Author: Rebelcat

Title: Sensing Trouble

Gen or Slash: Gen. But feel free to imagine that the moment the camera turns away there's all sorts of mad passionate lip-lockage going on. Or not. As you like.

Rating: PG-13, because there's hurt of both the physical and emotional kind. And some language your mom wouldn't approve of.

Category: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Christmas Story (in a grim kind of way…)

Complete or Work-in-Progress: This is part one of three. The other two parts will be posted over the next couple of days.

Disclaimer: They still ain't mine.

Feedback/Critique: Yes, please!

Betas: Enthusiastic thanks go to CC, who was willing to go back and forth with me over characterization, and put up with endless e-mails from me in her inbox. And on Christmas Eve, too! Nik Ditty and EH offered several pertinent (and helpful!) suggestions, too.

Notes: This is a companion of sorts to Sensing Things, but both stories are intended to stand alone, complete in themselves. You don't have to have read one, to read the other.

Sensing Trouble

Part 1

"So what do you think?"

Starsky's response was disappointingly lackluster. "She's pretty." He switched his hotdog to his right hand and licked the mustard off the palm of his left.

"Pretty!" Hutch tossed him a paper napkin. "She's not pretty, she's gorgeous. She's… she's like a piece of fine art, absolute perfection in color and form."

Starsky shrugged, and folded the napkin around his hotdog, before taking another bite. His mouth full, he mumbled, "Never been one for the art scene."

Hutch shook his head, grinning. "Buddy, you've got no class."

"Never claimed I did."

In the end, Hutch decided it was for the best. At least there would be no competing over this one.

With open appreciation, Hutch watched her cross the restaurant floor. As the ladies' room door closed behind her stiletto heel, he leaned across the table to grin at Starsky. "So…?"

Starsky looked at him without expression. "So, what?"

His attention momentarily diverted from his date, Hutch searched for a logical reason for Starsky's lack of enthusiasm. He asked, "Are you still upset that we didn't go to the Pits?"

"Nah, this restaurant's great."

"It's important to expand your horizons sometimes. Beer and pretzels only go so far, sometimes you want to experience a place with real ambiance."

"Ahm-bi-ahnce. So that's what they call it when you pay twice the money to get half the food, and the waiter looks down his nose at you."

Hutch laughed. "You've got no…"

"I know, I got no class. I been hearing that a lot lately." Starsky caught the napkin that was in danger of sliding off his lap and deliberately tucked it into his collar. He raised one eyebrow challengingly at Hutch.

"I was going to say, you've got no appreciation for fine dining, but if you'd prefer to call it class, that's fine with me." Hutch reached for his wine glass. "Next time, you can pick the place, okay?"

Starsky smiled and shrugged.

Hutch felt a twinge of worry, but then she came back to the table and he forgot all about Starsky.

"I'm sorry you couldn't make it last night," said Hutch, raising his voice in order to be heard over the gym shower.

"I told ya, I had stuff to do."

"You don't like her."

But Starsky had ducked his head under the water and didn't answer. Hutch waited a moment, and then came to the conclusion that Starsky hadn't heard him. He stepped out of his sweatpants and kicked them over onto the bench next to his shirt, before turning on the closest showerhead. The water stung his back, but the heat felt good on his tired muscles. He lingered, taking a little longer than strictly necessary.

He was drying his hair, when he became aware that he was under scrutiny. He turned to find Starsky leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Starsky asked, "Did she do that to you?"

Hutch twisted, trying to look over his shoulder. "It's just a couple scratches. Does it look bad?"

"It looks like you slept with a werewolf."

Hutch felt his cheeks heating up, but he rallied with a grin. "Jealous?"

Starsky shook his head. "Pain ain't my thing."

"Oh believe me, what I was feeling last night wasn't pain." Hutch snapped his towel at Starsky's hip, before reaching for his jeans. He felt that familiar warmth below his breastbone, the one that had been buoying him up for weeks now every time he thought of her.

It's love.

"We're going dancing tonight, are you coming?"

"No."

"Since when do you turn down dancing?"

"Since you started going to clubs with velvet ropes across the doors." Starsky pushed his chair back and stood. He gave Hutch an affectionate pat as he headed for the door. "You go have fun with your girl. Me, I've got a date with my favorite redhead and a bucket of suds."

Hutch blinked. Did he just tell me he's staying home to wash his car?

The warehouse across the street appeared deserted, the barred windows and steel doors remaining mute, stubbornly refusing to reveal their secrets.

Hutch drummed on the edge of the window, and idly listened to the light rain on the roof of the car and the sound of traffic in the distance. The ache in his back, the one the doctor said was the result of emotional tension and which no amount of medication or meditation had been able to dispel, was a low thrum in the background of his consciousness.

"What?" asked Starsky, suddenly.

Hutch was jolted from his thoughts. He realized that he'd been scowling in Starsky's direction for the last several minutes, and his partner was now looking at him with a distinctly worried expression.

"Nothing," Hutch said. He shifted, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position. "My back hurts."

"Oh, so that's your pain face." Starsky brought his foot up onto his knee and ran a finger down inside his sneaker to scratch beneath his ankle. "You're right, you know," he said, slowly, his attention riveted on his chosen task. "I don't like her."

The tempo of Hutch's fingers picked up. "You never like any of my girlfriends."

"That's not true," said Starsky. "I liked Abby just fine." He dropped his feet to the floor and let his hands settle on the steering wheel. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb running along the worn surface. Then he took a deep breath, and said, "I don't like her. I don't think she's good for you."

Hutch stopped drumming. He'd been waiting for this confrontation for weeks. He had even tried to bring the issue up himself a few times, only to have Starsky dodge him, refusing to discuss what was obviously on his mind. Lately they'd been having most of their arguments in the silences between words. It should have been a relief to finally have it out in the open, but all he could feel now was a sullen kind of misery. I love her and she needs me. What gives him the right…?

Starsky scratched his neck. The sound of his fingers on his rough skin scraped at Hutch's last nerve.

Hutch's fist hit the edge of the window. Bitterness edged his voice as he said, "It must be nice to be the expert on relationships. Because all of yours have turned out so incredibly well."

"Fuck you." There was more weariness than anger in Starsky's voice.

The rain continued to fall, heavier now. The silence in the car was absolute.

Finally, Starsky sighed heavily and said, "Did you ever play marbles when you were a kid, Hutch?"

Hutch felt a surge of disbelief. Now he wants to pretend that everything's fine? "Starsky, just don't talk to me. Okay?"

Starsky made a cutting gesture with the edge of his hand. "Gotcha. Won't say another word."

And he didn't.

It was a very long stakeout.

They worked together, and at the end of the day they went home to their separate lives. There was nothing wrong, nothing out of place. If anything their professionalism had improved. Even Dobey commented approvingly.

Hutch tried setting Starsky up with a friend, but it didn't work out. He was briefly hopeful when Starsky began dating a girl he met down at the carwash, but it turned out that her idea of a good time was hanging out at the demolition derby followed by a drag race over the dunes.

"Racing off-road is illegal, Starsky."

Starsky smirked. "What'cha gonna do? Arrest me?" Jamming his hands into his pockets he sauntered off, tossing one last comment over his shoulder. "Have fun down at the gallery tonight."

Hutch watched him go. There was a new feeling dogging at his heels these days, and he was disconcerted to discover that it was loneliness.

I love her, and she says we're forever.

So, why do I feel like I've just been dumped?

Hutch wasn't willing to give up that easily. If the woman he loved and his best friend weren't going to get along with each other, then he would just have to make space for both of them separately.

He cornered Starsky in the evidence room. "Do you have plans for tonight?"

"Yes." But the slight pause before his answer gave him away.

Hutch leaned forward, trying to catch Starsky's gaze. "I'm not trying to set you up, Starsk! I just thought maybe you'd like to, um, watch the game." He could feel his cheeks heating up and he thought, This is ridiculous! I'm not trying to date him, I just want things back to normal.

Now Starsky met his eyes. "You think she'll go for that?"

Hutch straightened, offended. "She doesn't dictate my every move."

Starsky first raised an eyebrow ironically, but then the expression dissolved into an honest grin. "I'll pick up the pizza. Vegetarian for you?"

It was almost like old times. Almost. Her name was never mentioned between them, but she was still there, somehow, separating them.

It was Jefferson who commented first. "Hot date, huh, Hutchinson?"

Hutch fingered the dark semi-circular bruise on his neck, too high to hide under a turtleneck. Deciding the best defense was a good offense, he smirked. "Jealous?"

"Happily married man like me?" Jefferson handed Hutch the files he'd requested. "Trust me, I don't miss the swinging single life at all."

Starsky took the topmost file from Hutch's hands and flipped it open. "And hey," he said. "Once they got you wearing that ring, they don't feel the need to mark their territory quite so obviously."

Hutch was annoyed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But Starsky was already heading for the door, and he never answered.

The front wheel of the LTD hit the curb, and Hutch's car jolted to a stop. He blinked away the alcohol haze and glanced up at the window of Starsky's apartment. He felt a jolt of irritation at the sight of the paper turkey leering from the window.

For crissake, why does Starsky always have to make such a ridiculous deal out of the holidays? Doesn't he know it's just a bid by corporate manufacturers to get people to waste their money on stuff they don't need? Why does he let them manipulate him like that? Hutch aimed a sideways kick at a sagging leftover jack-o-lantern as he stomped up the stairs to Starsky's door. He staggered slightly, and caught himself on the railing. He's probably not even home.

Hutch pounded on the door with the side of his fist. He was already turning away, when the door opened. It was obvious from Starsky's expression that the last person he expected to find on his doorstep was Hutch. And certainly not a pissed off, drunken Hutch.

The look of puzzled concern on Starsky's face only served to annoy Hutch further. He didn't wait for an invitation. Shouldering past his partner, he stomped over to the couch and threw himself down on it.

"You win," snarled Hutch.

Starsky closed the door quietly and moved carefully around him to sit in the wicker chair at the end of the couch. His expression was neutral.

"She wanted me to choose," said Hutch. "She said it was you or her, and God help me, I picked you." His mouth snapped shut, clamping down on a sob, or perhaps a scream.

Starsky started to say something to him, but the words were meaningless in Hutch's ears. He pushed himself up off the couch and headed for the door.

A hand landed on his arm and he spun on his heel, trembling with suppressed fury and a terrifying desire to strike out at the innocently worried face staring at him now. Why would I turn my back on love, just for this?

"Are you okay?" asked Starsky.

Hutch yanked his arm away. "You won. Isn't that enough?" His voice cracked on the last word and he left before he could humiliate himself any further, slamming the door behind him.

They were supposed to work Thanksgiving. It was unlikely Dobey would consider a hangover a legitimate excuse to stay home on a day when he would be shorthanded anyway.

Hutch crawled out of bed with a groan and reached for his shirt. As he pulled it back, his eyes landed on the small black velvet box lying underneath.

First you give her the ring, and then you set a date. Buy a house, and eventually you have a white picket fence, two-point-six children, and a dog digging up your neighbor's yard.

It's the American dream, Hutch told himself, and it's just as false as every other prepackaged, commercialized lie they sell. The family gathered around the table for Thanksgiving, the picture of harmony, matching smiles on every face, and the moment the camera flashes, they're turning on each other, teeth like knives, tearing at the soft underbellies of the ones they profess to love.

None of it's real.

He threw the ring in the wastebasket on his way out of the room. Three steps, and he halted with a curse. He couldn't. It was an absurd gesture, too romantic by far. He could almost hear her laughing at him as he went back and fished the ring out from under crumpled tissues and too many condom wrappers. He rinsed it off and found the original jeweler's box… and the receipt. He wondered if there was any significance to the fact that he'd saved the receipt.

Hutch skipped breakfast, and his run, and headed straight for Starsky's house. It was his turn to drive, and he couldn't think of any reason not to make an early start. He was halfway there, when a vague memory of the previous night suggested itself to his battered brain.

Did I really go over there and yell at him?

He climbed the stairs with a deep sense of apprehension. He noticed that Starsky's pumpkin had gotten smashed overnight, and he frowned at the slimy mess it left on the steps. I told him to get rid of that thing weeks ago.

He knocked, tentatively. The wait was long enough that he had begun to worry, when the door finally opened. Starsky stood there in his blue pajama bottoms, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

"You're early."

Hutch rubbed the back of his head. "I can come back later…"

The look Starsky gave him suggested that he thought Hutch had lost his mind …and Hutch himself was inclined to agree. He had the feeling he should be apologizing for something, but the words stuck in his throat. What the hell would I apologize for anyway? If it wasn't for him, I'd still be with the woman I love.

"Well, come in," said Starsky, finally. "You can make yourself some toast or something."

It almost felt normal. Hutch made breakfast for two while Starsky clattered around the house, getting ready for work. But there were still a chasm between them, and he didn't know how to bridge it.

They ate in silence.

Finally, Starsky put his fork down and asked, "Are you going to try to patch things up?"

Hutch shook his head. He had to swallow his last bite of toast past the lump in his throat. "I'm a cop. I can change a lot of stuff about me to make her happy, but I'm not going to change that."

"I never thought you needed to change."

"Nice to know I've always got your confidence, buddy." Hutch heard the edge of bitterness in his own voice, and felt like a world-class jerk. He abruptly stood, and began clearing away the dishes.

Starsky said nothing.

They surveyed the remains of Hutch's apartment. Plants were scattered across the floor, and the balcony door had been smashed.

"I think she's a little pissed at you, Hutch."

"How do you know it's her? It could have been…" Hutch trailed off as Starsky took him gently by the shoulders and turned him around to face the wall behind him. The angry words scrawled in glaring red lipstick left no doubt as to either the author or the motive behind the destruction.

Starsky said, "Maybe you should stay at my place tonight."

Hutch shook himself free of Starsky's grip, and bent down to pick up a plant. "She's not Diana. I can handle this myself."

"You're not going to report it?"

Hutch dropped to his haunches and tried to scoop some of the soil off the floor and back into the pot. "And tell them what? That one of my ex-girlfriends trashed my apartment? Again? I can just imagine how well that will go over."

Starsky shuffled, anxiously. "Maybe I should stay."

"I don't need a babysitter… or a bodyguard."

"Do you want to take a shower before I go?"

"Out!" Hutch pointed firmly at the door. He picked up another plant. Behind him he heard Starsky sigh heavily, and then make his way slowly out of the apartment and down the stairs. Hutch waited until he heard the Torino's engine start up and pull away, before venting an exclamation of deep exasperation.

A noise by the front door startled Hutch out of a deep sleep and sent him rolling off his couch onto the floor, his gun in his hand. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked up to find Starsky staring over the back of the couch at him, amusement written all over his face.

"Christ! Can't you knock?"

"If I was Christ, I wouldn't have to knock. I'd probably be able to walk right through your walls."

"I thought he only walked on water."

"Oh… right. Um, I was probably thinking of Santa Claus."

"Santa doesn't walk through walls. He comes down chimneys."

"And what if you don't have a chimney? How do you think he gets in then? Hey, smart guy?" Starsky's expression was triumphant.

Hutch put his gun down and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache these sorts of conversations with Starsky always caused. "You do know he's imaginary, don't you?"

"Of course he is. How else do you think he manages to deliver presents to all the good boys and girls in the world in just one night? And walk through walls?"

"I suppose you think you've been very good." It figures. One day after Thanksgiving, and he's already thinking of Christmas.

"I know I am."

"I'm still not buying you a present." Hutch climbed slowly to his feet, and collapsed on the couch, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Then I'll buy one for me and put your name on it." Starsky swung his feet over the back, and dropped down onto the cushions next to Hutch. "I did a little investigating."

"Huh?" Hutch wasn't following the sudden change of topic.

"Your girl. I asked a few questions last night. You know, she has a history of not taking breakups particularly well." All of the lightness of earlier had vanished from Starsky's demeanor.

"She's had a few rough relationships." Hutch felt guilt at the realization that he'd added to the burden she had already been carrying. I never meant to hurt anyone… "She made some bad choices."

"Hutch, I talked to one of her old boyfriends last night. He said he broke it off with her because she was jealous of his closeness to his family." Starsky paused. "He said that two days after the breakup, someone killed his mother's poodle. They couldn't prove it was her…"

"Because it probably wasn't!" Hutch pushed himself up from the couch. He turned and scowled down at Starsky. "She's been hurt a few times, and I hurt her again. She took out her frustrations on my apartment, but that doesn't make her the kind of person who would kill a pet."

"Hutch…"

"I think I know her a little better than you do!" Hutch knew Starsky had done nothing to warrant being shouted at, but he couldn't seem to make himself stop. He wanted to hit something, anything… anyone. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away.

"But you don't know…"

"It's over. She's gone. I don't want to talk about it anymore!"

Starsky subsided with a resigned shrug. "I hope you're right."

To be continued…