Author’s Note: This story is for Nancy. Thank you for our discussions on this topic and your nudge to write it down.

Thank you Marianrose, Sammy, and Duluth for your unwavering support.

This story picks up immediately following the blast at the end of Starsky vs. Hutch.

The world had gone stone cold gray. And not from the dust settling. Hutch longed to move, to do what had always been instinctual, expected, and important. He wanted to make his way to Starsky, give Starsky’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, silently, but surely communicating “it’s over, we did it, partner.” He wanted to look into Starsky’s eyes and know they were both okay.

But the professionalism that momentarily allowed for teamwork in handling the grenade was no substitute for the sparks that used to fly effortlessly between them, holding them together, binding their soul deep connection with trust and love.

The blast severed any temporary synergy, instantly plunging Hutch back into isolation, leaving the distance between him and Starsky stretching, growing by the moment, while simultaneously, the walls closed in around him. Air thick with emptiness clogged his throat. Guilt and shame rose like bile from the pit of his gut. Head down, he grieved, uncomfortably aware his touch and his look were not welcome, that he and Starsky were most definitely NOT okay. And that it was his fault.

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It was a dance. Never formally choreographed, but there was flow and rhythm. Synchronized actions with a downbeat of violence. The melody line was he and Starsky, stepping in to control the mayhem. Hutch felt the pattern of their movements in a way he never did on the disco floor. Here he knew what came next, where he should be, where Starsky would be.

He went high and Starsky went low, surging into any situation fluidly, able to anticipate the other’s whereabouts.

Until the day it changed.

The discordant scrape of metal on metal grated on the ears. An explosion of bullets.

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David Starsky was a bit different growing up. He was left-handed, in spite of the efforts of several teachers and relatives. He was very bright, but never seemed to be able to prove it at test time. He was the son of an honest cop living in a neighborhood of dubious transactions. And he didn’t have a middle name. All of his classmates had a middle name; some had wonderfully embarrassing names to spare, but not him. In the ‘middle name’ space of the birth certificate, there was just a blank.

This anomaly was the result of a battle between the Starsky and Katz camps over what to name Michael and Rachel’s firstborn (who also had the luck to not only be the first grandchild on both sides, but also the first male in nearly 10 years). The day before his bris, debates were still going, and Michael, watching his wife fight back tears, found his voice.

“Quiet!” he ordered the bickering mass. Then he knelt in front his wife and said, “Forget about everyone else – what do you want to call our son?”

Rachel only paused a moment before saying, “David. I want to name him David.”

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