Essence

Hutch finds comfort in an article of Starsky’s clothing.

“Go home, Hutch.” Captain Dobey’s rich voice broke through the silence of the dimly lit room.

Weary, bloodshot eyes tore themselves away from the rhythm of the green dot slowly bouncing across the heart monitor’s screen and stared blindly in the direction of the voice.

“No,” Hutch stated simply, his head turning back to the still form lying in front of him.

Dobey entered the hospital room and walked over to the blond, gently resting his hand on his shoulder. “Hutch, you need to sleep.”

“I’ve been sleeping.”

“You need some real sleep, not just a catnap in an uncomfortable chair.”

Dobey himself had just returned from home where he managed to get some rest and update his concerned family on the situation. The few hours of sleep had helped, but he still felt exhausted. He could only imagine how Hutch, who hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, was feeling. He leaned in closer to the defeated detective. “Look, son, you’re not going to do him any good walking around like the living dead. He’s going to need you to be strong. Go home.”

Empty, pale blue eyes gazed into determined, dark brown ones. “What if…”

Dobey stopped him before he could finish the thought. “I’m here now. I’ll call you. Besides, it won’t happen again. He’s fighting it. And you know how damned stubborn he is.”

“Yeah, but…” Hutch shivered at the thought of what could happen–what had already happened–while he was gone, and the guilt he felt over really wanting to leave only for a while.

“Go home. Just for a few hours.” Dobey’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

“You’ll call me?” His eyes wandered back to Starsky.

The captain’s eyes followed. “Of course.”

The jingling of Dobey’s car keys echoed throughout the hallway as he made his way up the steps of Venice Place. Hutch reached in his coat pocket and retrieved the door key, pausing briefly before turning the knob and pushing the door open. He didn’t even remember the drive to the apartment, his thoughts remaining back in that hospital room with his partner. He stepped into his living room, leaning heavily against the door as it slowly clicked shut.

“Starsky, get down!” His own voice pierced through his brain, along with the sound of the rapid fire of gunshots and shattering glass. He closed his eyes and sucked in a long breath, trying to shake the terrifying image of Starsky’s too still form lying against the Torino’s wheel well in a pool of blood.

Sighing, he pushed himself away from the door and shed his jacket and gun, slinging them both over the back of the couch and looking around the living room.

God, this place is a mess.

He chuffed at the insignificance of the thought at such a time. The whole place could burst into flames right now, and it simply wouldn’t matter. He’d gladly light the match if it meant he could erase the events of the past day and a half.

Hutch picked up the phone from the end table, untangling the long cord as he stretched it across the living room toward the bathroom. It would only reach as far as the doorway, but that was close enough for him to be able to hear should it ring while he was in the shower. He placed it on the floor and picked up the receiver, listening to the hum of the dial tone to make sure it was working properly. Satisfied, he turned on the shower and began to undress.

He ran his fingers slowly through his wet hair as he stood in the shower, relishing the comfort of the warm water as it beat heavily on his exhausted body. The water that pooled at the bottom of the tub was tinged a reddish brown, washing away the blood that had unknowingly stained his skin as it soaked through Hutch’s shirt and jeans while he held Starsky’s bullet-ridden body against him. A sickening feeling gripped at his heart as he watched the water swirl down the drain.

The phone!

He jerked the curtain open and stared in its direction, positive he’d heard it ring. It remained quiet on the floor, however, and he sighed, slowly pulling the curtain shut.

Showered, shaved and fully dressed in case he had to make a hasty retreat, he wandered out to the greenhouse and took in a deep breath. The fresh, crisp odor of the thriving plants filled his senses, a sharp contrast to the sterile, sickening hospital smell he’d become accustomed to.

I’ll have to water his plants. He’ll kill me if they die.

Hutch closed the greenhouse door and wandered past his inviting bed and over to the couch.

Closer to the door

Checking to make sure the phone had been replaced to its spot on the end table, he sat down heavily. He was tired. So tired. But how could he sleep? He shouldn’t be here. He should be with him; he should be hunting down the bastards who’d shot him. He should be anywhere but sitting in the comfort of his own living room, wishing desperately he could just close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

He stretched out on the couch and propped a throw pillow behind his head. It felt good to be lying down.

I shouldn’t feel good. I don’t deserve to feel good. He’s dying, and I’m sleeping. What the hell is wrong with me?

His hand shook as he reached up and rubbed at his eyes. Exhaustion and misplaced guilt forced the tears he’d been holding back to spring forth, flowing freely down his cheek and disappearing into his hairline.

“Starsk,” he sobbed into his hand. “What am I going to do without you?”

* * *

They were in the car, arguing. Starsky wanted tacos. He was sick of lettuce and carrots and broccoli. He wanted a taco. Was that too much to ask? A taco and a milkshake. The thought of salsa and a strawberry milkshake made Hutch’s stomach churn. But they had been eating at the places he’d chosen for the last few days. One taco wouldn’t kill him. But he couldn’t let Starsky off that easily. So they argued. He’d finally given in with a comment about “if you want to slowly kill yourself by eating that crap, then there’s nothing I can do about it. Go ahead and get your damn taco.”

Wait a minute. He shouldn’t have said that. Something was wrong. Starsky WAS dying. How could he say something like that when Starsky was dying? But Starsky wasn’t dying, was he? He was sitting right there, in the car, next to him, smiling and yammering on about how tacos were really healthy. He wasn’t dying. What was he thinking? They were on their way to get tacos. Starsky wasn’t dying. He couldn’t be dying. Could he?

* * *

Something jerked him awake and he sat bolt upright. “No,” Hutch breathed as he stared at the ringing phone. “Please, no,” he repeated, his hand trembling as he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” his voice shook.

“Good morning, sir,” a cheerful voice began. “My name is Ted and I’m calling today with a fabulous opportunity from The Daily Tribune. Do you happen to subscri…”

The phone’s bell clanged as Hutch slammed the receiver down hard. Breathing a sigh of both relief and frustration, he sat forward and scrubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He looked at his watch. He’d been asleep for two hours and he didn’t feel any more rested than he had before. He moaned and kneaded his throbbing head as he got up from the couch and made his way to the medicine cabinet. He downed three aspirin and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

I look like shit.

Appropriate for the way he felt. He ran his fingers through the back of his hair, trying to smooth the dent the pillow had made. It was too long anyway. Starsky was right, he should get a haircut. They both needed one. And they’d made appointments at the barber’s together. When was that? Today? Tomorrow?

What the hell does it matter now?

He made his way back to the living room and gathered up the keys to Dobey’s car and his house key. He looked out the window as he strapped on his gun. The sun had gone behind some dark clouds, threatening rain. Deciding he needed a heavier jacket, Hutch wandered over to the closet and opened the door. Sorting through the many leather jackets and windbreakers, his fingers found what they were looking for. Soft, dark tan suede, just a little too short in the sleeves and waist.

He pulled the jacket off the hanger and held the soft material to his face. Hidden deep in the almost new suede was the distinguishable smell that had become such a part of Hutch’s life, he rarely noticed it anymore, except when it was missing. It was the smell that cradled him all those years ago when he’d been kidnapped and forced into heroine addiction. The smell that held him when Gillian died and coaxed him out of unconsciousness at the bottom of a canyon. The smell that was always there when he needed someone to laugh with, someone to cry with, someone to be angry with. It was Starsky’s smell. He couldn’t remember how long the jacket had been there, or under what circumstances it had been left. But right now that jacket was all he had to cling to.

Hang in there, Starsk.

He shrugged into the jacket and pulled it around him. Taking another deep breath, the essence of his best friend and partner filling his senses, he stepped into the hallway to return to Starsky’s side.

THE END