Pounding.

Fist on the door.

John walking in.

Anything you want.

It was time to begin.

Pounding.

Feet on the pavement.

Bag beating his side.

Heart in his chest.

And the race was on.

Pounding.

Words crashing over her.

"No."

Turning to escape.

And the race was on.

Pounding.

Ninety seconds.

Don's Arcade.

Only five rings.

Run for her life.

Pounding.

Fear, sweat, tears.

Ninety seconds.

Broken, bloody, bruised.

Run for your life, Sweet Alice.

Pounding.

Sweat in his eyes.

Lungs burning; pain in his chest.

Feet crashing onto unyielding asphalt.

Gotta go the distance.

Pounding.

Another blow to her side.

Clothes -- ripped, torn, shredded.

Anything you want.

Gotta go the distance.

Pounding.

Thirty seconds.

Life or death.

Plunging through the streets, colliding with cars.

It's all about survival.

Pounding.

In her now.

Everything hurts.

Blood everywhere.

It's all about survival.

Pounding.

Fighting.

Thirty seconds ticking by.

No time for this.

Push them away and run.

Pounding.

Fighting.

Seconds dragging by.

All the time in the world and then he's done.

Push him away and run.

Pounding.

Shot to the chest.

Fly through the door.

Starsky's there. "I thought you were dead."

What can be done for the girl?

Pounding.

Bathroom door.

Lay on the floor.

He's gone. "You're better off dead."

What can be done for Sweet Alice?

"Here. Drink this." Starsky held out another bottle of water and Hutch shook his head.

"I'm gonna be floating away here, partner, you keep that up."

Starsky's brow wrinkled as he frowned in concern. "You lost a lotta fluids doing that run. You need to get 'em back."

Hutch nodded. "I know. But I already drank the last three bottles you gave me. Give me a break, babe." He looked up in relief as the car stopped before his apartment. "I need to pee." He hopped out quickly and headed inside, aware that Starsk was following closely.

When Hutch came out of the bathroom, Starsky was still hovering. Not exactly hanging by the door, but not too far away either. "You doing okay?" he asked, trying for nonchalant and not managing to avoid still worried. He still held the water bottle in his hand.

Hutch reached out and snagged it, opening it up and drinking deeply. He smiled when he saw his partner relax and patted the dark-haired man's shoulder as he headed for the couch. "What's for dinner?" he asked as he folded his long legs and settled on the sofa.

"You asking me?" Starsky looked at Hutch in amazement as he retrieved a beer and then slowly lowered himself to sit next to him.

Next to him. Not in the chair. Not even at the other end of the sofa. But next to him. He sat on the edge of the couch, his back rigid and his whole body so tense it seemed as if one touch would make him shatter.

Hutch turned his head and studied his partner. Starsky had the beer clutched in his hand, brown bottle resting on one knee, and he stared straight ahead, studiously avoiding Hutch's gaze.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked quietly. "You okay?"

Starsky turned his head slowly. It seemed to be an almost painful movement and took far longer than it should have.

"Am I okay?" he asked dully. He gave a bitter little laugh, then added, "I'm not the one who ran himself to exhaustion and then took a bullet to the chest." One hand came up as if he would touch the chest in question, but then dropped quickly.

"No, you're not," Hutch said softly, reaching out to take Starsky's hand. "But you are the one who saw his partner get shot -- who thought his partner was dead." He placed the hand on his heart, holding it there. "I'm alive, Starsk. Feel this? That's my heart -- beating. I'm alive."

"Alive?" Starsky asked with wonder, his hand pressed tight to Hutch's chest.

"Yeah, babe. Alive. I'm alive. You're alive. Joanna's alive." He smiled, waited, and was rewarded with an answering grin. "It was a good day, buddy."

Starsky's hand moved slightly, almost stroking the broad chest beneath his fingers, then he pulled back and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Good day. Alive is good."

Starsky slipped fully onto the couch, sprawling comfortably beside Hutch. They sat in easy silence, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, until Hutch asked again, "Dinner, buddy? You're buying."

"Pizza?" Starsky responded.

"Please -- not pizza again." Hutch made a face.

"If I'm buying, it's pizza," Starsky said stubbornly.

"Shit." Hutch pulled himself to his feet. "I'm taking a shower."

The water felt good. It washed away the accumulated sweat and eased his aching muscles. Another beer, a couple of aspirin, a good night's sleep and he'd be himself in no time. He turned in the shower, placed his hands on the wall and arched his back. The hot water beat down on the knotted muscles and he could feel them begin to loosen.

It had been so close. He'd been so scared. He'd run for his life before, but he'd never had to run for someone else's life. A life he'd held in his hands, dependent on his legs, linked to his speed, his decision-making. Her life had been his responsibility.

And he'd failed.

Oh, sure, they'd found the girl. And she was alive. Back home with mom and dad and with time and a lot of love, she'd be okay.

But he'd had a very up close and personal reminder of just how fragile life was. How interconnected we all were. Here was this girl, someone he didn't even know, and her life had been in his hands. He'd done his best, run as hard as he could, as fast as he could. He'd made every point, within the time, and still, *still,* it had all come down to luck.

Bad luck that the uniforms showed up.

Good luck that Collandra wasn't a fraud.

Best luck that the girl was alive to be home with mom and dad, getting spoiled in every way possible.

It was a depressing thought that despite all his work, all his effort, it had still come down to luck. He was the man who always had a plan. He'd always believed that if he worked hard enough, tried hard enough, just kept going no matter what, he could succeed. God knows the old Hutchinson work ethic and need for success had been drilled into him enough. And God knows that managing to escape the family demands and succeed on his own out here was a testament to his willingness to keep going no matter what the odds. And certainly God knows that there weren't many people who could be more focused than he was when he was determined to succeed.

But today, none of that had mattered. And God knew that too. He had an image of a big benevolent deity laughing at him as if to ask, "You're just now getting the picture, Hutchinson?"

He made a rude gesture in his mind to the image, then slouched under the showerhead, soaking his hair. A quick motion later, he had a head full of shampoo lather. It couldn't all be luck, could it? Surely there had to be some purpose, some impact that his actions made. If everything was luck, what was the point of anything? He shook his head, then winced as soap ran in his eyes. This was rapidly becoming far too metaphysical a train of thought for an evening shower after an adrenaline high. He rinsed his face, his eyes, then his hair, and leaned back into the water again.

Predestination had never made any sense to him. If everything was predestined, what good was taking action? Because if all actions were pre-determined then the effect was predetermined as well. Hence, all concept of free will had been defeated. And he refused to believe that his actions were useless. Some called it luck, some called it karma, some called it predestination. None of the names mattered, the concept just didn't make sense. A person's actions had to count for something, or there wasn't any point to anything!

Maybe Joanna had been saved by luck. Maybe his run had been pointless. But Starsky's taking out the creeps that had kidnapped her wasn't luck and it wasn't pointless. It was a clear statement of just how much importance his partner placed on his life. When Starsk had thought he was dead, he'd gone after the killers with a cold- blooded determination and a singleness of purpose that was frightening in its intensity and terrifying in its outcome. And that hadn't been luck.

That had been love.

Maybe that was what mattered. Not a plan, or the effort to succeed, or even the individual actions themselves. But the motivation for those actions.

Joanna's father loved her.

He was willing to do anything to get her back.

And she was back.

Starsky wanted him alive.

He'd been willing to kill for that.

And he was alive.

He shifted beneath the water, his back relaxed now even as new tension from his thoughts threatened to steal the comfortable lassitude he was seeking. He forced himself to calm, to take a deep cleansing breath, and push all the tension away. He looked down, staring for a moment at the red splotch on his chest that marked the bullet's impact. It was slowly beginning to bruise, and his ribs ached beneath it. He took another deep breath, focusing on the movement this time, and was pleased to find that while he was a little achy, it wasn't too bad. It would probably be another story in the morning, when everything had had time to tighten up.

But for now ...

He was okay. The girl was okay. And Starsky? The name brought a smile to his lips. Well, he'd been a little shaky at first, but Starsky was okay too.

He smiled at the thought and finished his hair, hurrying a little to get out and rejoin his partner.

Pizza awaited.

The phone rang and Starsky took a minute to focus before lifting it. "Yeah?"

"H-h-hhhh ..."

"Who is this?" Starsky was on his feet, nervously prowling. His eyes darted to the bathroom, wanting to check on his partner and unable to.

"H-Hutch?" The name was said whisper-soft and he could tell the speaker was in pain.

"This is Starsky," he replied. "Who is this?" He could tell it was a woman, but he couldn't place the broken voice.

"H-He told m-me I c-could c-call him."

Starsky frowned into the phone, but softened his tone. "Can I help you?"

There was a pause, and for a minute he thought the woman had hung up. Then she was back, saying, "S-Starksy?"

"Yeah. It's me, Starsky." Who was this? One of Hutch's lady friends? If so, something had hurt her bad. He could feel it. "What happened?"

"I-I told h-him 'anything y-you w-want.'" The voice was weaker now, fading and Starsky was getting worried.

"Told who? Who is this? Where are you? We can call an ambulance ..."

"NO!" There was a sharp hiss of pain at the sudden exclamation. "H-Hutch s-said I c-could call h-him."

"Then tell me where you are and we'll come."

"N-no ambu ..."

The words faded away and despite his best efforts, Starsky wasn't able to get the woman to speak again. He dropped the phone and went to the bathroom intent on dragging his partner out to see if he could make some sense of the whole thing. As he reached for the knob, the door opened and Hutch stood there, smiling. He was still dripping and wore only a towel and the smile quickly faded as he took in Starsky's grim visage.

"What is it?" he asked, the shower-relaxed muscles jolting to attention again.

"Phone." Starsky nodded back at the couch. "Some woman, and -- she's hurt, Hutch. Called for you."

"Who?" Hutch picked up the phone, listening, but there was no sound. "Hey," he said softly, "this is Hutch. Who's there?" There was still no response. When he listened again, he couldn't even hear breathing, but then he heard a 'click' and the line went dead. Hanging up the phone, he looked at Starsky and shook his head. "Any idea who it was?"

Starsky shrugged. "I asked. She said you told her to call you."

Hutch made a helpless gesture with his hands. "I've given my number out to a few ladies," he said. "She say anything else?" S

tarsky paused, replaying the conversation in his head. "She said she told him 'anything you want.' Mean anything?"

But he was talking to the air, because Hutch had paled and dropped to the couch. Before Starsky could reach him, he was up again and in his bedroom, throwing on clothes.

"I take it you know who it is now?" he asked as he stood in the doorway and watched his partner slip into jeans, drag on socks and shoes and then throw a shirt over his head. Fingers came up and combed through his wet hair, but that was all, and then the blonde was strapping on his weapon and throwing on a jacket, and walking out the door.

They were in the car and in motion before Starsky asked again. "Hutch? Who?"

Hutch's teeth were clenched and his jaw was tight. He looked at Starsky for a moment, meeting his eyes and then turned his head to stare out the window. "This is all my fault," he whispered.

"Where, Hutch?" Starsky asked desperately, the Torino sliding to a halt at a stop sign. "Which way, babe?"

Hutch dragged his eyes back, meeting his partner's worried gaze. "Sweet Alice," he said with a sigh, "and hurry."

Hutch looked at the slightly open door, then touched his partner, communicating without words. With the ease of years of practice, they moved in tandem through the door, weapons drawn and cries of "Police!" echoing in the air.

A soft sound from the bedroom drew their attention and Starsky nodded that way and murmured, "Go. I'll check the rest of the place."

Hutch moved cautiously toward the bedroom, his whole body on full alert. He paused long enough to push the bathroom door open, note the blood that stained the pale blue bath mat, and confirm that it was empty. The bedroom door was open, and he sidled up to the doorway, then darted through in a half-crouch, again coming up empty.

But this was where the sound had come from.

"Alice?" he called softly.

His eyes scanned the room, noting the bloodied handprint on the slightly askew comforter. A trail of crimson marred the carpet as well, leading around the bed, and a quick glance that way showed more blood on the white wood of the nightstand. Still on alert, he stepped swiftly around the bed, then froze.

"H-Hhhhutch?" His name was breathed out raggedly through swollen, bloody lips. Bruised eyes stared up at him from a battered face. Blonde hair lay limp against the rug, the strands clumped together and thick with viscous scarlet. And still, there was a light in her eyes when she saw him, and she tried to smile as she said, "You c-came."

He dropped to his knees beside her. "I told you I would."

She nodded, a jerky abbreviated movement of her head, then closed her eyes. "H-hurts," she whispered.

He reached for the phone that lay on the floor beside her head, saying, "I'm calling an ambulance, Alice. You need to be in a hospital."

She reached out, touched his arm and stilled his movement. "C-can't," she breathed. "N-no ins-surance."

A sharp gasp from behind him let him know Starsky had arrived. "Whoever it was, he's gone," the dark-haired man said as he knelt behind his partner. He placed one hand carefully on the battered woman's leg, watching for signs that he was hurting her. "How ya doing, Sweetness?" he crooned softly.

"S-Star ..." she mumbled, trying to focus on his face. "You c-came t-too."

"You need to let us take you to the hospital," Hutch tried again. "You're really hurt."

"No!" The word was said forcefully and the effort seemed to exhaust Alice. "I'll b-be f-fine," she said in a much quieter voice. "J-just need s-some h-help c-cleanin' up," she pleaded. "Th-then sleep." She closed her eyes as she spoke the last words.

The two men exchanged a look, then Starsky shrugged. "Can't force her, Hutch. If you call for transport and they get here and she refuses, all you'll have done is piss her off. And if you do that, who's gonna take care of her?" He placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. "You can't make her."

Hutch's jaw was tight as he said, "I can pick her up and take her in your car."

"And then what? We get to the hospital and she refuses treatment?"

"She could have broken bones, internal injuries." He turned to stare at his partner. "Look at her, Starsky!"

"I'm looking," Starsky said quietly. "But she's already been moving around. So despite the way she looks, she isn't completely incapacitated. And she's carrying on a coherent conversation -- knows who we are, follows what we're saying, and makes her wishes known." He tightened his grip on the other man's shoulder. "She called you 'cause she trusts you, Hutch. Don't blow it."

Hutch stared down at the woman's body, then looked at his arm where she'd touched him when he'd reached for the phone. He could see the imprint of her fingers, traced in blood against his own fair skin and it made him shudder. "All right," he said in resignation. "What do we do first?"

"Let's get her cleaned up and into bed. Some fluids, a few aspirin, maybe a little sleep ..."

Hutch laughed, a soft sound with a bitter edge. "Sounds like the plan you had for me," he said as he rose and prepared to lift Alice in his arms.

"Hey, I'm flexible," Starsky said with a smile. "You, Sweet Alice -- the plan still works. Of course, if it was up to me," he looked at the woman lying on the floor, "it's one plan I'd rather not have to use."

"I thought I was the one with the plan," Hutch groused as he rose smoothly to his feet. Alice shifted in his arms, moaning slightly, and he soothed her quickly. "Shhhh," he whispered. "It's all right. We're not taking you to the hospital -- just going to get you cleaned up."

One eye opened and she tried to smile as her hand came up to pat feebly at the air by his chest. "Th-thanks, H-handsome."

"God!" Hutch breathed a sigh as he stepped out of Alice's bedroom. "I could kill the bastard ..."

Starsky nodded grimly from his seat on the couch.

It had taken them over an hour to wash the blood from Alice's body, to apply ointment and bandages and gauze, to ice and then wrap the strained wrist, and elevate the twisted knee. They'd been both amazed and relieved that she had remained either unconscious or deeply asleep through the process, sparing her the discomfort their ministrations were bound to have caused, and them the embarrassment of handling her so intimately after such an ordeal. Finding clean clothes, they'd finally chosen to dress her in some too large sweat pants Starsky had dug out of a box in her closet and topped it with some sort of loose peasant blouse that had hung above the box. Both agreed that clothing that was too big would be the easiest on her battered body. Several glasses of water and three aspirin later, she was sleeping soundly in her own bed and was as comfortable as they could make her.

They were in for a long night -- waking her regularly for neuro checks, to give her more water to keep her hydrated, and to keep the aspirin-induced pain relief in force.

"You think she'll tell us who did it?" Starsky asked.

Hutch shrugged. "I don't know." He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair. "She won't want to, but I'm going to ask -- and keep asking if I have to."

Starsky rose and moved to the phone on the kitchen counter. He lifted it and dialed, then looked up to see Hutch's puzzled expression. "Pizza," he said with a half-smile. "We still gotta eat."

"You don't have to stay, Starsk," Hutch said softly.

Starsky nodded. "I know. But, hey, it's Friday night, I got no plans ..." He shrugged, looking vaguely embarrassed, then suddenly focused as the phone was answered and he began to give his order. He hung up, saying, "Forty-five minutes," and Hutch nodded.

Starsky went to Alice's refrigerator, rummaged a bit and returned to the living room with two sodas. He passed one to his partner, then sat beside him on the couch.

"Thanks," Hutch grunted, opening the can and taking a swallow. He held the can in both hands, turning it slowly as he contemplated the bright red markings. "There was a lot of blood."

"I don't think so," Starsky responded. "I think it just seemed that way."

"She was bleeding from her ..." He paused awkwardly then waved in the general direction of his backside.

Starsky nodded. "I think it was just because he was rough. I doubt she's badly injured."

"How can you know that?" Hutch snapped out, his eyes narrowed as he stared at his partner.

"I can't," Starsky said quietly. "I'm just saying it's probably not the first time ..." He looked at the thunderclouds on his partner's face and lifted a hand to rub at his own brow. "Look, Hutch, I'm not saying this very well. I'm not saying it's her fault -- no way. But you know -- I know you know -- you know what she does. I'm saying, I mean, she's probably done that before so it's not like it was the first time ..."

Hutch was still scowling and Starsky had the sudden image of himself, shovel in hand, digging a hole that just kept getting deeper and deeper. "I'm really not saying this right, blintz." He reached out and touched Hutch's arm, relieved that the other man didn't pull away. "It's wrong," he said firmly. "This should never have happened to her. But maybe," he paused struggling for the right words and still feeling he wasn't ever going to find them, "it's not as bad -- physically -- for her ... Aw shit! I don't know what I'm saying." He pulled his hand back and scrubbed at his face.

"No, you don't," Hutch muttered fiercely, but the words were tempered by the gentle pats he laid on his partner's leg. "It's not her fault." They sat in silence and slowly the scowl on Hutch's face shifted to a frown, and his eyes began to fill. "It's my fault," he whispered miserably.

Starsky's hand flew back to Hutch's arm and he began to move it up and down with a comforting touch. "Don't say that, Hutch. No way is it your fault. You couldn't know ..."

"Couldn't I?" Hutch snarled as he shrugged away from his partner's hand and rose to his feet. He made several rapid sweeps of the room, striding angrily back and forth, then stopped by the patio door. One hand rested on his hip, fingers splayed against the small of his back, kneading at the tension there. The other hand rose and pushed hair back from his face, then ran roughly up and down his face several times before settling over his eyes. "Couldn't I?" he repeated in a whisper.

"Hutch, buddy, what's going on here?" Starsky demanded in a firm tone. "You know something about this?"

Hutch's hands fell from his back and his eyes and he stood silently, staring at his partner. Slowly, he nodded.

"You know who did this?"

Again Hutch nodded. Then he turned and stared out of the large glass door. "Not a name," he added quietly, "but I'll know the guy when I see him."

"How the hell do you know that?" Starsky had risen and moved to stand beside Hutch. "How could you possibly know this bastard?"

"When Gillian died ..." he said softly, then stopped as his throat closed up.

"Somebody did this to Gil?"

Hutch shook his head quickly, then sighed and said, "I don't know." He turned and looked into his partner's blue eyes. "There was so much about her I didn't know."

Starsky's hand came up to Hutch's back and he began to rub in little circles. "I know, Hutch, I know."

"I needed to understand, Starsk," Hutch said painfully. "I thought, if I could just understand. And then ..." His words trailed off again as he fought for control.

Starsky took his arm and pulled him back to the couch, settling him onto the cushions. He stood over the seated man for a minute, making sure he would stay, then darted to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. When he returned, he held it out wordlessly.

When the glass materialized before his face, Hutch looked up and smiled weakly. "You and the water, eh partner?"

"You still need it," Starsky insisted. "And," he paused as if considering his words, "I thought it might help."

Hutch nodded, then took the glass and sipped. "Thanks," he said softly. He drank half the glass, then rested it on his knee. "Four days after the funeral, when I had that -- I don't know -- breakdown? In the squad room?" He looked up to see if Starsky was following him and was relieved when the dark-haired man nodded. "You took me home and put me to bed, but I woke up in the middle of the night, screaming from a nightmare."

"Aw, Hutch," Starsky whispered, sitting next to his partner and draping an arm over his shoulder. "Why didn't you call me?"

Hutch shrugged. "I got up, took a shower and I just kept thinking that if I could understand what made Gillian do it -- why she was willing to do that ..." He glanced out of the corner of his eye in time to see Starsky nod. "And then I thought, if only I could ask her." He shook his head ruefully. "But that was impossible, of course. So then I thought about Sweet Alice. I got this bright idea to come over here and talk to her about it." He finished the water, then looked about helplessly for a place to put the glass, relieved when Starsky took it from him and placed it on the end table.

"And did she talk to you?" Starsky prompted.

Hutch nodded and dropped his head to stare at the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, she did." He paused and cleared his throat. "But she, uh, had someone here when I showed up and she had to get rid of him."

"Oh," Starsky said shortly.

"Yeah," Hutch agreed. "But she did. Didn't even ask me why. I show up on her doorstep at two in the morning and ask to come in, and she ditches the guy in a heartbeat." He looked up and met Starsky's gaze. "Nothing like a little abuse of power, is there, Starsk?"

Starsky frowned. "Abuse of power?" He shook his head. "I don't think so, blondie. More like she could see you were hurting and wanted to help."

Hutch snorted and his head dropped again to rest in his hands.

"Hutch, believe me: for you, she wanted to help. They don't call her Sweet Alice for nothing."

"Yeah," Hutch grumbled darkly, "and look what it got her." He gestured toward the bedroom.

"The guy?" Starsky prodded.

"Yeah, that's the one. He did this." His jaw tightened and a crease split his forehead, then he growled, "I know -- know he's the fucking bastard that did this!"

"How d'ya know that, Hutch?"

"When she was showing him out, she told him he could have another night." He lifted his head to stare at Starsky, challenging him to deny the next words. "She told him he could have anything he wanted."

The silence stretched between the men until at last, Starsky rubbed his face and muttered, "Fuck."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed.

Again there was silence, until Hutch lifted himself to his feet and headed for the bedroom. "I'm going to check on her," he said softly.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky called quietly, "see if she's got an appointment book or something. Maybe we can get this bastard's name. I'll look out here."

Hutch nodded quickly. "Good thinking, Gordo. I knew I kept you around for a reason."

The doorbell rang then, and Starsky jumped up, pulling his wallet as he moved toward it. "That and paying for the pizza," he grumbled, but there was a smile on his face as he said it.

Hutch finished the dregs of the coffee and started to make another pot, then thought better of it. The sun would be coming up and he'd be able to stop waking Alice every two hours soon. Then maybe he could lie down and catch a few hours sleep himself. He had to admit it -- he was tired. Beyond tired, really, and moving into exhausted. He still hadn't had his downtime from the stress of Joanna's kidnap- ping and his run for her life. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, then glanced at the clock again. Ten more minutes, then he could wake Alice, check her, and go to sleep himself.

Starsky had offered to stay, but once they'd found Alice's appointment book and then found the man's name who had been down for tonight -- last night, he mentally corrected himself -- Hutch had tossed him out. One part of him had wanted -- needed -- to stay and take care of Alice, to be there for her since he still felt responsible for her condition. But there was another part of him that had been consumed with an almost blinding rage. And that part wanted to race out the door and use every skill he'd gained as a cop to track this bastard down and let him experience up close and personal what he'd put Alice through.

He'd solved the dilemma by sending Starsky -- which was almost as good as going himself. And he had complete faith that Starsky would find this bastard in no time. Now, while his partner was out hunting, all he had to do was convince Sweet Alice to press charges.

There was the sound of bedclothes rustling, and then he distinctly heard two feet hit the floor and he was moving -- running -- to the bedroom. "Alice, no!" he called out. "Don't get up."

She had pulled herself up and was sitting on the side of the bed when he walked in. "Hutch," she murmured softly as he slowed before her.

"What are you doing? You shouldn't be getting up." Hutch reached out to help her lay back down, but she met his hand and gently pushed it away.

"Sorry, Handsome," she said, and Hutch was pleased that she sounded better, stronger. "But you had to realize that with all that water you've had me drinking ..." The stutter from Friday night was gone, and while she slurred some of her word sounds -- dropping some and stretching out others -- it was hard to tell what was from her injuries and what was just her own sweet southern drawl.

Hutch colored and looked away. "Oh," he said awkwardly. "I didn't think ..." He thought for a moment then looked at her. "Well, at least let me help you to the bathroom."

She nodded and held out her hand. Hutch studied it for a moment then opted to grasp her upper arm, below the shoulder bandage and above the one on her forearm. She moved and he pulled her to her feet, taking most of her weight on himself. They shuffled slowly to the bathroom and she paused at the door, breathing heavily.

"You okay, Alice?" Hutch asked as he took in her rapid breathing and the way her eyes had widened as she looked at the little room.

She took a deep breath then shuddered, but seemed to regain her control quickly. "Yeah," she said softly, "it's just ..." She shook her head, then looked at him and said, "You cleaned."

He nodded. "Starsky helped."

At the mention of his partner, she looked around, obviously seeking him out. "I thought ..."

"Oh, yeah," Hutch confirmed. "Starsk was here. He came with me last night. He, uh, had to go out."

"Thought I remembered him, too," she said thoughtfully as she nodded.

She took a step forward and Hutch moved with her. When she stopped again, and looked pointedly at his hand on her arm, he asked, "Can you, uh, manage?"

She laughed as she nodded. "I think I can handle this, Handsome."

He released her reluctantly, watching as she used first the wall, then the vanity, to support herself. He was still monitoring her when the door closed in his face. "I'm right here," he called. "Let me know if you need me."

He hovered, waiting and beginning to grow worried as the minutes ticked by. At one point, he was ready to knock on the door until he remembered that women always took a long time in the bathroom -- and then doubled that to a long, long time for someone who was hurting as Alice was. He closed his eyes and practiced patience and was eventually rewarded when the door opened.

Alice was pale, very pale beneath the purple bruises, and she trembled as she clutched the door.

"Ready to go back to bed?" he asked as he stepped up smoothly to support her.

She leaned into him gratefully and nodded. "Took a little more out of me than I thought."

He helped her back to bed and got her settled. "You think you might be ready for something besides water?" he asked. "Maybe a little tea, or apple juice?"

"Juice sounds good," she said. "Thanks."

"How about something to eat?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I'm still a little queasy."

"Queasy? You feel sick?"

"Yeah," she answered truthfully. "Sick, and sore, my head aches and I'm really, really tired. But not sleepy, if that makes any sense." She pushed the pillow up behind her, then added another and shifted into a semi-upright position. "It's about normal -- about what I would expect."

"NORMAL?" Hutch exploded. "There is nothing fucking normal about any of this!"

Alice cringed at his outburst, pulling away and curling into a ball on the bed, and when Hutch saw, when he realized what he had done, he dropped to his knees and murmured softly, "God, Alice, I'm sorry." He reached out tentatively and touched her back, recoiling when she flinched. "Alice," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "it's me, Hutch." He reached out again, touched her gently, and she was still. "C'mon, Sweetness," he crooned, "it's okay."

She rolled over slowly, looking at the man who knelt by her bed, and then took the hand he held out to her. "Hutch," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," he said, carefully holding her hand. "I didn't mean to scare you."

She shook her head and blushed, pale skin turning red with the heat of her embarrassment. "He -- yelled," she explained, ducking her head. "I'm sorry."

"Alice, Sweetness," Hutch said, still using the same soft tone one used on small children and injured animals. He released her hand and then moved his upwards, lifting her chin and waiting till she looked him in the eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He waited until she nodded, then released her and dropped his own head. "This is my fault," he muttered.

Her eyes widened and her brow crinkled in consternation. "Hutch," she called, waiting until he looked up. "This. Is. Not. Your. Fault," she said firmly. "And I won't have you thinking it is."

He swiped at his face, a half-embarrassed action that was both heart-wrenching and endearing, and she smiled at him. "You don't understand," he said softly. "It is my fault."

She cocked her head to one side as she watched him. "Then explain it to me." He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth to begin, but she stopped him with a touch. "After the juice?" she asked.

He nodded and leapt to his feet, obviously relieved at the reprieve he'd been given and grateful for the opportunity to collect himself somewhat.

"Bring a glass for yourself," she called after him. "I think you're going to need it."

He poured two glasses of juice, then rummaged in the cabinets till he found crackers and placed a handful on a plate. He sliced some cheese and added that to the plate, then snagged an apple from a bowl and quickly sliced that as well. The plate and glasses went on a tray he pulled from a crevice between her counter and stove. He added the aspirin bottle and headed back to the bedroom.

She'd moved over, rearranged the pillows and was leaning against the headboard on the far side of the bed. He closed his eyes at the sight, once again berating himself for scaring her like that. But then he realized she was smiling at him. No, she was laughing at him and he wrinkled his brow in confusion.

She patted the bed. "Sit," she said quietly. "You look as tired as I feel."

He smiled at her then, suddenly overwhelmed with relief that she wasn't afraid of him, grateful that she didn't think he would hurt her, too. He placed the tray next to her, then sat at the end of the bed facing her.

She lifted a glass of juice, swallowed the pills he handed her, then waved away the cracker he held out.

"Just try," he cajoled. "It's just a cracker. It won't upset your stomach."

She nodded and accepted the cracker and began to nibble. "Now," she said after a few bites, "explain this guilt trip you're on."

"You make it sound rather silly," he said with a snort.

She tilted her head in response, one eyebrow rising slightly.

"It's just that, if I hadn't come over here that night, if I hadn't asked you to let me in ..." He took a breath. "Well," he looked her in the eye, "this wouldn't have happened."

She sighed, stared at the half-eaten cracker and put it on the tray. "Hutch," she said simply, "you couldn't have known this was going to happen. Edward has been coming to me for years -- he's never been violent before."

"Edward, huh?"

Her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm not pressing charges," she said. "And I'm not telling you his last name."

Hutch shrugged. "Starsky's got it. We found your appointment book."

She dropped her head and shuddered. "Hutch -- you shouldn't have done that."

"We didn't read it -- didn't do anything but look up last night. You had E. Jenkins pencilled in."

"You didn't even know for sure it was the same man, did you?" she accused.

He shrugged. "I figured as much. Starsky told me what you said on the phone."

"On the phone?"

"Yeah, when you called, you said you had told him 'anything you want.' I made the connection pretty quick."

She lifted her glass again, sipping, then repeated, "I'm not pressing charges."

"You should, you know."

She shrugged. "I won't."

"Nothing I can do to change your mind, Sweetness?"

She smiled at his light tone, then shook her head. "Tempting offer, Handsome, but -- no."

"Well," he nodded gently, "Starsky and I figured as much."

"So what's Starsky doing then, if you know I won't press charges?"

"He's just going to have a little talk with Mr. Jenkins. Explain to him that he doesn't want to come see you any more." A thought suddenly crossed his mind and he looked worriedly at her. "You don't want him to come back, do you?"

"God, no!" She looked at the bed, then the dresser, then out the window. Anywhere but at Hutch. "I won't press charges -- I can't -- but I don't ever want to have anything to do with that bastard again."

Hutch nodded. "Good. Then you won't."

"Still not your fault, Hutch," she reaffirmed. "You came to talk to me when you were hurt -- I consider that a gift."

"I should have done something; I should have known that guy was wrong. I felt it."

She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. He even held himself as if he hurt. "Where were you yesterday?" she asked.

"When?"

"About four in the afternoon."

"On a case."

"Doing what?"

"There was this girl -- she'd been kidnapped. I had to sort of run a gauntlet to try and get her back."

"And did you?"

"Yeah," he said, "in the end, yeah, we got her back."

"What do you mean, in the end?"

"I had to do this run -- from phone to phone to phone. It was all timed. The kidnappers were playing with us, dragging us along trying to make sure I wasn't being followed until they could pick up the money."

"So you ran and gave them the money and they released the girl?" Alice lifted the other glass of juice and placed it in Hutch's hand.

"Thanks," he murmured, sipping. "No. It was going okay, but then some uniforms showed up. Scared the kidnappers. They shot me ..."

"They shot you?" she asked, horrified.

He shook his head quickly. "Yeah, but -- I'm okay. I was wearing a vest. But Starsk -- he didn't know. And he'd been following me on a dirt bike. He saw me go down -- thought I was dead ..."

"That must have been horrible for him," Alice said softly.

"Yeah. He killed the guys who did it."

"Oh, Hutch. I'm so sorry. How did you find the girl?"

Hutch snorted. "Would you believe a psychic?"

"You're kidding," she smiled at him.

"No, really. It all just came down to luck. The plan didn't matter, how hard I ran didn't mean anything. It all just went to hell in a handbasket and it was sheer luck we got the girl back at all."

"Hutch -- when you were doing all that, saving that girl's life ... That was when it was happening."

"It was happening?" Hutch looked momentarily confused, then lifted his head as the meaning became clear.

"You couldn't have been here, couldn't have stopped this. You were needed there, for that girl."

"I could have done something sooner, said something to the guy."

"How? You didn't know who he was and I wouldn't have told you."

"I just should've ..."

"Hutch, stop it," she said, exasperation in her voice. "You've got to know by now, I think you're a pretty special man, but even I don't think you're omniscient."

He studied her a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Not my fault, eh?"

"Not your fault," she agreed.

He sipped his juice, then handed her the half-finished cracker and smiled when she began to nibble again.

"Omniscient, eh? Pretty fancy lingo, isn't it?"

"For a hooker, you mean?" she said with a laugh.

"No," he retorted. "For a girl who didn't finish high school."

She cocked her head again and laughed, delighted. "Well, then, maybe that's no longer true."

"Really?" he asked, his spirits suddenly soaring.

She shrugged. "We'll see. Don't know yet."

"Hey, Alice," he said, "I'm sorry this happened to you, but I'm glad you called me."

He yawned hugely, and she patted the bed. "Lay down, Handsome."

He looked at the bed, then shook his head. "I can take the couch."

"Hey -- you're the one who sat up all night with me. The least I can do is share the bed." When he still seemed reluctant, she grabbed his hand and said, "Your virtue is safe with me, I promise."

He rolled his eyes, cleared away the tray, and was sleeping within seconds.

"You sure you gonna be okay, Sweetness?" Starsky asked, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek, but only hovering near for fear of hurting her.

"Oh, yeah," Alice replied with as much of a smile as she could manage. "I had a very good nurse." She looked fondly at Hutch, then returned her attention to the dark-haired man. "Thanks, Starsky, for -- what you did. I know you wanted me to press ..."

"Shhh," he soothed, his index finger rising to press carefully against her lips. "De nada. Think nothing of it." He waved his hand carelessly in the air, then returned the finger to her lips and said seriously, "And say nothing of it, too, okay?"

She nodded, her eyes filling as he gently kissed her cheek then headed out the door.

"I'll be in the car, Hutch," he said softly as he exited.

Hutch nodded, but continued to watch Alice.

"Thanks, Handsome ..." she began, but he cut her off.

"You're going to end up dead, Sweet Alice," he said, the words harsher than he intended.

"I ..." She spread her hands helplessly. "I don't know what you want from me."

"You've got to stop doing this, babe," Hutch said with feeling. "You've got to get out."

"It's what I am, Hutch," she said with a plea for him to understand.

"No," he said shortly from his place by her front door. "It's what you do; it's not what you are."

End

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