The Rest of the Iceberg

The Trap tag: While Starsky is laid up, Hutch finds some familiar-looking letters.

Written in 2004. First published in the gen multifandom zine, Ouch! #18, produced in 2006 by Neon Rainbow Press.

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.

“Just one more step,” Hutch coaxed. “Lean on me… there.”

Starsky muttered something that might have been petulant humor or half-asleep nonsense, but Hutch smiled nonetheless as he dug in his pocket for the keys.

“Give me a minute… we’re almost there.” And a good thing, too, because Starsky was starting to slip. It was a sheer triumph of acrobatic balance to keep his partner upright with one arm and wrestle the door open with the other.

But, after one very long day, they were finally home.

“Do you want to — ” Hutch’s question died unasked at the look of unfocused bewilderment on his partner’s face. Dinner would just have to wait. “Never mind, let’s get you to bed.”

There was no argument as they made their way slowly into the bedroom, Starsky limping more heavily with each step. He was supposed to be off the leg altogether, but that would have meant crutches, and between the drugs and the trauma of a new bullet hole in his leg, the last thing Hutch would have trusted the man with was a pair of long, unwieldy crutches. Enough damage had been wrought for one day.

“Wait a minute, Starsk.” Hutch halted their progress long enough to yank back the covers and then grabbed one of the pillows piled at the end of the bed. “Okay, easy now.”

As he sank onto the edge of the bed, Starsky released a breath that was a long whistle of fatigue and twinges of pain even the handful of pills the doctor had given him couldn’t completely alleviate. Hutch tugged his jacket off him, followed by his holster. Shoes would have come next except that Starsky began to fall over as soon as Hutch bent down. With a muttered curse, he caught his out-of-it partner and eased him back flat on the bed first before attempting the shoes again.

Then, very gently, Hutch lifted Starsky’s legs onto the bed, taking special care with the leg that sported a bandage under the slit denim. How they’d managed to talk the doctor into not cutting the jeans off altogether, Hutch still didn’t know, except that he wasn’t about to be accused again of not bringing Starsky an extra pair of pants to the hospital.

And speaking of his partner, Starsky’s eyes were already closed, pinched with the stress and pain of the day but seemingly comfortably asleep despite it. Apparently those little pink pills were good for something after all. Starsky didn’t usually like to take painkillers, at least not before he got home, but a bullet lodged in his leg for several hours that also included taking down the men who’d tried to kill them, had taken its toll even on Starsky’s stubbornness. By the time help arrived at the remote ranch where they’d been ambushed, Hutch hadn’t even had to argue a trip in by ambulance.

He shook his head now at the thought, and slid the extra pillow smoothly under the injured leg to elevate it before flipping the blankets back over his unconscious partner.

“Sleep well,” Hutch murmured, then patted the blanket-covered stomach before trudging out of the room.

“God, what a day,” he muttered to the ceiling in half-complaint, half-disbelief, and stretched to get the kinks out of his aching back. It had already been giving him trouble even before he’d started dodging bullets and playing crutch for Starsky, but now it was positively unhappy. A nice shower and then… the couch? Starsky’s wasn’t as bad as his, but it made his back wince just to look at it.

Maybe Starsky wouldn’t mind sharing the bed for a night. As dopey as he was, he probably wouldn’t wake up for anything less than a shootout in the bedroom. Although considering how common those were getting to be for them, maybe not even then.

The shower helped some, and it was with new life that Hutch emerged, rubbing his hair with a towel. Food was even starting to sound good, although the very thought of it at the hospital had turned his stomach. The knowledge that Starsky would be okay, together with the change of locale, had worked wonders.

Hutch idly glanced at the pile of mail on the kitchen table as he passed it and rooted around in the cupboard. Starsky’s and his taste in food was about as alike as their taste in cars, but they had a truce in that department extending to both of their stocking at least a few foodstuffs the other considered edible. Hutch contemplated the granola and the bag of dried fruit he suspected Starsky also enjoyed when he wasn’t looking, and opted instead for a bowl of oatmeal. Comfort food, and after a day like that, he’d earned it.

As he stirred the milk on the stove, Hutch flipped through the mail. A letter from Rachel — Starsky would be glad to hear from his mom, and Hutch put it on top — the latest boat-modeling magazine, good for a reluctant patient once Starsky was a little more awake; some junk mail and bills. One from the mortgage company with “Second Notice” stamped on it caught Hutch’s eye, and he had no qualms about borrowing a steak knife and slitting the envelope open. He’d just bound his partner’s bleeding leg earlier that day, opening Starsky’s mail didn’t seem much of an invasion of privacy, comparatively.

A standard bill, just overdue a couple of days. They’d been a little busy of late, ripe for a vacation; Hutch probably had some overdue bills piling up back at his place, too. But this one was due… in two days, he winced, before penalties started accruing. Starsky would be lucky if he’d be fully coherent by then. Well, why shouldn’t financial services be part of the partnership package, too, huh? Everything else seemed to be.

Hutch quickly sorted the mail into piles of bills and personal mail and threw away the junk. The oatmeal had started to thicken, and he paused long enough to turn off the stove and pour it into a cereal bowl to cool before heading back to Starsky’s bedroom.

He eased the door open with quiet caution. Starsky lay just as he’d left him, sprawled comfortably on his back, snoring lightly. Hutch smiled as he crept into the room on near-tiptoe. If he remembered correctly, Starsky usually kept his checkbook in his desk, which sat at the far end of the room.

The first drawer yielded only office supplies, pens and pencils and a stapler. Hutch slid it silently shut and pulled the top side drawer out. A blue stuffed dog caught his eye, and he sobered as he pulled it out with reverence, remembering the last time he’d seen the ridiculous thing. He didn’t even know its story, but it would forever be connected for him with his dying partner’s quiet, “You’re my pal, Hutch.”

Hutch glanced back over his shoulder, drinking in the sight of the sleeper, before taking a deep breath and returning the toy to the drawer. A quick rummage through the contents revealed no checkbook to be found there. He slid it shut and opened the one underneath.

Ah, there it was. As carefree as Starsky could be, he wasn’t a slob. Hutch took out the checkbook, ready to slide the drawer shut with his other hand, when something familiar caught his eye.

Letters on soft blue stationery, a small pile rubber-banded together, their tops slit carefully open. Stationery just like the kind Hutch had given his sister a few years back. With Starsky’s name and address in Chris’ handwriting on the front.

Frowning, he pulled out the thin bundle for a closer look. Yes, there it was, “C. Talbott” in her hand on the top corner of the envelope, along with her address, and the postmark was from Duluth. Definitely from Chris. But to Starsky? And several letters, by the looks of it, about which Starsky had never said a word. What was going on here?

Hutch pulled the first one out from the rubber band and looked back at Starsky again. Going through his laid-up partner’s bills was one thing, but this was private correspondence. If Starsky had never mentioned it to him, there was probably a reason for that. Maybe they were planning some surprise for him, or maybe… Hutch stiffened. Bad news? Something Chris wasn’t sure how to tell him and was checking with Starsky about? He had a good relationship with his sister, but she was still over a thousand miles away — maybe she hadn’t known how to tell him something?

Fate had already played with him too much that day; Hutch had no energy left to keep from fearing the worst. He pulled the single sheet of stationery out and opened it without further hesitation.

Dear David,

I don’t know how much you remember me from the one time we met, but I hope you’ll forgive me for writing you like this, especially right now. From everything Ken has said, I know you’re a good friend, and you’re the only person I can think to ask. All Mom and Dad have told me is that Ken is sick — still trying to protect me, I guess — but with the news out of L.A. about this plague, I can’t help but think the worst. Would you please be willing to tell me what’s happening, how my brother got sick, what he has, and how he’s doing? Mom mentioned something about your looking for someone who might have a cure for Ken, and I don’t want to distract you from that, but anything you could tell me I would be so grateful for. You can write me here, or call me at 218-555-3996. Thank you so much, and for everything you’re doing to help Ken. We’re very grateful for it.

Yours,
Chris

The date at the top of the letter was November 21st of the previous year. Hutch swallowed thickly. He’d been in the hospital with the plague then, fighting for his life.

It had only been a few months, and the memories were still sharp and frightening. Being wheeled off to the room he knew he might die in… The ice that settled in his bones and the gnawing teeth that shredded his chest and gut… That damnable window that separated him from everyone else but masked and gowned strangers… And the one time Starsky had forced his way in anyway, only to tear Hutch up even worse with the grief in his eyes. And then only grey, ravaging pain, until he woke up on the other side, weak and helpless and aching, but alive, Starsky’s eyes shimmering with tears of love instead of sorrow.

Hutch dragged in a breath, almost able to feel those knives in his lungs again, but then it was gone, leaving only the letter, slightly wrinkled now, in his hands. He swallowed. His parents had come to see him when he was getting better, and so he’d figured Dobey or Starsky had kept them informed, but he had never stopped to consider who had talked to Chris. So, she’d written Starsky, whom she barely knew, having no clue how frantically busy Starsky was, tracking down Callendar, or how much he hated paperwork or how bad his handwriting was. And Starsky?

Hutch didn’t hesitate to pull out the next letter. This one was dated only four days later.

Dear Dave,

Thank you for your answer — I know how hard it must have been for you to find the time to write. I would be lying if I said what you wrote wasn’t really upsetting, but it was what I’d already suspected and it still helps to know for sure. It sounds like we should be preparing for the worst, but if you think there’s still hope of finding this man with the antidote, I’m going to keep hoping and praying. I don’t know what else to do. If we’re not even allowed to go in and be with him, I think it’s easier if I stay here, but part of me is dying there with Ken.

Ken has talked a lot about you over the years, but I always thought it was that cop-partner kind of thing, you know? I wasn’t always sure about you, to be honest, along with this whole police thing, especially as often as Ken’s been hurt, but I can tell from your letter you care about him, too, and I really am glad he has a friend like you there to fight for him. Please, if you can, tell him we’re here pulling for him, too. When all this is over and Ken’s out of the hospital, maybe we can swap some stories about him. I know he’d love that!

I’ll be praying hard for you both. Please look after my brother.

Yours,
Chris

Hutch rubbed at his blurry eyes. He was starting to understand why Starsky had never told him about this correspondence. He wouldn’t have known Chris all that well, but anyone could have seen how worried she was, and to Hutch the letter was all tightly controlled fear. It explained some of her effusive notes to him during his recovery, letters that had made him wonder just how much she’d known.

But he knew now who had told her, who had apparently found a few free minutes — probably when he should have been getting some sleep — and sat down and put into writing what, according to Dobey and Huggy, he hadn’t even been able to admit out loud then. What would it take to even write that kind of letter? Hutch had no idea, his dealings with Rachel Starsky when her son was hurt all brief and over the phone. What had Starsky written that had convinced Chris of the very things Hutch’s own effusive descriptions of his partner apparently had not? Hutch wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Yet he pulled the next letter out of the dwindling pile and opened it.

Dear Dave,

I’ve been so up-and-down since you called, relieved and overjoyed that you found the antidote and Ken’s getting better, upset sometimes that something this stupid almost killed him. But your letter arrived this morning and filled in a lot of the gaps, and now I’m just mostly grateful to God for not taking him, and to you for finding that antidote. Thank you is so inadequate, but let me say it anyway: THANK YOU!

I know it’ll take my brother a while to get back on his feet after being so sick, but I hope he’ll be up to coming out next month for the holidays to MN like we’d planned, and that you’ll consider coming out with him. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you during this whole mess, enough that I’d like to know you better, especially since you and Ken are so close. I can imagine how hard this has been on you, and I’m sure you could use the break, too. I know my brother can be a pain in the neck sometimes, but I’ve gotten pretty fond of him, and it sounds like you have, too. We really will have to compare notes!

I don’t think it would surprise you, though, that I agree with you: he’s worth it, and we’re lucky to have him. I guess you probably know him better at this point than I do, at least the man he’s become since leaving MN, but he’s all I could have asked for in a brother, and I’m guessing that he’s much the same as a best friend. I hope he knows what kind of friend he’s got in you, too. Sometimes he can’t see what’s in front of his face, including his own worth, but please don’t let him forget you’re there. He’s had a hard life, in some ways, and I think he can use all the love he can get. Even if it makes him blush — don’t you love that about him? Ken was always so easy to tease.

I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I think that’s still the relief talking! But thank you again for sharing all this with me, and for being there for Ken. I’d love to talk to you more about him when things settle down, and hear more about you, but you sounded so tired in your last letter — it’ll keep. For now, just give my big brother a hug for me and take care of both of you.

Yours,
Chris

Clearly not meant for his eyes. But when he reached the end, Hutch went right back to the beginning and read it through again. And then he gently refolded it and put the letter back in the envelope.

I hope he knows what kind of friend he’s got in you. His sister had no idea. Starsky’s unrelenting hunt for Callendar — you sounded so tired — hadn’t been proof of that friendship, it had been a result of it. In fact, antidote or no, without Starsky there to lend him strength and push him to fight a little harder, even finding Callendar wouldn’t have saved him.

I agree with you he’s worth it. Which meant Starsky had told her a little more than just how Hutch was doing. They weren’t often blatant about their friendship, not with each other, let alone outsiders. Starsky had to have been worn down to the soul to be that honest, even with Chris. Or that transparent — maybe Chris had read between the lines. And that was despite some inevitable big omissions: Starsky’s devil’s bargain with Callendar to get the the hitman’s antibody-rich blood, his going to see a mob boss for help, his risking his own exposure to the plague to be there for Hutch.

Hutch shook his head, marveling. And still his exhausted, non-letter-writing partner had sat down and bared his soul on paper, to someone who mattered to him only because she mattered to Hutch, in his cramped handwriting and probably while camped next to Hutch’s hospital bed.

Don’t let him forget you’re there. Hutch turned to look at the sleeper. Oh, sis, like I ever could. Even when his partner did his best to hide it away in a drawer, it was so obvious.

The remaining two letters had postmarks of December and January and were fatter, probably those stories about his childhood his sister had promised. Hutch was tempted to read on, but he’d found out what he needed to — more than he’d bargained for, in fact. He carefully straightened the letters into a neat bundle, put the rubber band back around them, and placed them back in the drawer, then stood.

How many other things like this do I owe you for that I don’t even know about? he silently wondered. Admissions he had slept through, scenes he would never know had taken place, bargains struck like the one with Callendar that Starsky silently kept? How deep did it run?

Maybe there were some things it was good to only guess about. He was feeling humble enough as it was right then.

Checkbook in hand, Hutch headed softly back toward the door, but hesitated at the foot of the bed. He reached out to just skim the covers above the sleeping form, the leg that had been injured in an ambush meant for Hutch. “Thanks, partner,” he whispered. Then, embarrassed, he pulled his arm back and silently went out the door.

And Starsky slept on behind him, unknowing.