked. "Come on, Hutch, snap out of it." Hutch's eyes were hard and full of anger, and his pupils were dilated in the darkness. Hutch was strong, even flat on his back, and Starsky wondered if he'd be able to hold him much longer.

At last, Hutch's struggles died and he yielded beneath his partner. His fists unclenched and suddenly Starsky could recognize the man under him. The worst of it was over now, Hutch's frustration was spent. Starsky felt relief as another roll of thunder boomed overhead.

"You hit me," he said lightly.

"You're sitting on me," Hutch retorted.

Starsky took a deep breath, smelling the sweat and testosterone that hung in the air, and released Hutch's wrists. He sat back on his heels and blinked away the redness that had clouded his eyes. "Because you hit me."

"I think I've got a shard of glass lodged in my kidney," Hutch muttered as Starsky rose to his feet. He sat up, one hand going to his back, and looked at the remains of the lamp as Starsky lowered a hand of assistance. "I really liked that lamp, too."

"Yeah, well, I'll buy you a new one," Starsky mumbled as he pulled his partner to his feet. Starsky looked up and out the window as a flash of lightening split the sky, and he moved closer to the window before sinking slowly to sit on the floor. The window panes were still dry.

Hutch put more distance between them, sitting with his back against the bookcase, and they stared at each other across the expanse of the large window.

Starsky watched Hutch, only able to discern the glittering of eyes until the lightening flashed. "You okay?" he grunted with a curt nod.

Hutch shrugged. "Yeah."

Starsky rolled his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. "How the hell'd we end up like this, Hutch?"

Hutch lowered his head into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "I think I have a problem," Hutch replied softly.

Something pinged against the window.

"Buddy, you got more than just a problem," Starsky grinned. "You are one screwed up White Knight."

Hutch snorted.

And the rain came. Big, fat, silvery drops pitter-pattered against the window, catching and reflecting the lightning's brilliant light as they rolled down the pane. The thunder was directly overhead and it shook the walls with its mighty rumbles. Soon the musical sound of falling rain filled the silence of Hutch's dark apartment.

"Would ya look at that," Starsky said, watching the rain. "First time in weeks. I bet the streets are steaming and hissing like hot frying pans."

Some of the tension drained from Hutch as he turned his face towards the window. "Sounds nice." He looked at Starsky. "How's your jaw?"

"It's okay, I think I'll live."

"You better get some ice on it."

"Don't flatter yourself."

Hutch looked at his shoes and the glittering of eyes disappeared for a moment. When he looked up again, he asked, "What now?"

"Now we get this place cleaned up, get you sober, get you back to work. Back to your life."

"That sounds like a lot of hard work."

"Yeah, well, nothing is really hard work unless you'd rather be doing something else."

"What great poet did you steal that line from?"

"Not a poet, an author. Barrie." At Hutch's blank look, Starsky elaborated, "Peter Pan?"

Hutch snorted lightly.

"And anyway, don't steal my glory."

Hutch's smile quickly faded. He looked a little pale, but it was hard to tell in the moonlight. "This isn't gonna be fun. You don't have to stay…"

Starsky sat up straighter as Hutch shivered. "I want to stay. Me and Thee, remember?"

Hutch closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. "What'd you and Dobey talk about after I left?"

"He's worried about you, Hutch. You know that. He gave me some time off, to help you through this."

"I'm not gonna be much company," Hutch replied before he swallowed hard. "This is being locked in the Pits all over again."

"We got through it then, we'll get through it now. You need anything?"

Hutch opened one eye and stared at Starsky, then looked at the kitchen sink.

"Anything besides that? Water? Food?"

"A loaded gun," Hutch groaned, burrowing further into the wall.

Starsky half-smiled and glanced at the closet door, assuring himself the weapon was out of reach. "No one said this would be easy. I hope you remember this moment the next time you think Jack is a better listener than me."

The thunder rumbled again, this time with a little less force. The storm sounded like it was passing, but outside the rain was still pouring.

"Look," Hutch said, his eyes still shut tight, "I wasn't exactly the best partner this past week. I know you covered my ass, and you have a right to be pissed at me…"

Starsky knew an apology when he heard it. "Like I said, just don't do it again, okay? I already bought your Christmas present, and it wouldn't look right on a new partner."

Hutch opened his eyes. "Wouldn't look right?"

"Not at all."

Hutch rolled his eyes and let his head fell back against the wall with a thump.

Starsky was aware of the challenges that lay ahead for his partner. Tonight would be the hardest, and Hutch would probably always retain his thirst for alcohol. It would be very hard- hell, they usually finished out every day with a beer, but in the name of helping his partner, Starsky would go without. Tomorrow they would clean the place up, fight over what to eat for breakfast, and begin the long road to recovery- of both body and mind- this time just a little wiser and a little stronger. Hutch was right, it wouldn't be easy, but together they would manage. They always did.

Starting tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when the fog lifted and the heartache ended.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

END

Epilogue:

Starsky sat in the Torino, parked a respectable distance away, and watched Hutch kneel before the simple granite gravestone.

It had been three weeks since 'The Night it Rained', as they called it. That night had been one long hell for them both. Starsky still shuddered when he thought about the vomiting, the pain, the mood swings… When dawn had finally cracked Hutch had been sleeping restlessly, but the rainbow that stretched over Bay City promised of good things to come.

And they had. Slowly, but surely.

In the following week Hutch had gotten his legs underneath him. He had restored the apartment to its usual state of mild disarray, whipped up some rotten-smelling concoction that slowly brought about most of his near-dead plants, and then passed the shrink's scrutinizing exam.

It was remarkable, really, to think that Hutch had bounced back so fast, but it was not surprising. Starsky had given up on being surprised by his partner. Not after said partner survives multiple beatings, bullet wounds, stab wounds and being trapped under his own car.

And the plague, don't forget the plague.

Nope, Starsky had come to think of Hutch as some sort of weird, mythical being that would never die.

Not that that was a bad thing.

Hutch straightened, leaving his bouquet of red roses on the ground over April Hylton's grave. Starsky sat a little straighter in the car as his partner approached. Hutch's bad days were few and far between now, and he had been welcomed back to the precinct with open arms. Tomorrow they would attend Terry Gray's trial, and Starsky had to admit, he was kinda looking forward to seeing that slime ball in chains one last time.

Hutch opened the door, letting in a wave of heat, then slid in and shut the door behind him. "Let's go."

Starsky started the engine and a deep rumble filled the cemetery. "You okay?"

Hutch looked at Starsky and smiled softly. "Yeah, I am."

Starsky stepped on the gas and nodded, returning his own smile.

"So about my Christmas present…"

Starsky shook his head. "No."

"I didn't get you anything."

"So?"

"Just so you know."

A sly grin crept over Starsky's face. "Wanna hint?"

"Yes."

"Remember, after we saw Bandy in the morgue? We were driving to the Pits for lunch and you said, and I quote: 'If you can get Dobey to approve a vacation, I'll go with you anywhere.' And remember where I wanted to go?"

Hutch's face fell. "Alaska. Starsk- you didn't-"

"Don't worry, I bought you the blue snow suit. I could have been mean and got you the pink one."

"Yeah." Hutch sighed, sinking down in the seat. "Thanks for that."

"Hope you like penguins and polar bears, my friend," Starsky beamed. "We leave in three days."