Timing is Everything

By Dawnwind

Missing scene from The Trap

Leaning against the bathroom door, Hutch paused to catch his breath, the unfamiliar rifle a leaden weight in his hand. Every bone in his body ached and skipping lunch had obviously been a bad idea. Could this day get any worse?

When he'd gotten up at six a.m. for his usual run, he hadn't noticed any ominous portends as the sun rose. Nothing had alerted him to dive back under the covers and to call in sick. The early February air had been bracing as he'd jogged down Ocean Avenue, his breath coming out in little comic-strip-speech clouds. He'd showered and dressed with time to spare for a piece of toast and an apple, feeling optimistic. Starsky had been on time to pick him up at 6:45, and they'd made it to Parker Center by seven, a rare occurrence on any day.

So where exactly had things screwed up so incredibly royally, and was there any chance to salvage any part of this phenomenally horrible day?

A muffled curse and a loud bang came from inside the bathroom and Hutch sighed. He'd already used his handcuffs on Johnny Bagley, who was currently trussed up in the kitchen of the dilapidated farm house. Starsky had cuffed their other prisoner to the old-fashioned wagon at the side of the house. That left the curly haired blond one unfettered, although locked in a flimsy bathroom.

"Hey," Starsky called, tenderly cradling his destroyed watch. The busted inner works hung crookedly from the blasted open casing, the little hand bent permanently toward five. The Yamamoto 3000 was beyond repair.

"If you're going to chastise me about your watch, it can wait," Hutch said irritably. He immediately regretted the outburst when Starsky's lips tightened until they blanched. "Starsk…"

"Just gonna tell you that there was some clothes line tied near the kitchen door of the house," Starsky said with just a smidgen of annoyance. More than anything, he looked sick. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and he was breathing rapidly, which could have been a result of fighting with the bearded bad guy, or could be shock. "Since we got no more handcuffs."

Swallowing his guilt, Hutch nodded and went to fetch the clothes line. No wet undies or drying flannel shirts had graced this rope in years. It was frayed in one or two places but looked like it would hold the prisoner for long enough to take him into custody.

Therein lay the dilemma. Hutch wasn't at all sure that he could ride herd on three obstreperous prisoners with his partner bleeding all over the ancient linoleum. Would reinforcements come? Had Joey managed to find the sheriff?

As least he'd rounded up all the weapons. There were three rifles, and a box of spilled shells in the front room of the farm house. Lot of good a long gun would do indoors. He was more likely to shoot his own foot with a rifle than hit a close target. His Python was useless — he'd run out of ammunition back when they were exchanging lead rounds with Bagley and his motley gang, so he would have to make do with the Winchester. At least Starsky apparently had a few bullets left in his piece.

"Cover me," Hutch said, approaching the bathroom door again. He twirled the rope, just once, like a cowboy about ready to throw a lariat around a calf.

"Don't I always?" Starsky smirked, but when he trained his Beretta on the door, his gun hand trembled.

That scared Hutch as much as the three unpredictable prisoners. Three against two, and Starsky could barely manage the weight of his own gun.

Hutch's knowledge of medical care consisted of a few anatomy classes taken over a decade ago and the inadequate first aid courses the department required of all police officers. He had no idea whether or not the bullet had done permanent damage to Starsky's calf. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, which at least proved that the artery wasn't pumping out half his blood volume, but a vein could still bleed pretty copiously. The tourniquet would need to be loosened soon, or there was a risk of cutting off the blood supply to the lower half of his leg. Which was worse: Starsky bleeding to death, or losing a foot?

Damn.

A crash like something solid hitting the bathroom door roused Hutch from his reverie.

"Hutch?" Starsky gave him a pinched smile that was supposed to be reassuring but wasn't. He looked far too much in pain for Hutch to be comforted.

"You gonna deal with Bozo the clown in there?"

"Just contemplating my navel." Hutch tried for funny but he could see by Starsky's expression that it hadn't worked. His jokes rarely did. He hefted the rifle and inserted the barrel into the crack between the door and the jam, easing the door open slowly.

"You make a move," he warned the idiot inside, "and I shoot first, ask questions after the fact."

"I ain't goin' nowhere," the man growled, arms held loose and away from his body. He had shallow, bleeding wounds over his hands and forearms. Blood spattered toilet paper draped over the edge of a smashed window told the tale. He'd tried to escape through the window, but the diameter of the frame had proved too small to accommodate a six foot one man.

"Down on the ground, hands behind your head," Hutch commanded, flicking an eye at his partner. Except for the bloody, ripped leg of his jeans, it was impossible to tell that Starsky was hurting. He'd erased all traces of pain from his face, becoming the tough street cop Hutch was used to working with. That the line of his jaw looked sharp enough to cut through steel was the only indication that he held any tension.

"You heard him," Starsky reminded, and went into a rapid-fire rendition of the Miranda Rights as the prisoner complied. Hutch bound his hands behind him with a good, strong knot he'd learned in Sea Scouts.

"You're using rope?" Blond Curls complained, wiggling his lacerated fingers. "That's police brutality, man, I got tender skin."

"You shot my partner, so I think we're more than even." Hutch hauled the prisoner up by his bound wrists, heedless to his moans. "What's your name?"

"Like I'd tell you." He spat, but Hutch sidestepped and the wad missed him, spittle sliding down the scarred wood of the bathroom door.

"Bagley, what's this asshole's name?" Hutch called. He'd knocked the ringleader of this would-be band of assassins out and left him lying on the kitchen floor, but Bagley was now beginning to stir. The man's eyes were open, if bleary. "Bagley!"

"What?" Bagley squirmed around on his belly, his hands cuffed behind him.

"You're under arrest," Starsky informed him with bared teeth. "But if you want to earn Brownie points, you'll talk."

"He don't have to, we got rights." Blond Curls tried to jerk away from Hutch's hold, but Hutch just poked him in the belly with the rifle.

"Like the right to bear arms?" Hutch cocked an eyebrow. He hated this. Hated that he'd gotten Starsky right in the middle of something that hadn't even been his fight and had to rely on the iffy possibility that a twelve year old could get across several miles of open country to find the nearest sheriff. Where exactly was the nearest town around here, anyway? He should have been paying closer attention to the crossroads. He remembered a sign for Altadena, which meant they were somewhere near the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. They'd gone miles outside of the Bay City limits following the false leads Bagley had fed them over the police band

Add impersonating a police dispatch to the growing list of charges.

"The right to… uh…" Blond Curls grimaced as if trying to remember some vital piece of information. "Counsel, that's it!"

"You did understand the Miranda!" Starsky said approvingly, wiping sweat off his upper lip. "Good for you. Now, for your next trick—what's your name?"

"Delano," he supplied, looking down at the rifle barrel Hutch still pressed into his belly. "My hands are bleeding."

"Delano, Bagley and—?" Hutch prompted, remembering Huggy's description "looking mean with a potential for ugly." "Who's your friend with the beard?"

"I don't rat on friends," Delano said staunchly, glaring at his captor.

"He ratted on you," Starsky said with a wicked grin. "Said you were a cave dwelling, mouth-breathing son of a bitch who played doctor with his own sis…"

Hutch had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Pure Starsky—shot and vulnerable, but he couldn't stop ranking the bullies.

"Shut the fuck up!!" Delano roared.

"He's trying to get your goat, Delano, simmer down!" Bagley yelled. He'd gotten awkwardly to his knees and scooted around until he was sitting against the plywood bar in the middle of the kitchen, only yards away from Starsky. "These cops'll lie and cheat just to lord it over us common folk. Keep your shirt on and this'll all get fixed up when I call my lawyer."

"You need to use the phone?" Hutch used the rifle to point at the blue telephone on the counter. "Be my guest. You're entitled to one call."

"That phone don't work!" Delano said indignantly. "Trayman pulled the cord out."

"Delano!" Bagley scolded.

"Delano, Bagley and Trayman," Hutch repeated. He needed a pencil to write things down with. He needed a phone to call into headquarters, and most of all, he needed to get Starsky to a hospital, pronto. None of these things were destined to happen any time soon unless the planets realigned. It was also getting dark, and here in the country, it would get chilly once the sun went down.

He had to make some major decisions soon. The Torino was drivable, but had no radio, and not enough room for five grown men, especially one with a bleeding leg.

The panel truck Bagley and co. had come in? More room, far less comfortable. It did, however, have a working radio—at least one that broadcast. How exactly had Bagley gotten his radio tuned only to the receiver in Starsky's car?

Then there was the burning barn. So far, the house hadn't caught fire. Luckily, it was a calm, cool winter day and there wasn't enough wind for the flames to jump from one building to the other. The thick smoke from the gigantic pile of burning wood and straw was fouling the air, wreathing the yard with dense, gray smoke. It was already so smoky inside the house that Hutch could feel a cough gathering in his chest.

"Looks like you're in a quandary, Hutchinson," Bagley mocked in his holier-than-thou voice. "Starsky there doesn't look like he's gonna make it. About time to put him out of his misery, don't you think?"

"Put a sock in it, Bagley," Starsky said without much heat. He coughed raggedly and bent his good leg, resting the gun on his knee so that it was pointed directly at the man on the other side of the room. "I could put a bullet right between your eyes from this distance."

First order of business, get rid of the riff-raff.

Despite Bagley's claim, Starsky didn't look that bad, considering. He was putting on a brave front, one Hutch could see right through. The makeshift gun mount was to hide his weakness, and the fact that for all his bluff, Starsky had never once gotten up said volumes. He was weak from blood loss, probably in shock, and in a good deal of pain.

"Bagley, Delano," Hutch announced, poking the rifle into Delano's spine to get him moving toward the back door. "Time for you two to go out and get your stories straight with Trayman. I'll even let you all three sit in the back of the van, if you're good, and you can decide who wants to be bottom man when you hit Soledad."

"Hey, I can't go back there, I've got enemies…" Delano whimpered. "Besides, I'm bleeding!"

"So you can have me knocked off, like you killed my brother?" Bagley taunted. "No way."

A bullet smashed into the plywood less than six inches from Bagley's head, splintering the flimsy wood from top to bottom, the retort louder than a sonic boom in the small room. Rusty cans of soup peeked out of the crack. Because his hands were cuffed behind him, Bagley had to scramble sideways like a crab, his face slack with surprise and fear.

"Oops," Starsky apologized straight-faced, using both hands to keep the heavy pistol balanced. "Guess I'm slipping, I meant to hit him between the eyes."

"You coulda killed me!" Bagley cried.

Hutch's heart was going ninety miles a minute. He inhaled and coughed in the smoky air, glancing over at Starsky with a silent, "you shouldn't have." Starsky grinned fecklessly at him. He would have pulled it off better if he weren't pale enough to pose as the before picture on a Donate Blood poster.

"Go on," Starsky said, his voice rough with the strain. "I got him in my sights 'til you get back."

"March!" Hutch commanded Delano with far more authority than he felt. He was out of answers and time was growing shorter. Outside, the sun had dipped down below what must be the Santa Monica Mountains to the west, if he was any judge of the geography. Between the pall of smoke hanging over the yard and the brown smog layer trapped above LA, the colors of the sunset were smudged into a glorious display of fiery oranges and reds, gold tipped clouds mimicking the glowing embers of a dying blaze. Just like the barn, which was a smoldering ruin.

Weren't there any neighbors close enough to the abandoned farm to call the fire department?

Bagley's van provided a treasure trove of delights, including more twine, still packaged from the store where it was purchased, and a length of lead pipe that could prove useful for bashing in a couple skulls. Hutch used the new rope to tie Delano to a metal support in the back of the vehicle. He uncuffed Trayman from the old-fashioned wagon wheel and shoved him into the van with his colleague, all the while ignoring the guy's filthy mouth. The things Trayman insinuated about what he and Starsky had been doing in the barn would have made a hooker on 99th Ave blush. Good thing the guy didn't know they'd been hiding a child there, too.

What had happened to Joey? If Hutch hadn't been so concerned about his partner, he might have given more thought to the little girl. Still, she'd already proved that she could take care of herself. He just hoped that she wasn't lying in a ditch somewhere, slowly dying of exposure.

Surely that couldn't happen in a—what—two hour period? What time was it, anyway? The incendiary bomb had gone off at four pm. It was possibly just about an hour past that now? Hell of a time to have his pocket watch in for repairs, just when Starsky's brand new, marvelous example of Swiss-Japanese watch-making took a bullet.

Kind of ironic, in a twisted sort of way. Starsky and his watch, both suffering the same fate. Deep down, Hutch was scared. The longer it took to get Starsky to an ER, the more likely it was that the wound would get infected. How fast did it take for gangrene to set in?

All of Starsky's talk of not making it out of the barn was giving him morbid thoughts. He shook his head to dispel the gruesome images, creating a shower of straw from the strands caught in his hair.

His two prisoners bound in the panel truck, Hutch paused to lean wearily against the door of the house. He cleared his throat, but the acrid smoke coated everything and the taste reminded him of copping a cig behind the barn on his grandfather's farm. Those were the good old days, when he still had faith in miracles. Too much time had passed. He was a long way from Duluth Minnesota — hell, he was a long way from Bay City and there wasn't anyone coming to their rescue.

No sheriff, no firemen, no help coming from any quarter. At this point, he'd welcome General Custer and the cavalry.

Surely Dobey must have missed them by now? Maybe put out an APB on the Torino?

"You're last, Bagley," Hutch said from the kitchen door. "Up and out."

"Bet you can't even guess how I did it, huh, Hutchinson?" Bagley sneered. "I sure fooled a couple of cops."

He wasn't about to trade insults with Bagley any longer because, yes, the guy had fooled them, far too easily. Why hadn't he ever questioned why the promised back-up failed to materialize? Why had Starsky chased the van all over kingdom come without ever once stopping to think about the consequences? They'd gone considerably over the speed limit for miles. Either vehicle could have hit innocent bystanders or worse. They could have plowed into the side of some immovable object, destroying the Torino—and themselves.

Aggravation with a helping of dread souring his belly, Hutch hauled the prisoner to his feet, watching Starsky over Bagley's shoulder. Relieved of his duty, Starsky went limp, letting the wall support his weight. He coughed, wiping his hand across his mouth and Hutch could see bits of straw still clinging to the sleeve of his dark gray woolen jacket. Starsky closed his eyes and the Beretta slipped out of his lax fist the way a baby lets go of a rattle. His open palm was so potently defenseless that Hutch had the startling inclination to kiss the blood streaked fingers.

"Get used to being in the back of the van," Hutch said to Bagley, to stop himself from gazing at Starsky. "It's about the size of a prison cell. Although, the state does give you a bunk and a toilet, which unfortunately, your ride doesn't have."

"Don't be so sure it's me going to prison," Bagley countered. "You killed my brother."

For a borderline psychotic, he knew just where to poke to get results. Every time he stared defiantly into Hutch's eyes, Hutch saw all his own inadequacies. This wasn't just Bagley avenging his brother's death in a near exact recreation of the original event, it had also forced Hutch to remember the guilt and self-recrimination that he'd endured afterward. Little wonder he'd immediately transferred out of the Midtown Precinct to join Starsky at Metro. Starsky had always been his lighthouse, navigating him off the jagged rocks of despair more than once.

Now something he'd done in the past had brought harm to Starsky. Maybe he never should have transferred seven years earlier. At what point did actions change the future, or did each step taken split any potential futures into infinite numbers of possibilities?

Bagley blamed Hutch for Ernie's death simply because Hutch had been first on the scene. He could just as easily blame himself for leading his brother into situation where they were both endangered.

Just as Hutch had led Starsky—and the innocent, if disobedient, Joey—right into the fire.

Hutch shoved Bagley roughly into the van, securing his cuffs to the metal bracing at the bottom rear of the driver's seat so that all three prisoners were equidistant from each other. Once he had Starsky loaded into the passenger's seat, they could escape this hell-hole.

Heading back to the house, Hutch reconsidered his options. Starsky would balk at leaving his beloved car behind. Maybe they could just abandon Bagley and his merry band shackled in the panel truck and hightail it out of Dodge in the Torino? Except on second thought, maybe not. Parked nearly up against the barn, the red and white car had suffered almost as much damage as its owner. Although it probably was drivable, there were long black scorch marks the length of the right side and the paint was blistered over the hood. Time for another visit to Merl the Pearl.

Probably best if Starsky didn't even see the Torino in that condition. Hutch coughed, pressing on his chest to clear the smoky residue and entered the farm house for what he hoped was the last time.

"We gettin' out of here?" Starsky tilted his head as if it were too heavy to lift. He didn't look like he could get off the floor on his own.

"There's more room in the van, and the radio sends—at least I think it does." Hutch leaned the rifle against the wall and squatted down to Starsky's level. It didn't take a medical license to see that he was in a bad way. He was sweating profusely but his skin was cool to the touch. "This'll hurt, but I've got to loosen it," Hutch warned, rotating the stick he'd used as a fulcrum to tighten the tourniquet.

Starsky went rigid, groaning, and pounded his left hand on the floor all without giving a word of protest. He coughed, a coarse, raw sound that made Hutch's chest hurt worse. "You call that a bedside manner?"

"Sorry." Hutch ran a gentling hand down Starsky's calf, feeling the jump and twitch of the abused muscles. So far, there was no sign of infection, but what did he know? Guilt at Starsky's predicament ate at his belly, and he wanted say much more than a simple apology.

That he would have taken the bullet, if given a choice.

That he… what? Wished Starsky had gotten safely away with Joey?

That he loved him?

Instead, Hutch wadded more of Starsky's ripped pants leg over the wound and wrapped the belt around three times, leaving off the stick. "Hopefully, that'll hold until we get you to a hospital."

"You know what my New Year's resolution was this year?" Starsky tiredly slotted his Beretta into the shoulder holster.

"No, what?" Hutch stared down at the streak of blood on his hand. The bullet wound was no longer bleeding much, but there was still fresh blood around the entry hole.

"No more hospital stays," Starsky said forlornly.

"Aw, well." Hutch glanced up at the old calendar pinned on the wall just above where Starsky sat. The mildewed page showed July and featured two comely lasses in 1950s bathing suits perched prettily on a pile of Firestone tires, their bare legs bracketing the words "Will Go for Miles." "Think of it this way, Chinese New Year isn't until next week. You can make a new resolution then, over a bowl of wonton soup at Peking Palace."

"Sweet talker. You pay?"

"I'll pay. Come on now, up and at 'em," Hutch encouraged, hooking an arm under Starsky's shoulders. "Can you get your feet under you?"

"I've been walking since I was… " Starsky scoffed, moaning in pain when Hutch hoisted him upright. "F-five or six, at least." He wilted against Hutch, inhaling raggedly.
"I've been thinking."

"Oh, yeah? Don't strain yourself trying out something new." Hutch smiled down at his armful, in spite of their situation. Holding Starsky close, feeling their chests pressed together, was so oddly right. Starsky was breathing nearly twice as fast as Hutch was, and his heart trip-hammered against Hutch's ribs in an alarming way. "You with me, pal?"

"Not going anywhere," Starsky regained his balance, bracing one hand on the wall to stay standing. He wasn't putting any weight on his injured leg, and Hutch could see that getting him out to the van was going to be slow work. "I was thinking, sitting there."

"So you said." Hutch inched him forward, moving them toward the door.

"Don't rush me," Starsky grumbled, gripping the fabric of Hutch's black safari jacket with white knuckled fingers. "Remember when Huggy called us?"

"Place was all torn up, but with relatively little damage that couldn't easily be put to rights." Hutch scooped up the rifle, catching a glimpse of the blackened skeleton of the barn through the window. That could have been their coffin if not for a phenomenally lucky escape in the ancient tractor.

"No reason at all for trashing Huggy's place, 'cept to tell us about a meet. Why'd Bagley do it that way?" Starsky wheezed like a broken squeaky toy.

"Why'd he do any of this?"

"He needed us to come there—for a reason," Starsky explained, stopping cold. "Hutch, I gotta…"

"Rest for a second, buddy, but we really need to be on the road."

"Bagley wanted us there so he could do something to our radio."

Hutch laughed. Bagley had some gall. He'd lured them to a specific location not once, but twice. "Starsky, you're a genius." Hutch impulsively kissed the lips so very close to his. "How often do we actually look at that radio? It's been weeks since we even did a check of the car… we used to do them all the time. It's…"

"Wait a minute!" Starsky stemmed Hutch's ramble by smacking him lightly on the mouth. "What the heck was that?"

"Wha…?" So delighted by Starsky's insight, he hadn't paid very much attention to his own actions.

On second thought…

Hutch hitched a self-conscious laugh, swallowing the throat tickle that came in its wake. "I kissed you."

"Took me by surprise."

"Me, too." Hutch tightened his hold on Starsky's ribs which made him squirm and cough. He suddenly had the overwhelming urge to kiss every inch of his partner's upturned face, but Starsky's wary expression stopped him. Not to mention that there were three murderous criminals tied up in the van outside and the very real threat that the barn was still on fire.

"You been planning that one for a while?" Starsky asked with studied casualness, taking a cautious two steps forward.

Hutch had to move hastily to keep up with him. "No, but…"

"Funny." Starsky gained the doorway and paused because he was panting. He propped himself against the jam so that he could loosen his grip on Hutch's jacket, and smoothed the sweat-damp wrinkles he'd made, his hand lingering on Hutch's chest just over his heart. "'Cause I have. All the time."

"Yeah?" That came out sounding totally inane. "You just made a date with Joey." Officially, that had to be the stupidest thing he'd ever said.

"She's twelve!" Starsky retorted with a grimace that could have been pain, or maybe not. Because in the next instant, he'd latched onto Hutch with both hands and kissed him hard on the mouth.

His brain coming in two seconds too late, Hutch again had to scramble to catch up and gasped when Starsky's demanding tongue forced its way into his mouth. Love, home, heat: Starsky.

Here in a rotting old farmhouse, sweaty and stinking of blood, he'd come home. He pulled Starsky closer, even though they were already pressed together from chest all the way down to erect cocks, and kissed him back. Kissed him for all the times he'd never kissed him before.

Starsky's balance on one leg wasn't what it could have been; he basically fell onto Hutch which slammed them both into the half open door. Freefalling, Hutch had to grab the edge of the wall to prevent them from tumbling to the floor, and clamped one arm hard around Starsky. Maintaining the lip-lock took second place to remaining upright.

"Not the right time, huh?" Starsky giggled, sounding half-hysterical and half-regretful. He lowered his injured leg to the ground with a grimace to step onto the dusty, rutted ground outside the house.

"It was the perfect time. It was past time." Hutch tucked Starsky into the curve of his shoulder, feeling his partner's inner strength shoring him up, even though Starsky was tired and hurting. "Where's that fancy watch of yours? It must have a dial for this kind of thing."

"What exactly is this kind of thing?" Starsky mimicked Hutch's delivery exactly then ruined it by coughing so hard he staggered against Hutch just to be able to catch his breath. The pall of smoke wafting off the flickering embers was appallingly thick this close to the barn.

"You need oxygen," Hutch fussed, trying to hustle them along a little faster. A glance at the dirt under their feet showed tiny droplets of blood every time Starsky took a step.

"You didn't answer my question," Starsky admonished and grinned when the distant wail of a siren punctuated the end of his sentence. "Their response time could use some work."

"Guess you won't have to ride to the hospital in the van after all," Hutch said, glad none of the prisoners could see them through the back windows of the panel van. He gave Starsky a quick kiss, suddenly inexplicably happy.

He'd had no portent of disaster to warn him about Bagley, but on the other hand, he hadn't had any advance warnings for this turn of events, either. Well, maybe one or two, but they'd been furtive, fantastical little things, not meant to take seriously. One crappy day had turned upside down all because of a kiss.

He felt more than saw Starsky abruptly jerk away from the safety of his side, his whole body going stiff with surprise.

"What happened to my car?" Starsky cried, gesturing dramatically at the singed Torino. "When were you going to tell me about that, huh?"

"You care more about your car than me…" Hutch started, his answer completely drowned out by the parade of police cars and fire trucks that roared down the lane, sirens screaming at ear piercing decibels. He'd always known he'd take second fiddle to a hunk of candy apple red metal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, having officially handed Bagley and company over to the L.A. county Sheriff's Department, Hutch gave his statement three times – to the sheriff, to Dobey and to Simonetti for good measure, and then made sure that the Torino was towed back to the haven of Merl's auto shop. He dropped into a plastic chair beside Starsky's hospital bed beyond weary, having entered a state of permanent fatigue. It was close to midnight. He'd love to curl up next to Starsky and sleep for about two hundred years, but the breathing medicine the ER doctor had insisted he take for his cough had made him too jumpy to settle.

"Hey," Starsky said lazily, doped to the gills with painkillers. His voice was still raspy from the smoke inhalation and he scratched at the plastic oxygen cannula in his nose. "Where ya been?"

"Official business while you were charming that pretty nurse. And I heard from Mrs. Carston—she hadn't even noticed Joey was missing until Dobey brought her back to the house!" He shook his head, exasperated at the flighty woman's lack of maternal instincts. "Turns out the sheriff found the kid by accident. She was hitchhiking on the side of the road, trying to make it into Altadena."

"She's a survivor."

Hutch grinned at him, vastly relieved at Starsky's ability to bounce back from a bullet in record time. This made twice now and Hutch was determined that it be the last time. Luckily, his wound hadn't even required an official surgical procedure. The ER doctors had examined the x-rays and determined that the bullet was close enough to pluck out with what had looked to Hutch like a narrow pair of long-nosed pliers. The whole thing had put his teeth on edge. Starsky had dozed through the entire procedure, blissed out on morphine and lidocaine.

Which explained the sweetly goofy smile on his face. "I've decided t'take you up on that offer to…" Starsky trailed off, obviously losing his train of thought. "Dinner. For Chinese New Year. Didja know that's close to Valentine's day?"

"Not that close," Hutch protested, not sure exactly where Starsky was going with this. His heart sped up and slowed down almost simultaneously. Must be from the breathing medicine, because he'd never had a reaction like that just from sitting next to his partner.

"Is so." Starsky held up two fingers about half an inch apart. "Like you an' me. Close. First dragons 'n fireworks, then there's hearts 'n flowers. Somewhere in there must be time for some kissing. Like we…"

"Already did," Hutch finished with Starsky, part of his whole. "Are you sure you want that again?"

"More'n ever." Starsky's head bobbed loosely like a bobble-head doll, and he blanched, pursing his lips in the classic 'I'm-not-going-to-puke' sign. "R'mind me not to do that again until the drugs wear off."

"This could make things really difficult for us," Hutch said soberly, glancing over at the hospital room door to make sure it was closed. "On the force, hiding it from our friends…"

"But it's time," Starsky said firmly. He swallowed reflexively and latched onto Hutch's hand. "We could have been two pieces of burned toast, but we made it out of that barn, all because of you. If this ain't the time to say something true, I don't know what is." He wet his lips and Hutch could remember the exact taste of Starsky, even through the sweat and bitterness of smoke. "Don't even need my watch to know it's time to love you."

Hutch let caution be damned and kissed Starsky quick, positive there were doves launching their way skyward from his simple declaration. He found himself humming under his breath, perfectly in harmony with the words Starsky was muttering.

"You remember that song?" Starsky smiled against Hutch's mouth, his lips curved perfectly to fit Hutch's. "T'everything, turn, turn, turn…"

"There is a season, turn, turn, turn, and a time for every purpose under heaven." Hutch sang. "Ecclesiastes, Starsk. From the Bible, Old Testament."

"College boy, think you know everything?" Starsky scoffed. "It's the Byrds, rock and roll." He drawled the last, miming a stoner toking a doobie.

"I know when you need to sleep it off," Hutch said affectionately, more words of the song crowding into his tired brain.

A time to love and a time to hate…

Somehow, they'd managed to twist Bagley's hatred into a turning point in their relationship. Strange how things worked out. The man had tried to ambush them and only succeeded in trapping himself in the process. It hadn't taken an hour to match his fingerprints to ones on the doctored radio. Now he would be doing time for a long, long while.

"Not a bit sleepy," Starsky muttered. "Wanna stay up, talk t'you. It's all different now."

"We've got lots of time for that," Hutch soothed, plumping Starsky's pillow so that he could lie back more comfortably. He stroked Starsky's temple, untangling some errant straw from his curls, pleased when Starsky's eyelids fluttered sleepily. "Get some rest, dummy, or the nurse will come in her with her big needle and send you right off to dreamland."

"Sweet talker." Starsky yawned, his eyes closing as Hutch continued gently rubbing his forehead. He was snoring in under a minute.

"It's all in the timing," Hutch said into the darkness of the room.

FIN

A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to throw away;
A time to tear, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.

——Ecclesiastes 3:1-8