The Next Best Place

In the aftermath of the Gunther hit, Dobey orders Hutch, who’s running on empty, to go home and rest. But where is home?

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch mixed anthology zine, The Fix #2 in 1988.

Hutch walked into the apartment and inhaled deeply. The place smelled of Starsky: his cologne, his cooking, the faint smell of model glue. Habit had brought him to Starsky’s apartment; it was closer to the hospital and he knew he was always welcome. Habit also assumed Starsky’s presence. This time, though, Hutch knew with every fiber of his soul where Starsky was, and it certainly wasn’t at home.

He was back at the hospital.

Hanging between life and death.

Hutch turned back to the door guiltily. What was he doing here? He should be out working the streets, trying to find that next lead.

He leaned his forehead against the door. He was tired, more tired than he could ever remember being in his life, and Dobey had sent him away to get some rest. Rest seemed so absurd, though, in the aftermath of the day’s events. Starsky: one moment chatting happily away and the next moment crumpled on the ground… There was a sensation of the surreal about it, facing an assassin in the hospital garage and then going off to search for Jenny Brown. And then he’d flown back to the hospital. He didn’t even remember driving, watching the streets, the other cars. He’d just found himself at the hospital, flying up the stairs unable to wait for an elevator, flying through the doors, nearly missing Starsky… God, had that been just two hours ago? It didn’t seem possible. And after it was all over, finally coming… here. To rest. But how could he rest? No rest for the weary…

Don’t be stupid, ya big blond blintz.

He could hear the words without even needing Starsky there to say them; they called out from every square inch of the apartment.

Don’t worry about me. Go getta beer; drink yourself silly and go to sleep. There’s nothin’ you can do right now.

It hurt. It almost hurt worse than thinking about Starsky only half alive… because it’s what used to happen after Gillian died. He’d get depressed or lonely and hear her voice cheering him out of his black mood. And Starsky wasn’t dead—not yet anyway. But he felt it, clear through to his bones.

He turned back into the apartment, turned on a light, and went to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator was one more reminder, because it looked the way it always looked. Stinks, too, he realized, and set about emptying the sour milk and the stale tuna salad, cleaning it up for Starsky’s return… because he couldn’t believe his partner would never be back.

That chore done, he took a beer and strode back to the living room. He flung himself onto the couch, opened the can and drank deeply.

We were right; we should have resigned and forgotten about it all. Should have gone away somewhere where no one could find us, not Gunther, not anyone and just lived like normal people…. But then when were we ever normal? We were always cops, even off duty, even away on vacation… even in bed. Jesus.

Hutch put the beer on the table and looked around the room. God, he’s a pack rat; he keeps everything. Such incredible clutter. Not that it was messy, just lived in. How did Starsky stand it? But the apartment lived and breathed all by itself, Hutch realized, because of the clutter, all the little things Starsky kept around him and that marked this place as his.

The odd thing was, as alone as he was, Hutch didn’t feel that way, though he’d been feeling it all day long. Going through the paces without Starsky beside him had made him feel as though he’d been walking around with a gaping hole in his side, a wound as wide and deep as the ones that had opened in Starsky’s chest. Yet there, now, he felt as though his partner were with him.

He had a flash of tactile memory: Starsky massaging his neck and shoulders, working out the kinks after one particularly grueling stakeout. Such warm, quiet companionship he could provide, and only Hutch really knew Starsky’s quiet side, the side that would provide a neck massage, build a model of an old ship with delicate precision, or spend hours by himself in a dark room for one single photograph. That side was with Hutch now, even as he sat on Starsky’s couch letting his eyes wander the room for his enervated body.

He took up the beer again and sipped and gulped till it was finished. It was late and he was exhausted, and the captain had, after all, sent him home to get some sleep.

Home.

Home was where Starsky was, no matter where Starsky was. Except that Hutch couldn’t be home, and hadn’t been for what seemed like forever… and it had only been a day.

Hutch tossed the beer can in the trash, and, shutting off the lights as he moved, went into Starsky’s bedroom. The bed was made, which surprised him, and the room was really fairly neat. He stripped, dropping his clothes on the floor by the bed, then turned back the covers and climbed in, settling in on his back.

And Starsky was there. His scent permeated the sheets, his warmth seemed to heat the bedding to soothe Hutch’s body, his quiet presence reassuring Hutch that sleeping was safe tonight; there was no one waiting in the darkness to get him.

Mindgames, babe, his invisible companion whispered with affection. Mindgame s to keep the bogeyman away. Go t’sleep. I’m right here, partner.

Hutch cuddled deeper beneath the bedclothes and turned to curl on his side. Mindgames or not, he could feel his partner’s body spooning around his own, wrapping protective arms around his waist and resting his head on Hutch’s shoulder.

No. Starsky wasn’t really there and for tonight Hutch couldn’t be with Starsky. But if he couldn’t be with Starsky, here was the next best place.