More Than Words

Starsky’s anguish was palpable. Hutch watched him from the kitchen, pretending he was cleaning the breakfast dishes, but in reality, he was trying to find a way to renew Starsky’s joy.

He’d been released from the hospital a month ago into a post recovery unit. The therapists there had put him on a regime of exercises and classes to gain muscle strength and weight. They’d pushed Starsky to participate in group sessions, as well as individual ones. He’d gone through the motions, nothing piercing his distant affect or putting happiness back into his eyes.

After that joyous day in the hospital, when Hutch brought stuffed veal, Dobey a tray of antipasto big enough to feed six, and Huggy some wine and a lantern, Starsky’s mood had plummeted. He was living, but could now see the scope of his future. His career as cop was in jeopardy, his life utterly changed.

With Starsky home for over two weeks, Hutch didn’t know what more to do. He’d reduced his hours vastly, rarely working on the streets so he had more time with his partner. Then, when a position in the cold case department opened up, he’d jumped at the chance to work there. It was an often a neglected job for those on their way to retirement, but Hutch could see much potential—especially if Starsky returned to the force.

“I’m going grocery shopping this morning,” he said to Starsky. “You want to come? Pick out dinner?”

“Nah.” Starsky stared at the TV playing some inane fifties family comedy.

Hutch was fully aware he wasn’t actually watching the father scolding his rebellious son. It was just something to stare at. A way to wall off the world from his inner torment.

“Steak or a big, crunchy green salad with artichoke hearts?” he asked, if only to get a rise out of Starsky. He missed his friend. His partner—and lover. Their relationship had been so new when Starsky was shot and had put their romance on hold. It was all Hutch could do not to gather Starsky into his arms and hug the stuffing out of him.

Except he knew Starsky would not welcome that intimacy whatsoever.

So, Hutch waited until Starsky would look up at him, those ever blue eyes sincere, and initiate a kiss.

“Two hours at the most,” Hutch promised, gazing at Starsky before leaving. Felt like something broke inside of him and he had no super glue to repair the damage.

Flipping on the radio, Hutch held his breath as the mournful but gorgeous guitar from Sounds of Silence commenced. “Hello, darkness, my old friend…”

It so exactly fit his mood—not to mention Starsky’s—that he choked up. “People talking without speaking…” He knew why Starsky was depressed, why he roamed the house like a ghost, but how to break through his fear?

Turning into the mall with the local Von’s, he spied a new shop bedecked with a bright red and white GRAND OPENING banner draped across the front. It was located next to the grocery but Hutch rarely paid much attention to such things. He usually had only a short time to do the shopping and didn’t linger in the rest of the mall.

Something internal and needy pulled him from his mental list of vegetables, milk, and chicken into the brand new store.

A bell jangled when he pushed open the door to a cornucopia of delights, each one of which would have enticed Starsky’s inner child. Should he rush home and drag Starsky from the living room to bring him to the kitschy emporium?

No. In time, this would be Starsky’s favorite haunt, but right now, he needed to be gently coaxed.

“Welcome to The Treasure Trove,” a red haired woman called out from the cashier counter. “Can I help you?”

Glancing around, Hutch saw a handful of people grazing on the merchandise. “So much to see,” he hedged. “Looking for…”

There, on a display of puzzles, was his nirvana. There were dozens to choose from, but Hutch didn’t take a moment to peruse the selection. One puzzle featured black and white stills of an iconic comedy duo.

His eyes stinging with the threat of the tears that he’d banked successfully while listening to Simon and Garfunkel, Hutch picked up the box, examining each photo. The picture that cemented the deal was the pair standing side by side, incredibly similar to the way he and Starsky had dressed once to perform in a talent show for a teacher friend of theirs. The fact that they’d never actually gotten to present the routine they’d practiced had always rankled Starsky. A child abuse case had superseded their free time, and the day of the talent show had passed unnoticed.

“This,” Hutch said to the saleslady.

He was in and out of the shop in under five minutes but felt oddly lightened. He wasn’t sure why but thought maybe he’d found a way to communicate with Starsky.

Some hot chocolate would pair perfectly with puzzle making, despite the mid-August heat. He added that to his grocery list.

~~**~~

Removing the statue of Psyche and Cupid kissing to the top of the piano, Hutch set out the puzzle box on the coffee table, all without saying a word to Starsky.

For his part, Starsky hardly moved until Hutch ripped the plastic off the box and tossed it on the floor. For a moment, Starsky’s fingers twitched as if he couldn’t quite tolerate the litter. His eyes had never strayed from the TV screen, but he’d reacted, which gave Hutch a crumb of hope.

Twenty-year-old family comedies had segued into some game show Hutch didn’t recognize, so he concentrated on examining the jumble of pieces inside the box. He fit two together immediately, Hardy’s distinctive face with a side-eye towards what would undoubtedly be his partner, Laurel.

Sorting through a few more pieces, Hutch started one edge. Which it would turn out to be was the intriguing question at this point. The entire border was black, the photos scattered across as if pinned to a bulletin board. There were a few post-it type notes between with quotes from various movies.

Hutch stood, heading into the kitchen where he’d left the cocoa. He heated up milk and stirred in chocolate, watching Starsky. The heavenly scent of warm chocolate perfumed the air.

A commercial for underarm deodorant began, and finally Starsky shifted, looking over at the boxful of tiny bits of Stan and Ollie. His fingers moved reflexively, as if drawn to the puzzle but resisting the temptation. He touched one, pulling his hand away reluctantly just as Hutch carried his warm mug to the couch.

Along the way, he reached over and turned the TV off. Starsky startled, flicking his gaze at Hutch before curling more deeply into the afghan on his lap.

Hutch gifted him the cheeriest smile he could muster under the circumstances and bent over the pile of pieces, sipping his hot chocolate. Locating part of a bowler hat, he set it to one side. That could belong to either Laurel or Hardy. In short order, he found five bowler hats, collecting them into a hat area.

“There’s one,” Starsky said.

Nearly choking on the liquid chocolate in his throat, Hutch swallowed hastily without spewing. “Where?”

Starsky pointed to the left side of the box, and sure enough, there was not one but two half bowlers. Amazingly, they fit together perfectly. Hutch glanced at his partner, hoping for any sign of that astonishing intelligence and playfulness that was usually Starsky’s signature.

Had he found something to pique Starsky’s interest?

He gulped down more chocolate. “Oh, sorry—” Hutch lifted the mug. “Did you want some?” They’d so often drunk from the same cup that he was about to hand it over, reluctant to shatter the fragile sense of camaraderie present for the first time in days.

Starsky held out his hand, brushing Hutch’s fingers like a breeze drifting past on a hot day. Hutch relinquished the cup with a joyful heart. He waited until Starsky took a sip before going back to his puzzling. In a few minutes, he’d located a bevy of edge bits, as well as various glimpses of bowties, segments of mustaches under a nose, and one very clear portion of Laurel’s face.

“Remember…” Starsky said hesitantly.

Hutch flicked his eyes at Starsky, praying for more. Where he’d once groused that Starsky could chatter for an entire stakeout on myriad trivial subjects, this last week, he would have prayed for Starsky to give an opinion or show interest in anything.

“Oh, Ollie…” Starsky sounded so sad. He had both clasped hands around the mug to return the last of the chocolate.

His heart breaking, Hutch accepted the cup. “Starsk, I know you’re blue. I am here for you, ready to listen.”

“When we were going to play—” Starsky waved a hand at the comedy duo on the lid. “You were Ollie, and I was…”

“Stan,” Hutch whispered, wondering where this reminiscing would lead.

“It was so much fun, just hanging with you, dressed like comedy gold…” Starsky toyed with a piece, selecting another seemingly at random and clicked them together. “Until it wasn’t, and we met those kids.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, eyes glistening with unshed tears, but he ducked his head, scanning the uncoupled pieces. Again, he chose one, and after only a few seconds of gazing at the rest, picked up its mate to link them. “Guy broke my heart. I coulda been him.”

Although his instinct was to pull Starsky into a hug, Hutch followed his example, hunting for edge pieces without engaging. Every once in a while, their hands touched briefly. “He could have been you as a child,” Hutch said finally. “The resemblance was remarkable.”

Starsky nodded as if his head was too heavy to lift. “I didn’t think anything could be worse. Of all the cases we’d investigated, everything. That boy.” He sniffed, a tear running down the plane of his cheek. “That sweet boy, t’have to live with that mom. My mom was never any kinda saint, but she…didn’t hurt me like that. Never.”

Hutch shifted over on the cushion, pulling Starsky against him. “You faced a lot of challenges and pushed ahead. Remember when we ran into Guy’s dad about six months later?”

“He said the kid was getting therapy, doing good in school.” Starsky wiggled free to grab three segments of the puzzle. He slotted them into a unit and connected that to a couplet he’d already assembled. About half of one of the photographs, Laurel and Hardy grinning at one another, appeared like magic.

Amazed at Starsky’s ease with puzzling, Hutch realized that one of the bowler hats would click into place there, but he needed one more connecting part.

“Thing is,” Starsky’s fingers flicked through the majority of pieces inside the box and he rapidly captured two edges, a portion of a striped jacket, and three mismatched shoes. “I been shot—”

“Yeah.” Absolutely no way to dispute that bald truth. Hutch took an edge piece from Starsky, linking several into a line, the frame of the puzzle beginning to take form. How had he never known about this incredible ability Starsky had for finding pieces?

“I got shot—twice in that restaurant.” Starsky tapped a corner piece into place and held out two more to Hutch. “Once in that shitty old barn. Got better both times, really fast.” His breathing was harsh, a raspy gasp. He was clearly trying not to cry. “But I don’t think that’s gonna happen this time. Three’s the limit.”

“Starsky.” Hutch folded his lover into his arms, their arms and legs folding around one another like the pieces on the puzzle, fitting perfectly. “You are better than anyone I know. The shooting, the scars, didn’t change you.”

“I’m…broken, Hutch,” Starsky whispered into the warmth of Hutch’s neck. “Can hardly walk without getting winded. My chest aches when I practice drawin’ a gun—not a cop anymore.”

Hutch settled back with Starsky’s head against his shoulder, considering how to address the issue. It would scare the hell out of him to have Starsky back on the streets, investigating crimes with him. He wanted to coil bubble wrap around Starsky to keep him safe, to keep him alive. All the while, he knew the decision was not his to make. Maybe it was ultimately the medical team’s evaluation, but Starsky had to live with that for the rest of his life. Be okay with what lay in his future, or both he and Starsky would be shattered. “I could be flip and say, then don’t practice drawing your gun.”

Earned him a huffy sound from Starsky’s throat, perilously close to a chuckle.

“Instead, I ask, in all honesty, is that what you want to do?” Hutch brushed his cheek on Starsky’s springy curls, relishing the chance to be able to. “Or is it just the challenge to prove that you could requalify for the force? To get back at Gunther for trying to take that away from you?” And from me, he thought silently.

“I feel like that puzzle,” Starsky admitted. “All the bits of me mixed up—like I can’t even begin putting me back together. I never thought about bein’ anything but a cop—with you.”

“We’re doing this puzzle as a team.” Hutch looked down at him. Was it his imagination or was there more color in Starsky’s face, something deep settling into the space it fit into? “I am always here to help put you back together.”

“I know.” Starsky swallowed, pressing one hand against Hutch’s flannel covered chest.

Remarkably, he shifted, angling his lips into position to kiss Hutch. It was soft, gentle and ever so brief, but for Hutch, it meant the world.

“I would flip burgers at McDonald’s as long as you were at the fries area,” Hutch vowed, his heart loosening from the knot that had resided inside his chest for weeks.

“You wouldn’t last two days in a fast food kitchen. All that grease,” Starsky said with more heat, laughing. He stroked his thumb along Hutch’s sideburn, eyes going sideways to the mound of pieces. “Laurel at six o’clock.”

“Huh?” It took Hutch a tad longer than it should have to figure out what Starsky was referring to. There at the apex of the square box was a piece with Stan’s face. He grinned, giving Starsky a quick smooch before retrieving it.

“Goes there,” Starsky said without moving out of the curve of Hutch’s embrace. He flicked a finger along the already assembled edge section.

Sure enough, when Hutch scoped out the box lid, the segment with Laurel’s face slotted into place at the upper right. “How do you do that?” Hutch marveled.

“Do what?” Starsky took a deep breath, something easing from his eyes. The teasing joy that had briefly lit him from the inside was gone, but he was far less lost. Leaning forward, he stirred the pieces with one hand, sifting them through his fingers like grains of sand. Two remained when he’d finished, a black piece and a section of a hand with a raised forefinger. Ruminating on the assembled sections after a glance at the lid art, he tucked the finger next to one of the bowler hats. “Those two are part of that picture. And the black piece is probably one of their coats.”

An image on the lid showed the comedians posed identically on one foot, their fingers up as if dancing to a tune only they could hear.

Hutch shook his head in wonder. “You see the smallest details. Be a whiz in the cold case department.”

“Never pass the physical,” Starsky said tiredly, agitating the pieces again.

“Old man Emerson wouldn’t either, at this point,” Hutch said, a cluster of ideas rising just as he found another raised finger piece. Since the two movie stars had both hands in the same position, that meant there were two more to locate. He sat quietly, feeling the warmth of Starsky’s leg against his, sensing the calm descending on them. What if…”What if that wasn’t a requirement?” he asked out loud.

“Dreaming, blintz?” Starsky smiled fondly, fitting in a few more side pieces.

“No, I’m wondering…if we could create a slightly different department. One devoted to settling older cases, without the component of cruising a beat, carrying a badge, or hunting down suspects…” Hutch envisioned himself and Starsky tucked away in a room crammed with files. Sure, not as action packed as their former job, but meaningful and far less dangerous.

Starsky looked up, his forehead furrowed. Except he was obviously intrigued, not unfocused or disturbed. “When I was at Larchmont Rehab, there was a library. Mostly old medical journals and lots of Reader’s Digest, but also some Dick Francis and Ellery Queen.” He fiddled with two pieces, testing them against other pieces until he found the sections that mated.

“You read them all?” Hutch asked lightly, knowing Starsky’s eternal quest for knowledge.

“D’you ever hear of DNA?” Starsky traced a twisty pattern in the air. “Discovered in the fifties, it’s what our bodies are made of. Like puzzle pieces, but the idea is that every person’s DNA sequence is unique.”

“You certainly are, mushbrain,” Hutch said, handing over a piece to see how quickly Starsky put it into place.

Starsky gave him a stink eye and tapped the piece in beside the bowler hat/finger dance section. “According to one article I read, scientists are beginning to think that this DNA could be used for all sorts of stuff. Tracing distant family members, or like we could test blood left at a scene for DNA…”

“Or other bodily fluids,” Hutch added, his brain buzzing in wonder.

“Then we could pinpoint who was the rapist or killer,” Starsky said. “That would open up cold cases like nothing else.”

“Is that possible?” Hutch stared at him.

Starsky pincer-grasped a specific puzzle piece, glancing up at Hutch with such promise and interest, Hutch felt like he could fly. He’d broken through the gray box Starsky had encased himself in. “Theoretically.”

Hutch chuckled, smacking Starsky on the right shoulder, something he would never have done a few weeks earlier. He realized in an instant that it had not only been Starsky caught in the grip of post-assassination. He’d been so careful with his partner, gentle and hesitant, afraid to cause any further harm that could slow Starsky’s recovery. He had not treated Starsky the way he’d done before the shooting.

“Theoretically?” he echoed. “Who are you and what have you done with my Starsky?”

“I was always right there,” Starsky replied with a lofty demeanor. “Deep inside.” He studied the assortment of pieces, tongue peeking out from between his lips. Grabbing three pieces, he found homes for two of them and laid the third to one side to be used later. “Where did you get this? You’re not a puzzle person.”

Touche. Starsky knew him that well. “There’s a new place next to the grocery, filled with tchotchkes. It looked right up your alley.”

“So you bought it for me.” It wasn’t a question. This was a statement of fact. He grinned, sunshine after a week of rain.

“Sometimes I come up with a good plan.” Hutch squeezed his eyes shut for half a moment, stunned that he was fighting tears. But he rallied when Starsky fluttered his fingers on Hutch’s palm, a tiny flirt and the gift of a puzzle piece.

“You got great plans,” Starsky said decisively. “Like this one.” He waved his hand at their collaboration. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll start to convince Captain Ryan of your idea, and write out a—what ya call it?” He laughed, eyes like cobalt jewels. “Not like proposing marriage.”

“A proposal,” Hutch said softly, thinking he could propose right then and there, but it seemed premature. Definitely once they get this new department off the ground.

“A proposal.” Starsky nodded, still half mesmerized by the puzzle pieces. He swirled one finger through the box as if absently stirring sugar into his coffee. “We could work cold cases, check out evidence that was collected but never utilized… dig into the victim’s the background, find out if this DNA would be workable in our situation…”

“Starsk, you are a genius.” Hutch went in for a lover’s tackle, arms out to scoop up his partner—and knocked the puzzle box to the floor, pieces raining down like multicolored confetti. “Oops!”

Starsky laughed, bussing him happily. “All good, but you got t’take me to this terrific shop for more puzzles.” He extricated himself from their tangle of legs and arms to grope on the carpet for the scattered bits of Laurel and Hardy. “Oh, here you go.” He dropped four pieces into Hutch’s hand.

Hutch gaped, identifying connecting bits to nearly complete the photo of the comedians dancing with their forefingers raised. He carefully put them into place. “We work well. I could never have found that many, that quickly.” Neither of them had mentioned Starsky’s healed wounds or the way he grimaced when he climbed back onto the couch. This was their new future, which included Starsky’s recovery, but so much more, as well.

“Both got the right stuff, that fits together perfectly.” Starsky laced his fingers through Hutch’s outstretched hand. “And that’ll never change.”

’’Never,” Hutch said, suddenly aware they’d proposed to each other without using the specific words. He felt complete.

FIN

Then you wouldn’t have to say that you love me,
‘Cause I’d already know….
    –More than Words By Bettencourt & Cherone

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