Overprotective

98

Hutch will do whatever it takes to keep his nightmares from coming true.

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“Get outta my sight, will ya?”

“I was only trying to help,” Hutch mumbled.

“Yeah, well, this kinda help could kill a guy!” Starsky brushed the dirt from his jacket sleeves as he stepped up onto the sidewalk. “What were ya thinkin’?”

Hutch’s face flushed red with anger. “I was thinking that car was going to cream you,” he replied through clenched teeth.

Starsky froze, an incredulous look on his face. “It was nowhere near me!”

“It was heading right for you,” Hutch insisted. As soon as the beige sedan had screeched around the corner, every fiber of his being had launched into action. Starsky had only taken one step onto the asphalt to cross the street when he was snagged by the back of his jacket. The tall blond pulled and spun his partner toward the curb so hard and so fast that the darker man’s feet tangled. Starsky pitched face first into the trash-filled gutter.

It wasn’t the first time Hutch had “rescued” him that week. Over the past four days, Hutch had been on his partner’s proverbial ass.

Hutch slouched into the passenger seat of the Torino and dry washed his face with his hands. He just couldn’t shake it. Ever since that nightmare on Tuesday night, he’d had a pervading sense of impending doom. Nightmares of the same flavor had tormented him every night since. Well, he’d made it to Friday. If he could just finish this shift and still have his friend on speaking terms, he was sure he could snap out of his funk over the weekend.

Starsky dropped into the seat behind the wheel and slammed the door. His right hand shoved the key into the ignition, but paused before turning over the engine. The hand dropped to his lap.

Hutch stole a glance at his seething partner and saw the man’s jaw muscles working overtime.

“Starsk….”

“Not now,” Starsky growled. He closed his eyes and held up his abraded right hand to cut off further comment. “Soon, but not right now.” He started the engine and peeled into traffic.

The remaining hour and a half of duty was thankfully uneventful. By the time the Torino pulled up in front of Hutch’s apartment at Venice Place, both of the men had lapsed into a bored silence.

Hutch opened his mouth to say something, anything, to make things right before they went their separate ways for the weekend. “Um, well, I guess….”

“You got any beer?” Starsky asked. He stared straight ahead out of the windshield.

“Huh?”

“Beer. I could really go for a cold one, and I know there’s none in the fridge at my place. You got any?”

“Uh, beer? Yeah.”

“Great. Mind if I come up and have one?”

Hutch fumbled for the door handle. “Sure! I mean, of course not. I mean, I don’t mind.” Flustered, he lurched out of the car and led the way to the front door.

Starsky’s eyes rolled skyward as he slid out of the car. Hutch had been acting weird all week. It was really getting on his nerves. Maybe a few beers will loosen his tongue enough for me to find out what’s up.

Hutch let himself into the apartment and headed straight for the kitchen. Starsky sauntered in behind him and stopped in the living room. He flicked on the TV, then flopped down onto the couch with a heavy sigh. His partner returned a moment later with two opened beers.

“What’s on?”

“Hockey.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows as he sat down on the couch. “Hockey? Since when do you like….”

“Since now.” Starsky cut him off. He raised the beer bottle to his lips and took a long swig. He had a feeling he’d be needing to relax a bit himself.

For fifteen minutes, the two men drank beer and watched hockey. Totally absorbed in their own thoughts, neither of them registered a single thing about the game.

Hutch snapped out of his revery during a commercial. “I’m starving,” he announced, pushing himself up off the sofa. “I have some leftovers from last night’s dinner. Hungry?”

“You have to ask?” Starsky kicked off his sneakers then put his feet up on the couch. The cushion was still warm where Hutch had been sitting. He looked past the TV set and into the kitchen to study the blond enigma who was noisily pulling out the necessary pots and pans to heat their dinner. He seemed like his usual self, gliding through the kitchen with experienced ease.

“Come and get it,” Hutch announced twenty minutes later.

“Mm. Smells good.” Starsky pulled out a chair and seated himself at the kitchen table. “What is it?” He couldn’t quite tell what the colorful mess was on his plate, but the aroma made his mouth water.

“Chicken Cacciatore,” Hutch answered proudly. “I didn’t have any rice left. You’ll have to eat it with bread.”

Starsky acknowledged by digging in.

Hutch tried to suppress the grin tugging at his lips as his friend attacked his plate with his usual gusto.

Before the cook had eaten half his food, Starsky was sopping up the last bits of sauce with a piece of bread. “Ah. That hit the spot,” he smiled. He rose from his seat, then stretched languorously before heading back to the couch. On the way, he stopped at the fridge to check the beer supply. Three left. He considered the one in his hand and decided to nurse it to make it last. Then he reached in to retrieve another bottle for Hutch. He opened it, went back to place it on the kitchen table, then retreated to the living room.

“Thanks,” Hutch mumbled through a mouthful of bread. He finished off the last of his first bottle, then took a sip from the new one. The golden refreshment traced a pleasantly cold path down his throat to his stomach. By the time his plate was empty and his stomach full, he’d downed half the new bottle. He left the dishes in the sink for later and went to join his partner on the couch.

Hutch swatted at the feet that were in his spot. “Still watching hockey?”

“Yeah,” Starsky grouched and pulled his feet up. “You need a bigger couch.”

“You need shorter legs.”

“You need a smaller butt,” Starsky smirked.

Hutch snorted. “You need a bigger brain.” He tilted the bottle back and drained the last of the brew.

Starsky laughed good naturedly. A few seconds later, the smile drained from his face. “You need to tell me what’s been going on lately.”

Caught off guard, Hutch did a double take. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“C’mon, Blondie. Y’know what I mean.”

Hutch looked down at the empty beer bottle in his hands and started to peel off the label. He shrugged.

Starsky sighed theatrically. “Ya knocked me off my feet today to get me outta the path of a car that was nowhere near me,” he prompted.

Hutch nodded his head curtly a few times. “Yeah, okay. I might have overreacted.” He peeled a long strip off the label, then shoved it into the bottle’s opening.

“Might have? And this might be a new hole in the knee of my jeans.”

“Sorry.” Hutch moved to the edge of the couch. He suddenly felt trapped and wanted to escape to the relative safety of the kitchen.

“Plant it,” Starsky said, seeing the intentions in his friend’s troubled blue eyes.

Hutch sank back into the cushions. He peeled off another strip of the label, deposited it in the bottle.

“Yesterday, ya nearly knocked me down the back steps when a car backfired outside the precinct.”

“I thought it was….”

“Yeah, I know what you thought it was.” He paused to take a deep breath, then pushed on. “Earlier that day, you nearly slammed your hand in the filing cabinet drawer when Tilton shouted my name from down the hall.”

Hutch slouched further into the cushions.

“The day before, you pushed in front of me when we ran into that warehouse after the kid with the hunting knife.”

“I run faster than you.”

Starsky sat up straight and pointed a finger in his friend’s direction. “That ain’t how we work, and you know it.”

Hutch peeled off the last bit of the label and twirled it in his fingers. He looked intently at the paper, avoiding eye contact with his agitated partner.

“So?” Starsky prompted.

“So what?” Hutch countered, getting up quickly. He went to the kitchen and noisily dropped his empty bottle into the trash can.

“So what,” Starsky mimicked quietly to himself.

Hutch busied himself at the sink. “So I’ve been a little, uh, skittish lately,” he said over the sound of the running water. He shrugged, then lapsed into a tense silence as he washed the dinner dishes.

Starsky shook his head, considered the tense back of his friend, then shook his head again. Okay, Hutchinson, he thought. You win round one.

Hutch reluctantly placed the last spoon in the dish rack. It was time to go back into the living room, back to face the inquisition. He paused as he rounded the television set, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkened room. When he was able to see, he found Starsky sagging against the arm of the couch with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. He allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief.

Starsky had to concentrate hard not to move a muscle. He could feel Hutch scrutinizing him. Apparently satisfied, the blond finally shut off the TV and pulled the afghan off the back of the couch to cover him. He listened as Hutch plodded toward the bedroom.

Let’s see how we do with round two, Starsky thought, settling down for a long night on the couch. Tomorrow, I’m gonna stick to you like glue until I figure out what’s buggin’ ya.

A full stomach, a bottle of beer and cumulative fatigue from the week all ganged up on him at once. A few minutes later, Starsky was doing more than an imitation of sleep.

Hutch climbed under the blankets. He was happy to have his friend close by where he could keep a protective eye on him, but uneasy about inevitably resuming tonight’s conversation over breakfast tomorrow. If his partner was nothing else, he was tenacious.

Maybe I should just tell him. He shook his head against the pillow. It was so stupid. Starsk is counting on me to watch his back. If I tell him I’ve been paranoid because of some dreams… He scrunched his eyes tightly at the thought. No way. I can’t. He’ll lose confidence in me.

A few minutes later, exhaustion and two beers pulled him away to unconsciousness.

The nightmare started somewhere around one.

Two men where holding Starsky, one on either side. A third man walked out of the shadows, a huge hunting knife in his left hand.

“No,” Hutch mumbled, pulling at the blanket.

The knife glinted in the dim light, drawing Hutch’s attention to it like a magnet. He knew where the man was going, what he was going to do. Why couldn’t he move?

Hutch squirmed beneath the sheets, struggling to free himself before it was too late.

One of the thugs that held his friend brought a broom handle down hard against the back of his knees, sending Starsky to the floor with a yelp. Hutch cringed with sympathetic pain. He tried to take a step forward to help. When his feet refused to cooperate, he looked down to find them mired knee-deep in concrete.

“No!”

Starsky awoke to the sound of his partner’s outcry. Momentarily disoriented, he spun himself off the couch, tangled in the afghan, then banged his head against the coffee table. Dazed by the blow, he held his right hand to the lump forming on his forehead while his left hand worked to free his legs from the afghan. “Hutch!”

Starsky called out his name. “Hutch!” He could taste his friend’s fear as the blade of the knife came to rest on the side of his neck.

“No, please….”

Starsky burst into Hutch’s bedroom and flicked on the light. His friend thrashed in the bed, evidently in the grips of a terrible nightmare. Starsky rubbed his bruised forehead as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Hutch? Hey, buddy. Wake up. You’re havin’ a nightmare.”

Blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Hutch writhed beneath the tangled bed linens.

The point of the knife pressed hard under his best friend’s left ear, parted the skin, allowed precious blood to escape. The blade sank deeper as it was slowly pulled to the right.

“HUTCH! Wake up!” Starsky grasped his shoulders and gave him a shake.

Hutch’s eyes flew open, but his mind didn’t follow his vision to wakefulness as quickly. His eyes darted back and forth for a few seconds, seeking something to grasp, something to pull him out of the concrete in his dream.

“It’s okay, Hutch. C’mon. Wake up,” Starsky said gently.

Hutch’s vision cleared. Floating above him was the face of his best friend. His eyes darted uncontrollably down to Starsky’s neck, but found no wound there.

Starsky watched with sad fascination as the emotions played across his friends flushed face. Confusion, recognition, panic, then relief.

“It’s okay, Hutch. I got ya.” He laid a hand on his friend’s heaving chest.

A sudden vivid flashback from the dream brought with it a wave of nausea. Hutch struggled out of the bed and fled to the bathroom. Chills ran through him as his perspiring body heaved at the toilet. When he was through, he found Starsky silhouetted in the doorway.

Starsky pursed his lips. Every instinct he had told him that his friend’s nightmare had everything to do with his recent odd behavior. “Now you wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Hutch washed his face with cool water, then nodded at his partner’s reflection in the mirror above the sink. He allowed himself to be led back to the couch where he proceeded to disclose the week’s nightmares to his friend. He went for broke, filled in all the gory details, and hoped his partner wouldn’t think him too much a fool.

The sound of Starsky’s snorted laugh made him cringe. Starsky saw the reaction and placed a hand on his friend’s clammy shoulder.

“Hutch, I’m not laughin’ at ya. I’m just amazed that you waited this long to tell me. No wonder you’ve been so skittish lately.”

“I know it’s stupid…” Hutch mumbled.

“Hey, look at me a second, will ya?”

Hutch reluctantly complied.

“It ain’t stupid. It’s a wonder either of us ever have a peaceful night’s sleep in our line of work. God knows I’ve had my share of nightmares about you.”

“You have?”

“Of course,” Starsky confirmed.

“How… how do you deal with it when you wake up?” Hutch swallowed hard, feeling all the more foolish for asking such a question.

Starsky rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as it connected with the angry red lump on his forehead.

Hutch noticed it for the first time. “Starsk, your head!”

“S’okay. I had an argument with your coffee table. It won.” He regrouped, gathered his thoughts. “How I deal with the nightmares? I get up, go to work and pretend like it’s the last day I’ll ever have with you.”

Hutch was taken aback. “Huh?”

“Look, the way I figure it, right now is all we ever have. Right? I mean, nobody is promised a tomorrow. So I try to have the best day I can with you, just in case.”

Hutch suddenly understood his friend’s logic. He nodded his head a couple of times. Then he raised his face to look into his partner’s sapphire eyes. “Do you get, you know, overprotective?”

“Sure,” Starsky agreed with a lopsided grin. “I just try not to be conspicuous about it like you, ya big lug.”

Hutch laughed and felt the knot in his stomach loosen. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I’d rather have you shove me out of harm’s way than have a partner that didn’t care.” He stood and pulled Hutch up with him. “Just don’t shove so hard, will ya?”

The End