Never Quite Sane in the Night

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My very first Starsky & Hutch story.

Several months following the events of the episode “Survival” – Starsky finds a  clue that his partner may still be under the influence of delayed or continuing trauma. He investigates.

Feedback always welcome! barricadesofheaven.angel@gmail.com

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Chapter 1: “Good Morning, Partner!”

~In which we find our heroes at Venice Place, laying the groundwork for whatever adventure may transpire~

Detective David Starsky replaced the key on the lintel above the door, stepped across the threshold, and looked around the modest apartment with equal measures of amusement and resignation. Before his eyes, like flotsam on the water after a storm, lay abundant evidence of a visit from Hutch Maneuver Alpha  – Starsky’s secret call sign for his police partner’s unerring ability to disarrange, maim, and otherwise abuse any innocent but tidy space he encountered.

His sapphire blue eyes randomly lighted on individual pieces of disorder. Here, a faded green t-shirt discarded inside out on the desk. There, his blond partner’s well-loved guitar reclined on the sofa like an overnight guest with sheet music for blankets. Books and papers slid from the coffee table to the rug, competing for floor space with a used coffee mug, empty paper grocery bags, a pencil, and a pile of clean but unfolded clothes. The kitchen beyond looked even less promising.

“Hutch…Hutch…Hutch…sloth would be a promotion for you for real, buddy.” Starsky shook his head and raised a brow toward the sound of running shower water and off key whistling, signaling his best friend was awake and moving behind the closed bathroom door.

He crossed the small room and slapped his palm against the door in greeting. “Here!” he bellowed.

“Murmpffff!” A waterlogged reply, followed immediately by another vigorous round of tuneless whistling.

Starsky veered right and wandered to the small greenhouse flanking the back wall of the apartment. Here all was serene and very, very tidy. He pushed his dark curls back from his eyes, a slow smile playing across his handsome face. Without question, this gentle and green space, pulsing with plant life, flirting with light and shadow, was a glimpse into the true soul of his over-tall, over-stubborn, and over-analytical partner. The lush greenery and the earthy sweetness spoke of a birthright grounding Hutch, like his farming ancestors, to the rhythm of the land.

He inhaled the scents with unexpected appreciation as his deep blue eyes came to rest on an unfamiliar framed black and white photograph. Within the frame, a laughing older man, white bearded and wearing a work cap, sat with his hands gripping the wheel of a tractor. Perched on his lap was a small tow-headed boy with eyes like silver and a cherub smile.  Hutch of course, a pint-sized and beaming Hutch, content in the company of his beloved grandfather – safe from the lessons of time and pain, captured by the camera on a distant spring Minnesota morning.

“Can’t decide if ya look like an urchin or wannabe choir boy,” Starsky whispered fondly to the Hutch child in the photograph.

His hand came to rest on the wooden potting bench. He looked down and noticed a single piece of paper face up beneath his palm.

He craned his neck at the single page, noting Hutch’s penciled scribbling. The first three lines caught his attention and he raised his eyebrows. He read the next six lines and smiled. The next four and laughed aloud. He plucked the paper up and scanned it again. Then, like a mischievous little boy sensing an opportunity for fun, he crammed it into his front jeans pocket.  Finders keepers.

He cocked an ear toward the bathroom. Water sounds gone, replaced by the pull of drawers and more rambled whistling. His two immediate priorities crystallized. Priority one: a carefree day off in the company of the long-legged blond-headed man who was rounding the corner toward the coffee pot. Priority two: mercilessly ribbing the same blond-headed man about the contraband paper now resting against the car keys in his jeans pocket.

“Uh oh.” Detective Kenneth Hutchinson canted his head to one side as he pulled on a navy blue t-shirt. “What’s wrong with your face, Starsk?”

Starsky lifted his chin in return, flashing his boyish grin. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my face. Checked it right before I left to come over here.”

Two pairs of blue eyes met, ocean and deep jewel. Hutch broke the stare first.

“Starsky, remember when you found the ‘all- you- can- eat buffet’ at the pier? Your face looked just like it does now, the exact same expression. If you don’t remember, trust me, I do. Didn’t like it then. Don’t much like it now.”

A Starsky grin. An impish, silent, “I-got-a-secret” grin.

“Hey partner? Good morning.”  A  pat of a strong hand to Starsky’s shoulder.

“Hey yourself, Blondie. Good morning.”

Hutch detoured into the kitchen, gathering coffee and breakfast supplies. He stirred sugar into a mug of steaming coffee and pressed it into Starsky’s hand. Then, after a cautious sip of his own black coffee, he placed his free hand lightly on Starsky’s back. His fingers tangled momentarily in the fabric of the dark blue windbreaker.

“Move it, Starsk. Let’s sit down. Let’s figure out where this day’ll take us.”

The dark haired detective smiled contently in return. Five quick steps and he folded himself into the wooden kitchen chair, tipping to balance on the two back legs. His left hand delved into his pocket and retrieved the crumpled piece of paper. With slow deliberation he smoothed it out on the table top. He flashed another charming New Yorker-on-the-Left-Coast smile.

Almost time for Hutch’s morning literacy lesson.

 

Chapter 2: “The List”

~ In which the dark haired protagonist queries the flaxen haired protagonist about a very odd list indeed

Hutch dislodged his chair, flipped it back to front, and carelessly lowered himself with long legs straddling the seat. He slid a plate of wheat toast with butter and honey in Starsky’s general direction. His eyes studied his dark-haired partner’s movements. A puzzled neutral expression, equally willing to slide into a smile or a frown, settled on his even features. He swallowed a long glug of coffee.

Starsky leaned forward and beamed playfully Hutch’s way. “Hutch. Y’know buddy, I’ve learned not to fear anything you pump outta that big brain of yours. I know you can’t help it and you mean well. But Hutch…Hutch, this,” his fist waved the paper –  “Even I can’t guess what it’s about.”

Hutch shoved half a piece of toast into his mouth and chewed silently, his expression painfully patient.

Starsky continued, one hand raised slightly as though resigned.  “And so, partners and knaves, I present for your enjoyment a composition entitled Two O’clock in the Morning List by “Hutch” Hutchinson.”

He rubbed his hands together, cleared his throat, and began.

1.Peanut butter and strawberry jelly on white. LOTS of peanut butter.

2. Corned beef and coleslaw on rye. Dill pickles. Potato salad.

3.Marshmallow fluff and chocolate syrup on graham crackers.

4.Club sandwich, double turkey, mayo, relish, mustard, swiss, bacon.

“Hey!” Hutch interrupted. His hand shot out. “Starsk, really nice, I appreciate the dramatic reading, but that’s mine and it’s private. Gimme.”

Starsky snickered, leaning farther back, list firmly in hand.

“By the way, Hutch, nobody puts relish on a club sandwich.”

“By the way, Starsk, nobody filches his buddy’s private writing and then recites it back to the injured party,” Hutch rejoined.

His dark haired partner poked a finger at the next lines with unmasked enthusiasm. “But Hutch. Hutch, look at this. C’mon.  Look what you wrote here – “

5.Fried Stuff: Chicken – shrimp – oysters – mozzarella balls- French fries – onion rings.

6.Macaroni & cheese

7.Chili & cheese on the side.

Deep brown curls wreathed Starsky’s forehead as he tilted toward the table, laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Dummy, is this your new diet? Did those sawdust taste buds of yours finally get hijacked?”

Hutch stood up abruptly. Starsky paused, words silent in his throat, at the utter lack of amusement in his friend’s eyes.

Hutch moved into a dangerous crouch, assessing the distance. Then he launched across the tabletop, arcing high. Starsky pushed back from the table and moved in unison, ducking beneath the table, diving low. In a crash of chairs and the dripping clatter of overturned coffee mugs, they met on the floor in a body slamming sprawl, rolling until they collided with the kitchen cabinets. Hutch hauled himself up and over, long folded legs on each side as he straddled Starsky, his eyes shooting blue fire.

Starsky punched upward, pulling his left arm free from Hutch’s vice grip, panting and straining, his chest constricted by Hutch’s weight, down but not defeated.  “Just a few more, partner,” he rasped.

8.Banana cream pie

9.Crackerjacks

10.Double chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream

Hutch’s right hand found his partner’s mouth and pushed it closed. “Starsk! Enough. Give that to me. I mean it. And not now. RIGHT now!”

“Bmmmffff,” Starsky freed his lips from behind the prison of the smothering hand – just enough to plant a wet lick on Hutch’s exposed palm.

Hutch yelped and lurched to his feet dragging Starsky along by the collar. He ripped the shredded paper from his partner’s fist and threw it to the floor. The Hutchinson finger lashed out waving in the air, daring his partner to make a sound. Then, as though to declare game over, he shoved Starsky back into the kitchen chair.

Face to face. It was nothing now but silent stares.

 

Chapter 3: “Say What?”

~In which our boys have a nice little chat~

Hutch’s expression was contrite. He reached out and tugged Starsky’s windbreaker straighter across the front and was rewarded for his small effort by a slam in the arm. Starsky folded back in his chair with arms crossed, blue eyes stormy with a combination of annoyance, confusion, and – yes – hurt. Hutch snagged a chair of his own with one motion and sat down facing him, eye to eye.

“Starsky.” The sudden calmness in that soothing voice was maddening. “I know you were just goofing around, just playing and trying to have fun.”

Soft words. No explanation.

“See there? You do that ‘n what am I supposed to do? What’m I supposed to say back? Huh?” Starsky’s voice was louder than he intended. With his left forefinger, he absently swirled a puddle of spilled coffee on the tabletop.

“I do ‘that’? What do I do?” Hutch’s voice was still soft, puzzled now.

Starsky shrugged, thoughts conflicting, wondering how his innocent joke could have struck such a nerve in his easy-going partner. “You do that act like we’re here on the same page ‘n no daylight between us. Then I have a little fun ‘n you act like we speak different languages ‘n you don’t know me from the next guy on the street. And you go all commando ice-Hutch for no reason.”

Hutch bit his lower lip. “Buddy, everything everybody does is for a reason.” The sunlight refracted off of his eyes, highlighting the sky blue. “I know you wanna blow off steam and sometimes I forget how genuinely interesting and amusing things are to you.”

Was that an apology? Piss poor one.

Starsky shook his dark head, curls whipping back and forth from the motion. “The Hutch I know, he’s got a sense of humor. He can laugh with the best of ‘em. Seen that guy around today?”

Hutch placed a light hand on his partner’s right bicep. “The Hutch you know is right here, partner,” he answered quietly.

“Uh-huh. What’s with you anyhow buddy? What’s the rub? Why you up writing down all that stuff about food you’d rather starve than eat? Staying up ‘til 2 in the morning to remind yourself about fried chicken ‘n peanut butter?”

“It’s complicated, Starsky.”

“Hutch, there ain’t nothing complicated about peanut butter ‘n jelly.”

Hutch lifted both shoulders in a semi-shrug, his gaze flicking to a place just over Starsky’s left shoulder. He looked quiet, thoughtful, and just so slightly melancholy.

What the hell? Starsky snapped his fingers. “Don’tcha even think of zoning out like that. Ya heard me. Peanut butter ‘n jelly don’t call for a storm trooper imitation, big guy. Just say so. Just agree with me.”

 

Chapter 4: “Hungry Ghosts”

~Minus the Torino onto the angst highway go the boys~

Hutch slid out of his chair to the floor and pushed back. He propped against the kitchen cabinets, sitting with right leg straight and left leg bent at the knee. His golden eyelashes hid his eyes. Starsky, a master in Hutch body language, recognized the posture as uncertainty blended with avoidance. He watched Hutch’s fingers absently trace the plane of his left kneecap through the denim of his jeans – long slender fingers moving, back and forth, over and over.

Starsky knew it was time for a pat on the back, a wink and nod, a soothing comment, but he’d lost the nerve to reassure Hutch it would be fine. A good detective, and Starsky was a very good detective, operated on two fronts – instinct and information. Instinct he had in spades. Information – not so much.

“Hey guy.” Starsky’s voice was soft, cajoling. His every insight told him Hutch was running at breakneck speed, for whatever reason, into a place of darkness and danger.

Dammit – you’re not going in alone.  Not on my watch, partner.

He reached over and gripped Hutch’s left wrist, simultaneously leveraging his own body upward. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he tugged.

“C’mon Hutch. Ready up. Off the floor. Let’s go hang with the plants. I think they need you.”

Hutch’s half-smile returned as he leaned into Starsky’s pull and angled to his feet. Starsky placed a strong hand on the small of his partner’s back and steered him to the greenhouse, guiding him to one of the stools by a small round table. He watched Hutch coil downward and followed suit. Two pairs of hands on the table.  Blue gazes meeting in the swirl of sunlight and green.

“Peanut butter ‘n jelly, pal,” he said quietly. No tease. No threat.

“Like bacon ‘n eggs?”

“Like me and thee.”

We’ve got a deal Hutch.  Talk to me.

Hutch shoved both forearms on the small round table. His expression was rueful, almost bashful. Starsky watched him. Inhale. Exhale.

“Memories come to me at night.” A hushed admission as Hutch looked down, apparently fascinated by the dust motes on the table.

“Nightmares?”  Starsky knew a thing or two about Hutch’s restless sleep patterns.

Hutch shook his head. “No. I’m not asleep. I’m lying there…I’m staring at the ceiling. I’m thinking. Then everything around me disappears and I hear the wind high above – I see the stars. And I’m back in that damn canyon, trapped under that fricking car, counting the minutes until I’m dead.”

Starsky waited, his storm blue gaze never leaving Hutch’s face.

“Starsk, do you know what it’s like to have an entirely new fear hunt you down? Not a familiar fear. I mean a stranger. Powerful. Vindictive. Blood-thirsty. That’s what found me. It happened and then it happened again, and again. That fear. It haunts me. Night after night – last month, last week, last night, until I think I’m going to lose my mind.”

Starsky held himself perfectly still, perfectly silent. In the background he was aware of small sensations and intrusions – the barely perceptible breeze tickling his dark curls against eyebrows…a car backfiring outside…the faint pulse of waves against the shore. He watched Hutch’s face, following that forlorn stare into the vision of desperate panic, to a wall of pain higher than the surrounding canyon. He entered a place where Me &Thee no longer existed. There was only time running out, stillness, and death’s kiss across a sunburned forehead.

His hand clenched. Unclenched.  His rings glinted in the light. He synchronized his movements to those of his tall partner now half-sprawled in his chair with an arm flung wide across the tabletop.

Starsky felt a tremor, a temporal shift. His own thoughts reeled three months back in time. Again, he was running on a high road vaulted above a shale and sand canyon. He felt the cruel blaze of sun, the fear like a fist around his heart as he charged down the steep slope toward a terrible moment of truth. The crazy tilt of a ruined car, the motionless form of his missing partner pinned helplessly beneath the mass of crumpled metal. His hands hovering above Hutch’s still shoulders and then moving to lift the blood streaked face carefully upward to his. Hutch’s fist weakly curled around the edge of the car frame – the benediction of Hutch’s blue eyes returning his gaze – the wrenching sight of Hutch arching like a bowstring against the pain. Exhale.

Hutch’s voice found him, pulled him back to reality. “I thought, ‘How rich is this? Dying alone. Dying on my back. Nice going, hero.’” The wide blue eyes both took him in and focused beyond him. His voice was a hoarse whisper as he paused for breath before continuing.  “I…I s-started thinking about my father. About my dad.”

Starsky swallowed painfully. His hand uncurled of its own bidding and came to rest across Hutch’s forearm.

Keep talking, Buddy. I’m here. This time my silence is the only gift I can offer.

Hutch’s gaze shifted. “Dying there. No hope for salvation. No confession. No absolution. And I thought…I thought…Starsk – ”  a dry swallow – “I thought, ‘Was my father right?’”

Starsky tightened his grip ever so slightly. A half smile of encouragement.

Dammit Hutch. Was your father right about what? Lost me there, philosopher pal.

Hutch’s eyes squeezed closed and his hand came up to grip his temples, his palm traversing the planes of his angular face, his forehead creased.

“From my first memories, I was taught this truth – ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Gods. I broke the covenant, Starsk. I have – I have killed.” Hutch’s voice was vulnerable, exposed.  “Oh yeah, I’ve killed. Over and over and over.”

His hand stroked down his face as though to rub away guilt and visceral pain.

“In that canyon, all the sins of my life stained my soul. All the weakness and vanities and refusal to accept the lessons I was taught covered me like dried blood.” His voice faltered to a whisper, a lost call for grace. And when he raised his face to look at his best friend, the ache revealed in those eyes took Starsky’s breath away.

By instinct, Starsky slid into motion – hands moving in unison to grip the base of Hutch’s neck, turning his fair haired partner…there – right there. Forehead to forehead, he could feel the tremor rocking Hutch’s lean body.

C’mon buddy. Back up from the edge – I’m pulling you from another crash. No car this time, no canyon, just you ‘n me and these hungry ghosts.

 

Chapter 5: “The Grace it Takes”

~ In which deep-seated instincts for both self- destruction and self-preservation collide on the angst freeway~

Hutch tensed and drew back, his right hand pushing almost apologetically against Starsky’s chest. Wordless, he tipped backward, over, down, landing on the floor.

Starsky grimaced and followed him down, landing awkwardly at a right angle, his view Hutch’s profile. Warm mid-morning sunlight caught the contours of their faces and lit raven and wheat colored hair like halos.

“Fine, Hutch, you wanna be on the floor, we’re on the floor.” The left toe of Starsky’s tennis shoe nudged Hutch’s ankle.

Hutch exhaled a shaky breath.  “You wouldn’t understand, Starsk. You couldn’t know. You’re the son of a cop. A hero. A fallen warrior. Me…”

A reluctant sigh. “I’m…I’m – ”

Starsky heard his own whispered voice. “You’re what, Hutch?”

“I’m the son of a clergyman. My father is a minister – a pastor.”

Interest sharpened in Starsky’s eyes.

“Yeah, I know.” Hutch’s face twisted in derision. “Your partner’s a stereotype. I’m a ‘Pastor’s Kid’.  I’m a ‘Church Rat’.  My father is a Lutheran minister. He shares the gifts of God with the people of God. He guards the gates of Heaven for the righteous. He disowned his wayward cop son who shoots the big, bad-ass gun – his fallen from grace, violence-loving son.” The pain in that soft voice was wretched.

Starsky’s eyes, grey blue with light and emotion, locked onto his friend’s hunched form. He processed this new information and felt it slide like a key into an oiled lock. In the quietness of their breathing, he embraced this revelation, this glimpse into the guarded inner sanctum of Hutch’s private past.

“A Preacher’s Kid.” Starsky’s voice was deliberately light, almost teasing. As carefully and calculatingly as he would question a suspect, he took charge of the direction and timbre of the conversation.

“Yeah.”

“Church every Sunday?”

“Ummm…yeah. Front right pew.”

“Learning all about God?”

“Yep.”

“Learning about the God who slaughtered the wicked and His enemies by the thousands? The One who commanded “don’t kill” but then ordered up quite a bit of killing Himself? That the One?”

“Starsky.”

“Starsky nothing. I ain’t ignorant, Preacher’s Kid. God killed and destroyed, buddy. He destroyed the unrighteous to protect what’s good. Let’s see.  What about His David ‘n Goliath? What about His flood? What about His plague? What about His famine?”

“Starsk!”

“Shut up!  You know I’m right. And didn’t He bless the guardians of His people? Didn’t He strengthen the ones who took up the sword for the sake of goodness? Didn’t He win their battles?”

“Whatever.” A blond headed shrug.

“Not whatever, Hutch.” A shake of unruly raven curls.

“Knock it off, Starsky.”

“You knock it off. Answer me. Didn’t He bless them? His warriors who fought evil ‘n kept the innocents safe?”

Starsky leaned in and cuffed Hutch’s upper arm. “You don’t know something so simple? What kind of Preacher’s Kid are you?”

A glare of Hutch-blue eyes. A wry nod.

“Yeah, Starsk, okay, okay – You’re solid on the facts of the case.”

“Good.” Starsky knew his half-smile was lost on Hutch. “So, we got the first point. Killing to protect what’s good isn’t the same as cold-blooded killing. ”

On to point number two, Blondie.

“Hutch. You thought you were gonna die?”

“Sure did.”

“You thought you were gonna die and – ”

“I thought I was gonna die, and –  ”

Starsky heard the catch in Hutch’s voice. He heard the slight hesitation over words, like the hesitation of the fragile soul turning to face unfriendly memories.  “I hoped I’d just slip away to someplace peaceful and better. I was staring up at the sun, riding up to the brightness. I asked for mercy then, Starsk. I asked for peace.

“Instead,” Hutch’s voice sharpened, then dipped, laced with bitterness and something Starsky couldn’t quite identify, “I heard my fathers’ voice. I swear I saw his face. I heard his judgment on me – Wicked. Killer. Evil. Destined for damnation. He wouldn’t hear my confession. Instead he predicted eternal fire – eternal agony…fitting punishment for the kid who abandoned the way and lost his faith.”

Starsky stared up at the ceiling, glimpsing white boards above the verdant tangle of hanging plants. Even as he acknowledged his partner as a strong and realistic man, he knew as well as anyone how a father’s teachings anchored the souls of sons.

And he sounds Nobel Prize winner of a father, partner.

It was time for sons of lost fathers to band together – lock step and shoulder to shoulder.

“Hutch, you didn’t die.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me.” Starsky couldn’t help but smile. “I gotta agree, but maybe also thanks to Huggy’s prayers ‘n everyone’s prayers, so many prayers, partner.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re no killer, Hutch. No wicked, wacked out, gonna go to Hell killer.”

“I’ve killed, Starsk.”

“You’re a cop. Sometimes you got no choice. You’re the good guys. You protect, serve, preserve the good, even when it means killing the threats, killing the bad guys.”

Starsky grabbed Hutch’s chin a bit too roughly, turned that poster boy face to his. “Kinda like being in those heavenly armies. Sorta like an angel – with a gun instead of a sword.”

“A fallen angel.”

“A dumb ass angel.”

Silence.

“Hutch?”

“Hmmm?”

“You always wanna do it your way. Be a cop your way. Be a friend your way. Be a man your way. Be a pain-in-the-ass- by- thinking- too- much-moron your way.”

“I’m nothing if not predictable, Starsk.”

“What I mean is, keep doin’ it your way. You don’t make it easy, but you make out alive. You make it count. Be it out there –  ” a hand pointing beyond the window – “or in here.” His fingertips moved to tap and then linger on Hutch’s sternum. “Don’t sell yourself short, buddy. Deal. Fight back. Work it out.”

Hear me, Hutch. C’mon, pal.

He felt Hutch relax, felt his body edge back. He welcomed the genuine smile curving across his friend’s handsome face. He felt the release of tension, the shallow breathing gaining strength and confidence.

“So, Hutch. You wanna talk about your dad?”

“Nope.”

“You wanna answer my questions about you ‘n your dad?”

“Heh – as if.” A snort.

“Think this thing’s gonna bug you for awhile?”

“Probably.”  Hutch’s head tilted slightly as he tossed a balled up piece of paper into Starsky’s lap.  “But maybe not as powerfully. Maybe it’s lost its edge.”

A pause. “Thanks, Starsky. Thanks.”

“Who’s got your back?”

“Same as always, partner. That’d be you.”

Starsky angled his head in return. “That’d be me. Know it ‘n own it, artner.”

He uncrumpled the single piece of paper and smoothed it against his jeans. A smile erased the worry grooves between his eyes . He could hear the relief in his own voice as he read the first line aloud.

Peanut butter and strawberry jelly on white. Lots of peanut butter.          

           

Chapter 6: “A Talisman for Hutch”

~Wherein the origin of the list is revealed~

Hutch heaved onto his side, elbow on the floor and head propped against his hand, shadows falling across his quiet smile.  “Y’know buddy, I had a lot of time on my own down in that canyon.  Lots of time to occupy, and lots of fear to chase away.”

Starsky snickered. “Yeah. Tell me all about it – I’m chasing my own shadow searching for your sorry ass while you lounge around on your back.”

Hutch caught his glimpse and trapped it in pools of liquid blue.

“So it’s night. I’m lying there and the fear – ” Hutch’s voice faltered as though humbled by his own human fragility, “ – the fear grew so huge and hungry, gods, like a monster looking at its next meal.” He laughed self-consciously. “I had to shift my thinking. I couldn’t run away for real, only in my mind. I made myself think about something safe. Like food. Hell, I already felt like sandwich filling. It was car-me-rock.”

He arched slightly, pushing himself to sitting up. “And I thought, okay…food. What would Starsky want?  What would we be eating if Starsk was here? Then it happened. I started channeling you.”

“Peanut butter and jelly,” Starsky grinned.

“Corned beef on rye,” Hutch volleyed back.

“Marshmallow fluff –  ” Starsky’s dark blue eyes were defiant. “Jeez Hutchinson, don’t lay that garbage on me.”

Hutch chuckled. “Making that list and thinking of you shoveling all that rubbish into your pie hole kept me sane, Starsk. It was the only time I was calm. I grabbed onto it and I recited it over and over and over.”

He teased long fingers over the ragged edge of the paper containing his list.

“I thought that was the end of it. All better now. Big rescue, lots of hospital, lots of getting better and all done. A one off and Hutch slays the fear dragon.”

His eyes released Starsky gently. “But then the fears came back, Starsk. It was like another version of the same nightmare – fear of death, of hell, of my father, of my mistakes…steamrolling me every single night. So last week, after one too many times being not quite sane in the night, I got up and wrote the whole stupid list down.”

His hands folded and unfolded the paper.

“It helps, Starsk. Like a magic charm. Like a talisman. Now when the midnight trap springs on me, I reach for this dumb piece of paper and I read these dumb words–” a shy smile. “And I’m, I’m, I don’t know. I’m s-soothed.”

His smile all but begged Starsky’s smile in return.

Starsky offered it willingly with a light brush of his fist to Hutch’s shoulder.

“Then keep it close, partner,” he said softly. “Keep it near ‘n keep it safe.”

He watched Hutch push to his feet, stretching long arms above his head for a moment.

“Beach?” Hutch’s voice was hopeful.

“Hell no!”  A Starsky growl.

“Hike?” Less hopeful.

“Stuff it, Hutchinson.”

“Bowling?”

“Nah.”

“Go-carts?”

Starsky broke into a full grin. “Now you’re talkin’.”

“Gimme five and  we’ll go – it’ll feel good to run your slow ass off the track.”

Starsky snorted as he climbed to his feet. “You’ll be eating dirt along with your peanut butter, Blondie.”

Hutch’s low laugh lingered in the air even after he disappeared around the corner and into his bedroom.

 

Chapter 7: A Talisman for Starsky

~Wherein a storm of memories batters our dark-haired hero~

Alone in the greenhouse, Starsky leaned out into the cooling breeze, his shadow blue gaze on the horizon beyond. The air moved with music around him, the sweetness of wind chimes stirring to song. His hand moved involuntarily, touching the light metal tines. He swallowed as the sounds pushed him across time, space, terrain – from his adopted home of California to his childhood in Brooklyn. To the worst day of his life.

 Hutch’s quiet question of earlier echoed in his mind.

“Starsk, do you know what it’s like to have an entirely new fear hunt you down?”

Gods buddy. Do I know? Yeah. I do.

Thoughts crowded close to him, unbidden and unwelcome, pushing the light-hearted mood of moments earlier into a darkened corner of his consciousness.

I have my own talisman, partner, my own touchstone – always within reach of my bed. It’s  my  magic bullet when the past overwhelms  and once more I’m the youngster standing, exhausted from  tears, staring in disbelief at my  fallen father’s coffin.

Starsky remembered the first time that desperate fear pummeled every inch of his body, his thirteen-year-old mind looping in the face of incomprehensible loss. His strong and beloved father – who promised to keep the world safe and whole – torn from him without reason and without a chance to say good-bye. He shuddered from power of that fear, a destroyer that never lost its edge, a stealth hunter that came for him, even now, tangling him into a web of unspeakable grief and regret.

My father. How could I live without my father?

He opened his being to the bleak internal landscape now, allowing himself to witness his own restless sleep, his own restless pacing from the edge of wakefulness to the knife-edge of loss. He acknowledged his too intimate understanding of how sorrow gathers strength in the night to crest just before dawn. All reminders of what a man can lose – what a man is capable of – of questions asked – of anger and hope rising in self-defense to overpower fear.

He listened to Hutch moving in the next room, hearing a drawer opening and a crumpled piece of paper being placed carefully inside an envelope. His hand rocked the wind chimes, exploding melodic tones around him like an approaching storm.

I had faith too, Hutch. I had faith and I was betrayed. I have fears, buddy. And someday, when you are again strong enough to hold my sorrow, I’ll show you my version of your list. I’ll show you my talisman.

From across the long years, he remembered his single-minded need. He remembered his mother’s harsh gasp, finding him crouched over the police uniform overcoat worn by his father on the coldest days of the year. He remembered the scissors in his hand, smoothing the fabric with shaking fingers and then the blades slicing into the stiff wool and cutting away a circular piece of cloth the size of his palm from exactly where his father would have proudly secured his badge.

Once more, he heard his mother’s grief-filled voice and felt her hand on his face, jerking his chin up so his pain-glazed blue eyes were forced to look into hers.

“David! No! David – David, what have you done? We were going to give that coat away to someone who needs it!”

His own stubborn silence answered her as his fingers bundled the small piece of cloth into his fist.

I need. I need this.

How many times since that moment had he, half awake and addled by fear, reached for that cherished scrap of wool? How many times had his fingers stroked over its surface, wearing it smooth?  And how many times had that small movement calmed the fever dreams burning within him? How many times had it worked its singular power, guarding him, holding him, protecting him from the worst of the darkness?

His talisman. His tiny shred of sanity, always within reach.

Trust me, partner. I understand.

 

Chapter 8: Intermezzo

~Our boys wind down a busy afternoon and meanwhile, back across town…~

Starsky palmed the steering wheel of the Torino, spinning out to the street with seats jostling and tires screeching. Heading west toward Hutch’s apartment, he couldn’t help but feel profoundly satisfied with the events of the afternoon.

First, there was the heady and macho rapture of go-carting Hutch into the rails, not once but four times. He grinned at the memory of Hutch’s hand raised in a one-finger salute, with accompanying expletives and a furious shake of blond hair.

You’re a spoilsport ‘n a poor loser, Hutchinson. 

Second, there was the pleasure of watching Hutch guzzle down a beer without proper deference to the heat or the lack of food in his stomach, and then – sun-struck and semi-lit – seeing him  promptly trip over his own feet to slide head first on his belly down  the wooden stairs of the outdoor bar.

Awww…Blondie. Ouch. Too bad.

Infuriating, intense, and endearing Hutch might be, and in the slap-stick arena, he didn’t disappoint.  Starsky’s guffaw of delight, as Hutch sheepishly picked himself up, earned him another chorus of curse words.

“For a Preacher’s Kid, you cuss pretty well, partner.” It didn’t get any better than this – the sublime joy of watching Hutch’s face flush bright red with embarrassment.

Finally, there was the anticipation of what waited at Hutch’s apartment.

Starsky’s quick and covert telephone call to Huggy Bear – friend, informant, and guardian angel on earth – had contained a near impossible request.

Starsky could hear the smile in his own voice as he issued orders. “Huggy, I need some food. Here’s the menu…Uhhh – what’s that? Yeah, tell me about it. I’ll explain later. Oh ‘n we need some people. Only people who like Hutch, if you can find any. I know, I know  – I would’a  given you more time but I just figured this out myself. Five o’clock at Hutch’s.  It’s a surprise. Let yourself in. Just work around the mess. We’ll be there by 5:30.”

And Huggy, being Huggy, questioned a little, sighed a lot, and rose to the occasion.

Starsky glanced over at his partner in the passenger seat and a small smile captured his lean features. He deliberately babied the accelerator as he cleared the stoplight, one hand reaching out to stroke Hutch’s shoulder blades.

Hutch was sound asleep, angled forward with arms cushioning his head on the dashboard, clearly undone by the combination of insomnia, morning soul-searching, and afternoon heat and exertion.

The shared trauma of earlier had taken a toll on both of them. Starsky could feel a background ache growing behind his eyes…the emotions of his heart, like convicts on the lam, exploiting a convenient pathway. He willed it away. As always, their shared strength proved superior to any threats circling. It added yet another brick to the wall of trust he and Hutch built together over the years, through the hardships, losses, fears, and triumphs.

“All or nothin’, partner,” he whispered, half to himself. “Right now ‘n right up to the end.”

Hutch mumbled something incoherent and turned his face toward Starsky’s. His blue eyes opened, blinked, focused. One eyebrow lifted.

“Hungry, Hutch?” Starsky eased back, the contours of the leather seat hugging his back like a blessing. He absently rubbed his left hand along the back of his neck under thick dark curls, half groaning with the exquisite release of tension.

“Yeah. Hungry. And you had me worried, buddy.” Hutch’s voice was ragged from the edge of sleep. “You only ate one hot dog ‘n no fries at the track. Isn’t like you.”

“Savin’ myself for something better,” Starsky nodded. “I’m sure you can find something for me at your place. I’m inviting myself to dinner.”

Hutch winced and sat up, pushing sun-whitened hair back from his brow. “If vegetable soup, salad and grilled cheese count as better, then you’re welcome to it.”

Starsky snorted as he expertly glided the Torino into the parking place in front of Hutch’s apartment. He swung the door wide and jumped out, matching stride with Hutch as he got out of the car. Hutch’s hand found its way to Starsky’s shoulder, fleeting, long enough for an affectionate squeeze.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Starsky heard music pounding from behind Hutch’s closed front door.  As distinct as the music, the scents of smoky corned beef, fried chicken, onion rings, chili, and baking macaroni and cheese saturated the air around them.

His own light-hearted smile collided with the wary look on Hutch’s face at hearing sounds within. He watched Hutch reach for the Magnum, noted the twist of anxiety crossing his partner’s face as he realized his gun wasn’t in its usual place near his underarm.

Hutch released a flurry of hand signals and crouched to the side of the door.

Starsky put a warning hand on his friend’s wrist.

“Whoa, boy. Down, Hutch, down.”

“Starsk! Someone’s in there!” A whispered hiss.

“You think? You don’t got your gun, thank God. So you can’t go in shootin’.”

“Dammit! Starsk – ”

“Okay, partner. Let’s count to three then let’s bust down the door ‘n yell, ‘freeze!’”

“Starsky, it’s my door. I’m not gonna bust it down.”

Starsky raised his eyebrows with a teasing shrug. “Okay. Lemme knock ‘n see who answers.”

Hutch’s silent frown packed a wallop of unspoken impatience. Starsky could see the wheels turning in his partner’s mind. He couldn’t help grinning as his hand reached for the doorknob.

“Starsk! StarSKY! What’cha doing?”

Starsky’s smile reached all the way to his deep blue eyes. Grabbing Hutch by the arm, he swung the door wide and stepped inside, dragging his tall partner with him. And stood silent, beaming his excited little boy grin, as Hutch took in the sight of friendly faces and the intoxicating scents of perfectly prepared food.

A tall shadow moved on the periphery of his vision and morphed into a smiling Huggy Bear, arms held wide in greeting. Without words or warning, he and Hutch were tugged forward and locked in a tight three-way embrace.

Starsky felt Hutch’s fingers dig into his right shoulder and looked up to see a thunderstruck look of pure delight, affection and gratitude in his friend’s ocean blue eyes. And then Hutch’s smile – shining like the moon over water.

It was enough to distract him from the tempting platters of food laid out on the old wooden table.  Well, at least for a moment.

Hutch. I love ya, buddy. Now. Let’s eat!

 

Chapter 9: “Goodnight, Partner”

~For all they give and receive, may Starsky and Hutch be truly thankful~

From his perch on the piano bench, Starsky watched his best friend, as he had throughout the evening’s festivities. He noted with approval as Hutch’s actions and reactions mellowed over the hours, like mercury falling steadily after the crest of a heat wave.

In the first minutes after the door opened, as he moved from Huggy’s embrace to greet his guests, a quicksilver flash returned to Hutch’s features. The lingering shadow of confusion in those azure eyes, like an arc line of questions, stalled and disappeared. Approvingly, Starsky understood that his partner had decided to leave any remaining emotional jetlag dormant until another day.

The evening passed quickly and effortlessly, spurred along by the flow of food, drink, music, and easy fellowship only found in a band of comfortable friends. Sunlight was replaced by warm lamplight and candles as the hours glided by. Platters of food were consumed and replenished, along with glasses of wine and bottles of cold beer. Starsky memorized a dozen mental snapshots as he moved through the party, consuming food prepared to perfection – each dish better than the last –, cooling his throat with favorite libations, whimpering in feigned agony as Hutch tuned his prized guitar and then sang, applauding Huggy’s card tricks and glass-balancing act, and getting down on the floor to play Old Maid and marbles with Cal and Rosie Dobey.

His favorite sight, however, was a nearly unrecognizable Hutch.

Beyond question, Starsky knew Hutch inside out. There was the silent, thoughtful Hutch and the methodical, logical Hutch. Just as familiar was the playful Hutch, joking to a point just north of obnoxious. Then there was the brotherly Hutch, always ready with a steadying hand and a strong shoulder. The many sides of Hutch – absurdly vulnerable in sleep, mercurial in movement, slow to anger, insufferable when self-righteous, ferociously protective when the chips were down.

So, who was that flaxen haired stranger devouring fried and grease-heavy food with unselfconscious abandon?  Starsky nearly laughed aloud. Hutch sat with elbows on the table and an overfilled plate in front of him, alternating bites from the peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his left hand and the corned beef sandwich in his right. He noted with amusement the strawberry jelly smear on the corner of Hutch’s mouth and the mustard stain on his blue t-shirt.

Worse’n a greedy little kid gobbling treats at the fair.

Ya dumb blond – don’tcha know PB&J ‘n corned beef don’t mix?

And when the guests finally departed, with Huggy Bear leaving plenty of rations and a sparkling clean kitchen in his wake, Starsky sat in silence for long moment, watching a dozing Hutch.

Popping one final ketchup soaked onion ring into his mouth, Starsky headed to the beer cooler in the greenhouse. He pulled a frosty bottle from the ice and popped the top, sighing with pleasure as the cold amber liquid hit the back of his throat like an answered prayer. Taking another long pull, he explored the small, crowded room, gently pushing tendrils of hanging plants away from his face.

He stopped again in front of the black and white photograph of the small tow-headed boy and the older man. He picked up the frame and squinted closely at the image. The child Hutch was immediately identifiable beyond the obvious hair and eyes. The playful smile, long delicate fingers, and the first hazy hint of angular features all predicted the grown man he would become.

As he stretched forward to place the picture down, a second photograph slid from the loose backing and spiraled down to the floor. Starsky leaned, picked it up and turned it over, curiously examining the subjects.

Looking back at him was the same child, only slightly older and taller. The child’s blond hair was topped with a brimmed cap. He wore a dark dress coat – collar opened to reveal a glimpse of a tie and white shirt –, shorts, dark shoes and socks. The boy’s right hand was lifted upward, caught tightly in the grip of a tall, unsmiling man attired in a minister’s Sunday vestments.  A solemn expression of discomfort replaced the carefree, sunny smile of the first photograph. The light eyes, no longer brimming with laughter, were wide with a combination of fear and uncertainty.

Starsky frowned right along with the stern man in the photograph.

Lemme guess – the Preacher and his Preacher’s Kid. Sure looks like the God’s stunt double had a huge dollop of good news to share. Aw Hutch, you poor little scrapper, what the hell was it like?  

Hutch was behind him before he realized it. Starsky saw him gaze down at the photographs.

A determined shake of that blond head.

No. Not now. Don’t ask.

Starsky carefully tucked the photograph back behind the frame and set it down gently on the potting bench. He turned to face his partner.

“Hey, Hutch. Wanna eat somethin’ else?”

Hutch moaned.

“Wanna be my partner?”

“Sure.”

“Wanna be my friend?”

“Ummmm.” Hutch was grinning now.

“Wanna be my best friend?”

“Feh.”  He felt Hutch’s hands grasp his shoulders, the gesture softening the sarcastic snort.

“Want somethin’ else?”

“Want to say s-something kinda s-stupid.”

Starsky laughed. “Like that ain’t happened before.”

“My Mom always said there’s angels all around us, Starsk. Even hidden in crowds – even in the most unlikely places and most unlikely people.” Hutch’s voice was rough with emotion.

Starsky caught his own still reflection in Hutch’s blue eyes. The pressure of Hutch’s hands on his shoulders pulsed tightly then slid back to gentle.

“You callin’ me an angel, Hutchinson?”

Hutch winked. “You figure it out, Halo Boy.” “Hey.” Starsky’s fingertips moved feather-light to graze Hutch’s broad chest.

He felt the protection of words understood and promises kept embrace them like invisible armor, locking them into their private and cherished space. This was friendship as sacred vow, partnership as eternal oath. This was their shared talisman – one to the other – this trust – this gift of brotherhood.

Starsky’s whisper blended with the moonlight.

“G’night, partner.”

~Finis~