Not Quite a Hundred Percent

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After the Gunther shooting, Starsky’s finally allowed to return to desk duty, while Hutch is working the streets with a temporary partner. When Hutch gets injured, Starsky, barely recovered himself, has to care for him. Starsky, working some issues through in his mind about their ongoing partnership, wonders if the time has come to discuss them.

 

Originally published in the SHareCon 2014 zine.

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“Starsk, would you consider that a man who spent seventy-five percent of his time with another man has got certain tendencies?” – Death in a Different Place

 

“Something bothering you?”

Starsky doesn’t look at anything in particular. “I’m bored.”

“You’ll be cleared for duty tomorrow.” Hutch looks around at the beach, the surf, the women in bikinis —  at least twelve of whom are Starsky’s type. “And what do you mean, you’re bored? How can you be bored in a place like this? Haven’t you noticed the assets here?”

“I see those assets every morning when I do my prescribed walk. And it’s desk duty.”

Hutch deflates. “Man, that stinks.” He edges closer to bump Starsky gently. “How long?”

“Until the shrink says I can handle the pressure. She’s worried I’ll get flashbacks.” Starsky turns sharply into Hutch. “I never get flashbacks! Who the hell does she think she is? She doesn’t know me!”

“Damn right, she doesn’t!” Hutch looks Starsky up and down. “How’s your back today?”

“Stiff. But how many cops never have a back problem? Answer me that, will you?”

“Minnie doesn’t.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not thirty, yet.” It’s when Starsky turns away and starts walking again that things become murkier.

Hutch catches up with him. “You’ll get back on the streets in no time. You’ll see.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, try not to sound so enthusiastic about it.”

Starsky stops again and looks out to sea. “Look, Hutch … you know it’s okay if you don’t want to walk with me every day.”

Hutch is surprised by the sting, but swallows it. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Just … I’ve got some stuff to sort out. I think I need to be alone.”

“All you had to do was say so, Greta.”

“I just did!”

“Okay, fine!” Hutch turns to go back to the car.

Starsky grabs his arm. “Hutch…”

Hutch turns and smiles. “It’s okay. See you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch would like to hug his partner, but the cloud in the man’s eyes tells him he’s already too close. He settles for patting Starsky’s hand. Maybe he squeezes it a bit before walking away and resolutely not looking back.

******************************************************

The cloud in Starsky’s eyes has intensified overnight. He greets people cheerfully enough and takes the welcoming and ribbing in stride, but Hutch can see that his first day back at work isn’t sitting well with him. As he leaves for his first assignment, Hutch can’t help worrying for Starsky and wishing that work would just go back to normal for both of them. At least they might be able to check in with each other at lunch.

They can’t. The interview with the police psychiatrist is much longer than anyone thought it would be. And there’s a murder near Huggy’s place that Dobey assigns him and Porter to investigate.

It’s three days of slog and stakeout and boredom punctuated by two moments of unvarnished terror before Hutch can draw enough breath or make enough space to catch up with Starsky. And that happens at the hospital, just when the doctor has finished stitching up the knife wound on his left arm.

“Will he live?”

The familiar East Coast drawl is the most welcome thing Hutch has heard in what seems like forever.

The doctor looks up. “Family?”

“Partner,” Hutch replies. “It’s okay. You can talk in front of him.”

“He’ll live,” the doctor says, snipping off the suture and never turning towards Starsky. “As long as the wound stays clean and undisturbed,” he adds, looking pointedly at Hutch.

Starsky smirks. “So no stakeouts in your car for —  how long?”

“After he goes back to work tomorrow?” The doctor finishes swabbing the wound with disinfectant as the nurse hands him the bandage. “Desk work for three days.”

Hutch feels his face fall. “Three days? Three DAYS? I’ve been back on the job in one after being shot! This is just a flesh wound!”

“Technically, you’re right,” the doctor says, “but only in the sense that it didn’t get the bone. Add to that the length–”

“Six inches,” Hutch scoffs. He doesn’t look up, because he can hear Starsky’s breath go quiet.

“And depth of the wound–”

“How deep?” says Starsky.

“Half, five-eighths of an inch, depending–”

“Like I said — a flesh wound.” Hutch’s smile feels wan, even to him.

“And the concussion–”

“So he’s staying in the hospital tonight, right?”

Hutch would glare at Starsky, but his head hurts too much.

“As long as someone’s around to wake him up a few times in the night, he can be discharged as soon as I’ve finished here,” says the doctor.

“No problem.” Starsky edges closer. “I can stay with him.”

“Good. Nurse Wilson will give you instructions. I have to check on your other partner.”

Hutch winces.

“What happened to Porter?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

“You really don’t,” says the doctor, rising. “Keep it clean but don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours.”

“Then how’s he supposed to keep it clean?” Starsky yells as the doctor vanishes.

“Starsk…”

Starsky helps Hutch off the exam table even though that’s not why Hutch called him. Hutch isn’t sure why he called him. He just hasn’t said his partner’s name in so long and he’s hurting and it’s just reflex.

And Hutch really shouldn’t be trying to stand right now, according to his woozy head.

“Hey, what are you doing, huh?” Starsky has him in that impossible hold that’s half trained maneuvering of barely functional human and half tender embrace. “Come here. Sit down….”

Hutch sits, grateful for the soft landing. “How’re you doing?”

“Better than you!” Starsky lets Hutch lean against him.

It’s probably the closest thing he’ll get to a full-on hug for a while, so he takes advantage of it. It doesn’t hurt that Starsky’s pulling him in closer. Not much, anyway. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. How’ve you been?”

“Like I said, better than you. You sure you shouldn’t stay here for the night?”

Hutch tries to shake his head, but it feels like it might fall off. “I hate hospitals,” he mutters as Starsky’s hand wraps around the left side of his face.

Starsky holds him like that for a moment that feels long and warm. “I know. But maybe you want to be somewhere where they can put you back together if you start to break, you know?”

“That’s what you’re for.”

“Okay.” It’s tender and as comforting as home.

“Can we go, now?”

“Let me go get that nurse.”

Hutch clutches at Starsky in protest.

“For the instructions, turkey! They won’t let you go without ‘em.”

“Oh.”

******************************************************

Starsky looks over at Hutch, who fell asleep as soon as they left the hospital. If he can’t wake his partner, they’re going back to the hospital with lights and siren. “Hutch.” His voice is a lot more choked-up and quiet than he’d thought it would be. He clears his throat. “Hutch.”

Hutch stirs. “What?” he mutters. “Can’t you let a guy sleep?”

Starsky would laugh but for the fact that Hutch hasn’t moved a muscle that isn’t in his face. “We’d better get you inside before you freeze like that and they have to cut you out of the car.”

“Might be less painful.”

“Not for my car, it wouldn’t!”

“I’ll buy you a new car if you just let me sleep here tonight!” There’s a trickle of sweat making its way down Hutch’s cheek.

Starsky exits and rounds the car, opening the passenger door before Hutch has a chance to do anything about it.

“Ah-haa! Starsk!”

“What? I haven’t touched your arm! Well, not your left one….”

Hutch half falls, half pours himself out of the car and into his partner’s grasp. “That stab wound was the only thing that needed stitches.” He pulls himself up by alternating handfuls of Starsky. “Doesn’t mean it’s the only place that hurts….”

“Hadn’t thought of that.” Starsky slips his arm around Hutch’s back. “Tell me where not to put my hand.”

For answer, Hutch grasps Starsky’s hand and places it high on his ribcage. “Bruised ribs. This is the only place where the pain is just searing. And don’t get too close to me — or breathe!”

“You sure you don’t want to go back to the hospital?”

The murderous light flashing in Hutch’s eyes and glinting off his bared teeth reminds Starsky that he needs to buy Halloween candy next month.

“Okay, okay!”

It’s a short, nasty journey that Starsky doesn’t let himself think about because he’d either make too much of Hutch’s pain, laugh at it or drop his partner on his ass and let him crawl the rest of the way. But somehow, through all the groaning and grimacing and guilt, they wind up inside and he manages to deposit Hutch with some grace onto the couch.

In the kitchen, Starsky reaches for the glasses, wincing as the pains in his back flare up. At least he can separate them now, which means that the bullet holes are healing. But the rib one of them grazed will hurt forever. At least, it feels like it will.

It takes him longer to pour the water for them than it should, which makes it impossible to avoid thinking of what he needs to tell Hutch, though that maybe could wait. After all, Hutch is injured. It wouldn’t be fair to initiate a difficult conversation when his partner has a concussion. Or a stab wound. And when there’s so much pain involved. Why did that quack clear Hutch to go back to work tomorrow, anyway?

Starsky shakes his head. He’s going to have to find a way to keep Hutch from going back quite so soon, even though he doesn’t relish the idea of being killed by his partner. He carries the glasses into the living room. “Here you go; doctor’s orders!”

Hutch is asleep. He’s sitting up but his head looks like it might be about to roll off his shoulders.

Starsky sighs, sets down the glasses — one of them on his end and the other by Hutch — and goes into the bedroom to get a sheet and a blanket. Maybe a pillow would be good, too.

When he gets back to the living room, he sees Hutch is now lying askew on the couch, bent in at least four different places, snoring. Hutch never snores, but his neck is caught in a bad angle between the back and the seat. “So now I’ve gotta straighten you out, huh?” Starsky tries to figure out how to move his partner without waking him up, but he can’t. He looks at his watch. “I’m going to have to wake you up in fifteen minutes anyway.” He shrugs and sits down on the empty end of the sofa with the sheet, blanket, and pillow piled on his lap.

Fifteen minutes drags by like a century as Starsky tries not to think about things.

It’s really, really hard for Starsky not to think about things.

It’s a big reason he can’t sit still because he doesn’t like having to think about things. Not the kind of things he thinks about when he has to sit so still and there’s no police work to do and he’s not even sure of who or what he should be anymore. So he starts humming quietly — nothing in particular at first, but after a little while he notices that it’s that thing about black bean soup that Hutch sings sometimes, usually to impress the ladies.

“You’ve got a nice voice when you don’t think anyone’s listening.”

“GEEZ!” It’s all Starsky can do not to hit his partner for scaring the crap out of him. And then he looks over to see Hutch looking up at him and gets caught in the look of unvarnished regard. “Really?” He knows he’s an idiot the second it’s out of his mouth.

“Yeah, really. We should work up an act, you know, for the coffee houses.”

“Yeah, right. The cop version of Peter, Paul, and Mary.” It’s an old saw between them.

Hutch’s look is still unguarded. “You know, to some people, making great music together is better than sex.”

And right then, everything changes. Starsky wants to grab at the sofa seat to keep himself from falling through the earth and landing somewhere that he’s never wanted to examine. “Why do I get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore?”

“Because maybe we were never really there.”

“You sure you aren’t dreaming or hallucinating or something? I mean, you’re pretty banged up and your neck is kinda bent funny … you sure you have enough oxygen?”

“Why don’t you help me get out of this position and we’ll find out?” It’s both a relief and a colossal disappointment to hear the returning grumpiness in Hutch’s voice.

Starsky does as Hutch asked. It’s all very familiar — they’ve worked and all but lived together for so long that they know every inch of each other’s bodies — and yet surreal as hell. “Want some water?”

“Yeah.”

In more ways than one, it’s much easier for Starsky to reach his own glass, so he hands that one to Hutch.

A long silence stretches between them, quietly remaking the air.

“You know,” Starsky says at last, “that stuff you said when John Blaine was killed … it got me thinking.” He looks straight ahead, wishing he’d put both of the water glasses next to himself. He really doesn’t want to reach across Hutch, right now.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I thought I’d stopped thinking about it after a while, but then Gunther happened and I was alone a lot … except for you and Huggy and Dobey sometimes and … you.”

“Is that … stuff I said … is that what you had to work out? When you wanted to be alone?”

“Kind of.” Starsky takes a breath. “I should have asked this a long time ago.” He turns to face Hutch, who is gazing at him with that same look he’d worn during the Blaine case. “Is there something you’ve been wanting to tell me … and feeling you couldn’t?”

“Would it freak you out if I said there was?”

“Probably,” he makes sure to hold Hutch’s gaze, “but go on.”

“I am bisexual. And I’ve had feelings for you for a very long time. And I would never do anything to jeopardize what we have.”

Something falls in the pit of Starsky’s stomach. “Oh.” He has no breath for anything more.

“But it’s better if it’s out in the open, right?” There’s a heartbreaking uncertainty in Hutch’s voice.

“Right.” Starsky’s throat goes dry. “You got any water I could borrow?”

Hutch hands him his glass without a single quip.

It takes Starsky a long time to get to a place where he can speak. He’s toying with the glass so hard that Hutch probably thinks he’ll break it. And he’s looking at it and all the stuff straight ahead because he can’t look at Hutch, even though Hutch is all he can think about.

“Really, Starsky, nothing needs to–”

“I’ve got feelings for you, too.”

“What?”

Starsky whips around at the fear in Hutch’s voice. “You’re white as a ghost! I’m calling an ambulance–”

“No! I don’t need an ambulance. I’m just … what do we do now?”

“You’re asking me? And you were so cool, like, a minute ago.”

“I need to sit down….”

“You are sitting down!”

It takes them maybe five seconds of staring at each other in abject terror before they both crack up laughing.

And then they’re gazing.

“So what do we do now?”

“I dunno,” Starsky says. “Kiss? Hug? Have sex?” He swallows, nearly passing out in terror.

“Sex isn’t happening tonight — not for me, anyway. And hugging?” Hutch gestures between his and Starsky’s chests. “We’ve got how many mangled ribs between us?”

Starsky has no idea why he’s grinning like a loon. “How about kissing?”

“As long as it’s not too hot and heavy, it shouldmmph!”

Starsky captures Hutch’s lips with his last bit of courage, only bringing his hand up when he feels Hutch leaning into it, opening to it, inviting him in. He doesn’t know how long it goes on, but he pulls away when he feels himself becoming erect. He rests his forehead against Hutch’s. “If I don’t stop now….”

“Me, too,” Hutch breathes into him.

“Are we–” Starsky swallows. “Are we going to be able to work together?”

“I don’t know. Are we? I mean, do you have a problem with it?” Hutch is hanging on to Starsky’s shoulders, which must hurt his left arm like hell.

“Not right now. I don’t want to change that, you know?”

“I know. I wish I could hug you right now.”

“Me, too.” Starsky presses his face to Hutch’s briefly. “Look, we should, uh, we should sleep. Or you should sleep. I’m supposed to wake you up every three … like, three times tonight. How are we gonna do this?”

“We share your bed,” says Hutch against Starsky’s cheek. “We go there now before I can’t stand up anymore tonight. We sleep in our clothes. And you be prepared for me to hit you when you wake me up.”

“That could work.”

“And we have sex as soon as my ribs don’t mind you breathing on the same mattress.”

“That’ll take a while.”

******************************************************

Starsky is a very healthy man for a guy who guzzles pop, beer, coffee and doughnuts and eats a cow or two a year. Of course, Hutch can’t really say much about the coffee — or the beer or even the cow, for that matter — when it’s a habit he shares.

Watching his partner battle the surf, he notices the hitch in the back muscles as Starsky negotiates an incoming wave. At this point, it’s not something that anyone else would see. It’s been more than a year since those three bullets tore through Starsky’s body and his recovery amazed the doctors, physical therapists, and coaches that were a part of it. Hutch wonders sometimes why it didn’t amaze him the same way. But then, his amazement happened when Starsky survived. After that, there was never any question in his mind that his partner would make a full recovery. It’s what Starsky does. It’s what they both do, although it presses on him more than ever that he shouldn’t take it for granted.

And then he’s caught up in what does amaze him: now that they spend nearly a hundred percent of their time together, they want to kill each other less often than they used to. Wasn’t that supposed to be the other way around?