Drift

Starsky-alone in the Italian restaurant.

Author Notes: Answer to a 20 minute fic challenge to use the words: Watch, Space

Starsky holds the pocket watch in his hand, still warm with the heat of Hutch’s skin. He watches the second hand tick,tick,tick, and he imagines it is his partner’s heartbeat.

He has one job—one small job in this clusterfuck of a mess he’s gotten them into. He wonders if Hutch will say “I told you so.” He hasn’t yet, but Starsky hopes they both live long enough for Hutch to say it.

Hutch will point his lethal index finger, his eyes will blaze angry blue, and his fair skin will redden. Starsky decides he will say nothing in return, just smile, and allow Hutch to rant. When he finishes, Starsky will come up with a quip and then they’ll laugh, and all the anger and fear will simply dissolve away.

He bites his lip against another wave of pain, and for a moment, in this dingy back room of an Italian restaurant, he’s drifting alone in outer space, lost in darkness with no anchor, no connection to all he holds dear.

He’s afraid—not so much for himself—but for Hutch. Because it’s always been him and Hutch fighting the bad guys—and when they’re apart, it never seems to go well. He’s helpless and, okay, maybe he’s a little afraid. Not of dying, but of leaving Hutch behind.

The minute hand sweeps ever closer to finality, and he tightens his hand on the handle of the pitcher. Noises drift to him, but they sound muffled. He can not fail in this. Not in this one little task Hutch has given him.

There’s more noise. Thunder? Gunshot? Scream? He doesn’t know as he gathers his waning strength and heaves the pitcher at the wall. His body screams as he does, and his eyes close as he tumbles off the couch into an infinity of darkness. If he’s to die, at least he will have done his best to not fail Hutch.