Lay Your Burdens Soft Upon My Breast

262

Sometimes re-discovering yourself is the hardest part of coming out from undercover.

---

He stinks—the odors of cigarette smoke, spilled beers, and the sweat of too many bodies permeate not only the air and his clothes, but his pores as well.

“Henderson.”

Hutch turns to face his comrade in crime. “Walters. What you want?” He takes a drag on his cigarette before snuffing it out on the scarred table.

Sneaky Pete Walters drops down on the chair across from him. “Boss wants to know when the shipment you promised is coming.”

“You tell your boss,” Hutch makes sure to sneer the word as he leans over into Sneaky Pete’s space, “not to forget who’s in charge of this operation. Think your brain can hold onto that until you see ‘Bossman’ again?”

“I got it. I got it.” Walters spits out—hands up in surrender. “It’s your racket and his. Not mine.” He gives a nervous laugh. “I’ll tell him.”

Hutch settles back into his own chair, fighting the urge to gag at the smell from Walters’ rotten teeth. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Tuesday. Shipment coming into the warehouse at one am. He and his crew better be there at midnight.”

“Sure. I’ll tell him.” Walters bobs his head in agreement and scurries away.

Watching him go, Hutch wishes he could follow. One more day—he can handle one more day of this god-forsaken assignment. He finds himself lighting another cigarette, relaxing as the nicotine hits on that first long draw.

Starsky’s going to be pissed when he comes back and has to go cold turkey. He gives a rough laugh as he thinks of Starsky already bitching about his moodiness while he goes through nicotine withdrawal. But he knows he’ll find his favorite chewing gum stashed everywhere—his desk, his car.

Fuck, he’s tired of this. Three months away from Starsky, thrown into this…mess…not even a month after Starsky is out of the hospital after Gunther.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, stubs out the cigarette, and walks out of the bar, into the city night.

Every thing goes exactly to plan on Tuesday. Hutch has been at the warehouse with Martin and his gang since midnight.

Martin paces, looking over at Hutch each time he turns.

“I told you it’s coming right at one,” Hutch finally snaps. He lights yet another cigarette. It’s his third of the hour.

“Don’t know how they do things in Chicago, Henderson, but here in Bay City, we don’t like people who don’t deliver.”

“In Chicago, we don’t like people who make deals in bad faith.” Hutch takes one last long draw and then throws the cigarette on the floor, grinding it under his expensive Italian shoe. “Let’s see the cash.”

Martin snaps his fingers at one of his lackeys and the goon brings over a briefcase handcuffed to one wrist. Martin undoes it with a key and then opens it. “It’s all there. Thirty thousand.”

Hutch makes a show of picking up a stack of bills, pulling one and holding it to the light as if he thinks it might be counterfeit. He puts it back with a nod.

At precisely one a.m., the doors to the warehouse open and a truck pulls in. Hutch feels the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He’s weaponless—he knew Martin’s men would take his weapon going in.

This is the most dangerous time of the whole operation. The money has to change hands. Hutch sends up a silent plea to the universe at large.

‘Please make sure no one has an itchy trigger finger.‘ He’s so close to being back home—home with Starsky where he belongs, where his world becomes safe and he feels love surrounding him. He pulls his mind back to the task at hand.

The exchange goes smoothly. He shakes Martin’s hand—the agreed upon signal that shit is about to get real and they finally chop off the final head of Gunther’s hydra—cauterize it, burn the monster to ashes. And maybe once and for all, Hutch can forget about Gunther and all he has done to the innocents, but most of all, to Starsky.

He shakes as the arrests go down, but he does his job. No one pulls a gun as the feds and BCPD overwhelm Martin and his men. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The litany repeats over and over in his brain.

He retrieves his gun from Martin’s right hand man as he is being frisked, and hopes that the way his hand trembles as he holds it goes unnoticed.

Starsky, Starsky. It’s all he can think as men are loaded into waiting police cruisers and speed off to Metro.

Hutch loses track of time over the next hours. He meets with the feds to debrief. He meets with the police commissioner and Dobey and people he can’t remember the names of. He fills out paperwork. He digs in his pockets for cigarettes and remembers he threw what remained of his last pack in the trash as he walked into the precinct—the first step to regaining his identity. His hands shake every now and again, but he tells himself that soon it will be over and he’ll be home again. He drinks coffee, bitter and strong. He stares at himself in the mirror in the men’s room while he washes his hands and doesn’t recognize the hollow-eyed, bearded, thin face that stares back.

He sits in Dobey’s office and hides his shaking hands. He answers the questions put to him mechanically. Doing his job, just like always. He begins to have trouble following the conversation going on around him, although he finds out he wasn’t the only one undercover. Martin’s right hand man, the one who breathed in his face and held a gun to his head for a brief moment, is a federal agent. He’s too tired to feel used. He’s been used up long ago.

He meets Dobey’s assessing gaze and when Dobey raises his eyebrows, Hutch shakes his head. Not worth it. It doesn’t matter. Martin is over and done. Hutch wonders why he feels so empty while everyone else around him celebrates.

He watches the sky turn a brighter blue and tries to calculate how long it’s been since he’s been able to spend his days outside in the fresh air instead of smoky bars and warehouses. Suddenly he longs for the feel of sun on his face and wind in his hair.

Tuning back into the conversation with what little energy he seems to have left, he catches enough to know all his work has been that of nothing more than a pawn. This had been a federal operation from start to finish. Too bad no one bothered to tell him.

“Hutch.”

He looks up from studying his shoes to find Dobey looking at him with concern. It’s just him and the captain, the others gone for he doesn’t know how long. From the way Dobey is watching, he thinks it might have been some time.

“Go home,” Dobey says. Hutch watches Dobey’s mouth form the words as his hearing seems to slip in and out.

“Yeah.” Hutch stands up and has to put out a hand to keep his balance. He tries to remember the last time he slept a full night, the last time he ate a decent meal, and can’t.

Dobey calls something after him as he leaves the office and walks through the squad room but he doesn’t pay attention.

He’s out on the parking lot before he realizes he doesn’t have a car to drive home in. He’s spent the last months in a Cadillac that’s locked up somewhere now. His own is sitting at home, at Starsky’s, no, their apartment.

“Hey.”

The voice carries over the asphalt. Hutch would recognize it anywhere.

Starsky sits on the hood of the Torino. Arms crossed over his chest at first, they open as Hutch walks towards him.

Hutch feels as if an invisible string draws him closer. He can’t help but run an assessing eye over Starsky who looks healthy and whole in a way he hasn’t since the middle of May.

There’s too many people around for Hutch to grab Starsky and hang on, but Starsky slides off, puts a hand on Hutch’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

Much as he wants to look in Starsky’s eyes, he can’t…quite. He hasn’t shaken off Kenneth Henderson and become Hutch again.

“Let’s go home,” Starsky says, his voice low and safe.

Hutch nods and slides into the familiar passenger seat of the Torino. He glances over at Starsky—sunglasses on, hands on the wheel—steady and sure. Starsky is smiling—not a huge grin, but one of those contented smiles that usually makes Hutch happy down to his toes. But now—now he’s empty.

He opens the glove box, pulls out the pack of gum he knew would be there and tries to still his shaking fingers to peel off the outside wrapper. The spearmint helps his sinuses as he begins to chew. He takes in a deeper breath and starts coughing. Hutch knows Starsky will insist on him being seen by a doctor tomorrow. His lungs have never been quite right since the plague. A couple months of smoking has left him with a wheeze that he’s been doing his best to ignore.

Starsky moves one of his hands from the steering wheel to rest it on Hutch’s thigh. Hutch covers it with his own and tries to absorb Starsky’s strength into himself.

He studies their hands—Starsky’s darker skin against his own sun deprived pallor, Starsky’s fingers, nimble and slender compared to his broader, blunter ones. He wants to pick up that hand and press kisses to Starsky’s palm. But he resists. Not in public, not even in the safety of the Torino.

Looking over at Starsky as he drives, he reacquaints himself with his partner, his lover. With his jawline and the start of five o’clock shadow, with the way Starsky’s curls catch the sun just so and bring out the richness of the brown, with the curl of Starsky’s eyelashes—dark and lush unlike his own nearly invisible blond ones, with the smell of him—sandalwood soap and something he’s never been able to identify except that he knows it means Starsky. And then…Starsky glances over at him when they come to a stop at a red light. Starsky’s eyes are dark with concern, that blue that makes Hutch think of twilight and the deep of the ocean.

“You doing okay?” They are the first words Starsky’s spoken since that brief ‘hey’ in the parking lot.

Hutch lowers his gaze. Their relationship has always been based on honesty and the few times they weren’t honest it had gone to shit. So he takes a breath, shakes his head, and says, “No.”

He isn’t able to bear the frank understanding that radiates from Starsky at his simple admission, so he turns his head away and stares out the window. He tries desperately to swallow the huge lump suddenly appearing in his throat and ignore the way his eyes start burning.

Underneath his hand, Starsky turns his hand palm up and interlaces his fingers with Hutch’s. Starsky hangs on to him through the rest of the drive.

When he walks into Starsky’s, no, their apartment because he’s never moved out after bringing Starsky home after Gunther, he feels his shoulders loosen for the first time since he walked out and into the person of Henderson months ago.

“Take a shower. All the time you need.” Starsky draws him into a hug, places a gentle kiss on Hutch’s neck.

Hutch wants to wrap his arms around Starsky and hang on for dear life, but his arms don’t seem to want to work the way he wants, so he simply nods and makes his way to the bathroom.

He turns on the shower, adjusts the water—warm to banish the shaking and emptiness, sheds his clothes in a heap on the floor, and steps in.

For a long time, Hutch lets the water flow over him. He stands eyes closed, trying to imagine only Starsky instead of the filth he’s seen the past months. It doesn’t work as well as he hopes.

He starts to scrub away the dirty feeling he has. As much as he soaps up and shampoos his hair, he swears he can still smell smoke seeping from his pores, taste the sourness of the men he dealt with, feel the blood of addicts on his hands even though he never did more than set up the deal.

Warm water beats down on his shoulders, and he tells himself that the tears falling are only from the shampoo he has in his eyes. He’s lying to himself and knows it.

Starsky comes in the bathroom. Hutch hears him gathering up his dirty clothes. The knowledge of Starsky doing such a little, thankless task touches him. Unbidden, he gasps before letting out an unwilling sob.

Outside the shower curtain, there’s a pause in Starsky’s movements. Hutch sees his shadow, blurred. But then Starsky resumes, and Hutch takes a deep breath. No matter what, Starsky is there—his north star, his steadfast rock. He could call out Starsky’s name and Starsky would come in fully clothed to tell him everything would be alright. But Hutch—and Starsky—stay silent. And that’s okay. Because he knows Starsky understands him better today than he understands himself.

When Hutch finally emerges from the shower, scrubbed clean, he notices the clothes he wore as Henderson are gone. Probably in a garbage bag and placed on the curb ready to be picked up with tomorrow’s trash. He can’t say he’s sorry to see them go. The Italian shoes pinched his feet, the ties made him feel like he was headed to court, and the button down shirts and jacket made him feel like he was his father. He spies his favorite green t-shirt and jeans along with his navy blue sweater laying carefully folded on the sink counter. There’s a fresh toothbrush and a new tube of his favorite mint toothpaste—the one he rarely buys because it’s more expensive than Crest. Starsky has put a bottle of mouthwash there too and another pack of gum.

Hutch spends more time than usual brushing his teeth and then gargling with Listerine. Maybe that will take away the stale lingering taste of betrayal and cigarettes. He avoids looking in the mirror and repeats the whole process once more.

Rubbing his hand over his face, he feels the bristle of a fine beard and the ever familiar mustache. He finally meets his own eyes in the mirror. The shower didn’t take away the dark circles under his eyes or the gauntness in his cheeks. He wonders why Martin never questioned the haggard look of his so-called partner in crime. He grabs shaving cream, fills the sink with hot water, and tries to make himself back into that Hutch who believed in justice and making a difference. He finds scissors after the shave and snips at his hair making it shorter than it’s been in a long time—it’s not going to look good. But he needs to do this alone, not let Starsky be a part of it. There will be time for a proper hair cut later.

Transformation complete, Hutch sticks another piece of gum in his mouth and dresses—comfortable in clothes that are his—Ken Hutchinson’s. The t-shirt smells of the laundry detergent Starsky insists they buy and Hutch holds it to his nose for a moment and just breathes in the scent of home.

He’s dismayed to find the jeans don’t fit the way they should—and knows Starsky is going to have something to say about the weight he’s lost. He coughs a few times—his chest loosened from the steamy air.

Finally he opens the door, glad for the sweater as the cooler air of the hallway hits him. He can hear Starsky in the kitchen, singing along to a song Hutch doesn’t recognize. He sniffs and the aroma of Starsky’s grandma’s homemade spaghetti sauce-courtesy of the Italian restaurant she lived over when Starsky was a kid—fills his nostrils. For the first time in months, he feels his stomach rumble in anticipation of a meal.

Hutch makes his way to the kitchen. Who’s he kidding? He’s really headed toward Starsky. He leans against the opposite wall and watches Starsky at work, his hips swaying along to the music, his ass covered by well-worn jeans that have a half torn pocket. As Starsky bends over to put a tray with garlic bread in the oven, his shirt rides up a tiny bit, exposing pale skin. Hutch wonders what Starsky’s scars look like now and he lets his eyes drift upwards as Starsky straightens.

Starsky’s red shirt covers any sign of scarring, of course. But Starsky stands with straight shoulders, no hunching in pain as he first did when he got out of the hospital. Hutch feels his own shoulders let go of tension when he sees that.

“You could set the table,” Starsky says without turning around, startling Hutch out of his reverie. “Make yourself useful, blintz.”

Hutch grabs plates out of the cabinet and puts them on the placemats Hutch’s mom sent him when she knew he and Starsky moved in together. They are bright and cheerful—sunflowers and all kinds of birds. Green and growing things—far removed from the dirt and blood on his hands. Just the thought of the gun in his hand, the fact that he might have to use it sets his hands shaking again. He returns for silverware and grips the forks and knives tightly so they don’t rattle in his hand.

He studies the table and then retrieves the candlesticks and some tapers from a drawer. He remembers a long ago dinner he made for Starsky, after Helen, when he knew he loved his partner more than a partner should. He grabs matches from a drawer, and he strikes one to light the candles, blowing out the flame of the match, and then coughing. He sees Starsky’s shoulders stiffen at the sound of his cough and then relax as he stops.

“Nice,” Starsky says with a nod towards the candles when he brings a full platter to the table. He puts it down—one of Hutch’s favorite meals. Chicken parmigiana with a side of pasta. Starsky goes back and retrieves a big bowl of salad, and Hutch has to blink a few times at the gesture.

There is one quick glance at Hutch’s face and hair, and only Hutch can recognize the surprise and question in Starsky’s eyes.

His stomach is rumbling, but the chicken and sauce reminds him of Starsky lying in the back room of an Italian restaurant while he tries desperately to keep everyone alive. He fills a side plate with salad and crunches on iceberg lettuce, radish, and carrots. It’s cold and tasteless, and he hopes Starsky doesn’t notice how little he eats otherwise.

But he feels Starsky studying him even as he keeps his eyes lowered. He cuts the chicken into tiny pieces and makes an effort to show Starsky he is grateful for the meal.

“Babe,” Starsky says.

Hutch looks up and meets Starsky’s understanding gaze. It’s almost more than he can bear. He looks away and closes his eyes.

He finally says what he has been feeling ever since the warehouse where his hands shook just holding his gun, and he wanted nothing more than to hide behind the crates and puke up all the pollution and filth he’s been surrounded with for the past months. “No more.”

He hears Starsky’s sharp intake of breath and then, just as quickly, a long, slow exhale. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Hutch admits.

“How ’bout the beginning?” Starsky’s voice is soft, caring, but yet it demands nothing less than Hutch’s whole truth.

Suddenly Hutch is transported back years to the dingy room above Huggy’s bar—Starsky sitting knee to knee with him saying, “Names,” and “How many?” and not allowing him to give up without a fight. He’d obeyed that demand then, he has no problem obeying it now.

He looks at the candle, at the wax slowing dripping down the taper, at the way the light casts a small shadow, and begins with the first day he’d gone under.

Hutch isn’t quite sure how they wind up on the couch, but here they are. Starsky is sitting crosswise facing him—his legs pulled up with a grace Hutch is eternally thankful for after…well, after Gunther.

There are things Hutch can’t say—Starsky wasn’t a part of the operation after all. But the things he can say—the way he missed Starsky on those long nights alone, the way he tasted fear with every cigarette he smoked, and finally the way his hands shook in the warehouse, he unburdens into Starsky’s waiting heart.

He holds his hands out. The shaking has stopped—mostly.

“See?” he asks Starsky.

Starsky ever so slowly takes Hutch’s hands in his. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Hutch wants to believe that’s true. He feels his eyes fill with tears but he swallows hard and blinks them away.

“It’s time, Hutch,” Starsky says. “And I promise it’s gonna be okay.”

“But you…Starsk.. If you don’t go back, he wins. Gunther wins.” Hutch’s throat hurts with saying the words.

Starsky shakes his head, and Hutch watches the curls bounce. He’s always been entranced by Starsky’s hair. “I’m alive. I have you the way I’ve dreamed. I’d say I’ve won the World Series, Super Bowl, and Triple Crown all in one.”

“You’re sure?” Hutch whispers.

“I’m sure. I don’t wanna be anyone’s partner but yours.”

Hutch closes his eyes and leans into the hand Starsky has placed against his cheek.

Starsky rubs his thumb over Hutch’s bare upper lip. “You’re BCPD’s golden boy bringing down Gunther, I’m their miracle. The BCPD is our oyster. And if we don’t get a pearl from them, it’s their loss.”

Hutch can’t help it—he starts to laugh. Only Starsky. It’s that pure optimism that everything will be okay that does it. He laughs until he doesn’t. Until those tears he’s held at bay for what seems like forever finally fall, just like he does into Starsky’s embrace.

He lets Starsky guide him to their bed sometime later. Starsky curls up behind him, holding him tight, and more important, safe.

Starsky’s breath is warm against his neck. “Tomorrow,” Starsky says in the dark, “we get this hair cleaned up. That’s all you need to think about for now.”

Hutch nods and tightens his fingers over the hand on his belly, and he finally surrenders in peace to whatever comes next.