Changing of the Guard

Aftermath from “The Fix.”

“Please come now
I think I’m falling
I’m holding on to all I think is safe
It seems I found the road to nowhere
And I’m trying to escape”
“One Last Breath”
–Creed

“Ya wanna drive my car?”

The ridiculousness of the statement made me laugh, though it really wasn’t funny. Far from it. I couldn’t see straight enough to drive even one foot, little lone get Starsky, me and Ben Forrest, the bastard who’d done this to me in the first place, to the police station in three whole pieces. But I laughed, because it was so ridiculous, and because I knew what Starsky was really trying to say. He was there for me, every step of the way, and he’d do anything to make me feel better. Though he didn’t have to tell me that. The last few days had proven just to what extent my partner would go for my well-being. Not that I wasn’t aware of that fact already. Starsky had demonstrated his loyalty and love in the past too many times to count.

But this…

Regardless, offering up his precious striped tomato was just the cherry on my dessert. He wouldn’t let me drive it when I was perfectly straight, never mind in this blitzed condition, so the offer was indeed an honor.

A cab had come for Jeanie. I watched her drive off, no other words exchanged between us. She was gone for good, I knew. And somehow, after all I’d been through, I was all right with that. Maybe once I got my thoughts back in order there’d be time to grieve over another lost love. But not right now. Right now I was too damned tired and confused to do anything but collapse.

Starsky had stashed Forrest in the back seat of the Torino, and he stood by my side, waiting for me to get in. Or maybe waiting for me to fall over. I wasn’t sure which. I felt his hand on my back as I slid in the passenger’s seat and he gently shut the door. Too tired to turn around, I adjusted the rearview mirror so that I could see Forrest’s face. He and I had spent many a moment together over the last week, but this was the first time I had gotten a really good look at him. He looked me dead in the eye through the mirror and smirked. I held his firm stare, but my stomach churned at the evil I saw there and I couldn’t help but shiver from the goose bumps it caused.

“I got your number, baby,” he growled at me through a smug smile. “You’ll be back to see ol’ Ben in no time.”

Hearing his voice brought me back to that room, to the darkness and fear that had been my world for days. I couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped my lips. I opened my mouth to say something, though I wasn’t quite sure what, but Starsky’s hand on my shoulder and his face suddenly in mine stopped me cold. His eyes snapped with anger as his gaze shifted from me to Forrest and his head shot to the back of the Torino.

“Back off, you rotten piece of shit,” he spat at Forrest, “or I’ll tie your miserable ass to the back of this car and drag you ’til there’s nothing left.”

Forrest just smiled. Jesus, he was cold.

“Why, I believe that qualifies as police brutality, Sergeant Starsky.”

“Police brutality,” Starsky chuffed and leaned in closer to Forrest, grabbing him by the collar with lightning speed and yanking him within centimeters of his own face. “You think I really give a shit right now, asshole? I haven’t slept in days. I could blow a hole right between your eyes and claim temporary insanity. There’s not a precinct in the state that’d press charges. So don’t you fuck with me, Forrest!”

Starsky slammed him hard back against the seat and a moment of pure bliss coursed through my brain as I watched the smugness drain from Forrest’s face, replaced by absolute terror. I’d only seen Starsky completely lose his cool twice before in our six-year partnership. And I have to admit, even I was a little frightened of him on those rare occasions. He was, without question, not someone to, as he so eloquently put it, “fuck” with when pushed too far. And right now the edge in his voice and tremor in his hands were evidence he was on the verge of snapping.

“Starsk,” I whispered and reached out to put my hand on his shoulder. My arm was too heavy, however, and I missed, awkwardly smacking my palm down onto my own knee. Starsky’s bloodshot eyes snapped back in my direction, softening instantly when they found mine.

“S’alright,” I blinked and nodded my head weakly. “Not worth the effort. ‘Sides, I don’t want to have to clean that mess out of the Torino. Do you?”

We exchanged a long look, and a thin smile formed on my partner’s lips as he exhaled a long puff of air. “All right,” he breathed and turned to close his door.

The completion of those two coherent sentences robbed me of all my strength and Starsky’s face began to swim in and out of focus. I felt my head involuntarily fall against the seat, the sounds of Starsky’s car door closing and the Torino’s engine roaring to life echoing in my ears. I felt a gentle hand brush across my forehead then suddenly the world was yanked from underneath me and I drifted into the quiet, peaceful dark.

I only remember tiny bits and pieces of the next few hours. I remember feeling the Torino stop, then Captain Dobey’s gruff voice mixed with Starsky’s weary one, and watching Forrest being lifted out of the car. I tried to fully wake up, knowing somewhere in the back of my mind there was work to be done, but this indefinable force kept yanking at me, keeping me under.

“S’alright, Hutch. Cap’s gonna handle the interrogation. We’re going home, buddy.” Starsky’s voice cooed at me before the hum and vibration of the Torino lulled me back to sleep again.

I barely remember making it up Starsky’s steps, his arm wrapped firmly around my waist, my knees buckling with every step. His face came into focus only momentarily as I felt him sit me on his bed, his steadying arm the only thing keeping me upright. The rest of his movements were mere blurs as he tugged my sweater over my head, leaving me in my T-shirt and pants. He maneuvered me onto my side and lifted my legs, pulling off my shoes and socks. I could hear myself repeatedly mumbling something that resembled “thank you,” and shivered, prompting him to immediately pull the bed covers over my shoulders, up to my chin. His warm breath whispered, “S’OK,” into my ear as he shushed my ramblings and ran his hand through my hair. I caught just the glimmer of a weak, crooked smile before I drifted back into the darkness.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I awoke in the same position I’d fallen asleep in. Whether it was the constant nausea or the overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom that had woken me, I’m not sure. I was simply grateful to have control over those bodily functions once again. I sat up on the side of the bed and leaned my elbows on my knees, burying my face deep into my palms and scrubbing at my eyes. I found myself doubting I’d ever be able to get enough sleep to chase away the complete exhaustion that had overtaken my body.

I made it out to the living room and saw Starsky sitting on the couch, his legs tucked off to the side, asleep. His chin rested on his chest and he was snoring lightly. I smiled at the sight of him and decided to take care of nature’s call before returning to adjust him to a more comfortable position. Once I finished in the bathroom, I tiptoed quietly over to my partner and watched him sleep for a moment. He’d obviously showered, his hair no longer the tangled mess it had been before and his face cleanly shaven. He’d changed into his faded blue police academy sweat suit and had apparently fallen asleep while writing something. A yellow legal pad was perched on the couch arm, the first few pages covered in his left-handed scrawl. A half-sharpened pencil tumbled from between his boneless fingers to the floor. I reached out and gently slid the pad from under his hand and bent to pick up the pencil, pausing as his head jerked once in his sleep. Satisfied he hadn’t woken, I retrieved his eraser-less writing utensil and laid them both on the coffee table.

A plateful of crackers smeared with peanut butter lay practically untouched on his folded legs and he’d placed a glass of milk between him and the couch arm. I lifted the plate and silently placed it on the coffee table as well. However, the movement of struggling to free the glass of milk from its wedged position woke him slightly, his head lifting upward and his eyelids drifting slowly open.

He looked at me, puzzled. “Hutch? S’matter?” he croaked, licking his lips. “You all right?”

“I’m fine, Starsk,” I smiled at him and freed the milk, turning to place it with the other items I’d so carefully removed. His eyes muzzily darted around the room and I placed my hands on his shoulders.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered as I steered him into lying down, something he did willingly. Only partially aware of his surroundings, he wearily held his head suspended above the couch arm as he waited for me to fluff a pillow and then gently place it underneath him. He nestled into it, and I watched as any evidence of conscious awareness slid from his face. His lips parted and deep, even breaths mingled with the low volume of the television set. I pulled the ever-present afghan his Aunt Rosie had crocheted for him years ago from the back of his couch and folded it over his sleeping form. I stood back and watched him peacefully sleep, taking satisfaction at the small task of being able to offer this wee bit of comfort to my friend. It felt good to feel some sort of control again and to watch Starsky finally seem at ease after days of anxiety and fretting over me.

I stared back in the direction of his bedroom, a part of me wanting to crawl back into the warm, inviting bed. But a bigger, more forceful, part had overtaken my mind, the part that needed to remain here for a while, to stand guard over my partner while he slept, to just feel normal again. I eased myself down on the floor and leaned against the couch, my head resting against Starsky’s curved knees. A sleep-filled sigh emanated from him and I smiled as he unconsciously snuggled deeper into the couch. I tried to concentrate on what was on the television screen, but my eyes soon wandered to the yellow legal pad. What had he been working on? I picked it up, feeling only slightly guilty that it may have been something personal. It wasn’t. He had been chipping away at the report of his search for me and the investigation that led to Forrest’s arrest. I read through his recount of the past few days, his usual verbal flourish not detectable as he presented the facts in a straightforward, matter-of-fact fashion. Several sentences describing my condition when he’d found me had been crossed out, devoid of any mention of my addiction. He’d settled for simply stating, “I found him badly beaten and bruised, starved and dehydrated. Treatment was sought and we resumed our investigation.”

“Treatment was sought.” I chuffed at his clever wording. Treatment had indeed been sought… sought and found. His last few sentences became jumbled, the handwriting almost illegible. I gave up on attempting to decipher the obvious sleep-deprived ramblings and tossed the pad back onto the table. I picked at one of the crackers slathered in peanut butter, my mind telling me I was hungry. My stomach protested, however, as I lifted the cracker to my mouth and the smell of the peanut butter assaulted my senses. I winced in disgust and the cracker landed back on the plate.

My attention turned back to Starsky as he grunted in his sleep, a sound I’d become familiar with over the years. It was a sure sign that he was well and truly out and oblivious to any activity around him. I could easily slip out the door right now and he’d be none the wiser. Slip out the door and….

Oh, my God.

I reeled at the thought that had just crept into my mind. Slip out the door and what? Get a shot of heroin. That’s exactly what I’d thought. I could leave, get loaded and come back, Starsky would never know. He’d probably sleep for hours. It would be so easy to do.

Suddenly I was on my feet and pacing. I wrung my cold, clammy hands together as I tried to chase the thought from my mind. Had I really just thought about bolting? About destroying all the work Starsky had done, tossing away all the suffering, to get myself juiced up again? Was Forrest right? Would I be back to see him? My God, I was a junkie. A common junkie like Starsky and I witnessed on the streets every day. But I wasn’t a junkie. I was a cop. It was a forced addiction. But why had I just…

I was scared and couldn’t stop the tears that began to flow from my eyes. I needed help. Now.

“Starsky!” I shot back to the couch. “Please, Starsk, please…” I pleaded for him to open his eyes as I shook him awake.

He gasped as he startled back to consciousness, his eyes flying open and focusing on my terrified face. He sat up immediately and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking them slightly.

“What is it, Hutch? What?” His sleep-filled voice was frantic.

I didn’t know how to tell him how scared I was. There weren’t any words to describe my shame. I just looked at him and blubbered.

“Hey,” his tone eased as he pulled me to him. “I’m right here. What is it?”

Any type of satisfaction I’d gotten just moments before from the simple task of easing him to sleep drained from my mind with each sob into his shoulder. I’d lost control, and he’d regained it, picking up my crumbled pieces yet again.

“Hutch?” He pulled me away from him and looked into my eyes. His own eyes had filled with sympathetic tears. “Come on. What is it?”

I took in a steadying breath and began to ramble my pathetic tale. “You were asleep. I was alone. I thought about leaving. About going out there, about getting… God, Starsk, I wanted to…”

“You wanted to what, Hutch?” He’d suddenly turned stern.

“I thought I’d get a shot. I thought I could get high. I thought…” My head fell to my chest, “I thought I could get some heroin.”

He let me cry for a minute before lifting my chin and staring me in the eye. His eyes sparked through a sad smile as he spoke reassuringly to me.

“But you didn’t, Hutch. You didn’t. You did the right thing. See? Don’t you see? You woke me up. You knew what to do.”

“But I wanted… I’m a junkie.”

He shook his head at me. “No. No. It’s too soon. It’s way too soon. You’re not a junkie. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you be alone. Just yesterday at this time you were climbing the walls. It’s too soon for you to be alone.”

His fault? My eyes roamed his face as I wondered how he could possibly blame himself for simply falling asleep after going days with not enough rest to sustain any human being.

“No.” I shook my head at him. “No. It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m ruined.” I lowered my head again.

“Hutch,” was all he said as he sat back and pulled my head to his chest, one hand running up and down the length of my arm, the other cradling my cheek. “You’re not ruined,” he finally whispered, his lips almost touching the top of my head. “Just dented up a little is all. We’ll fix it. I promise you, Hutch, we’ll fix it.”

I continued to sob, praying he was right, knowing he’d do everything in his power to make it right. His body absently began a slow, soothing rocking motion, lulling me back toward sleep. I sniffled into his sweatshirt like a lost little boy and drank in the smell of my partner. Fabric softener mixed with Irish Spring. Suddenly I was a lost little boy, back in Minnesota at my grandparents’ house. My grandmother’s thick wool mittens that she knit every year for us all hanging to dry on a rack in the kitchen, the smell of Ivory Snow permeating throughout. She’d rock me to sleep in her lap and hum a tune I’d long since forgotten. But I remembered the warmth, the love, the safety of that lap.

A weary sigh escaped from me and into the rhythmic beat of Starsky’s chest. He pulled me in closer and subconsciously began to hum. It’s a natural thing to do, I suppose, when comforting a lost little boy, or even a “dented up” partner. I let the feelings of warmth and love and safety envelop me, hoping one day I’d truly be strong again. But until then, I’d have to draw on this offered strength, knowing it would always be there, until the next changing of the guard.

END