The Real Truth

85

A domestic disturbance leaves Hutch with a bloodied head and headache. Starsky is around to patch him up.

 

Author’s Notes: I haven’t felt much like writing lately. If Paula were here, she’d slap me up the side of the head, figuratively, of course, and tell me to snap out of it. I haven’t snapped out of it, but as I told Cheryl earlier today, baby steps.

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Friday, Early Evening

“Stop that,” Starsky admonished, knocking Hutch’s hand away.

“Ouch,” Hutch replied. “That hurts.” He put his hand up again in an attempt to check on Starsky’s handiwork.

“Hutch,” Starsky firmly commanded. “If you don’t stop touching that I might have to cuff you. Leave. It. Alone.” Starsky continued to pick up the first aid supplies and clean up the bloodied remnants of the doctoring of his injured partner.

“Feels like it’s going to fall off,” Hutch moped, as he forced his hands to remain in his lap.

“It’s fine. Just don’t touch it.”

“I’m not gonna ‘touch it,'” Hutch returned snidely, the imitation of Starsky failing to amuse the curly headed one.

Hutch heard his partner mumble something. “What was that, partner?”

“I said, ‘this is going to be a lovely evening.'” That’s not what Starsky said. But reiterating what he’d actually said to his already unpleasant partner would get him nothing but more grief. And it had already been a rough day.

* * * *

Earlier That Day

The detectives had finished their day with a domestic argument at an apartment building that slowly turned into a block argument, with neighbors screaming at neighbors, some coming to blows, and the partners and the one black and white at the scene forced to call in for more back-up.

Hutch was interviewing two women who were going at each other when the detectives had first arrived. He had them calmed down, for the moment, when he heard Starsky yelp over to his right. Apparently his partner was having less luck brokering a cease-fire between the spouses of the two women. Hutch saw his partner down on the ground. He couldn’t tell if Starsky was really hurt, and he excused himself to head over to check on his partner.

“Ladies, can you please hold tight one second? I’ll be right back,” he said, not waiting for an answer from either party.

“Starsk?” Hutch called. He had taken no more than a few steps in Starsky’s direction when he heard the voices escalating behind him, both in sound level and tone. Checking on Starsky was his prime concern at that moment, so he did not hear just what was going on behind him.

Hutch noticed Starsky getting to his feet, but the crash of glass distracted him momentarily from his game plan. He turned back to the feuding women, and was unable to avoid the bottle hurtling his way. At the last second he turned his head to keep the bottle from crashing into his face, though it did clip him on the side of his head, breaking on contact.

Starsky, witnessing the entire event, ran to his partner’s aid, realizing that the bottle hit hard enough that it might a least stun his partner, and at worst, possibly drive Hutch down hard to the pavement. Hutch was grabbed gently by his partner, and eased down to the ground, his legs threatening to force him down.

“Hutch, babe, you okay?” Starsky asked, quickly moving the long blond strands out of the way to check the damage.

“Shit,” Hutch started, putting his hand up to his head. “Goddammit,” he continued.

“Yeah, she’s got quite an arm, huh buddy?” Starsky noticed a cut; luckily it wasn’t as bad as he initially feared. Hutch’s quick move seemed to have done enough to deflect the bottle so that it didn’t hit him full force.

“Man, you’re tellin’ me,” Hutch agreed, continuing to grab for his head.

“I’ll take care of it,” Starsky said, shooing Hutch’s hand away. He was already pressing his handkerchief against the wound, and the bleeding was starting to slow. “How do you feel?” Starsky asked, worry written across his face.

“I’m okay. It’s just a graze. Can I get up now?” Hutch was becoming more annoyed with the continued yelling and screaming going on around them. He wanted to get up, get this situation settled, and get home.

“You sure you’re okay?” Starsky asked, taking Hutch’s hand, the one that he had previously brushed away, and placing it on the makeshift bandage. “Keep pressing this firmly, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hutch reached his other hand over to Starsky, who rose from his kneeling position and gave his partner a hand up.

“What the hell’s going on here?” The booming voice had a familiar ring, and the two detectives turned to see their captain approach.

“Looks like we got a family riot going on, Cap,” Hutch replied, continuing to keep pressure on the cut on his scalp.

“Started with just two, but as more of ’em got home from work, looks like we got enough of ’em at each other now to start a rumble,” Starsky chimed in.

“What happened to you?” Dobey asked, acknowledging the bloody cloth Hutch held to his head.

“Caught in the crossfire,” Starsky joked.

“Gunfire?” Dobey asked, looking around with concern at the crowd of people.

“Coke bottle,” Hutch replied, leering at his partner. Starsky felt justly chastised for the misleading comment.

“Well, it still qualifies as assaulting a police officer, no matter what the weapon. Are we bringing them in?”

Starsky and Hutch looked around at the three separate arguments going on. They had been unable to keep the incidents from escalating; maybe a few hours at the police station would do this group some good.

The detectives looked at each other, a silent conversation going on that, to this day, continued to amaze and irritate Captain Dobey every time it happened in his presence. Sometimes he felt like they were speaking a different language, and he had always considered it rude when people did that. But he also realized that it was pretty likely that these two didn’t even know they were doing it when they had these ‘conversations.’

“Let’s bring them in,” Hutch said, hoping that they wouldn’t spend too much time wrapping things up; he was already feeling the onslaught of a killer headache.

* * * *

Later That Evening

“How’re you feeling?” Starsky asked, sitting on Hutch’s coffee table. He was holding a glass of water in one hand and three Tylenol in the other.

Hutch pulled the ice pack off his head. Starsky looked at his partner, feeling for him as the bruise continued to change color, seemingly more so with each passing hour. Hutch had become almost unbearable to talk to earlier, and decided that lying down on the couch trumped dinner or conversation with his best friend.

Starsky grabbed an icepack from the freezer… it was a staple in both their freezers since Starsky’s rehab after the Gunther hit, and had placed it gingerly on his partner’s head over an hour ago.

Now, the blond hair and bandage were plastered to Hutch’s face in a damp mess, though Starsky was happy to see that there had been no blood seeping through. He also noticed that Hutch’s face seemed less pained, as though the short rest had done him a world of good.

“Better, thanks,” Hutch answered as he raised himself to a sitting position. “Sorry about earlier, Starsk.”

“What about earlier?” Starsky asked, handing the pills to his partner, and then the glass of water.

“Um, I’m pretty sure I was mean to you when we got home.”

“Hutch, I think you know that I can take it when you’re ‘in a mood,.” Starsky smiled as he took the glass back and set it on the table.

“Yeah, but I still shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Yeah, well, I think you’re a little old to change your ways there, buddy. Hey, I might not recognize you if you started bein’ nice to me.” The comment was made in jest, but Starsky could tell that his sometimes overly sensitive partner had not taken it that way.

“Hutch, I was kidding,” he said, grabbing Hutch’s right arm and warmly giving it an affectionate squeeze.

“Maybe, but I think there’s some truth there, too.” Hutch looked Starsky in the eyes, and then looked down.

“Hey,” Starsky started, trying to get his partner’s attention. Hutch continued looking to his lap dejectedly. Starsky took Hutch’s chin in his hand and forced his partner to look at him. “Maybe there was a time when there was truth in that comment. But that was a long time ago, and we’ve come a long way since then, Blondie. You know we have.”

“I don’t know,” Hutch started, but Starsky cut him off.

“I know. I know that I’m here today, alive and well because you love me. I could never’ve made it through to this day without you. The REAL truth is that I got nothin’ but love and admiration for the man you are. And I am so grateful to have you in my life,” Starsky’s voice cracked, his ability to go on cut short by the emotion in what he was trying to say.

“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch said, reaching over and pulling Starsky onto the couch with him. Hutch hugged his partner, not quite understanding where all this was coming from. Starsky was holding him tight, though, so he held on for as long as the comforting embrace was needed.

Starsky finally felt able to talk again. He pulled back from his partner and said, “I never want you to think less of yourself because of some stupid comment I make. You had every right to act a little cranky earlier—I’m sure I gave you a lifetime of that when I was recuperating. I owe ya years worth of cranky. So, let’s just say that today was the start of a countdown for all the cranky days I owe you, huh?”

Hutch looked at Starsky, the love and friendship evident in his smile. Hutch stood up, and pulled his partner up with him.

“You don’t owe me anything, Starsk. I’ve been paid in full,” Hutch replied. Starsky wished more people could feel the way he felt when his partner got like this.

“Mushball,” Starsky answered, not needing any more soap that evening.

“Mushbrain,” Hutch retorted, happy to play along.

Starsky laughed, and tousled the blond locks as he headed to the kitchen to place the glass in the sink.

“You hungry?” Hutch asked.

“Are you kidding? I thought you’d never ask. I’m starved,” Starsky happily replied. “You feel up to going out?”

“Yeah, I feel okay. How about a few beers and a couple of Huggy’s specials?”

“Sounds good, partner,” Starsky said, as they gathered their gear and headed out the door.

“So, you thought I was cranky earlier?” Hutch asked, knowing the question would get a rise out of his partner.

“Are ya kidding? What, are ya tellin’ me you don’t think you were? I gotta tell ya Hutch, I was about ready to leave you here to fend for yourself the rest of the night. I know it’d been awhile since you acted up like that. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize it? I’m not a psychiatrist, Hutch, but I know you realized it because you headed….”

Hutch sat in the passenger seat and smiled as Starsky continued his rant about his cranky behavior. He looked at his partner, who was really getting into just how to recognize a seriously cantankerous Hutch, and silently thanked whoever had made it possible for him to still enjoy this man’s company. He leaned his head back into the seat, still smiling, and sighed a quiet, contented sigh.

As Hutch continued to listen to the good-natured tirade, though, he was beginning to think that ‘enjoy this man’s company’ might not be quite the right phrase.

The End