Gillian’s Intuition

 

Author’s Notes: Starsky’s thoughts as he helps Hutch cope with Gillian’s death. Shameless angst and h/c.

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If he hadn’t been a homicide detective, Starsky would have frozen in shock at the sight that greeted him when he entered Gillian’s apartment. But his instinct kicked in when he saw her lifeless body lying on the floor and he swiftly checked her for breathing and pulse. Nothing.

He knew it was hopeless, but as he was desperately trying to revive her, the phone rang. It was Grossman, thinking that Starsky was Hutch. Taking responsibility for the terrible deed and telling him to meet at the Royal Theater in 20 minutes to join his tramp girlfriend.

Hutch. God, Hutch.

Starsky ached for his best friend. He had known, was going to tell Hutch if she didn’t, that she had been lying to him. That she was a highly paid prostitute working for Grossman – which was going to be bad enough news to break to his lovesick partner. Starsky had hoped that once Gillian had gone back to Cleveland with the seed money he had given her to start the boutique she dreamed of, it would be easier to reveal her lies and explain her disappearance to Hutch. At least she would be safe, reasonably happy. Hutch wouldn’t have to know Starsky had paid her. Although probably Starsky would have told Hutch about that eventually; he didn’t keep secrets from his best friend.

But this—this would be a crushing blow to his sensitive buddy who thought he might have finally found his true love.

Starsky struggled to compose himself and call for a coroner’s team and a crime lab. As he hung up the phone, he wondered how he could soften the blow, comfort this man he loved.

“What’s going on?”

A combination of panic, love, compassion, and dread filled Starsky’s heart at the sound of his partner’s voice.

Hutch saw Gillian on the floor and went to her in a daze, as if he didn’t believe his eyes.

Starsky turned away, the scene too poignant and painful for him to watch.

“She’s dead, Hutch.”

Hutch knelt next to Gillian’s body, starting to cry as he slowly caressed her arm.

“Grossman,” Starsky muttered. “Grossman.”

Hutch was still stroking her arm. “What are you talking about?” he almost whispered. “Why would he want to kill her? What are you, crazy?”

Lowering his head to rest on her chest, he cried out his love and grief.

Starsky sat on the back of the couch, dreading what he had to tell Hutch. God, help me. How do I say this to him? Please help me comfort him.

“Listen to me, buddy,” he said softly.

Hutch appeared incapable of processing the unfathomable scene. “Listen to what?” he choked. “What is this? What are you doing here? Why did – why did Huggy call me… what is this?”

”She was going to tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

Give us both strength. Show me how to help him bear it.

Starsky couldn’t think of any way to say it except straight out. “She worked for Grossman.”

Hutch turned to him in anger and disbelief. “What did you say? The only girls that work for Grossman are hookers. Are you trying to tell me that Gillian is a hooker?” His voice rose, his face contorted. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me buddy, friend?” he spat. “That my girl is a hooker, a prostitute?”

Starsky looked at him levelly, hating every moment of what he was doing. “Look around you,” he said unhappily. “What do you think bought this place?”

Hutch instantly reacted with a punch to Starsky’s jaw. But Starsky barely felt the blow. He was still desperately searching for a way to help Hutch deal with this awful loss. But he also knew that softening the impact by keeping the truth from Hutch would only delay the healing.

“You liar! You – you never did like her! You never could understand her!” Hutch cried, wrestling with Starsky on the floor in his rage and incredulity.

“That’s not true and you know it!” Starsky panted. “The last time we went to Grossman’s,  I went to the back room and I saw her in the massage parlor.”

“So what?” Hutch retorted in disgust. He stood, holding his head, then grabbed Starsky by the jacket and hauled him up to stand in front of him.

“She could have been there!” he argued, seemingly trying to convince himself as much as Starsky. “She could have been there doing an interview. She could have been talking to some people…she could have been doing a story!”

“Come on,” Starsky said in a low voice, shrugging helplessly.  “What are you gonna do, you wanna hit me again, huh?  Is that what you want?”  He looked at Hutch intensely, trying to make him understand, driving home the impact of the ugly words he knew he had to say. “She was a prostitute.” Hutch shook his head, but Starsky continued, desperate to get it over with so the recovery could begin. So he could help Hutch accept it, take some of the pain on himself. “ And there’s nothing you can do or say that’s going to change that fact.  But don’t forget that she loved you, and she was about to give all this up, just for you.”

Hutch looked over at Gillian’s lifeless body, still trying to digest the awful truth.

“That’s probably why Grossman killed her,” Starsky said gently.

Hutch shook his head and looked at Gillian again, wavering in front of Starsky.

He knows now. But I’m the one who had to tell him. God, it hurts. But he still has me. And I love him. He can lean on me.

“Hey.” Starsky said softly, compassionately.  “How many years have we known each other, huh?” Starsky’s voice broke. “You’re the best friend I’ve got in the whole world. You think I like saying things like this to you?”

Hutch’s face crumpled as he reached out for Starsky and collapsed into his friend’s arms, sobbing. Starsky held him, grieving with him, his own eyes filled with tears. He was suddenly more intensely aware than he had ever been of the depth of his feeling for this man in his arms.

Whatever you need, partner. Anything at all. Whenever you need it.

Starsky held him tight. “It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok.” He pulled Hutch closer. “Get it out, boy,” he soothed. “We’ve got some work to do.”

Starsky had to admire how Hutch was amazingly composed as they did what they had to do. Hutch was his usual strong, professional presence as they met Grossman at the theater and took him and his thugs down, even when Hutch was forced to watch Gillian’s sordid film performance. But once the adrenaline burst from the gunfight and capture and booking of Grossman and his henchmen was spent, Starsky saw Hutch visibly wilt under the heartache and strain of not only finding out the woman he loved had been deceiving him, but that she had been a prostitute, a porn actress, and murdered by her sinister employer. Starsky put his arm around Hutch’s stooped broad shoulders and squeezed them reassuringly.

“Hutch. Job well done, partner. Dobey already sent uniforms to arrest Mother Grossman. Let’s go home, huh?”

Hutch nodded miserably.

Starsky steered Hutch to the Torino, opened the passenger door, and helped him fold his long legs inside. Hutch slid bonelessly down into the seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. Starsky stole worried sideways glances at him as he drove, but Hutch didn’t move, even when Starsky slammed on the brakes and cursed at an inattentive driver who pulled out right in front of him.

“Shit!” he exploded, throwing his right arm out instinctively to protect Hutch from flying toward the windshield. “Sorry, Hutch. Asshole cut me off! You ok?”

Hutch’s only response was a deepening of the furrow between his eyebrows.

Starsky ached inside at Hutch’s pain. Love and concern for his friend welled in his chest, forcing a lump up into his throat. He made a quick decision and suddenly steered the Torino toward his place. Hutch didn’t need any reminders of the times he and Gillian had spent together at Venice Place. Starsky knew his despondent partner needed loving care and wanted to pamper him where he had his own supplies and could best provide comfort.

“Goin’ to my place, Blintz,” Starsky murmured reassuringly, rubbing Hutch’s chest. “I’m gonna take good care of you. The best.” He squeezed Hutch’s limp arm lovingly. “You don’t need to worry about a thing, babe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Starsky drove in concerned silence the rest of the way to his house. He pulled in the driveway as close as he could to the front door, got out, and opened the passenger door to help Hutch out of the Torino.

He gave Hutch a caring smile as he took Hutch’s arm. “Let’s get inside, partner. Let’s get you cleaned up, fed and comfortable.”

Hutch didn’t make eye contact with Starsky. Zombie-like, he obediently let Starsky help him out of the car and up to the front door. Starsky sat him down on his bed and started the shower.

“Here, buddy,” he said softly. “Here’s a robe. The water’s warming up for you. Think you can manage a shower? You’ll feel better.” He started helping Hutch out of his clothes.

Robotically, Hutch slowly unbuttoned and removed his shirt. Starsky pulled his shoes, socks, and jeans off, and guided him into the bathroom, hanging the robe on the hook behind the door.

“There. Water feels just about right. Get on in, ok? Everything you need should be in here. I’ll come back in a few minutes to make sure you’re doing ok.”

Starsky headed to the kitchen, dug in his cupboard, and found a can of chicken noodle soup. He put it on the stove and set about making toast to go with it. Easy on Hutch’s stomach, he thought, and at least some nourishment that was sorely needed. While he was near the freezer, he put some ice in a towel and held it against his jaw where he was suddenly aware of pain from Hutch’s blow.

The toast popped up. But as he reached for it, he heard a clatter and then what sounded like a garbled cry. He dropped the towel and raced into the bathroom, panicked.

Hutch was huddled on the shower floor, curled in a fetal position against the tile wall. He was shaking with silent sobs. The rack that had contained the soap and shampoo was on the floor, and bottles, the washcloth and cake of soap were strewn around him. He seemed oblivious to the water spraying over him.

“Oh, buddy,” Starsky choked. “Hutch. Babe, it’s all right. It’s gonna be all right.”

Starsky didn’t hesitate. Fully clothed, he swiftly got down on the shower floor to enfold Hutch in a loving embrace. The water flowed over them both as Starsky rocked Hutch gently, hugging him tight, whispering soothing words in his ear beneath the sodden, caramel-colored strands. Hutch’s body shook and he clung to Starsky desperately as Starsky willed all the love and strength he could into the desolate man in his arms. Gradually, the sobbing and shaking ebbed, until Hutch’s breathing slowed to soft, shuddering gasps. He lifted his head and looked directly at Starsky with such pain clouding his sky-blue eyes that Starsky’s heart broke.

“Aww, Hutch,” Starsky breathed. “Babe.” He laid his hand on Hutch’s wet cheek, wiped tears away with his thumb, tears that leaked from those beautiful sorrow-filled eyes as fast as the flowing water could wash them away. I love you so much. I wish I could make the hurt go away.

Hutch’s eyelids closed as he pressed his cheek against Starsky’s. Then he turned his face to his partner’s, and his trembling lips moved against the dark stubble and firm jaw, seeking urgently until with a sigh, Hutch’s lips found their match.

Starsky’s heart pounded. All thoughts fled from his head as his lips responded on their own.

How long they kissed while the spray cascaded over them, Starsky didn’t know. A few seconds? A few minutes? Frighteningly powerful emotions were rising in him. But his sense of duty for his hurting partner set off an alarm in his brain and he knew he needed to tend to Hutch, who must be out of his mind with grief.

Starsky pulled back and put his hand on Hutch’s face. Tenderly.

“Hutch.”

Hutch bowed his head. Starsky felt tremors under his hand.

“Babe. We need to get you clean and dry before the hot water runs out. C’mon. Let me help you.”

Starsky quickly stripped down to his underwear, found the soap and washcloth, and gently washed Hutch’s back until he felt the trembling subside. Sliding Hutch’s body up along the shower wall, he helped Hutch stand up, supporting part of his weight as Hutch put his arms around Starsky’s neck. Starsky lovingly washed Hutch’s torso, chest, neck, arms, and face, working around the muscular arms that held onto him for dear life. He leaned Hutch back against the shower wall and soothingly washed Hutch’s long legs and buttocks, carefully avoiding his genitals. Finding the bottle of shampoo, he massaged the aromatic suds into Hutch’s hair, taking time to scratch and rub Hutch’s scalp the way he knew Hutch loved, the way he had done absently countless times as they watched movies on the couch with Hutch’s head in his lap. The sinewy arms went back around his neck, their heads almost touching as Hutch’s eyes closed in bliss. But this time, remembering the heat of their kiss, desire stirred inside Starsky as his fingers rubbed and stroked his partner’s beloved head.

God. What am I thinking? Hutch was so traumatized, he probably hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

Like a good cop, he put the new and raw emotions out of his brain to deal with the task immediately at hand. He rinsed Hutch under the now tepid water, quickly soaped himself down and rinsed, and turned off the spray. Reaching for towels, he wrapped them around them both and led Hutch out of the shower.

“Here, Hutch. Let’s get you dry, get this robe on, and get some nice warm soup into you.”

By the time Starsky had donned his own robe and steered Hutch to the kitchen table, the soup was at a rolling boil. He quickly turned off the stove, buttered the toast, and placed it in front of Hutch.

“Here you go. Have a little of the toast while I dish up the soup.”

Hutch looked at the plate of toast, sighed, and gave his head the slightest hint of a shake.

Starsky realized that Hutch had not said a word since they had left the station. His concern intensified.

“C’mon, Blintz,” he urged softly. “Please? Just a bite?”

There was no response. Hutch just stared down at the table. Starsky went to the stove, ladled soup into a bowl, and brought it to the table. He stirred it with a spoon, blew on it, and tested it before he held a spoonful out to Hutch.

“Nice and hot, babe. It’ll feel good goin’ down.”

Hutch’s chin quivered. But he didn’t open his mouth. Instead, he looked up at Starsky, reached slowly out, and grasped Starsky’s wrist, lowering it and the spoon back to the bowl.

Starsky’s eyes begged. Hutch’s expressed an unspoken no.

“Ok,” Starsky soothed. “Maybe you’ll feel like eating after a nap. Here, I’ll turn down the bed for you.”

Leading Hutch into his bedroom, he turned down the covers, helped Hutch out of the robe and into bed, and covered him lovingly, patting the blankets under his chin. “There you go. Why don’t you just drift off. I’ll be right here.”

Hutch sighed sorrowfully.  Starsky sat on the chair next to the bed, reached out and laid his hand reassuringly on Hutch’s arm, rubbing it softly, hoping to lull him to sleep. Hutch lay quietly, but his eyes weren’t closed. He seemed to be lost in thought, somewhere far away.

Suddenly Hutch reached out and gently touched Starsky’s jaw where a bruise was forming. His eyes silently pled forgiveness. He moved his hand to cover Starsky’s and held both of their hands to his chest. Then he closed his eyes.

Starsky was filled with love for him, with the peace of just being there with him, being whatever Hutch needed. In the darkness and stillness he reminisced about their deep friendship, about how they had been there for each other so many times. He remembered how relaxed and content he felt whenever he lay on the couch listening to Hutch sing and play his guitar, as they did often to unwind after work. He closed his own eyes, then, remembering one of those sweet melodies that had been delivered so beautifully to his ears in Hutch’s smooth, clear tenor. Without thinking, he started softly singing it to Hutch, his deeper voice carrying the tune in the lower octave, as he reached up to gently stroke Hutch’s tousled, damp, silky hair over and over.

The corners of Hutch’s mouth turned up almost imperceptibly as his tension subsided and he sank into an uneasy slumber, still clutching Starsky’s hand.

Starsky fell quiet. Listening to Hutch’s shallow even breathing, with Hutch calm and taken care of for the moment, he sat in the dark and allowed himself to relive what he had felt when Hutch kissed him in the shower, to ponder what it all meant.

He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t planned it. But my God, when it happened, it was like he had been waiting for it all his life. The feel of Hutch’s need for him, his need for Hutch. The desire to be everything, give everything to Hutch, want everything from Hutch. It made him dizzy to think about. A tremor ran through his being as for the first time, he realized: Hutch is everything to me.

But Hutch was in shock, grieving. He was probably not even aware of what he had done in his desperate need. He had reached out to Starsky simply because Starsky was there. As they always were for each other.

Or was there something else behind his frantic kiss; his shock and grief breaking down barriers to allow him to show his real emotions in that moment?

Starsky lay his head down on the bed next to Hutch. He was so tired. He couldn’t figure it out right now. First they had to get through this crisis. He was thinking about how to help Hutch in the morning as he fell into a fitful doze, awkwardly bent over between the chair and the bed, his hand still clasped in Hutch’s.

“NO! NO! God, NO!”

Starsky awoke with a start. Hutch was crying, thrashing in his sleep. Starsky shook Hutch gently.

“Hutch. Wake up, babe! You’re dreaming. It’s just a dream. I’m here.”

Hutch was inconsolable, gasping. Starsky wanted to put his arms around his friend, but he was afraid that Hutch would react badly if he didn’t realize where he was or who Starsky was. He shook Hutch harder.

“Hutch! Buddy, it’s me, Starsk. You’re having a bad dream. Shhh.” He caressed Hutch’s face with his hand. “It’s ok.”

Hutch opened his eyes and came slowly aware. Starsky could see his face in the moonlight streaming in through the window. There were tears on Hutch’s cheeks and the look of sheer pain on his partner’s beloved face tore Starsky’s heart in two.

“Oh, Hutch. Buddy. It’s ok! I’m here. Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. You’re safe. Nothin’s gonna happen to you, not while I’m here.”

Hutch was crying again, silently. He clutched at Starsky in desperation and finally spoke the first conscious words he had in hours.

“Starsk! Oh…God. Thank God!” Hutch gulped, then swallowed, as recognition and awareness returned. His chest heaved as he struggled to reacquaint himself with reality. His trembling hands found Starsky’s arms and gripped them. A long moment passed while he caught his breath, eyes closed. Finally, he looked up at Starsky with tortured eyes.

“It wasn’t Gillian on the floor,” he whispered.

Starsky studied him questioningly.

Hutch’s face twisted in agony.

“Not…not in my dream. It…was—it was you.”

Starsky winced, feeling Hutch’s pain. Their pain.

Hutch held out his arms beseechingly. “Please. Starsk…H- hold me,” he begged.

Starsky instantly got in bed and laid down next to Hutch, wrapped Hutch in his strong arms and held him tight against his chest, bursting with his feelings for his shattered partner.

“Starsk,” Hutch sobbed, trembling in Starsky’s embrace. “She’s gone. But she didn’t – she didn’t really love me either. None of them do.” Once he began his anguished tirade, he couldn’t stop. He pressed his wet cheek against Starsky’s rough stubble, craving Starsky’s closeness and comfort. “Starsk! You – you’re the only person in the world….who really loves me! No one else, not even my parents, no woman for damn sure! They all reject me, or leave, or aren’t what they say they are. Only you, Starsk. In…the whole world.”

He held Starsky tighter and wept his grief and longing into Starsky’s shoulder. His painful lament hung in Starsky’s ears. The whole world. The same words Starsky had said to Hutch in Gillian’s apartment to describe the bond between them.

Starsky’s heart and eyes filled. He took Hutch’s tear-stained face between his hands.

“Oh, babe. You are my whole world.”

Hutch’s expressive, beautiful blue eyes spiraled Starsky down, down, down into his soul.

“I love you, Starsk,” Hutch whispered.

Suddenly there was no mystery shrouding that urgent, passionate kiss under the steaming shower.

“Hutch,” Starsky breathed. “I love you, too.”

Their arms tightened around each other as they pressed their foreheads together, then buried their faces in each other’s shoulders.

Starsky’s mind raced, his heart hammered in his chest. Images of the depth and intensity of their relationship whirled in his head, so much more profound than just his recently awakened desire. So many years of friendship, loyalty, laying down their lives for one another. Strength, support, laughter, tears – selfless, fierce love. And the images were followed with more vignettes of this day that had ended up with them here, holding each other in such a different way.

One recent memory stood out. He smiled against the pulse beating strongly in Hutch’s neck, recalling the moment vividly.

“Even Gillian knew that, babe.  She told me…she knew how much I love you.”

Hutch gave a ragged sigh. They held each other close, basking in the newness of their revelation and the juxtaposition of such sorrow and joy at the same time. There was no need for further words, or escalation of physical touch. For now, this was more than enough.

Starsky couldn’t remember feeling so content, so complete, even though exhaustion threatened to claim him, and he knew it had already claimed Hutch. He didn’t know what would happen next between himself and Hutch. All he knew was that whatever it was – deeper friendship, bodily intimacy, commitment, all of which he would welcome – it would be with the man he loved, and who loved him, by his side.

Hutch stirred against him, fitting seamlessly from chest to belly to thigh. “I’m so tired, babe…but I can’t seem to relax… I want to sleep here, holding you.” He raised his head, rubbed Starsky’s nose with his. “Sing to me again, Starsk? It’s so beautiful.”

Starsky didn’t have Hutch’s talent, and he knew it. But there was no self-consciousness in him as he opened his heart fully to impart all the peace and love he could, and he knew music could do that in ways unspoken. A song he had learned on his guitar began to play in his mind.  One he really liked, a Jim Croce song. Hutch had heard him sing it many times before, but this time as Starsky sang in his soothing, husky baritone, the mood of the music descended upon both of them and permeated their souls with profound and transcendent meaning.

“…every time I tried to tell you,
the words just came out wrong,
so I’ll have to say I love you in a song…”

The comforting words and melody settled on them in the still darkness and cloaked them both with serenity and promise. Hutch’s body relaxed. As his breathing became slow and regular, Starsky very softly sang the last chorus, then gently, tenderly kissed the silky blond wisps on his partner’s forehead before he joined Hutch in peaceful slumber.