Let Them Know

An affirmation of love.

The ocean waves rose high and raced toward the shore, sloshing foam and salt spray before crashing against the rocks of the cliff and flowing back into the rolling sea. Hutch trickled sand through his fingers as he watched the mesmerizing display nature was putting on. The late hour ensured that he had the beach to himself. He sat on a sand dune, resting his chin on his knees. The air was cool, the sky clear; the wind was fresh upon his face. He breathed it in and listened to its whispered tales of the night.

God, he was tired.

Today he had witnessed the fall of a veteran officer, and tonight he had witnessed the aftermath of his death. He closed his eyes and sighed. The man had not been just any officer, but a captain like Dobey, a man Hutch had respected and called friend.

A man who had sought death rather than face a lonely life of solitude and shame after his world had collapsed around him.

Bill Reece had always been a good man and a fair and honest cop; he had been well-known for his calm voice of reason. He had genuinely cared about his fellow officers and those he had sworn to protect. He had challenged the system more than once and championed the underdog. A thin, tired smile pulled at Hutch’s mouth. Starsky had been one of Bill’s ’causes’. When it had become evident that Starsky would not be able to return to active duty after Gunther’s hit, Bill had successfully petitioned the mayor with the need for a full-time consultant to the homicide department. Then, teamed with Dobey, he had convinced Starsky to accept that position and had then urged Hutch to take the Lieutenant’s exam.

Bill’s own life had spiraled out of control six months ago when Janet, his wife of thirty years, died, leaving him heart-broken and lost in a sea of grief and sorrow. Afterward, Bill had pushed everyone away, rebuffing old friendships and refusing to accept the support he had always so gladly given, choosing instead to find comfort in alcohol, drowning himself, his pain, and, ultimately, his career.

Two weeks ago, his alcohol-impaired judgment had cost the life of one of his officers. Internal Affairs had investigated, and, based upon their findings, a review board hearing had assembled to decide upon his fate. Bill had asked Hutch to attend as his union representative, and Hutch, out of respect for the man and a desire to see that he was treated fairly, had agreed. The task, though, had been much harder than he had expected.

He had not anticipated the pain from his own past the hearing would bring to the surface, had not expected to relive the day he had given up all hope that Starsky would live after being shot, or the shame of wanting to turn to alcohol. He had never expected to look into Bill’s expressionless eyes and see himself.

He had looked into them again this evening as the board rendered its verdict of guilty of negligence and endangerment, as the Director of Internal Affairs had requested Bill’s gun and badge. A shiver coursed through Hutch as he realized that those eyes had not once wavered or offered the barest hint of emotion, that they were, in fact, the eyes of a man already dead.

Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.

After the hearing concluded, Bill had left the room without a sound or backward glance, shrugging off Hutch’s attempts to speak to him in the hallway, and, by all accounts, had gone straight to the parking garage. It was there, in his car, that he had taken another gun and turned it upon himself.

The scene had been beyond horrific, a sad and lonely ending to a stellar life and career marred by errors made by grief, and harshly reminding Hutch of another scene in that very garage and dredging up all the pain he had felt one year ago on that fateful morning. He could still plainly see Starsky lying in an ever growing pool of his own blood, could still hear the blare of sirens and the screech of tires on the pavement. He leaned back and felt spatters of sea spray splash his face, remembering the silent prayer he had uttered, and shuddered at the remorse he had felt that day for showing his love for Starsky merely with his body and not telling him with actual words how much he meant to him.

Words he still found difficult to express.

Someday may be too late.

The ocean roared, slammed into the rocks, and sent plumes of froth into the night. Hutch rose to his feet, his eyes scanning the darkened water. He was close enough that he could detect the silver-finned predators that hovered about the surface. The wind tugged at his blond hair, whipping it across his face. He reached up and dragged the long strands away, then headed for his car.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

He pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment he shared with Starsky, turned off the ignition, and then glanced at the illuminated face of his watch, frowning at the midnight hour. Then he peered up at the apartment, looking toward the windows. The lamps were on, creating ghostlike shapes on the other side of the sheer curtains covering the glass.

His family was in there. For what seemed to be the hundredth time that evening, Hutch wished that Bill could have had a special friend in his life to force his way through the walls that Bill had erected after Janet’s death. Someone whose friendship was limitless, someone whose arms were strong enough to protect him from the harshest storm life could have possibly sent his way, yet gentle enough to hold him and ease his grief with a tender embrace, someone who would have been willing to hold the pieces of his broken heart and keep them safe until Bill was able to reclaim them.

Why hadn’t he had a Starsky in his life?

Hutch sighed and gave thanks for the man that held his heart and soul safely within himself–the man that had literally and figuratively saved his life more than once, and whose death would surely mean his own.

Never put off telling the ones you love how you feel.

It was time to make an investment in his salvation.

He slid out of the car, grimacing as his aching body protested the movement, then made his way slowly up the steps to the door of his home–their home–and let himself inside, quietly closing and locking the door behind him. Warmth emanated from the fireplace; lamps spilled soft light on the walls, and embers flickered, reflecting on the hardwood floor and bringing out its rich hue. The room seemed to bask in a golden glow amidst shadows and light. And lying on the couch sound asleep, in a pair of tattered blue jeans and dark flannel shirt, was the reason that Hutch’s life was neither lonely nor barren.

Starsky never moved as Hutch quietly crossed over and sat down next to him on the couch’s edge, his gaze sweeping over the still form, breath catching in his throat as the lean body radiated even in sleep an air of latent power that was most appealing. Hutch licked his lips unconsciously and let his gaze travel slowly over the span of Starsky’s shoulders, then down the length of his torso, admiring the way his shirt accentuated the planes of chest and stomach. The shirt disappeared into the waistband of his jeans but Hutch continued his scrutiny, loving the way the denim stretched over narrow hips, groin, and strong legs. His gaze moved upward, settling on the face he knew as well as his own. He reached out and gently brushed his fingers through the dark hair. Instead of waking, Starsky sighed softly, murmuring Hutch’s name.

Hutch smiled, not surprised that the man did not awaken. Starsky had regained the weight he had lost after the shooting and his face had lost that drawn, pinched looked. However, dark shadows seemed to be permanent fixtures beneath his eyes and lines around his mouth creased deeper, especially at the end of the day. Despite his renewed health, he tired more quickly, slept longer and harder.

Gently, almost absently, Hutch traced down the side of Starsky’s face and neck, over shoulders and chest, then lingered above his heart, feeling the strong, steady beat, imagining that it pulsed through the pads of his fingers, connecting them as it flowed through his veins. He bowed his head and closed his eyes for long moments, seeking the solace that heartbeat offered. Then he swallowed hard, fighting the fatigue that seemed to cling to him like a heavy blanket, and looked up and found Starsky watching him.

“Hi,” Starsky said.

“Hi yourself,” Hutch replied. Then he exhaled heavily and once again bowed his head. “I guess you heard about Bill.”

Starsky nodded. “Dobey called. I went down to the station looking for you, but you’d already left.” He reached up and cupped Hutch’s jaw. “You okay?”

Hutch nodded slowly, then dragged his gaze from Starsky’s and fixed it on the coffee table, pressing a kiss to fingers as they slid from his face. “It was horrible, Starsk. It reminded me of . . . of–”

“It wasn’t me.”

Startled, Hutch looked back at him sharply.

“What?” Starsky said, pushing himself up on one elbow and grunting from the effort. His gaze darkened. “You think I don’t know what’s going on in that blond head? Bet you went to the beach to brood, didn’t you?”

“I went to the beach to think.”

“No, you went to brood about me and Bill–tried to figure out what you could’ve done to prevent either shooting.” Starsky sighed. “Damn, I knew I should’ve come out there,” he said, shaking his head. “You think you should’ve seen what was coming–both times. But, buddy, you’re not God. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. And sometimes good people do bad things to themselves.”

“I know. I just keep thinking that if only he’d had someone . . . someone like you; it might have made a difference.”

“Me?” Starsky asked, his brows furrowing.

“Yes, you, Mr. Know-it-all,” Hutch said, smiling. He lifted a hand and brought it to Starsky’s face, caressing it gently. “Can I ask you something?”

Starsky frowned. “You know you can. What is it?” He caught the hand as it slid from his face and held it in a tight grip. “Hutch?”

Hutch looked down at the floor then slowly brought his gaze back up, and Starsky drew a sharp breath at the look in his eyes, marveled at the way their fathomless depths sparkled like the ocean Hutch dearly loved. They were open and without guile, bright with desire but tempered with love.

“Do you know what you mean to me?”

“What?” Starsky asked, frowning in confusion. Then he blinked, blinked again, and tilted his head slightly to one side. “What’s going on, Hutch?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Hutch answered, wrapping his hand around the nape of Starsky’s neck and pulling him closer, drawing their mouths together, their lips meeting in a tender kiss that held a trace of passion. Then he pulled away mere inches and said in soft emotion-charged voice, “When you got shot, I realized that I’d never told you how I feel. I’d never said the words.” He sighed. “I still never say them.”

“Hutch, you–”

“Do you know that even after all these years my breath catches every time I look at you? Sometimes I think my heart is going to pound right out of my chest.” Hutch looked away for a moment, pausing as he collected his thoughts, then his gaze returned to Starsky’s. “Do you know what’s it’s like for me to fall asleep and wake up in your arms? I’m lost if you’re not there. Nothing is right if you’re not right here by my side.” He brushed his lips lightly over Starsky’s, then said, “Do you know that a little piece of me died every time you got hurt, and that I ache when I get hurt and have to see the fear in your eyes? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had–could ever hope to have–and I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I love you.”

Starsky opened his mouth to reply then realized he had no voice and closed it again. Instead, he claimed Hutch in a deep and devastating kiss, his lips moving tenderly but hungrily, his tongue demanding entry, and Hutch gave it willingly, surrendering all. Moments later, Starsky relinquished his hold and leaned back, smiling broadly.

“I know you love me, Hutch. You’ve shown it in so many ways; I’ve never needed to hear you say it.”

Hutch rolled his eyes and laughed. “You mean I just reduced myself to a pile of mush for nothing?”

“No,” Starsky answered sharply. “Not at all–mush can be good in . . .” he grinned, “. . . in moderation.”

“Moderation?”

Starsky shrugged. Then he sat up on the couch, his expression turning serious. “I know that Bill’s death has gotten you down, and I’m sorry. I wish he’d had someone to look out for him, just like you look out for me. But, Hutch, don’t start second guessing or thinking that you should’ve done or said things differently–with him or with me. You have such a loving heart, and it shows in everything you do. You just have to understand that it’s up to the other person as to whether what’s in your heart is accepted. You’re an incredible man.”

Hutch eased onto the couch, leaning back then drawing Starsky into his arms.

“What would I do if I lost you?”

“You’d go on,” Starsky answered, placing his hand over Hutch’s heart, “because you’d know in here that you hadn’t lost me. That’s where you’ll always find me; you just have to look.” He lifted a hand and traced his fingers over Hutch’s lips. “Hey?”

“Hmm?” Hutch caught the hand and kissed it.

“All those things you said–you know how much hearing them meant to me?” Starsky closed his eyes and sighed, and then he looked up at his lover and smiled, his eyes slightly glistening. “You mean everything to me. I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

Hutch leaned down and kissed him softly.

“Never doubted it for a minute.”

THE END