Author's notes: I did this short story some months ago to complete Dante's Web. It's mainly angst, which I don't like writing at all (but you know, gotta try new things). Anyway, it's kinda dark, but in the end it's all about love, right? Next one will be funnier.

Hope you like it. Feedback would be great :)

Third Sphere

“So Dante's in this dark forest, right?” said Hutch. “And suddenly he gets attacked by lions and leopards and--”

“What?” Starsky glanced at him. “There can't be lions and leopards in a forest!”

Hutch propped his elbow on the car's door. “Ah, c'mon, Starsky… It's just a story.”

Starsky didn't reply. He rolled his eyes, obviously bored, probably hopeful that would be enough to shut Hutch's mouth for good. But it wasn't.

“Anyway,” he started again, “he runs and falls. And that's when Virgil comes up and saves him.”

“Who?” asked Starsky, caressing the Torino's wheel.

“You know… Virgil, the poet?”

“Oh…” He started the engine. “That's just plain dumb, you know that? What would that guy be doin' in Hell?”

Hutch gave him a wide grin. “Nothin'. This isn't Hell yet.”

--

But if it wasn't, why did it look like it?

Maybe because it was in fact Hell, even when there was no one down there to guide him - just a damn anonymous phone call, uttered by an unfamiliar tone of voice. Already with no hope left, Starsky kicked the warehouse's door, his sneaker leaving a wet print on the paintjob

In the darkness that followed and grew about him, he saw nothing but stillness - stillness of air, of heart, of movement. And the sight of the motionless body lying on the floor didn't do anything to sooth him. Kneeling, he felt a shallow breath, a weak pulse and something moist sticking to his fingers.

He shouted and waited. And while he did it, a sob got stuck to his throat.

But still, Starsky waited - for a reply to his calls, for help that didn't come as swiftly as it should. And all the time, he mumbled words no one heard - especially not him. For his part, they were just uttered to break the silence.

He was out, but still under.

Stabbed and left to dry, cracked ribs, multiple trauma… Starsky had to focus on what the Doctor was saying: a guy who kept insisting Officer Hutchinson was young and tough. A guy who kept saying it, hopeful one of them would pull the sheet on that disturbance of the peace complain he'd been accused of a couple of weeks earlier.

Maybe if he put the blond one okay, then maybe, just maybe, the other one - the grim looking one - would be grateful enough to do him that small favor.

But the other one wasn't really focusing. The other one was thinking that guy didn't know squat, didn't know Hutch like he did. Hutch wasn't tough. He was vulnerable, loving, caring. He was Starsky's better half, the one that made him believe there was still kindness in the world.

So many things he would like to say when they let him in just for a couple of minutes.

Little things like I've watered your plants, fixed your guitar, did the dishes, changed the sheets, all ready for you to come back.

And then the big ones, those Starsky didn't dare saying because he refused to believe this could be the end:

I'm here. Hold on. Wake up. Live for more sixty years. We'll settle down, be next door neighbors, share a white fence, get a bunch of kids, drink beer every weekend, grow old together, die together.

Starsky leaned over, tried to find a way to say all these things in two minutes, but nothing came out - the knot in his throat was too big. So he stayed there in silence, almost counting his heartbeats, suddenly sounding as slow as Hutch's.

And when they finally sent him away and his fingers lingered in Hutch's temple more than it was necessary, it finally occurred to him what he was supposed to say.

“Don't go away.”

“And that's how he found Beatrice and finally got into Heaven,” said Hutch.

Starsky turned round with his hands on his hips. “You're really enjoying this, aren't you?”

Hutch took a bit of soda. “Enjoying what?”

God, that grin was so innocent, so damn raw. No one would ever suspect it was overflowing with naive malice. No one, except Starsky.

He snatched the soda from Hutch's hands. “Annoying me with that Dante thing and those crazy circles of Hell.”

“What do you mean?” Hutch handed him a napkin. “You asked me what it was, I'm telling you what it is.”

“Yeah, well… It doesn't have to include a fully detailed report.”

--

He got out to the hallway, found out Dobey and Edith were there. They didn't have to, so it made him feel even more grateful.

And as she held him close in her arms, the tension in Starsky's guts diminished ever so slightly. Because Edith was a mom, like his mom, like Hutch's mom, and moms had this comforting effect on people, or at least on him.

They convinced him to leave for few minutes, to go with them and eat something outside the hospital.

He did as he was told: drank the coffee, ate the sandwich and even helped the waitress to clean the table in the end – everything with a different taste, with a total absence of mind.

He followed Dobey while he bought the newspaper, tried not to stare too much at Hutch’s picture on the front page with big letters lining it: Missing officer found.

Lies, all lies. Because whatever Starsky had found, it wasn’t Hutch. At least, not yet.

He bit his lip for the sake of feeling something, tracked the straight line of the shelves with his gaze. They were covered with magazines, comic strips and ancient-looking books. Most of them he’d read: classics like Tom Sawyer, Dracula, The Old Man and the Sea.

He reached for one and his fingers lingered on it until a sweaty mark formed on the cover.

“Captain, could you?” asked Starsky.

He’d looked for money in his pockets, found nothing there: just his car keys, a chocolate candy bar wrapper and two dimes.

Divine Comedy…

Dobey gazed at him, but didn’t even frown. He didn’t say a thing. If the book would make Starsky happier, he would gladly buy it. He pulled a bill from his wallet, paid for it and patted Starsky's back.

And with it, he showed him how things were really bad.

“No, seriously, it’s a beautiful tale,” insisted Hutch.

“Yeah, I think you’ve made your point.”

“Hey! I’m just saying you should give it a try. You'd probably like it.”

Starsky dumped the hamburger wrapper. “Hutch, I’d rather die.”

Hutch stood. “Now, see. You’re just bein' damn stubborn.”

He stretched on the sidewalk - from his long legs, up to his arms - and under the midday sun, his hair flashed just like a beacon. He held his hand and helped Starsky to get up.

--

Same hand he was holding, same fingers he was stroking. He’d got them good…

One dead, two wounded, the other guy seriously disturbed. Starsky had rushed in just like the Punisher, shot three of them because they were shooting at him and made the last one drop his gun without even giving a try.

The guy held his hands high, but still Starsky reached for his neck, shoved him against the wall and squeezed. He didn’t care if the man kept telling him something about a phone call, or the way he grabbed his wrist with both hands, ripping Starsky's skin with his nails.

Starsky didn’t care because he didn't want to kill him. He just wanted him, needed him to feel the same he was feeling. The same Hutch had felt when they'd decided he could give them a little bit of fun.

Pain, rage… He felt the concept of justice stumbling into revenge.

“Starsky!”

He glanced over his shoulder when that voice echoed inside his head, sure it was Hutch calling for him, guiding him back to reason. And loosening his hawk-like grip, he let the guy slid down the wall.

The man gasped for air the same way Starsky did, when shocked, he realized that voice had just been Dobey's.

Starsky ran his thumb over Hutch's fingers. He cursed himself for not being bright enough, for getting there too late. He cursed himself for losing control and almost taking that guy's life with his bare hands.

Strangling a man for Hutch… Wasn't it ironic? Especially because Hutch would never want him to do that.

Letting go, he placed Hutch's limp hand on his chest. He actually suspected he didn't have any sort of excuse on this one. What Starsky'd done, he'd done by his own and for his own.

Waking up to a close-up of Starsky’s sneakers propped on his nightstand, wasn’t at all what Hutch had in mind. His gaze wandered around: the sun was shining when hours ago all had been dark; and this was also the first time he’d seen Starsky reading without any kind of twitch.

But never mind the little stuff…

What worried him was the bandage wrapping Starsky’s wrist, the fact he looked weary and old and the dirty wrinkled shirt he was wearing.

He tried to remember if that was the shirt Starsky'd wore the night before - the night in which they’d spoken after so many days. He couldn’t. He could hardly remember his own name, even more the details of his partner's wardrobe or what had been said.

“Hutch,” said Starsky. He took his feet from the nightstand and flipped the book. “Would you say you’ve been blown about to and fro by a storm?”

Hutch tried to focus on him, his wits in total chaos. Of everything he was ready to hear, that wasn’t definitely one of them. He wasn't even sure of what on earth those words meant. Then again, meds had such a weird effect on him that maybe, just maybe, he was hallucinating.

Starsky patted his shoulder. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He looked at the book again. “Yup, just as I suspected… I’m afraid you're confined to the second circle of Hell.”

Oh, okay… Now, he remembered.

“Thought I was in limbo,” he mumbled, letting his eyes shut. God, it hurt. Should have assumed it would. If breathing hurt, blinking hurt, talking should hurt as well – it should be granted.

“Nope, sorry.” Starsky showed him the book – pages of blotted letters and sentences he couldn’t decode. “The lustful guys stay in second.”

Hutch chuckled. “Somehow I don’t feel that lustful.”

“Huh huh… Don’t lie to me. I saw how you flirted with that nurse yesterday.”

Eh, flirt…

The lady was nice, alright. With green eyes, blonde hair and prosthetic teeth. A sixty year old hot chick, who helped him when he felt sick, all the time saying he was such a pretty boy, pretty as the sun.

Hutch cracked an eye open. “Do I have to die to make you read a decent book?”

“You didn’t die, yet. In case you don’t know you gotta ask my permission first.”

“That's depressing…”

“Why? Are you plannin' on doin' this even more often?"

“Anythin' to expand your intellect…”

Smiling, Starsky leaned in the chair again. He pulled Hutch’s ear, gently, the way brothers do. “You were right, you know? I was bein' stubborn. This stuff’s great. Dante was probably on coke or somethin'.”

“Probably. That would explain a lot.” That white stripe on his wrist filled Hutch’s peripheral sight and he couldn't help asking, “Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Sure, I guess. It was the usual. Kicked the door down, fired some shots, killed one, cuffed the rest, tossed them into a cage and threw away the key.”

He was lying…

Still, Hutch mumbled, “Good times.”

“Yeah…” Their gazes met. “Thought I was still in hell, Hutch, when I was actually in heaven.”

“What do you mean?”

At that moment, Hutch’s winking turned into a weird comic routine.

Quietly, Starsky brushed a stray wisp from Hutch’s forehead and waited until he was back to sleep. His throat was clear now - there was no knot preventing him from saying whatever he wanted. But what he wanted to say, Hutch couldn't hear, shouldn’t hear.

“Found myself on the third sphere of heaven, Hutch,” said Starsky. “The place where good guys go when they do stupid things out of love.”

End