Deep Waters

Sweet Revenge tag: Sitting by Starsky’s hospital bed, Hutch writes his sister a letter.

Written in 2003. First published in the a gen multifandom anthology, Compadres #30, produced by Neon Rainbow Press in 2007.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and at fanfiction.net at this link.

May 23, 1979

Dear Chris,

It’s close to midnight now — it’ll be May 24th before I finish this letter. I’m dead on my feet and don’t know how much sense I’ll make, but I want to share something with you that’s been on my mind since we talked last week. I don’t think it’ll wait any longer, Sis, so bear with me.

You know, sometimes you go for years knowing somebody, thinking you really get them. And then there comes a moment when you suddenly, completely see into them, and realize you didn’t really know them after all. I think it happens faster with cops than with nearly anyone else. We deal with more life and death in a week than most others will their whole lives, and that teaches you the character of a person fast. The easygoing guy at the Academy who seemed to always have such a cool head will fall apart under fire. The nice guy everybody liked gets mean when he’s scared. The quiet ones nobody paid attention to show a quiet courage no one would have expected. Being a cop tests you and reveals what you’re made of, to you and everybody else.

But some guys are what they seem, bad or good. Starsky‘s one of those. Once I got past the whole surface mix of clown and street tough, it didn’t take me long to realize the person underneath ran a lot deeper, with a lot more intelligence, compassion, and integrity than most of the other stiff-necks at the Academy. We became friends. Less than three years later, we became partners. The more I got to know the guy, the more I liked him, and I didn’t think twice about trusting him to watch my back. He saw me through the slow death and burial of my marriage, and I nursed him through a few rough times, too. You don’t get tight with or know a guy a lot more than that, right?

And then there came the day when I got a glimpse inside of him, and realized I’d only thought I’d known him all along. That’s what I’d like to tell you about now.

We’d been partners a couple of years at that point, enough time for us to become second nature to each other, but I look back on it now and shake my head at how green we still were. We’d just gotten our gold shields and were working all kinds of cases, still mostly assaults but more and more homicides. But it had been a quiet week, maybe because it was just after Thanksgiving and people were still out of town or stuffed with turkey, I don’t know. I remember it was unusually cold, too — for California, that is, not Duluth — that might have had something to do with it. Starsky and I were getting cabin fever just working on old cases and paperwork at the station and were glad to sneak out to do a little patrolling. Funny, the least busy times sometimes make you the most tired. The adrenaline of a complicated, intense case can really get you going, you know? So I guess we were ready for a little action. Like I said, we were still pretty green, even with six years on the force.

Well, we were driving around, just talking. That hasn’t changed with Starsky — talking to him has always been easy. He says it’s cheaper than a shrink and, well, he’s right. A lot of times, I find myself spilling things I never meant to or didn’t even know were there. That was how I got through the divorce, too, me talking and him listening and saying just enough. Our conversations probably wouldn’t make sense to anybody else, but they were kind of refreshing after the long days stuck at the station.

Anyway, we were near the docks when we finally got a call. It didn’t really come to us — only the uniforms get regular calls, I think I’ve told you — but we were close so we responded, too. Besides, it was a report of a woman screaming, and we’d had a couple of rapes near the docks in those last few weeks and really wanted to get this creep. So Starsky and I went.

We got there before the uniforms did, although we could hear the siren when we pulled up. I guess the guy — his name turned out to be Jesse Solan — couldn’t hear it over the girl’s cries because he was still tearing her clothes off when we got there. Starsky pulled up right in front of the alley where Solan was getting ready to do his business, and it was pretty obvious the minute we saw him what his plans were. I wish I could tell you differently, but I’ve seen more rapes and attempted rapes in my lifetime than I’d want to count, and there was no doubt there.

Of course, Solan took off the minute he saw us. Starsky and I were used to that, and we don’t even have to look at each other to know the plan: I took off after Solan on foot while Starsky went to check on the girl. Starsky’s got a bum ankle that goes out on him sometimes, so I do more of the chases. It works out — he’s better at talking down people than I am, and great with older folks. Part of being partners is each of you doing what he does best.

For a big guy, Solan was fast. He took off like a rabbit down the alley, but I wasn’t a sprinter in college for nothing. I was gaining on him when he took the corner and ducked around another building. I hadn’t pulled my gun yet, but that can slow you down on a chase and I hadn’t seen any sign of a weapon, so I kept running, keeping track of where we were going. Most of these guys don’t know the area as well as we do and, with any luck, we can usually pin them in a blind alley during a chase. Ninety percent of the time then they’ll just give up.

Well, there aren’t a lot of blind alleys around the docks, only dead ends into the water, and we were getting near one now. I came shooting out of one alley expecting Solan to have trapped himself between the ocean and me, a fence on one side and a loading area usually littered with crates of cargo on the other. And he was. He was also armed.

I wasn’t hit bad, just grazed on the leg, but it still took some skin and muscle and hurt a lot worse than they warn you at the Academy. I felt like my leg had been chopped out from under me. I fell, hard enough that the gun I was drawing went flying. And so there we were, Solan with no place to go except through me, with a gun pointed at my head, and me unarmed and bleeding on the ground.

A lot of cops go through their whole careers without facing the business end of a gun. I’d had a few waved at me before, been at the edges of a few shootouts before, but it had never been like this, Sis, I promise. I hope it doesn’t upset you if I say there was no doubt in my mind Solan was going to shoot me and I was going to die. And, you know, it wasn’t so much that I was scared. I’m not worried about where I’m going after I die. I just remember feeling angry. I was mad this guy was taking the rest of my life away, and taking me away from the people I love. There was a lot I still wanted to do. It wasn’t my life that flashed in front of my eyes, it was all the things I’d still hoped to do with my life.

And then I saw Starsky.

He’d managed to squeeze his way through between the crates; to this day I don’t know how he got there that fast. When I asked him later, he just shrugged it off and said he’d heard the gunshot, but I swear it was only a few seconds later I saw him. He was just crouching behind a pile of nets, out of Solan’s line of sight but in mine, taking in the situation.

Solan wasn’t giving any speeches, none of those laying-out-the-plan confessions you see on TV. He’d gotten me where he wanted me and was going to finish it and get out of there. I could see Starsky go through every option I had and throw them all out just as fast: talking Solan down wouldn’t have worked — you get a sense of that as a cop, how close to the edge someone is — and trying to distract him or even just shooting him probably would have simply made him pull the trigger. Nor was there time to wait for backup. Honestly, I didn’t see any way out of it, and silently said as much to Starsky as I caught his eyes in that last second I figured I had left. At least it was one good-bye I could say.

He was saying good-bye back, but not in answer to me.

That was when I realized what he was going to do, an option so dumb, they specifically warned us against anything like it in the Academy. And it was that space between seconds I abruptly saw him, really saw him, for the first time.

You see, I’d always known what kind of man Starsky is. That he’d shake his head over my giving a bum a dollar, but then make a few calls later and get that bum into a shelter for the night. That he’d run into a burning building because he thought someone was still trapped inside. That maybe he didn’t brood over the victims like I did, but he’d throw a glass — or a birdbath — to deal with as much sorrow and sympathy as I would be, in a typically opposite way. And that he’d give his life for me in a second if it came to that.

I knew all that. But…it’s hard to explain, but I hadn’t felt it like I did that moment, when I saw in that flash what our friendship had meant to him, what I meant to him, and how he was ready and willing to do what it took to save that. Even if it meant offering his life. Not like Starsky would have for that victim in the burning building, out of duty and respect for life, but out of love. Love, and a courage that went far deeper than just believing things would turn out all right, because I could see he didn’t expect them to. But he was going to do it anyway, and there was no regret in the crazy half-grin he flashed me right before he turned away.

In a way, I hadn’t really known him until that minute. It hit me a fraction of a second later I was discovering something valuable just as I was about to maybe lose it for good. But before either Solan or I could react, David Michael Idiot Starsky was already stepping out from behind the nets, as easily as if he’d just been taking a walk.

You weren’t ever supposed to offer a gunman a second target, and you were expected to look after your own safety before your partner’s, or so we’d been taught. That makes sense, too, if you use your head, but my partner tends to think with his heart when I’m trouble.

Not that he was acting without thinking. Every move he was making was calculated, as Starsky’s actions often are on the job, even when they seem their most casual. It’d fooled a lot of suspects in the past, and he was counting on Solan to fall for it, too. But his calculations were meant to get a different result than most people’s, and so I started praying this wouldn’t go down the way Starsky and I both expected it to, even while I hoped Solan would buy the put-on. I tried one more time to stand, but my leg wasn’t supporting me and all I could do was helplessly fall back and watch.

Solan’s gun didn’t move but his eyes did, and he uttered a sharp “Hey!” as he frowned at Starsky. He wasn’t completely duped; he knew who the greater threat was to him even if he didn’t know Starsky was a cop, but the new arrival had thrown him.

Starsky held up a hand, and even though he wasn’t facing me I knew just what his expression would be: innocuous, wide-eyed, almost awed. Even a lot of our fellow cops don’t give Starsky much credit for brains because they’d fallen for that same ingenuous look.

“Hey, Mister, you a cop? I could hear the sirens two blocks away. You got your guy, huh?” He tossed a derisive offhand glance my way. He’s given me that look before even when he wasn’t acting. “What’d he do, huh? He behind some of those heists we’ve been having around here? My boss is ready to hire the whole police department t’ keep an eye on his goods, so much of it’s been disappearing, you know?” Ever so innocently moving closer, hands well away from his body, posing no visible threat. I had to snuff a laugh at the familiar rube act.

Solan wavered, uncertain. Two cops he would have disposed of as easily as one; some don’t have any conscience at all as far as I can tell. We found out later Solan was an ex-con and that didn’t surprise me at all. But he was experienced and enough of a pragmatist to want to get out of there as easily as possible, and the extra factor of Starsky’s chattering, friendly presence had put him off-balance.

“You catch him red-handed? My boss’ll probably give you a medal. Don’t know why they hit our company, all we import is oil, kinda hard to steal, y’know?” Starsky kept prattling, only a half-dozen feet away from Solan now, close enough to rush him. I could see the near-invisible shift of Starsky’s body from languid to coiled, ready to strike, but no one who didn’t know him would have seen it. Solan’s eyes were still moving between the two of us, trying to figure out what to do. His gun hadn’t budged from its bead on my head, and that was why Starsky hadn’t made his move yet. It was also why what he was doing was so dangerous, and we both knew it.

Solan was clearly uncomfortable with Starsky’s nearness, and he finally growled, “Stay back,” at him. The gun didn’t move.

Starsky did, both hands going up in guileless surrender even as he sidled a step closer. “Hey, man, I’m on your side. I’m all for you cleaning up the docks.” Talking somebody to distraction is also one of Starsky’s gifts, or curses, depending how you look at it. “Just tell me what to do — you want me to keep the guy here while you go for help? I don’t see any backup yet.” His head, facing away from me now, swiveled both ways as he looked for help, which reminded me the uniforms were overdue to arrive. The cue worked its magic on Solan, too, and he unconsciously copied the gesture with a glance around the docks.

Starsky sprung.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since then, Chris, and I still don’t know if Starsky saw Solan reacting and kept going anyway without trying to protect himself, or if he was as taken by surprise as I was. I think he saw what was coming, though, and it just didn’t make any difference. Solan had caught his movement and was responding even as Starsky grabbed him, and while he was too close now to shoot, he was just close enough to crack his gun against Starsky’s head.

Then both of them were falling, carried by Starsky’s momentum into the water behind them. They splashed in so hard, a good chunk of the dock got wet.

I was on my feet before I realized I shouldn’t have been able to stand, and I managed to hop-limp my way over to the edge of the pier to look down into the water. Along the docks it was filthy, and in November, cold as a Minnesota snow. Starsky was a good swimmer, but I didn’t know how hard he’d been hit and I was worried. That turned to fear fast when only bubbles came up, and then even those stopped.

If there was ever a time I felt completely, horribly powerless, that was it. I wouldn’t have been able to tread water with my bad leg, let alone pull somebody up to the surface with me, but it was becoming clearer by the second Starsky wasn’t coming up on his own. There wasn’t even any sign of Solan and him fighting it out, just… mirror-still dark water.

I probably would have gone in after him, leg or no, if a pair of uniforms hadn’t arrived just then. I’m not sure what I said, but one of them pulled off his shoes and gunbelt and went into the water without hesitation. Good men we have in the LAPD. I don’t think I ever thanked him, but I didn’t even really see him or catch his name that day. I just sat there holding my breath, listening to my heart pounding away and watching the water like my life depended on it.

That’s not much of a joke, is it?

Moments like this always seem like they break out of the normal flow of time and are running too slow, because I swear I aged a year waiting there on the edge of that pier. Hours later at the hospital, I’d have fingers and a palm full of splinters to show for it. But at that moment, all I cared about was the soaked body the uniform finally surfaced with and was handing up to us.

Starsky. Eyes closed, watery red running down his ear, lips blue, and chest still.

The uniform dove again to find Solan; I didn’t care. My whole world became getting Starsky to breathe again and making sure his weak pulse kept going.

He did, and it did. Thank God.

He didn’t really come to, just started throwing up half the ocean, spluttering and curling in on himself like a half-drowned rat. I turned him on his side, made sure he cleared his lungs, then covered him with my jacket and just talked to him. Told him my life story, for all I remember, while I wrung water out of his clothes and hair. I guess I was trying to show him what I couldn’t say, that I was breathing again because he was and that I was so glad he was alive because I wanted a chance to say something, to respond to what I’d seen a few minutes earlier.

You know, I never really did, not in so many words. Not during the ride to the hospital when he finally started waking up and didn’t say anything, just hung on to my arm so hard, it left marks. Not after, when they treated my leg and let me sit with him while they made sure his lungs were clear and he hadn’t poisoned himself on the dirty water. Not when reaction set in late that night and I called him, woke him up, and babbled in his ear for an hour about stupid things while he patiently listened. Not a day later, when I just said thanks and he waved it off with a declaration I could buy him a donut in return. Not to this day. But I hope he’s had a chance since then to see the same in me.

I’m sitting and writing you all this from the hospital, Sis. Starsky’s doing better now; they say he’s finally out of the woods and, God, I’m grateful to say he looks it, fast asleep just a few feet away from me. I’m fine, only a few twinges now, some stitches in my wrist. I should be a hundred percent again soon. I know you were worried when I called and that was why you said what you did, and I’m sorry for how I responded. I was really worried about Starsk then, and your blaming him for what happened didn’t help. I don’t think you really meant it that way, but I can understand how you feel. That’s why I wanted to write to you.

I know you think I’ve gotten hurt so many times because Starsky’s not doing his job right, and that you resent him for it. But, Chris, it’s really the other way around. I couldn’t ask for a better man to be my partner, or a better friend, than Dave Starsky. I knew that that day on the docks as sure as I know anything about you. I hope you can accept him for that reason, and because he’s important to me. But if not, accept him because Starsky’s the reason I’m here to be writing you today. Solan would have killed me, I’m sure about that, or any of a half-dozen other guys or situations could have since then. Starsky’s helped keep me alive, and sane. You know how blessed I am to have found someone like that? I do.

The doctors say Starsky’s going to need at least a few weeks after he’s released before he’s really back on his feet, and we’re going to go to New York for part of that time, but I’d like to bring him back to Duluth for a few days, too. Rachel Starsky makes unbelievable strudel and blintzes, but Starsk has a weak spot for Mom’s rhubarb pies. I don’t want to bring him if it’ll make you uncomfortable, though, so I’m going to leave it up to you. I hope I know you well enough to know what you’ll decide. I want you to see the side of him I do. It’s worth knowing.

Give Mom and Dad a hug for me, and a kiss for the kids. Tell Peter thanks for the picture he drew me — I brought it to the hospital so I could see it more and I thought it’d cheer Starsky up. And I’m going to send Gracie something for her birthday as soon as I get out a little. Unless you think she’d like a teddy bear? They have some cute ones in the gift shop. Anyway, tell her Uncle Ken didn’t forget. And I love you, too, kid, always and forever.

Your big brother,

Ken

Hutch signed the letter with a scribble, his hand cramped and tired. The stitches in his wrist were pulling and there was a little blood staining the bandage over them, mementos of a second attempt on Starsky’s life, but it was a good kind of pain, one of a hard job finished. His argument with Chris had returned to nibble at him whenever he wasn’t deluged with Starsky’s condition, and he had to settle it now that he could think about other things. Especially now. Even with Starsky getting better all the time, Hutch often felt too weary to make it through the day, and support from home was all that kept him going sometimes. His mom still called every day, and his dad wrote upbeat, formal notes, his way of caring. Chris’ silence or, worse, her worried, terse queries just made him more tired. And he needed to be strong for his partner now, so newly back from the dead.

Starsky shifted in restless sleep, not quite conscious but becoming aware of the pain and that something was wrong, and Hutch leaned forward to lay a hand on his forehead to calm him. It was still too hot — they said he’d be running a low-grade fever for a while yet — but at least it wasn’t burning up, or cold and clammy, as it had been at different times recently. Whether it was just the presence of someone else or the recognition of Hutch, the contact coaxed Starsky deeper into sleep. He stilled, his body returning to its slow mending.

Hutch flopped back into his chair with a sigh, smoothing down the paper on the pad in his lap. Nothing he wrote would convey what he really felt toward Starsky or what his partner was truly like, but it had been good to try. He’d stashed the memory of that day on the dock with care, and took it out on occasion to gently turn it over and examine it and reaffirm what he’d realized then. There were heroes in the world who did things because they felt it was right or because they believed in something, and then there were heroes who simply loved, and acted out of that love, no matter what that meant. He knew which kind he believed in more. And what was weariness to that, really?

Hutch gently folded the leaves of the letter and set it aside to ask Dobey to mail for him. And then lifting his chin in defiance of fatigue and worry, he sat back to wait on his partner.