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Apr. 26th, 2005 10:09 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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crossoverficHope y'all like. Feel free to feedback, or not, as the spirit moves you.
Title: Midsummer Part 2
Author: Sylvia
Crossover: Starsky and Hutch/Midsummer Night's Dream
Rating: PG-13 (language and violence)
Flavor: Gen, all the way, but with a fair amount of shmoop
Summary: In the hands of a vengeful woman, Hutch gets help from a source unlooked for and unexpected.
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. They belong to them what holds the rights. Please don't sue me.
Warnings: quasi-original character, drug-related violence, spoilers for episodes up to and including Pariah but mostly for The Fix, and archetype and ellipses abuse. Also, un-beta'd and envenomed (sorry...Hamlet...wrong play...)
No hobgoblins were seriously harmed in the writing of this fic, although one got more than a little pissed when his...her...his gender got switched around by a certain High King.
part one here
Chapter 3
This was, without a doubt, the single freakiest night in his entire life. The weird little girl had just changed into a horse. Just like that. It was almost enough to distract him from his worry about Hutch, but not quite. Never taking his eyes off of the animal, he got out of the car and walked up to it. Maybe he was still dreaming. A balmy breeze from the distant ocean ruffled his hair, and the horse's mane. A spicy scent rose from the beast, like a campfire, or a field of night-blooming flowers. Distant memories of Scout camps in the Catskills and warm summer evenings stirred in Starsky's mind, and he took another cautious step forward.
Laying a hand on the horse's neck, he could feel the pulse. "Kid? Is that you?"
Rolling her red eyes, the horse bobbed her head and snorted. Starsky looked from the animal to the Torino and said, "Y'know, if you didn't want me to drive, you could'a just said so." The horse snorted again and tossed her head, long mane flying. Starsk could swear she was laughing at him. It was the full moon, he decided. It made everything possible. Little girls turning into horses, all perfectly natural. Huggy had said to trust her, no matter how weird it got, and it had just taken a turn for the seriously strange.
"Guess it's time for a little trust," he said. "You gonna take me to Hutch?"
The mare nodded again and clopped a pace forward. The step sounded dull, and looking down Starsky noted the horse wasn't wearing horseshoes. Well, made sense. The kid had been barefoot, too. Unreal. Down the rabbit hole time. But she would take him to Hutch, and that was all that really mattered. "Okay then. Let's go."
First stumble. No saddle or stirrups to get him aboard. "Um…Robin? Can you, uh, kneel or something. I don’t think you want me trying to jump up there, not in these jeans."
The horse laughed at him again, and walked over to stand next to the Torino. "Great. I'm getting laughed at by a freakin' horse," he muttered, and climbed up on top of his car. "Don't move, now," he said, and stepped from the hood to settle over mare's broad back.
The instant his butt touched her spine, she was off. Starsky yelped and bent low, grabbing a double handful of black mane and hanging on for dear life. He clamped his legs to either side of the great barrel of her body and yelled, "Slow down, willya!"
The mare shook her head, and then stretched her neck and fairly flew down the empty street. Her hoof beats thudded in time with his hammering heart, and the wind of their passage blew her tangled mane into his eyes. Every moment that passed, he was sure he'd fall off and break a leg or something. After a while, though, Starsky noticed that he wasn't slipping around like he'd feared. In fact, the mare's gait was so smooth it felt almost like riding in his Torino. She took a corner, and he leaned into it as he would if he were driving, and grinned in exhilaration.
If Hutch weren't in trouble somewhere up ahead, Starsky would be having the time of his life.
He'd fallen asleep on Hutch's couch and dreamt some tremulous dreams, as Lord Buckley had once said. Hutch in that alley, scared and hurting and looking like death warmed over. Hutch, angry and ashamed, sweeping the checkers off of the table and stalking around Huggy's room like a caged lion. Hutch hurting, alone, and afraid and Starsky couldn't get to him, no matter how hard he tried.
The telephone had awakened him, and he'd been glad for the interruption until he heard the message. Some kid had come to Huggy, telling him Hutch was in trouble and for Starsky to come right away. Starsk had been out the door before he put down the phone.
Then things had taken a turn for the bizarre. Straight out of a Twilight Zone episode, the kid turns out to be not a kid at all but something Else, and now Starsky was riding a freakin' horse into Beverly Hills. A horse that laughed at him.
Must be still dreaming. That was the only thing that made sense.
The neighborhoods turned nice, then nicer, then posh. When they turned filthy rich, the mare entered a little park and trotted to a stop. The place was dark and quiet, surrounded on all sides by a brick wall over which roses had been trained. A tasteful playground sat in the center, and dew spattered the grass with moon-reflecting diamonds.
With a convulsive shudder, Robin shed herself of her rider and pranced a few steps away, laughing her horse laugh. Moments later, the sound changed. "Ho ho ho! By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, I've not had as much fun since Weyland was a babe in arms!"
A little man stood in the horse's hoof-prints. Shorter than Starsky by a couple of feet, the guy had tiny horns on his head and a shock of bushy red hair. His chin was pointed, the angularity accented by the van dyke that sprouted there, and when he grinned Starsky could see that his teeth were all sharp as a cat's. Stretching, he looked up at the moon and then danced a little jig. "Midnight," he crowed. "Fairy time. Come, let's away!"
"Robin?" Starsky said, but there was no doubt in his mind. "What the hell are you? What's going on, here?"
All jollity left the strange creature. He stood upright, his head level with Starsky's shoulder, and bowed. "I'm a pooka, or hobgoblin, or pwca, or whatever you like. I'm a trickster and madman and right now I'm your boon companion's only hope. Will ye not shift yerself, friend David? We've not the time to stand about gawping. 'Tis midnight on the eve of Midsummer, and tonight of all nights I've been sent to you. T'moon will be setting soon; your Ken still bides in pain and fear, not far from here. Will ye not trust me?"
Hutch was in trouble. Nothing else mattered, really. Coming to a decision, Starsky nodded. "Lead on, MacDuff," he said, and the weird little man winced.
"Don't ever do that. 'Tis bad luck to quote that play, don't ye know that?"
"Come on," Starsky said, impatiently. "Just take me to him."
The pooka nodded, and turned to lead the way out of the park. 'Pointed ears. The guy has pointed ears. I'm dreaming.'
"You're not dreaming, David," Robin said, grinning over his shoulder.
Deciding silence was wiser than comment, Starsky just glared at the little man and followed him out of the park.
The crept down the quiet streets, Robin trotting ahead and Starsky trailing behind, his gun heavy in its holster. This wasn't what he'd expected, this rich neighborhood, when he had heard Hutch had been kidnapped again. Some warehouse, down by the docks, yeah. Or some place in the mesas, abandoned and decrepit. Not this. Lawns stretching for miles and cars that cost more than he made in a year. What was Patricia Forest doing in Beverly Hills?
Then again, it stood to reason. Ben Forest had been big in the drug sale and distribution business. That kind of traffic brought in big bucks. No reason not to set up his kid in style. They just hadn't tracked her connection yet, with her father's business. The DEA had taken over, after the bust, and were still mopping up Forest's operation. Neither Hutch nor Starsky had wanted anything further to do with the case.
Looked like that option had been taken away from them. The case had come back to haunt them both. "We almost there?"
"Aye," the little man said. "Next house. What will you do when we arrive?"
"Get Hutch out of there," Starsky replied. Duh.
Robin rolled his eyes. "How? There are four stout men within, and the woman. There may be more that I did not see. I am sure they all carry those…pistols. If they hear you coming, they might harm Hutch, for spite."
The pair came to a stop in the shadow of a high wall. More roses nodded overhead, their scent an annoyance just now, and a distraction. It was thick, cloying, and it made Starsky want to sneeze. "We'll have to take them out before they can do that, then," he said.
"How?"
Good question. Throwing up his hands, Starsky said, "I dunno. Maybe you could turn into a horse again and take 'em all for a nice ride." Every muscle in his body urged him forward, knowing that Hutch was hurting close by and unable to stop it Right Now, damn it. "What do you suggest?"
The little man grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I thought you'd never ask, laddie-buck. I'll go unlock the door and then see what mischief I can devise. Hutch is in the basement, under the stairs. I'll do what I can, and leave the rest for you."
Before Starsky could object, the man was gone. In his place stood a dirty white cat, who hissed and purred at him, and then turned and scampered into the dark.
"Dreaming," Starsky muttered. "Any minute I'll wake up and Hutch will come through the door and ask me what the heck I'm doing sleeping on his couch. Any minute."
()()()
It was easy as sin to find the window again. Robin scampered up the tree and through the gap in a trice. Following the smell of garlic, he found two of the trolls asleep together, their beefy arms entwined each around the other. 'How sweet,' he thought, and purred a spell to make their sleep a deeper one. Nothing save an earthquake would wake them now. That left two, and the woman. Once more on two feet, Robin crept down the hall and toward the front door.
Dolorous Willie had penned a play, once, about the Daoine Sidhe. Robin had seen it fair often, and thought it great sport. In it, he, or rather the Puck of the play, tricked two worthy youths into combat by imitating their voices in the fog. "'Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one.'"
Indeed, one of the trolls approached from the kitchen, bearing a slice of meat pie and a mug of weak ale, by the smell of it. Fading into a handy shadow, Robin pitched his voice low and slow. "That the last slice, you pig?"
"Fuck you, Vince. You took twice as much as me, and I paid for it anyway." The troll glared toward the voice, then went his way. Robin rubbed her hands together and laughed a soundless laugh.
Scampering forward, once more in girl-guise, Robin unlocked the door and swung it wide. In a trice, the mortal Hero ran up the lawn and into the house, his pistol drawn and ready. "I go to sow dissention in the ranks," said Robin. "Two are asleep and will not wake. I've not found the woman, yet. The other two will soon come to blows, or my name's not Robin Goodfellow."
Starsky grimaced. "Yeah, well, I'll take your word on that, merry wanderer of the night. Where's Hutch?"
"Below," Robin pointed toward the door beneath the stairs. "But he's chained and I doubt not the woman has the keys. He'll bide a while longer."
"No. He won't." Before Robin could object, Starsky unlocked the door and disappeared inside.
"Lord, what fools these mortals be," Robin said, shaking her head sadly, and went to look for Vince.
She'd gone no more than a step when a long-fingered hand closed on her shoulder. With a shriek, she jumped and spun in place, a spell on her lips to turn the offender into a water vole. It died unspoken, and her gaze traveled up and up until it met the cool eyes of the one she called master. "Great King," she said, bowing low. "What do you here? The revel…."
"The revel proceeds without me for the nonce," Oberon said, sounding none to pleased at the prospect. "How goes Our business, my jester?"
Robin cringed at the ice in the king's voice. "Well, master," she said, bowing low once more. "Hutch, the one you bid me aid, is below, and his brother is e'en now with him. I go to put paid to the other villains in the house and see them both safe home. If you will grant me leave to go?" She looked up hopefully, but her heart pounded in her chest.
The raven-haired fae looked down at her with cold and pitiless eyes. "I will not. You have flouted me, my dear. You have made yourself known to a mortal, and by extension, you have put us all in jeopardy. Why do you think I bade you to be discrete, fool of a pooka?" When Oberon became angry, he did not yell. No, his voice became soft and sweet, and almost too quiet to hear. Now, he was near whispering, and his voice was charming enough to steal babies from their grandmothers. "What am I to do with you?"
Above all else, Robin dreaded her lord's displeasure. He could be very…inventive at his punishments. Still, she was a favorite, a pet. Perhaps that would count for something. Grinning a bright grin, Robin said, "Forgive me? Give me a lemon drop and a pat on the head? Send me to bed without supper?" She waggled her eyebrows, inviting him to laugh.
He did not take her up on her offer. A hard cuff sent her stumbling, and then Oberon stood over her, and wrath filled his fair face. "Mortal you beseem and mortal you shall remain, until morning's light. You are barred from my company for a month, and none of the Blood will aid you for that time. Use that time to think on your crimes, hob, and come to me contrite when the time is up."
The Sidhe king held his hand over her and a pale light filled the dark hallway. When he lifted his hand away, it felt as though sand had been poured into her limbs. "Mortal," she whispered. "If you prick me, I will bleed." She looked down at her hands, seeing the dirt under her nails, and made a fist. No beseeming, this was her true form. The magic which had fizzed in her blood was now silent, and the dark seemed deeper than before. She couldn't feel the moon, nor smell the wind. Worse, she could barely see Oberon. She had only a mortal's senses, and abilities.
A terrible thought occurred to her, then. "Dread king," she said, and all merriment was gone from her voice. "How can I help them now?" The men below stairs, in danger and alone, might have need of her before the night was through. How could she help with no magics to aid her?
Oberon just smiled, fading into shadow. "You will think of something, my Puck," he said, and was gone.
Folding her arms, Robin glared after him. "Beautiful," she muttered, and went in search of her foes.
Chapter 4
They'd kept Hutch in the dark. That was Starsky's first thought when he opened the door under the stairs and had to turn on the light to go any further. It was dark and hot and there was a distant smell of sickness in the air that made it hard to breathe. Drawing his weapon, he swallowed against the fear and anger in his throat, and descended the steps slowly. His heart was hammering and he dreaded what he'd find, but at the same time he was hurrying along faster than he should into an unknown situation. Hutch was down here, and hurting, Robin had said.
Of course, Robin had then turned into a horse, so that made anything she had to say a little suspect.
Turning a bend, he reached a second door. "How big is this basement, anyway?" he muttered, unlocking the deadbolt and pushing the heavy door open. The heat within wafted up at him, and it was dark here, too. Fumbling around the corner with his free hand, Starsky flipped on a switch, flooding the room below with light.
"Hey!" a weak protest, but it was his partner's voice, and it drew Starsky's eyes like a magnet draws iron.
"God, Hutch," Starsky said softly. The man looked terrible. Sweat had plastered his clothes to his thin frame, and he was sitting against a thin metal pipe in the middle of the room. He'd buried his face in his drawn up legs, hiding his eyes from the light probably, and even at that distance, Starsky could see his friend shaking.
Shock held him immobile for a long moment, then caution for another as he scanned for bad guys. Going quietly down the stairs, and battling every step not to run to Hutch, Starsky poked around the room, behind boxes and under the wooden stairs, until he was satisfied they were alone. A moment after that, he was crouching next to Hutch, reaching for his handcuff keys. "Hutch? Hey, look at me, buddy. You okay?"
Slowly and reluctantly, Hutch raised his head and squinted at him. "Starsk? What are you doing here?" He blinked a couple of times, then coughed and rested his head on his upraised knees once again. "Not here. 'M dreamin' again."
The blond hair was wet and a little oily under his hand, but that didn't matter. Stroking the bowed head gently, Starsky urged it up with a gentle pressure. "I'm here, babe. Look at me. Gonna get you out of here." The handcuffs were proving stubborn, and it didn't help that Starsky's own vision was blurring a bit. He dashed moisture from his eyes and set his teeth. Hutch's wrists were red and swollen, and there was old blood and new staining the silver metal of the cuffs. Every now and again, Hutch shivered, and his hands were clenched into fists so tight there was blood in his palms as well, from his fingernails. "Damn it. I'll kill 'em. I'll fuckin' kill 'em."
One cuff came free, and Starsky caught Hutch's arm and eased it forward. With a grimace and a stifled moan, Hutch let him move the other arm forward as well and start working on the other cuff. "Easy now, buddy," Starsky said, summoning up an encouraging smile. "I'll have this off in a jiffy and we'll get you out of here."
"Starsk?" His voice was hoarse and rough, and a little raspy, like he'd been yelling a lot. "You're here? How…."
The smile turned into a grin as Hutch finally connected with him. "There y'are, big guy," he said, and put his hand on Hutch's neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. He ducked his head to look into his partner's eyes and saw recognition there. He also saw no blue, only pupils and reddened whites set into dark shadows. Reaching down, hoping he wouldn't see what he knew was there, he pushed back Hutch's loose sleeve.
"Don't," said Hutch, trying to pull away. "Don't look."
Don't look. Right. He couldn't tear his eyes away, though the sight made him sick. A dozen or more old puncture marks riddled the skin over the large veins in his arms. Set among them were five new wounds, red and inflamed. "Oh, jeez," he said softly, letting the sleeve fall. "Oh, Hutch." He wanted to cry, and he wanted to hurt something, preferably the people who had performed the obscenity on his friend.
"Sorry," Hutch said. He sounded miserable, and he drew his arm back and wrapped them around his legs. "Sorry, Starsk." He pulled himself into a tight ball, trying to control the shudders, which were running through him freely now.
Starsky sat down next to him and lay an arm over his friend's shoulders, pulling him close. "Wasn't your fault, babe. You got nothin' to be sorry about, you hear me? We got through this before and we can do it again." He sniffed, wiping away the unwanted tears that were blurring his vision, and reached for one of Hutch's hands. "Two, three days. That's all. You'll be fine. We can get through this."
There was no question in Starsky's mind, and no hesitation in his words. At long last, Hutch looked over at him and gave a little smile. "We, huh?"
Starsky grinned, and hugged a little tighter. "Like there was ever any doubt, you big dummy. Let's get you out of here."
"Oh, this is touching." A woman's cold voice drew Starsky's attention upward, and his gut clenched with anger and sudden dread. She had two big guys with her, both with guns pointing down at the pair on the floor, and an ominous looking black bag in her hand. "You must be Detective Starsky. I must say, you got here sooner than I'd expected, but I think we're far enough along to proceed."
For openings which could be measured in millimeters, the barrels of the guns pointed at them seemed wide as tunnels. For himself, Starsky could probably do a good job of dodging for cover if it came down to a firefight; Hutch wasn't anywhere near able to do the same. Plan B, then. Distract, delay, and survive until an opportunity presented itself. There was a third player on the side of the angels, after all, and one who seemed to like spreading confusion to their enemies.
Keeping his hand well clear of his sidearm, Starsky gave Hutch one final covert hug, then stood and faced his friend's tormentor. All the caution in the world couldn't keep the anger from his voice, no matter how hard he tried. "What the hell do you want, lady? You gotta know you waste a couple of cops, the feds and the DEA are gonna be all over you. If you was smart, you'd just stand aside and let us go."
Patricia Forest laughed at this, a strangely sweet sound that echoed off of the sweating concrete walls. "You're right, Detective Starsky. What was I thinking? Frankie, Vince, please go help Detective Hutchinson up and then call the authorities. We're turning ourselves in." She laughed again, and led the way down the rickety wooden stairs, placing her bag on a little table. "On second thought," she said, turning back to her thugs, "don't. Take Detective Starsky's weapon and handcuffs and secure him somewhere. Keep Detective Hutchinson covered and kill him if Detective Starsky makes any sudden or untoward moves. You may hurt him, a little, if he doesn't cooperate."
From the floor, Starsky heard Hutch's teeth begin to chatter. It was a sound that had haunted him all through that first night at Huggy's, after they'd got Hutch back from Forest, Sr. The chills hadn't let the suffering man alone for a moment, even when he had finally fallen asleep. Worse than the nausea, worse than the aching and driving need for relief from the craving inside, the cold wouldn't leave Hutch any peace. He'd huddled in Starsky's arms most of that first night, wrapped in blankets and drinking cup after cup of sweet coffee, teeth chattering like castanets.
It was happening again. Hutch was going into withdrawal, and this time there was no safe haven to see him through it. Just two burly thugs, coming this way, with an evil humor in their eyes. One of them kept his piece on Hutch, who seemed oblivious to the whole proceedings once again. The other reached under Starsky's jacket and relieved him of his sidearm and badge, handing them both to Forest. "You gonna be good, pig?" he said, and Starsky wrinkled his nose at the scent of garlic and tomato sauce that wafted out of the man's maw.
"Whew, Guido. You need to think about brushing a little more often."
The smirk turned into a scowl, and Starsky found himself pushed against the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back until he had to stand on tiptoe to relieve the pressure. "Funny man," the guy growled in his ear. "You like jokes?" He pulled up a little higher, and Starsky felt something give in his shoulder, an agonizing jolt of wrongness as the ball popped out of its socket. "I think this is funny."
No breath to object, none to scream, Starsky held on to consciousness with his fingernails. 'Can't pass out. Hutch needs me. God, that hurts.'
"Enough, Frankie," Forest said, her voice seeming to come from a long way off. "Stop playing with your food and get him locked down. I have work to do and I need you on the camera."
"Yes, Miz Forest," Frankie said, and let Starsky fall to the floor. Floor was good, comfortable, even a little cool on his hot face, but hard hands lifted him once again and set him against something narrow and hard. His arms were pulled back, and this time he couldn't help it. It wasn't much of a scream, but it got him through the worst of it. Starsky even managed to black out a little, but it couldn't have lasted more than a second.
When he blinked again, Forest's daughter was lighting a candle and holding something over the flame. "God," Starsky said, and swung his gaze over to Hutch. It was a spoon. A spoon for cooking heroin. Even now, he caught a whiff of the distinctive sharp, sweet smell of good grade smack being melted down.
Hutch wasn't looking at Starsky. He was watching the spoon and the flame and the woman with the needle. His eyes were hungry, and full of shame, and even the guy with the gun on him looked a little sickened at the sight.
"Hutch?" Starsky said. "Hutch, look at me." Starsky stood up, keeping his injured right arm as still as he could. "Hey, partner. Look…." Frankie stepped in, giving his arm a shake to shut him up. Stark set his teeth and blinked, breathing through the pain, then glared at the guy, who just grinned at him with a mouth full of rotten teeth
Patricia Forest set the filled syringe on the table, next to a rubber tourniquet and Starsky's weapon. Then she took a step back. "Here you are, Detective Hutchinson. Make a choice. Sweet oblivion, or possible rescue for your friend and yourself and the little girl upstairs."
"Robin?" Hutch asked, startled out of his enthrallment. He turned to Starsky and said, "You brought that little kid back here?" Then he looked harder at Starsky and a look of puzzlement filled his pale face. "Starsk? I think your shoulder's dislocated. It looks different from the other one." He blinked, and then winked, a gesture so quick Starsky wasn't sure he'd even seen it, then turned back to Forest.
The gun. The needle. Hutch took a shaky step forward, his arms wrapped around his body and shaking so bad he could hardly stand straight. He looked up at Forest's daughter, then down at the table, and licked his parched lips. "My choice?" he asked, looking up at her again.
The woman nodded. "I won't force you this time. The drugs you've had, on top of the cravings left over from before, ought to be enough to make the choice for you. Your body needs it, Kenneth. You hunger for it. You gave up that whore for it. You know the truth of what you are, Kenneth." Her voice was sweet, pitying, understanding, and implacable. "You're a junkie. A hype. You'd sell your soul for a hit, wouldn't you? Much less your friend. Well, there it is. Ready and waiting for you. Pick it up, Kenny. Pick it up and put that needle in your vein. Die a little, and then we'll talk about letting your buddy go free. Maybe that interfering little street urchin upstairs, too.
"Not you, though. You'll never be free. You can stay here and have all the Turkish Delight you want, forever and forever." She smiled a cold smile, and took a step back from the table.
"Don't do it, Hutch!" Starsky yelled. "Come on, babe. Fight it. We can beat this. You're not a jun…" A hard fist came down across his face, silencing him with a brutal efficiency.
Hutch didn't even notice, it seemed. He reached out, barely hesitating, and picked up the syringe. "I'm sorry, Starsk," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I…I c-can't help it. She's right about me." He turned back, leaving Starsky feeling very alone all of a sudden, and deathly afraid for Hutch.
With shaking hands, Hutch rolled up his sleeve and looked down at his arm. He had to put the syringe down for a moment to pick up the rubber tubing and loop it around his bicep. His hands were shaking so badly, though, he couldn't pull the tourniquet tight. In a voice so hopeless it made Starsky want to cry, or break something, he said, "Can you help me with this, Patricia?"
The woman smirked and flashed a look of triumph at Starsky, then stepped up. "Of course, Detective Hutchinson. Hold out your arm. Get ready with that camera, Frankie."
In the instant she looked away, Hutch grabbed up the syringe and spun the woman into a headlock. He pulled her head back with one hand and pressed the syringe into the large vein in her neck with the other. "Call them off," he ordered, his voice strong again, if harsh and raw. "Tell 'em. Get Starsky loose, now!" He pushed the needle a little deeper, and the woman yelped, not quite daring to struggle.
"Do it!" she said. "Drop your weapons!"
Starsky couldn't stop grinning. "All right, Hutch!" he crowed, and looked daggers at the goons. "You heard the lady. Drop your weapons and get these damn cuffs off me."
Frankie and Vince did as they were ordered, and a few minutes later Starsky had them cuffed together, the chain looped through some pipes to hold them both secure. His arm was still in agony, but it was his right arm. He held a gun just fine with his left. "Good job, partner," he said, walking over to where Hutch still had Patricia Forest in as neat a wrestling hold as you'd ever want to see.
"Thanks. Mind taking her? I think I want to pass out, now." He unlocked his grip, pulling the syringe from her neck, and let the woman fall to the ground. She was out cold. "Oops," Hutch said, looking not at all contrite. "Must have given her a little on accident."
He looked at the syringe in his trembling hand, and closed his fist around it. Then, with a yell, he threw it at the concrete wall. It shattered into a million pieces, the drug leaving barely a damp splotch on the cinderblocks. The candle went next, and the spoon. The packet of drugs, he carefully picked up and carried over to the sink. Turning on the tap, he flushed the heroin away until not even a trace was left, then stuffed the baggie down the sink as well.
Starsky just watched, letting Hutch's agitated movements slow until his self-appointed tasks were complete. As he watched, Hutch stilled and stood, swaying in place. The invisible winds that shook him were dying down, now, but there was little warning when the tall man started to crumple. No matter. Starsky was there and caught him, easing him down to the ground as best he was able with a bum arm. "Feel better, partner?" he said, rubbing Hutch's back gently.
"Yeah. Guess so. Relatively speaking, that is." He looked at Forest's daughter with hate in his eyes, and then looked away. "Can we go now? I need…coffee. Lots of coffee."
Starsky nodded. "You bet. Let me call Huggy and get him to bring the car."
Hutch looked up at Starsky in confusion. "You didn't drive the tomato? What, did you take a cab or something?" Then he blinked and looked up the stairs. "Robin. What about Robin? I can't believe that kid found you so fast! Why'd you bring her back here, anyway?"
Helping Hutch stand again, Starsky pulled him toward the stairs. "She kinda brought me. It's a long story. A long, weird story."
"Okay. Later then." He stopped Starsky again, looking at him with concern. "How's your arm? You okay? That guy was huge."
Hutch was getting goofy now, with fatigue and the let down of stress, not to mention withdrawal. "I'm fine, babe. Don't worry about me. Let's just get you up the stairs."
"Okay."
Little by little, with many stops and starts, they made it to the first floor. Locking the door tight, just in case, Starsky found a phone and called Huggy, then joined Hutch in the chintz-covered living room. Dawn was breaking, and a gold-gray light filled the air. It didn't make the furniture any more appealing, though. "How many different rose prints do you think there are in here?" Starsky asked, leaning back in an over-stuffed chair covered with little pink buds.
"Thirteen," said a young voice. "I counted." Robin stood up from behind the couch, holding her head. "Is it over, then?" She walked around and sat, her feet clear of the floor by a good foot. "Did the Heroes emerge victorious?"
"Yep," Starsky said. "Where were you, anyway? I thought you were taking care of the last two goombas."
Robin grimaced and touched her head. "The trolls got me," she said, and showed him the smear of blood on her hands. "I just now awoke." She looked embarrassed, and fidgeted like any child will who's done something wrong. "Sorry, fellows. That's not happened to me in centuries."
Hutch looked at her with concern. "Just so long as you're okay. Starsky shouldn't have brought you back here, kid." He rolled his head until he was looking at Starsky, lacking the strength to pick it up. "What the hell were you thinking, anyway? Bringing a child into a dangerous situation." He shivered, more violently this time, and Robin sprang up and wrapped an afghan around his shoulders.
"This kid ain't no kid," Starsky said. Robin turned and glared at him, then rolled her eyes and shrugged.
"Tell him, if you think he'll believe it, friend David. Me, I'm thinkin' he'll not." She sat back down on the couch and looked out the window, drumming her fingers on the arm.
"Fine," Starsky said, and turned to Hutch. "She's a pooka."
Hutch blinked slowly, then looked over at Robin. After a long moment, he turned and looked at Starsky again. "She doesn't look like a six and a half foot tall, white rabbit."
"Gaah!" Robin exclaimed, springing up once again and stomping out of the room. Her outraged voice filtered back to them; "I hate that movie!"
Hutch shrugged. Starsky grinned. Robin broke things, by the sound of it.
The shakes were getting worse. Starsky's grin faded as Hutch curled up around his stomach again, grimacing as the cramps hit. "Huggy'll be here soon," he said. "Hang in there, babe."
Robin marched back in and threw open a window. Sunlight streamed in and bathed the dirty little girl in light. "At last," she said, and stretched like a cat. When she turned back around, the cut on her head was gone, and hair had turned red. "I can help somewhat, now," she said.
Starsky must have looked as confused as he felt. "Oberon turned me mortal for the night," she explained, walking over to him. "Dawn's come, so now I'm myself once more." She touched his throbbing shoulder and pushed on it gently. With none of the pain he was expecting, it slid back into the socket like it had been greased. "Better?"
He moved his arm around, surprised at the complete lack of discomfort. "Yeah. Thanks." A stifled moan drew his attention back and he said, "What can you do for Hutch?"
"What I can," Robin said, and climbed up on the couch next to the shaking man. "Help me lie him down." Together they made Hutch comfortable on the cushions, and then Robin said, "Close your eyes, Hutch. Sleep, now." She put her hand over his forehead and, in an instant, Hutch was out cold. Before Starsky could become alarmed, Robin turned back to him and said, "He's safe. He'll sleep like this until the poppy poison is done with him, and then a little longer. Three days, and nights, and he'll wake up whole again. Is it well?"
Starsky nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's well." He blew out a relieved breath. Hutch wouldn't suffer through another cold turkey withdrawal, like before. "Thanks."
As an afterthought, the girl ran her hands down Hutch's arms. Where livid punctures had mingled with old wounds on the pale skin, where her hand passed there was nothing but unblemished flesh. "'Tisn't much," she said, and it sounded like her voice was a little thick. As Starsky watched, she raised her hand and wiped her eyes, sniffing. "'Tis little enough. Had I my way, he'd remember none of this, and the woman below would be screaming the rest of her life away, somewhere no one could hear her or care."
She sounded so fierce, for such a little girl. Then again, Starsky reminded himself, she wasn't a little girl. He had a feeling she was very old, indeed. Ancient. She represented a reality he wasn't ready to face, quite yet, but he was glad she was on their side. "I'm with you, kid," he said.
"You do realize," said Robin, looking up at him with shining and dancing eyes, "that a kid is a baby goat." In a twinkling, his lap was full of wriggling wool and a darting tongue was giving his face a bath. Tiny horns stood out from the infant head, and a barnyard smell filled the air.
"Bah," he said, and scratched the kid behind the ears before shooing her off of his lap. "Why couldn't you have done that while Hutch was awake? He'd'a believed me, then."
"Baaaaa"
Epilogue
One week later
The cottage by the canal was glowing with light, and music seeped out under the door. Starsky grinned and let himself in, juggling paper bags in one arm and a bottle of good wine in the other. "Hutch!" he called, and the music was turned down in the other room. "'S me!" The place was sparkling, he saw as he passed through the bedroom. Not a sock was to be seen, nor a fallen leaf from the topiary Hutch insisted on cultivating behind his couch. The theme continued into the dining nook, where the table had been wiped clean and was laid out for two.
"Course it's you, dummy," Hutch said from the kitchen. "Come in! Did you bring the bread?"
"As requested. Baguettes from Betriz' Bakery and cheese from Collette's, um, cheeserie. Collette says hi, by the way, and sent along a bottle of wine she says will go good with bachelor chili." Sumptuous smells wafted toward him, pulling him forward until he stood in the doorway to the scrubbed and shining kitchen. "It almost done? I'm starving."
"You're always starving, Starsk. It's part of your charm." Hutch grinned at him and added onions to the bubbling pot, followed by a generous measure of beer.
His partner being busy, Starsky allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the man. The three days he'd spent sleeping off his withdrawal had left him a little weak, at first, but it had been worth it. Now he was moving easily, almost dancing around the kitchen to the strains of something that sounded like Jethro Tull, but with more guitars and less flute. He looked strong, and happy, and fairly glowing with health and good humor.
Starsky wondered, not for the first time, what dreams Robin had given him while he slept. For certain, there'd been no reappearance of the gloomy and depressed man who'd lurked around the precinct for the past month or so. This was a man at ease with himself and with life, from the unconscious smile on his face to the tapping of his bare feet on the linoleum as he opened the wine.
"Ok," Hutch said, pouring a glass and handing it over. "What gives?"
Startled, Starsky took a sip to hide his embarrassment at being caught staring. "What do you mean?" he asked, coughing a little at the strong flavor. He put down the glass and picked up the bottle of Harp Hutch had been dosing the chili with, taking a long drink.
"You know what I mean," Hutch said, taking the bottle away from him and finishing it off. "You've got something on your mind." He hopped up to sit on the counter, reaching out a long arm to stir the chili, then pouring a glass of wine for himself.
Damn it. Hutch had that look in his eyes. The one that said he wouldn't be letting this one drop any time soon, so Starsky might just as well spill. Being a stubborn man, a man of convictions and possessing a strong will, Starsky did the only thing he could do. He spilled.
"You're different. I was just wondering what happened to make you so happy all of a sudden. Before," he hesitated, not wanting to give words to what he was thinking, then went on, "after what happened to you…"
"After Ben Forest pumped me full of heroin, strung me out, forced me to betray a girl I think I was half in love with, and then tried to kill me?" Hutch took a sip of wine, and his eyes had grown a little haunted, but nothing like they'd been before.
"Yeah," Starsky said, strangely relieved, "that. You were…different. Moody. I mean, God knows you had the right to be moody, after all that, but…" He staggered to a stop once more. Words had never been his strong point, and it was doubly hard when he had to talk about this kind of thing.
"I was more than moody, Starsk," Hutch said, putting down his glass. "I was thinking of leaving the force."
"What?" Starsky was appalled, then angry. "Why? You'd leave everything, just like that? Our beat? Our partnership?" Me? said a little voice inside, and he closed his mouth on the needy word.
Hutch seemed to hear it anyway. "I couldn't trust myself, Starsk," he said, hopping down and padding over to his friend. "I couldn't trust myself not to betray you, like I did Jeanie. And I didn't want to find out." He put his hand on Starsky's shoulder and squeezed gently. "I was scared, Starsk. I was so scared that next time it would be you, and I'd choose the drug again, just like before."
There were tears standing in Hutch's eyes, but they didn't fall. Starsky reached out and wiped them away with his thumb. "You didn't," he said. "You wouldn't. I never doubted it for a minute."
Hutch shrugged, blinked, and this time the silent tears did fall. "I know," he said, and he smiled a brilliant smile.
Outside, standing at the window, Oberon reached down and tousled Puck's hair. The hob looked up and smiled toothily, then stepped away from the window. "When do you think Hutch will start wonderin' about who's pickin' up after him, now?" Puck asked.
"He's a clever man, for a mortal," Oberon said. "I'd give him a week, then tell him about the brownie. Bring a crock of cream for the lad, to get him started, and mind you warn him not to leave any clothes out for Meg. She hates that."
"Of course," Puck said, though he intended to do nothing of the kind, and they both stepped back out of the night.
The End
Title: Midsummer Part 2
Author: Sylvia
Crossover: Starsky and Hutch/Midsummer Night's Dream
Rating: PG-13 (language and violence)
Flavor: Gen, all the way, but with a fair amount of shmoop
Summary: In the hands of a vengeful woman, Hutch gets help from a source unlooked for and unexpected.
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. They belong to them what holds the rights. Please don't sue me.
Warnings: quasi-original character, drug-related violence, spoilers for episodes up to and including Pariah but mostly for The Fix, and archetype and ellipses abuse. Also, un-beta'd and envenomed (sorry...Hamlet...wrong play...)
No hobgoblins were seriously harmed in the writing of this fic, although one got more than a little pissed when his...her...his gender got switched around by a certain High King.
part one here
Chapter 3
This was, without a doubt, the single freakiest night in his entire life. The weird little girl had just changed into a horse. Just like that. It was almost enough to distract him from his worry about Hutch, but not quite. Never taking his eyes off of the animal, he got out of the car and walked up to it. Maybe he was still dreaming. A balmy breeze from the distant ocean ruffled his hair, and the horse's mane. A spicy scent rose from the beast, like a campfire, or a field of night-blooming flowers. Distant memories of Scout camps in the Catskills and warm summer evenings stirred in Starsky's mind, and he took another cautious step forward.
Laying a hand on the horse's neck, he could feel the pulse. "Kid? Is that you?"
Rolling her red eyes, the horse bobbed her head and snorted. Starsky looked from the animal to the Torino and said, "Y'know, if you didn't want me to drive, you could'a just said so." The horse snorted again and tossed her head, long mane flying. Starsk could swear she was laughing at him. It was the full moon, he decided. It made everything possible. Little girls turning into horses, all perfectly natural. Huggy had said to trust her, no matter how weird it got, and it had just taken a turn for the seriously strange.
"Guess it's time for a little trust," he said. "You gonna take me to Hutch?"
The mare nodded again and clopped a pace forward. The step sounded dull, and looking down Starsky noted the horse wasn't wearing horseshoes. Well, made sense. The kid had been barefoot, too. Unreal. Down the rabbit hole time. But she would take him to Hutch, and that was all that really mattered. "Okay then. Let's go."
First stumble. No saddle or stirrups to get him aboard. "Um…Robin? Can you, uh, kneel or something. I don’t think you want me trying to jump up there, not in these jeans."
The horse laughed at him again, and walked over to stand next to the Torino. "Great. I'm getting laughed at by a freakin' horse," he muttered, and climbed up on top of his car. "Don't move, now," he said, and stepped from the hood to settle over mare's broad back.
The instant his butt touched her spine, she was off. Starsky yelped and bent low, grabbing a double handful of black mane and hanging on for dear life. He clamped his legs to either side of the great barrel of her body and yelled, "Slow down, willya!"
The mare shook her head, and then stretched her neck and fairly flew down the empty street. Her hoof beats thudded in time with his hammering heart, and the wind of their passage blew her tangled mane into his eyes. Every moment that passed, he was sure he'd fall off and break a leg or something. After a while, though, Starsky noticed that he wasn't slipping around like he'd feared. In fact, the mare's gait was so smooth it felt almost like riding in his Torino. She took a corner, and he leaned into it as he would if he were driving, and grinned in exhilaration.
If Hutch weren't in trouble somewhere up ahead, Starsky would be having the time of his life.
He'd fallen asleep on Hutch's couch and dreamt some tremulous dreams, as Lord Buckley had once said. Hutch in that alley, scared and hurting and looking like death warmed over. Hutch, angry and ashamed, sweeping the checkers off of the table and stalking around Huggy's room like a caged lion. Hutch hurting, alone, and afraid and Starsky couldn't get to him, no matter how hard he tried.
The telephone had awakened him, and he'd been glad for the interruption until he heard the message. Some kid had come to Huggy, telling him Hutch was in trouble and for Starsky to come right away. Starsk had been out the door before he put down the phone.
Then things had taken a turn for the bizarre. Straight out of a Twilight Zone episode, the kid turns out to be not a kid at all but something Else, and now Starsky was riding a freakin' horse into Beverly Hills. A horse that laughed at him.
Must be still dreaming. That was the only thing that made sense.
The neighborhoods turned nice, then nicer, then posh. When they turned filthy rich, the mare entered a little park and trotted to a stop. The place was dark and quiet, surrounded on all sides by a brick wall over which roses had been trained. A tasteful playground sat in the center, and dew spattered the grass with moon-reflecting diamonds.
With a convulsive shudder, Robin shed herself of her rider and pranced a few steps away, laughing her horse laugh. Moments later, the sound changed. "Ho ho ho! By Oak, Ash, and Thorn, I've not had as much fun since Weyland was a babe in arms!"
A little man stood in the horse's hoof-prints. Shorter than Starsky by a couple of feet, the guy had tiny horns on his head and a shock of bushy red hair. His chin was pointed, the angularity accented by the van dyke that sprouted there, and when he grinned Starsky could see that his teeth were all sharp as a cat's. Stretching, he looked up at the moon and then danced a little jig. "Midnight," he crowed. "Fairy time. Come, let's away!"
"Robin?" Starsky said, but there was no doubt in his mind. "What the hell are you? What's going on, here?"
All jollity left the strange creature. He stood upright, his head level with Starsky's shoulder, and bowed. "I'm a pooka, or hobgoblin, or pwca, or whatever you like. I'm a trickster and madman and right now I'm your boon companion's only hope. Will ye not shift yerself, friend David? We've not the time to stand about gawping. 'Tis midnight on the eve of Midsummer, and tonight of all nights I've been sent to you. T'moon will be setting soon; your Ken still bides in pain and fear, not far from here. Will ye not trust me?"
Hutch was in trouble. Nothing else mattered, really. Coming to a decision, Starsky nodded. "Lead on, MacDuff," he said, and the weird little man winced.
"Don't ever do that. 'Tis bad luck to quote that play, don't ye know that?"
"Come on," Starsky said, impatiently. "Just take me to him."
The pooka nodded, and turned to lead the way out of the park. 'Pointed ears. The guy has pointed ears. I'm dreaming.'
"You're not dreaming, David," Robin said, grinning over his shoulder.
Deciding silence was wiser than comment, Starsky just glared at the little man and followed him out of the park.
The crept down the quiet streets, Robin trotting ahead and Starsky trailing behind, his gun heavy in its holster. This wasn't what he'd expected, this rich neighborhood, when he had heard Hutch had been kidnapped again. Some warehouse, down by the docks, yeah. Or some place in the mesas, abandoned and decrepit. Not this. Lawns stretching for miles and cars that cost more than he made in a year. What was Patricia Forest doing in Beverly Hills?
Then again, it stood to reason. Ben Forest had been big in the drug sale and distribution business. That kind of traffic brought in big bucks. No reason not to set up his kid in style. They just hadn't tracked her connection yet, with her father's business. The DEA had taken over, after the bust, and were still mopping up Forest's operation. Neither Hutch nor Starsky had wanted anything further to do with the case.
Looked like that option had been taken away from them. The case had come back to haunt them both. "We almost there?"
"Aye," the little man said. "Next house. What will you do when we arrive?"
"Get Hutch out of there," Starsky replied. Duh.
Robin rolled his eyes. "How? There are four stout men within, and the woman. There may be more that I did not see. I am sure they all carry those…pistols. If they hear you coming, they might harm Hutch, for spite."
The pair came to a stop in the shadow of a high wall. More roses nodded overhead, their scent an annoyance just now, and a distraction. It was thick, cloying, and it made Starsky want to sneeze. "We'll have to take them out before they can do that, then," he said.
"How?"
Good question. Throwing up his hands, Starsky said, "I dunno. Maybe you could turn into a horse again and take 'em all for a nice ride." Every muscle in his body urged him forward, knowing that Hutch was hurting close by and unable to stop it Right Now, damn it. "What do you suggest?"
The little man grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. "I thought you'd never ask, laddie-buck. I'll go unlock the door and then see what mischief I can devise. Hutch is in the basement, under the stairs. I'll do what I can, and leave the rest for you."
Before Starsky could object, the man was gone. In his place stood a dirty white cat, who hissed and purred at him, and then turned and scampered into the dark.
"Dreaming," Starsky muttered. "Any minute I'll wake up and Hutch will come through the door and ask me what the heck I'm doing sleeping on his couch. Any minute."
()()()
It was easy as sin to find the window again. Robin scampered up the tree and through the gap in a trice. Following the smell of garlic, he found two of the trolls asleep together, their beefy arms entwined each around the other. 'How sweet,' he thought, and purred a spell to make their sleep a deeper one. Nothing save an earthquake would wake them now. That left two, and the woman. Once more on two feet, Robin crept down the hall and toward the front door.
Dolorous Willie had penned a play, once, about the Daoine Sidhe. Robin had seen it fair often, and thought it great sport. In it, he, or rather the Puck of the play, tricked two worthy youths into combat by imitating their voices in the fog. "'Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one.'"
Indeed, one of the trolls approached from the kitchen, bearing a slice of meat pie and a mug of weak ale, by the smell of it. Fading into a handy shadow, Robin pitched his voice low and slow. "That the last slice, you pig?"
"Fuck you, Vince. You took twice as much as me, and I paid for it anyway." The troll glared toward the voice, then went his way. Robin rubbed her hands together and laughed a soundless laugh.
Scampering forward, once more in girl-guise, Robin unlocked the door and swung it wide. In a trice, the mortal Hero ran up the lawn and into the house, his pistol drawn and ready. "I go to sow dissention in the ranks," said Robin. "Two are asleep and will not wake. I've not found the woman, yet. The other two will soon come to blows, or my name's not Robin Goodfellow."
Starsky grimaced. "Yeah, well, I'll take your word on that, merry wanderer of the night. Where's Hutch?"
"Below," Robin pointed toward the door beneath the stairs. "But he's chained and I doubt not the woman has the keys. He'll bide a while longer."
"No. He won't." Before Robin could object, Starsky unlocked the door and disappeared inside.
"Lord, what fools these mortals be," Robin said, shaking her head sadly, and went to look for Vince.
She'd gone no more than a step when a long-fingered hand closed on her shoulder. With a shriek, she jumped and spun in place, a spell on her lips to turn the offender into a water vole. It died unspoken, and her gaze traveled up and up until it met the cool eyes of the one she called master. "Great King," she said, bowing low. "What do you here? The revel…."
"The revel proceeds without me for the nonce," Oberon said, sounding none to pleased at the prospect. "How goes Our business, my jester?"
Robin cringed at the ice in the king's voice. "Well, master," she said, bowing low once more. "Hutch, the one you bid me aid, is below, and his brother is e'en now with him. I go to put paid to the other villains in the house and see them both safe home. If you will grant me leave to go?" She looked up hopefully, but her heart pounded in her chest.
The raven-haired fae looked down at her with cold and pitiless eyes. "I will not. You have flouted me, my dear. You have made yourself known to a mortal, and by extension, you have put us all in jeopardy. Why do you think I bade you to be discrete, fool of a pooka?" When Oberon became angry, he did not yell. No, his voice became soft and sweet, and almost too quiet to hear. Now, he was near whispering, and his voice was charming enough to steal babies from their grandmothers. "What am I to do with you?"
Above all else, Robin dreaded her lord's displeasure. He could be very…inventive at his punishments. Still, she was a favorite, a pet. Perhaps that would count for something. Grinning a bright grin, Robin said, "Forgive me? Give me a lemon drop and a pat on the head? Send me to bed without supper?" She waggled her eyebrows, inviting him to laugh.
He did not take her up on her offer. A hard cuff sent her stumbling, and then Oberon stood over her, and wrath filled his fair face. "Mortal you beseem and mortal you shall remain, until morning's light. You are barred from my company for a month, and none of the Blood will aid you for that time. Use that time to think on your crimes, hob, and come to me contrite when the time is up."
The Sidhe king held his hand over her and a pale light filled the dark hallway. When he lifted his hand away, it felt as though sand had been poured into her limbs. "Mortal," she whispered. "If you prick me, I will bleed." She looked down at her hands, seeing the dirt under her nails, and made a fist. No beseeming, this was her true form. The magic which had fizzed in her blood was now silent, and the dark seemed deeper than before. She couldn't feel the moon, nor smell the wind. Worse, she could barely see Oberon. She had only a mortal's senses, and abilities.
A terrible thought occurred to her, then. "Dread king," she said, and all merriment was gone from her voice. "How can I help them now?" The men below stairs, in danger and alone, might have need of her before the night was through. How could she help with no magics to aid her?
Oberon just smiled, fading into shadow. "You will think of something, my Puck," he said, and was gone.
Folding her arms, Robin glared after him. "Beautiful," she muttered, and went in search of her foes.
Chapter 4
They'd kept Hutch in the dark. That was Starsky's first thought when he opened the door under the stairs and had to turn on the light to go any further. It was dark and hot and there was a distant smell of sickness in the air that made it hard to breathe. Drawing his weapon, he swallowed against the fear and anger in his throat, and descended the steps slowly. His heart was hammering and he dreaded what he'd find, but at the same time he was hurrying along faster than he should into an unknown situation. Hutch was down here, and hurting, Robin had said.
Of course, Robin had then turned into a horse, so that made anything she had to say a little suspect.
Turning a bend, he reached a second door. "How big is this basement, anyway?" he muttered, unlocking the deadbolt and pushing the heavy door open. The heat within wafted up at him, and it was dark here, too. Fumbling around the corner with his free hand, Starsky flipped on a switch, flooding the room below with light.
"Hey!" a weak protest, but it was his partner's voice, and it drew Starsky's eyes like a magnet draws iron.
"God, Hutch," Starsky said softly. The man looked terrible. Sweat had plastered his clothes to his thin frame, and he was sitting against a thin metal pipe in the middle of the room. He'd buried his face in his drawn up legs, hiding his eyes from the light probably, and even at that distance, Starsky could see his friend shaking.
Shock held him immobile for a long moment, then caution for another as he scanned for bad guys. Going quietly down the stairs, and battling every step not to run to Hutch, Starsky poked around the room, behind boxes and under the wooden stairs, until he was satisfied they were alone. A moment after that, he was crouching next to Hutch, reaching for his handcuff keys. "Hutch? Hey, look at me, buddy. You okay?"
Slowly and reluctantly, Hutch raised his head and squinted at him. "Starsk? What are you doing here?" He blinked a couple of times, then coughed and rested his head on his upraised knees once again. "Not here. 'M dreamin' again."
The blond hair was wet and a little oily under his hand, but that didn't matter. Stroking the bowed head gently, Starsky urged it up with a gentle pressure. "I'm here, babe. Look at me. Gonna get you out of here." The handcuffs were proving stubborn, and it didn't help that Starsky's own vision was blurring a bit. He dashed moisture from his eyes and set his teeth. Hutch's wrists were red and swollen, and there was old blood and new staining the silver metal of the cuffs. Every now and again, Hutch shivered, and his hands were clenched into fists so tight there was blood in his palms as well, from his fingernails. "Damn it. I'll kill 'em. I'll fuckin' kill 'em."
One cuff came free, and Starsky caught Hutch's arm and eased it forward. With a grimace and a stifled moan, Hutch let him move the other arm forward as well and start working on the other cuff. "Easy now, buddy," Starsky said, summoning up an encouraging smile. "I'll have this off in a jiffy and we'll get you out of here."
"Starsk?" His voice was hoarse and rough, and a little raspy, like he'd been yelling a lot. "You're here? How…."
The smile turned into a grin as Hutch finally connected with him. "There y'are, big guy," he said, and put his hand on Hutch's neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. He ducked his head to look into his partner's eyes and saw recognition there. He also saw no blue, only pupils and reddened whites set into dark shadows. Reaching down, hoping he wouldn't see what he knew was there, he pushed back Hutch's loose sleeve.
"Don't," said Hutch, trying to pull away. "Don't look."
Don't look. Right. He couldn't tear his eyes away, though the sight made him sick. A dozen or more old puncture marks riddled the skin over the large veins in his arms. Set among them were five new wounds, red and inflamed. "Oh, jeez," he said softly, letting the sleeve fall. "Oh, Hutch." He wanted to cry, and he wanted to hurt something, preferably the people who had performed the obscenity on his friend.
"Sorry," Hutch said. He sounded miserable, and he drew his arm back and wrapped them around his legs. "Sorry, Starsk." He pulled himself into a tight ball, trying to control the shudders, which were running through him freely now.
Starsky sat down next to him and lay an arm over his friend's shoulders, pulling him close. "Wasn't your fault, babe. You got nothin' to be sorry about, you hear me? We got through this before and we can do it again." He sniffed, wiping away the unwanted tears that were blurring his vision, and reached for one of Hutch's hands. "Two, three days. That's all. You'll be fine. We can get through this."
There was no question in Starsky's mind, and no hesitation in his words. At long last, Hutch looked over at him and gave a little smile. "We, huh?"
Starsky grinned, and hugged a little tighter. "Like there was ever any doubt, you big dummy. Let's get you out of here."
"Oh, this is touching." A woman's cold voice drew Starsky's attention upward, and his gut clenched with anger and sudden dread. She had two big guys with her, both with guns pointing down at the pair on the floor, and an ominous looking black bag in her hand. "You must be Detective Starsky. I must say, you got here sooner than I'd expected, but I think we're far enough along to proceed."
For openings which could be measured in millimeters, the barrels of the guns pointed at them seemed wide as tunnels. For himself, Starsky could probably do a good job of dodging for cover if it came down to a firefight; Hutch wasn't anywhere near able to do the same. Plan B, then. Distract, delay, and survive until an opportunity presented itself. There was a third player on the side of the angels, after all, and one who seemed to like spreading confusion to their enemies.
Keeping his hand well clear of his sidearm, Starsky gave Hutch one final covert hug, then stood and faced his friend's tormentor. All the caution in the world couldn't keep the anger from his voice, no matter how hard he tried. "What the hell do you want, lady? You gotta know you waste a couple of cops, the feds and the DEA are gonna be all over you. If you was smart, you'd just stand aside and let us go."
Patricia Forest laughed at this, a strangely sweet sound that echoed off of the sweating concrete walls. "You're right, Detective Starsky. What was I thinking? Frankie, Vince, please go help Detective Hutchinson up and then call the authorities. We're turning ourselves in." She laughed again, and led the way down the rickety wooden stairs, placing her bag on a little table. "On second thought," she said, turning back to her thugs, "don't. Take Detective Starsky's weapon and handcuffs and secure him somewhere. Keep Detective Hutchinson covered and kill him if Detective Starsky makes any sudden or untoward moves. You may hurt him, a little, if he doesn't cooperate."
From the floor, Starsky heard Hutch's teeth begin to chatter. It was a sound that had haunted him all through that first night at Huggy's, after they'd got Hutch back from Forest, Sr. The chills hadn't let the suffering man alone for a moment, even when he had finally fallen asleep. Worse than the nausea, worse than the aching and driving need for relief from the craving inside, the cold wouldn't leave Hutch any peace. He'd huddled in Starsky's arms most of that first night, wrapped in blankets and drinking cup after cup of sweet coffee, teeth chattering like castanets.
It was happening again. Hutch was going into withdrawal, and this time there was no safe haven to see him through it. Just two burly thugs, coming this way, with an evil humor in their eyes. One of them kept his piece on Hutch, who seemed oblivious to the whole proceedings once again. The other reached under Starsky's jacket and relieved him of his sidearm and badge, handing them both to Forest. "You gonna be good, pig?" he said, and Starsky wrinkled his nose at the scent of garlic and tomato sauce that wafted out of the man's maw.
"Whew, Guido. You need to think about brushing a little more often."
The smirk turned into a scowl, and Starsky found himself pushed against the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back until he had to stand on tiptoe to relieve the pressure. "Funny man," the guy growled in his ear. "You like jokes?" He pulled up a little higher, and Starsky felt something give in his shoulder, an agonizing jolt of wrongness as the ball popped out of its socket. "I think this is funny."
No breath to object, none to scream, Starsky held on to consciousness with his fingernails. 'Can't pass out. Hutch needs me. God, that hurts.'
"Enough, Frankie," Forest said, her voice seeming to come from a long way off. "Stop playing with your food and get him locked down. I have work to do and I need you on the camera."
"Yes, Miz Forest," Frankie said, and let Starsky fall to the floor. Floor was good, comfortable, even a little cool on his hot face, but hard hands lifted him once again and set him against something narrow and hard. His arms were pulled back, and this time he couldn't help it. It wasn't much of a scream, but it got him through the worst of it. Starsky even managed to black out a little, but it couldn't have lasted more than a second.
When he blinked again, Forest's daughter was lighting a candle and holding something over the flame. "God," Starsky said, and swung his gaze over to Hutch. It was a spoon. A spoon for cooking heroin. Even now, he caught a whiff of the distinctive sharp, sweet smell of good grade smack being melted down.
Hutch wasn't looking at Starsky. He was watching the spoon and the flame and the woman with the needle. His eyes were hungry, and full of shame, and even the guy with the gun on him looked a little sickened at the sight.
"Hutch?" Starsky said. "Hutch, look at me." Starsky stood up, keeping his injured right arm as still as he could. "Hey, partner. Look…." Frankie stepped in, giving his arm a shake to shut him up. Stark set his teeth and blinked, breathing through the pain, then glared at the guy, who just grinned at him with a mouth full of rotten teeth
Patricia Forest set the filled syringe on the table, next to a rubber tourniquet and Starsky's weapon. Then she took a step back. "Here you are, Detective Hutchinson. Make a choice. Sweet oblivion, or possible rescue for your friend and yourself and the little girl upstairs."
"Robin?" Hutch asked, startled out of his enthrallment. He turned to Starsky and said, "You brought that little kid back here?" Then he looked harder at Starsky and a look of puzzlement filled his pale face. "Starsk? I think your shoulder's dislocated. It looks different from the other one." He blinked, and then winked, a gesture so quick Starsky wasn't sure he'd even seen it, then turned back to Forest.
The gun. The needle. Hutch took a shaky step forward, his arms wrapped around his body and shaking so bad he could hardly stand straight. He looked up at Forest's daughter, then down at the table, and licked his parched lips. "My choice?" he asked, looking up at her again.
The woman nodded. "I won't force you this time. The drugs you've had, on top of the cravings left over from before, ought to be enough to make the choice for you. Your body needs it, Kenneth. You hunger for it. You gave up that whore for it. You know the truth of what you are, Kenneth." Her voice was sweet, pitying, understanding, and implacable. "You're a junkie. A hype. You'd sell your soul for a hit, wouldn't you? Much less your friend. Well, there it is. Ready and waiting for you. Pick it up, Kenny. Pick it up and put that needle in your vein. Die a little, and then we'll talk about letting your buddy go free. Maybe that interfering little street urchin upstairs, too.
"Not you, though. You'll never be free. You can stay here and have all the Turkish Delight you want, forever and forever." She smiled a cold smile, and took a step back from the table.
"Don't do it, Hutch!" Starsky yelled. "Come on, babe. Fight it. We can beat this. You're not a jun…" A hard fist came down across his face, silencing him with a brutal efficiency.
Hutch didn't even notice, it seemed. He reached out, barely hesitating, and picked up the syringe. "I'm sorry, Starsk," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I…I c-can't help it. She's right about me." He turned back, leaving Starsky feeling very alone all of a sudden, and deathly afraid for Hutch.
With shaking hands, Hutch rolled up his sleeve and looked down at his arm. He had to put the syringe down for a moment to pick up the rubber tubing and loop it around his bicep. His hands were shaking so badly, though, he couldn't pull the tourniquet tight. In a voice so hopeless it made Starsky want to cry, or break something, he said, "Can you help me with this, Patricia?"
The woman smirked and flashed a look of triumph at Starsky, then stepped up. "Of course, Detective Hutchinson. Hold out your arm. Get ready with that camera, Frankie."
In the instant she looked away, Hutch grabbed up the syringe and spun the woman into a headlock. He pulled her head back with one hand and pressed the syringe into the large vein in her neck with the other. "Call them off," he ordered, his voice strong again, if harsh and raw. "Tell 'em. Get Starsky loose, now!" He pushed the needle a little deeper, and the woman yelped, not quite daring to struggle.
"Do it!" she said. "Drop your weapons!"
Starsky couldn't stop grinning. "All right, Hutch!" he crowed, and looked daggers at the goons. "You heard the lady. Drop your weapons and get these damn cuffs off me."
Frankie and Vince did as they were ordered, and a few minutes later Starsky had them cuffed together, the chain looped through some pipes to hold them both secure. His arm was still in agony, but it was his right arm. He held a gun just fine with his left. "Good job, partner," he said, walking over to where Hutch still had Patricia Forest in as neat a wrestling hold as you'd ever want to see.
"Thanks. Mind taking her? I think I want to pass out, now." He unlocked his grip, pulling the syringe from her neck, and let the woman fall to the ground. She was out cold. "Oops," Hutch said, looking not at all contrite. "Must have given her a little on accident."
He looked at the syringe in his trembling hand, and closed his fist around it. Then, with a yell, he threw it at the concrete wall. It shattered into a million pieces, the drug leaving barely a damp splotch on the cinderblocks. The candle went next, and the spoon. The packet of drugs, he carefully picked up and carried over to the sink. Turning on the tap, he flushed the heroin away until not even a trace was left, then stuffed the baggie down the sink as well.
Starsky just watched, letting Hutch's agitated movements slow until his self-appointed tasks were complete. As he watched, Hutch stilled and stood, swaying in place. The invisible winds that shook him were dying down, now, but there was little warning when the tall man started to crumple. No matter. Starsky was there and caught him, easing him down to the ground as best he was able with a bum arm. "Feel better, partner?" he said, rubbing Hutch's back gently.
"Yeah. Guess so. Relatively speaking, that is." He looked at Forest's daughter with hate in his eyes, and then looked away. "Can we go now? I need…coffee. Lots of coffee."
Starsky nodded. "You bet. Let me call Huggy and get him to bring the car."
Hutch looked up at Starsky in confusion. "You didn't drive the tomato? What, did you take a cab or something?" Then he blinked and looked up the stairs. "Robin. What about Robin? I can't believe that kid found you so fast! Why'd you bring her back here, anyway?"
Helping Hutch stand again, Starsky pulled him toward the stairs. "She kinda brought me. It's a long story. A long, weird story."
"Okay. Later then." He stopped Starsky again, looking at him with concern. "How's your arm? You okay? That guy was huge."
Hutch was getting goofy now, with fatigue and the let down of stress, not to mention withdrawal. "I'm fine, babe. Don't worry about me. Let's just get you up the stairs."
"Okay."
Little by little, with many stops and starts, they made it to the first floor. Locking the door tight, just in case, Starsky found a phone and called Huggy, then joined Hutch in the chintz-covered living room. Dawn was breaking, and a gold-gray light filled the air. It didn't make the furniture any more appealing, though. "How many different rose prints do you think there are in here?" Starsky asked, leaning back in an over-stuffed chair covered with little pink buds.
"Thirteen," said a young voice. "I counted." Robin stood up from behind the couch, holding her head. "Is it over, then?" She walked around and sat, her feet clear of the floor by a good foot. "Did the Heroes emerge victorious?"
"Yep," Starsky said. "Where were you, anyway? I thought you were taking care of the last two goombas."
Robin grimaced and touched her head. "The trolls got me," she said, and showed him the smear of blood on her hands. "I just now awoke." She looked embarrassed, and fidgeted like any child will who's done something wrong. "Sorry, fellows. That's not happened to me in centuries."
Hutch looked at her with concern. "Just so long as you're okay. Starsky shouldn't have brought you back here, kid." He rolled his head until he was looking at Starsky, lacking the strength to pick it up. "What the hell were you thinking, anyway? Bringing a child into a dangerous situation." He shivered, more violently this time, and Robin sprang up and wrapped an afghan around his shoulders.
"This kid ain't no kid," Starsky said. Robin turned and glared at him, then rolled her eyes and shrugged.
"Tell him, if you think he'll believe it, friend David. Me, I'm thinkin' he'll not." She sat back down on the couch and looked out the window, drumming her fingers on the arm.
"Fine," Starsky said, and turned to Hutch. "She's a pooka."
Hutch blinked slowly, then looked over at Robin. After a long moment, he turned and looked at Starsky again. "She doesn't look like a six and a half foot tall, white rabbit."
"Gaah!" Robin exclaimed, springing up once again and stomping out of the room. Her outraged voice filtered back to them; "I hate that movie!"
Hutch shrugged. Starsky grinned. Robin broke things, by the sound of it.
The shakes were getting worse. Starsky's grin faded as Hutch curled up around his stomach again, grimacing as the cramps hit. "Huggy'll be here soon," he said. "Hang in there, babe."
Robin marched back in and threw open a window. Sunlight streamed in and bathed the dirty little girl in light. "At last," she said, and stretched like a cat. When she turned back around, the cut on her head was gone, and hair had turned red. "I can help somewhat, now," she said.
Starsky must have looked as confused as he felt. "Oberon turned me mortal for the night," she explained, walking over to him. "Dawn's come, so now I'm myself once more." She touched his throbbing shoulder and pushed on it gently. With none of the pain he was expecting, it slid back into the socket like it had been greased. "Better?"
He moved his arm around, surprised at the complete lack of discomfort. "Yeah. Thanks." A stifled moan drew his attention back and he said, "What can you do for Hutch?"
"What I can," Robin said, and climbed up on the couch next to the shaking man. "Help me lie him down." Together they made Hutch comfortable on the cushions, and then Robin said, "Close your eyes, Hutch. Sleep, now." She put her hand over his forehead and, in an instant, Hutch was out cold. Before Starsky could become alarmed, Robin turned back to him and said, "He's safe. He'll sleep like this until the poppy poison is done with him, and then a little longer. Three days, and nights, and he'll wake up whole again. Is it well?"
Starsky nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's well." He blew out a relieved breath. Hutch wouldn't suffer through another cold turkey withdrawal, like before. "Thanks."
As an afterthought, the girl ran her hands down Hutch's arms. Where livid punctures had mingled with old wounds on the pale skin, where her hand passed there was nothing but unblemished flesh. "'Tisn't much," she said, and it sounded like her voice was a little thick. As Starsky watched, she raised her hand and wiped her eyes, sniffing. "'Tis little enough. Had I my way, he'd remember none of this, and the woman below would be screaming the rest of her life away, somewhere no one could hear her or care."
She sounded so fierce, for such a little girl. Then again, Starsky reminded himself, she wasn't a little girl. He had a feeling she was very old, indeed. Ancient. She represented a reality he wasn't ready to face, quite yet, but he was glad she was on their side. "I'm with you, kid," he said.
"You do realize," said Robin, looking up at him with shining and dancing eyes, "that a kid is a baby goat." In a twinkling, his lap was full of wriggling wool and a darting tongue was giving his face a bath. Tiny horns stood out from the infant head, and a barnyard smell filled the air.
"Bah," he said, and scratched the kid behind the ears before shooing her off of his lap. "Why couldn't you have done that while Hutch was awake? He'd'a believed me, then."
"Baaaaa"
Epilogue
One week later
The cottage by the canal was glowing with light, and music seeped out under the door. Starsky grinned and let himself in, juggling paper bags in one arm and a bottle of good wine in the other. "Hutch!" he called, and the music was turned down in the other room. "'S me!" The place was sparkling, he saw as he passed through the bedroom. Not a sock was to be seen, nor a fallen leaf from the topiary Hutch insisted on cultivating behind his couch. The theme continued into the dining nook, where the table had been wiped clean and was laid out for two.
"Course it's you, dummy," Hutch said from the kitchen. "Come in! Did you bring the bread?"
"As requested. Baguettes from Betriz' Bakery and cheese from Collette's, um, cheeserie. Collette says hi, by the way, and sent along a bottle of wine she says will go good with bachelor chili." Sumptuous smells wafted toward him, pulling him forward until he stood in the doorway to the scrubbed and shining kitchen. "It almost done? I'm starving."
"You're always starving, Starsk. It's part of your charm." Hutch grinned at him and added onions to the bubbling pot, followed by a generous measure of beer.
His partner being busy, Starsky allowed himself the luxury of just looking at the man. The three days he'd spent sleeping off his withdrawal had left him a little weak, at first, but it had been worth it. Now he was moving easily, almost dancing around the kitchen to the strains of something that sounded like Jethro Tull, but with more guitars and less flute. He looked strong, and happy, and fairly glowing with health and good humor.
Starsky wondered, not for the first time, what dreams Robin had given him while he slept. For certain, there'd been no reappearance of the gloomy and depressed man who'd lurked around the precinct for the past month or so. This was a man at ease with himself and with life, from the unconscious smile on his face to the tapping of his bare feet on the linoleum as he opened the wine.
"Ok," Hutch said, pouring a glass and handing it over. "What gives?"
Startled, Starsky took a sip to hide his embarrassment at being caught staring. "What do you mean?" he asked, coughing a little at the strong flavor. He put down the glass and picked up the bottle of Harp Hutch had been dosing the chili with, taking a long drink.
"You know what I mean," Hutch said, taking the bottle away from him and finishing it off. "You've got something on your mind." He hopped up to sit on the counter, reaching out a long arm to stir the chili, then pouring a glass of wine for himself.
Damn it. Hutch had that look in his eyes. The one that said he wouldn't be letting this one drop any time soon, so Starsky might just as well spill. Being a stubborn man, a man of convictions and possessing a strong will, Starsky did the only thing he could do. He spilled.
"You're different. I was just wondering what happened to make you so happy all of a sudden. Before," he hesitated, not wanting to give words to what he was thinking, then went on, "after what happened to you…"
"After Ben Forest pumped me full of heroin, strung me out, forced me to betray a girl I think I was half in love with, and then tried to kill me?" Hutch took a sip of wine, and his eyes had grown a little haunted, but nothing like they'd been before.
"Yeah," Starsky said, strangely relieved, "that. You were…different. Moody. I mean, God knows you had the right to be moody, after all that, but…" He staggered to a stop once more. Words had never been his strong point, and it was doubly hard when he had to talk about this kind of thing.
"I was more than moody, Starsk," Hutch said, putting down his glass. "I was thinking of leaving the force."
"What?" Starsky was appalled, then angry. "Why? You'd leave everything, just like that? Our beat? Our partnership?" Me? said a little voice inside, and he closed his mouth on the needy word.
Hutch seemed to hear it anyway. "I couldn't trust myself, Starsk," he said, hopping down and padding over to his friend. "I couldn't trust myself not to betray you, like I did Jeanie. And I didn't want to find out." He put his hand on Starsky's shoulder and squeezed gently. "I was scared, Starsk. I was so scared that next time it would be you, and I'd choose the drug again, just like before."
There were tears standing in Hutch's eyes, but they didn't fall. Starsky reached out and wiped them away with his thumb. "You didn't," he said. "You wouldn't. I never doubted it for a minute."
Hutch shrugged, blinked, and this time the silent tears did fall. "I know," he said, and he smiled a brilliant smile.
Outside, standing at the window, Oberon reached down and tousled Puck's hair. The hob looked up and smiled toothily, then stepped away from the window. "When do you think Hutch will start wonderin' about who's pickin' up after him, now?" Puck asked.
"He's a clever man, for a mortal," Oberon said. "I'd give him a week, then tell him about the brownie. Bring a crock of cream for the lad, to get him started, and mind you warn him not to leave any clothes out for Meg. She hates that."
"Of course," Puck said, though he intended to do nothing of the kind, and they both stepped back out of the night.
The End
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