Just Yesterday Morning

Starsky searches for a runaway Hutch.

Answer to a 20 minute challenge with the theme: Fire and Water.

Starsky ordered a beer from the waitress he flagged down. He’d been on the road for a week—not sure if he’d find what he was looking for. He stretched his leg under the table, kneaded the tight muscle on his thigh, and tried to ignore the way his lower back twinged.

“The grill’s gonna close in a half hour,” the waitress said. Her name tag read Kimmy. “Better order now if you want anything hot.”

“Burger’s fine. Fries.” Starsky gave her a smile. It felt weird on his face when he’d been wearing a worried frown for the last few weeks.

Damn it, Hutch. He dragged a finger through the water ring left on the table as he lifted the glass to his lips. It tasted like nothing…just as every meal and every drink had since Hutch had disappeared with only a note.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this any more.”

Why the hell didn’t you talk to me, Hutch? Why couldn’t you tell me? I thought we were partners, best friends. Why’d you have to take off in the middle of the night after that last close call? Why didn’t you call me to at least let me know you were safe? You think I don’t worry about you?

He knew he was on the right trail—Hutch hadn’t hid his credit card usage or tried to disguise himself. He wasn’t making it easy though. His car was left in a small town three days ago and he’d bought a junker possibly even worse than the one he’d had before.

It was always the sea with Hutch—trying to escape demons by letting them ride out with high tides. So Starsky had followed the Pacific Coast Highway north, pulling off into little towns, showing Hutch’s picture, and getting confirmation he was on the right track.

Maybe he should turn back to Bay City. Maybe Hutch was even now turned towards home. Hutch surely wouldn’t leave for good.

The waitress deposited his burger and fries just as the lights in the tavern dimmed and an overweight man Starsky guessed was the owner took the small stage.

“Welcome to open mic night,” the man said. “We’ve got a bunch of regulars and a few brave new folks for our entertainment tonight.”

The audience whistled and clapped. Starsky ate his meal slowly, dreading going back to his motel room. Adequate, but lonely when there wasn’t a Hutch to share his bed.

He sat through a comedian’s act who was never going to make it big, but was entertaining enough, a woman who only thought she could sing but was still given polite applause, a rock band that was made up more of enthusiasm than talent, and a man who left the stage when his magic trick didn’t work. Starsky motioned for the waitress and asked for his bill at a lull in the action.

He left her a big tip and decided using the bathroom before he’d go back to the motel would be a good idea.

He was washing his hands when he heard the first chords of Fire and Rain and a voice he’d recognize anywhere.

“…seen fire and I’ve seen rain….”

He couldn’t move and he froze, the water running over his hands as he stared at his own shocked expression in the mirror.

“….lonely times when I could not find a friend…”

You have me, Hutch. When have we not been there for each other? Hutch’s arm cradling him close, Hutch’s hand closing over his, his grasping Hutch’s, Hutch’s joy and disbelief when he woke from the coma, tight against each other in bed laughing over stuffed veal and being drenched in sprinkler water.

“But I always thought that I’d see you again.”

I’m here. Hutch, I’m here.

And suddenly he was running from the bathroom and standing to the side of the little stage, away from the lights, and the music stopped.

“I’m here. You can see me. I’m right here.” His voice was hoarse as if he’d been yelling.

And Hutch’s gaze bored into his with guilt and wonder and sorrow.

Hutch stepped down from the stage—two steps and was in front of Starsky.

“Come with me,” Starsky said beneath the talking and the clink of glasses and the introduction of another act. “Come home where you belong.”

Hutch swallowed. Starsky watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down in the strong column of his throat.

“We’ll work it out. We’ll quit. We’ll stay cops. We’ll run away to Bolivia. We’ll move to the mountains and I’ll help you build a log cabin and won’t complain. Just…come.”

“Yes,” Hutch said and nodded.

They walked out of the tavern, Hutch on Starsky’s right where he belonged, into the clear night, and, in the dark, Hutch took Starsky’s hand, familiar calluses and broad fingers warm against Starsky’s own, and the world shifted back to where it was meant to be.