Baseline

Sweet Revenge tag: After you’ve been through the worst, anything else is easy.

Written in 2004.

First published in “Of Dreams and Schemes 20,” a gen multifandom anthology zine, in 2005.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and at fanfiction.net at this link.

“Hey, Hutch, here’s that file you wanted.”

Babcock’s voice drew him up out of the pages he’d been wading through, and Hutch smiled up at him as he took the file. “Thanks, Skipper.”

“Anytime. Hey, tell your better half Craig and I say hi.”

Hutch leaned back in his chair, stretching. “You should tell him yourself–I think he’s getting tired of my company.”

“He must be getting better, then.” Ed Babcock grinned at him and dodged the pen Hutch sent flying his way.

Hutch shook his head and started turning back to the file in front of him, only to catch sight of the clock on the wall. Ten minutes past end-of-shift. Who knew tax records could be so engrossing?

He flipped the file shut, adding it with Babcock’s to the still-towering pile of paperwork he’d yet to go through, although it was finally starting to dwindle. Another week, especially with some of the other detectives chipping in, and they’d have the bulk of the case against James Marshall Gunther assembled for the DA. Not that there hadn’t already been plenty of charges to arrest him on, which Hutch himself had done the week before. But more was coming to light daily, and no one in Special Units wanted to leave any stone unturned in building this case. The more they could bury Gunther under, the better Hutch would feel. It couldn’t possibly be too much.

He sobered momentarily at the sight of the empty chair across the desk from him. Even the death penalty wouldn’t be too much for a monster like that.

“Leaving?”

Hutch started again; it was probably a good thing Dobey wasn’t letting him back out on the streets yet because he was still too prone to distraction. Hutch blinked at Andy Genarro. “Yup. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“You don’t have to, you know.” The black detective hitched himself up onto the corner of Hutch’s desk and lifted an eyebrow. “If you wanna hang out at the hospital, we can handle this end.”

His smile came back, grateful now. “He’s still sleeping most of the day. I spend the evenings there, and I’m lucky if I get a dozen words out of him. I’ll be staying more when he’s starting to stay awake and this case is tied up.”

Genarro’s eyebrow went up. “You know we’re gonna keep finding stuff on this guy for months, don’t you? You don’t get to where he did without burying a lot of skeletons.”

Hutch nodded. “I know, and I’m going to find every single one of them. But the DA’s got enough to run with now.”

Genarro nodded back, rose. “Well, I’m glad to see you lookin’ better, man. We were starting to worry you’d end up sharing a room with your partner, and with two of you out, there goes my vacation.”

Hutch snorted a laugh as he rose and reached for his jacket. “Yeah, I’d hate to get in the way of you breaking your neck going down those cliffs on your bike. Job isn’t dangerous enough for you, Genarro?”

Genarro’s mouth stretched wide. “They’re mountains, Hutch–it wouldn’t be mountain biking without ’em. And I still take less sick leave than you do.” He shook a playful finger at Hutch and rose and went back to his own desk across the room.

There was a reason for that; Hutch’s sick leave was always stretched thin for two people. How many times had he taken off when Starsky was in the hospital and even Dobey’s creative scheduling had reached its limits? Genarro had a partner, too, but Hutch could remember him taking leave only once when Eney was laid up, and that was when he’d nearly died.

Then again, Starsky had died, briefly, so nobody was arguing his frequent absences this time.

Hutch walked out the door in quiet thought.

It was a long walk to the car, and his muscles were still feeling stretched and achy. Probably some combination of the few heart-pounding moments of exercise not two weeks before and the distinct lack of any since then. Sooner or later, the minimal sleep and good food would start catching up with him, too, but not yet. Even his body respected his priorities.

The drive to the hospital he could have done in his sleep. Probably even had, a time or two. And he knew the route up to the room just as well, although he’d taken it fewer times. It was simply where his partner was, and Hutch always seemed to find the way to Starsky.

It was pretty close to miraculous for a man who’d been at the extreme wrong side of the odds just a dozen days before, but Starsky wasn’t in the ICU anymore, moved two days before into a regular room. He was still hooked up to more machines and bottles than Hutch cared to give serious thought to, and either sleeping or fuzzy with drugs most of the time. But there hadn’t been any real setbacks now for days. The staff all smiled when they saw Hutch now, and Starsky was actually aware and talking. Well, mumbling, anyway, but Hutch wasn’t complaining. The healing would still be a long road, but that terrible corner had been turned.

Hutch found himself smiling again as he reached the door and gently pushed it open.

It was a private room, more than their insurance would have covered, but an unexpected outpouring from the community after the news of Gunther’s hit made the papers had amply covered the upgrade. If not, Hutch would have found the money for it somehow. The need was too great just now to spend time alone with his partner, to talk unhindered about things that were just opening up inside him and to hear what Starsky shared in turn in half-aware openness, without worrying about embarrassment or an audience. Maybe when it wasn’t still so new, they’d fall more into their regular rhythms, go back to talking without speaking, teasing instead of heart-cracking honesty, but they weren’t there yet.

Starsky slept in the silent dimness, unaware of anyone or anything.

Hutch angled his body through the door to move as quietly as possible, muffling its closure behind his back. And feeling everything in him soften again at the sight of this crucial person he’d lost and gotten back again. That was still too novel a feeling to be taken for granted either. No matter what happened now, whatever the future held, Hutch didn’t think he’d ever lose the gratitude this reprieve filled him with daily.

Starsky stirred, sighed, and slept on.

Hutch moved forward with a soundless grace he thought he’d long lost. That last year, everything had been dull and heavy and loud. All the lightness had vanished, but now his feet were as buoyant as his heart. He could be still again, patient, calm. He’d gotten a lot more than his partner back those last two weeks.

“What?”

The chalk-dry whisper yanked him from the study of the clear liquid that dripped into the line in Starsky’s arm, up to his shoulder and then the pale, thinned face. Crescents of blue watched him from beneath drooping eyelids, that keen interest not dulled completely even by the drugs.

Hutch sank into the chair and leaned forward, taking Starsky’s hand in his own. It was still too hot from the series of post-op infections they were finally just stamping out, but warm was better than the cold rigor that had been in those same fingers in the precinct parking lot. He’d been scared to touch Starsky for days after, but that connection between them had been restored since then, too. Now, those weak, warm fingers twitched feebly in his with awareness and life.

“Nothing–I was just thinking.”

“Y’were smilin’…good t’see…”

And just like that Starsky was back to sleep, plunging down as if he’d just come up for air for a moment. Maybe to look around, make sure all was well. It was why Hutch planned to be spending a lot more time there soon, when Starsky started coming up more often. Nothing reassured a cop waking in uncertainty, like the sight of his partner standing watch nearby. It was a fact of life, and not just with him and Starsky.

Was he smiling? Hutch realized he was, with little surprise. Being there, sitting next to his sleeping partner did that to him, but the truth was he’d been just plain smiling a lot those last few days. His neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, had remarked on it with her usual dry concern, and his mother had said he was sounding happier when they talked. Huggy had even made some comment about almost having forgotten he had teeth.

Hutch clasped the hand in his a little tighter before setting it down and drawing the blankets up to Starsky’s chin. He was still bare-chested so they could get to the bandages easily, and Hutch knew he always felt cold anyway when he wasn’t well, let alone feverish. Hutch would have to tell the nurses that.

He rose, wandered over to the window behind and past the bed, and stared out into the world beyond the glass. People walking along the sidewalk, the road behind them filled with rush-hour traffic. On the hospital lawn, a couple pushed a boy in a wheelchair toward the small garden to one side of the building. Life went on, the world unchanged by the event that had nearly shattered his.

Hutch glanced back at the sleeper on the bed. Why was he so happy? He’d gotten Starsky back, and there was no underestimating the value of that gift. But he’d had Starsky hale and hearty a month before, and that very same unchanging world had bowed Hutch’s shoulders with its weight then. It hadn’t gotten better in the interim, and Starsky with his chest all torn up and his lungs permanently weakened certainly hadn’t. So what had changed, besides the fact that weeks, possibly months of recuperation lay ahead, sweat and pain and mood swings and a possible change in their job status? He should have been relieved it wasn’t worse still, but glad? Light-hearted? Even, dare he say, glad to be here, even in this place? What sense did that make?

Hutch frowned back at the window, easing himself into a corner of the sill to sit and think.

The sun set, spilling color into the clouds in a glorious rainbow that promised the return of light in just a few short hours. Hutch watched it in silence, marveling at each incredible shade. The joy he’d momentarily questioned was back in place now with the answers he’d found, and it found reflection in everything he saw. Including the hospital bed and its motionless occupant behind him.

Starsky shuffled a leg in rising wakefulness, and when Hutch saw his hand twitch and flex as well, he stood stiffly and moved back next to the bed, into the glow of the machines that half-circled its end. Still, the light was dim, and he didn’t want Starsky waking in uncertain dark, and so he took the worn-and slightly cooled-hand in his own again and ran his fingers over the back of it, his own mouth pulling up when he saw Starsky’s do likewise at the touch. He’d know now who was with him even before he dragged his eyes open, even through the fog of drugs.

“Hey. Thought you were gonna sleep all day,” Hutch said quietly, leaving it up to Starsky if he wanted to respond or not.

His friend licked dry lips, an invitation for the sip of water Hutch quickly offered. It was all Starsky could manage yet, anyway, and any more could cause vomiting, but the token gesture did them both good. “Hey,” he finally whispered back, eyes finally fluttering.

Even in the dim light, Hutch could see the feelings in them. Everything from pain to confusion to love-he was glad again they were alone in the room, no one but him there to see that unguardedness. Hutch’s expression softened.

“Smilin’ ‘gain. News mus’ be…good.” And for once Starsky’s eyes didn’t sink shut right away, finishing the conversation after only the first volley.

Hutch could have told him how the case against Gunther was building-Starsky seemed to understand at least that they’d caught the man behind his shooting-or that the doctor was impressed with his recovery and fully optimistic now. But Hutch knew what he was really talking about.

His other arm he rested against Starsky’s, his hand on the wrist just above their laced fingers. Contact had always been one of the ways they’d talked.

“I lost you there for a while,” Hutch said quietly. “After all those close shaves, this one g-got you, and…” He cleared his throat, glanced away a moment. “I hit…bottom.”

He could feel Starsky’s focus, and when Hutch looked up again, he could see his partner’s determination to stay awake and not just listen but absorb. But Hutch didn’t want to tax his friend, and so he kept it simple, hours of thinking condensed into one conclusion.

Hutch leaned forward intently. “But I got you back-we survived it. And no matter what comes after, that’s my baseline now, Starsk. Anything else that happens now, I can look back and say…this isn’t so bad. We’ve gotten through worse.”

Starsky stared at him a moment longer, until his eyes slowly slid out of focus and shut again. Hutch didn’t think he’d imagined the softness that had dawned in them, or the way they’d glittered just before succumbing to fatigue. He definitely felt Starsky’s fingers press against his palm, not the usual random tremors of movement, before they, too, went lax. It was the most complete conversation they’d had in two weeks.

Hutch squeezed back, this time not relinquishing his grip as he made himself comfortable in the chair that had become his bed of late. His back would hurt later, and his stomach would start complaining once it realized he was skipping dinner again. Dobey had also said he’d be by sometime that evening, and Babcock and Simmons might take him up on his invitation and also intrude on their quiet. Starsky would sleep through it all, until his pain medication started to wear off, and then he’d get restless and miserable.

That would probably be the pattern for the weeks ahead, through the second surgery the doctor had mentioned to better repair some of the muscle damage, the rehab after, the slow regaining of strength and fighting through pain. And in the background, there would be the grand jury and the trial and a lot of work and testifying and travel until Gunther was behind bars for good.

Still, whatever came next, he was sure now it was no contest. Hutch traced his thumb over Starsky’s knuckles and smiled tiredly, contentedly into the darkness.

It wouldn’t be so bad at all.