Night Falls Forever

1.3K

Starsky and Hutch dance on the edge of the volcano. Again!

 

This is a bit AU, has some overtones from SR but in a different setting. Definitely ADULTS ONLY for language and violence. Not Beta’d. All errors are mine.

This is my first SH fanfic. I have been lurking on the Yahoo site for a couple of years and I am totally impressed by the quality of the writing in this fandom and the quality of the people too! Decided to slip into the light for a while and hopefully give back a little of the enjoyment I’ve gotten out of it.

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Chapter One

”. . . yesterday, was a pretty good day after all.”

The alley was broad and deep, the factory walls on either side were steep as a canyon, throwing the ground into permanent twilight. Hutch was leaning against the driver side of his car, facing away from the gloomy cavern, ignoring the muffled sounds of a dozen or more members of the BCPD, wrapping up the final details of a major bust . . . when everything was suddenly – in the time it took him to raise his head from the dispatch mic and turn toward the sound of tearing metal – totally out of control . . .

The words he had been about to utter, remained forever unsaid. Instead, his eyes widened almost comically at the sight of Frank Mancetti’s car exploding into flames. He let the mic drop from his fingers and in one smooth movement, more instinctual than conscious, slid his right hand under his left arm and brought his Python revolver up and outward.

But he couldn’t fire. Couldn’t pinpoint his target. Or targets. Uniformed officers, scattering like leaves in a hurricane of noise and smoke crisscrossed his sightline. Small, high-pitched explosions ballooned against his eardrums and one of the dark blue leaves rose up, twisting bonelessly, before falling to the ground.

Hutch catalogued every movement, every sound with a spiralling sense of bewildered horror that he never let reach the front of his mind. That part of his brain was icily calm. Time had stopped there. His eyes tracked the area slightly beyond and above the firestorm until they locked onto a muzzle flash from a landing on the fire escape. Carefully, as though he had nothing but time, Hutch focused on the dark smudge behind the flash and fired. Once, twice, again. Three shots in a perfect firing range stance and the smudge detached itself from the metal platform of the stairway and sailed gracefully through the drifting gun smoke to the concrete below.

Hutch straightened without lowering his gun. There was a squad car parked about twenty feet away, half facing him. The windshield was crazed from a spray of bullets and Hutch couldn’t see if the officers inside were hurt or not. He was about to move forward when the door on the side of the squad car nearest him burst open and Patrolman Rick Bellman rolled onto the pavement then up onto his knees, gesturing wildly for Hutchinson to stay back. Hutch hesitated, then watched, open-mouthed, as the ground in front of Bellman disappeared in a greasy cloud of black smoke rising from a burning tire that had seemingly, dropped from the sky. The pungent smell of burning rubber assaulted Hutch’s nostrils and stung his eyes. Frantically wiping at them with his free hand, he managed to get a glimpse of Bellman and his partner scrambling away from their car in a running crouch.

Just as they reached the cover of another car further down the alley, a second burning tire bounced off the hood of their abandoned vehicle, then rolled away, to lean drunkenly against the one already belching smoke and flames on the ground.

“HOLY SHIT!” They (who they?) were throwing burning tires off the roof?

There was a dull explosion and Hutch’s car lurched and shuddered behind him, but he hardly noticed. Another, far more urgent thought, had pierced his frozen mind. Where the hell was his partner?

The ice wall guarding his calm threatened to come down in one shattering wave when that question was answered almost immediately, by the sight of Detective Sergeant Starsky, launching himself over the hood of a black and white at the far end of the alley. Left arm extended straight out, gun firing at the roofline of a low shed. Starsky’s momentum propelled him beyond the hood of the car into thin air. Gun still firing, he disappeared from Hutch’s sight.

Before he could react, Detective Hutchinson, felt the stinging track of a bullet high on his right cheekbone. He batted at the air beside his head with his gun hand as though at a flying insect. The growing heat from his own car finally registered and he glanced behind him long enough to note the flames engulfing the trunk – and the body of a policeman sprawled on the pavement beside the rear bumper. The ice wall swayed again, dangerously.

“What the hell, what the hell, what . . .” Hutch stumbled to grasp the loose wrist long enough to determine that there was no pulse. He thought he might be going deaf from the constant shock waves and the cloud of cordite drifting across the alley was starting to make him nauseous.

Were they using fucking rocket launchers? Hutch’s eyes kept going back to the place, just above the hood of the black and white, where he had last seen Starsky.

Without realizing he was doing it Hutch was muttering continuously under his breath as he slid along the sheltered side of his car, away from the fire. “Okay. It’ll be Okay.” He crouched against the front wheel well and checked the magazine on his gun. “Be okay, be okay, be okay.”

Hutch raised his head above the hood for a rapid scan of the battlefield. Two men, one in uniform, one plain clothes, who Hutch immediately recognized as Alec Simard, darted from behind a dumpster to his left, crossed his line of sight, and disappeared behind a stacked pyramid of metal barrels on his right. At that second the dumpster erupted into flames, creating a godawful thunder of screaming metal as it rose several feet in the air then settled back, groaning and smoking.

“WHAT THE EVERFUCKING GODDAMN FUCK IS GOING ON!” Hutch really thought he was going to start laughing – or crying – any second now.

The look on Detective Simard’s face, when it appeared from behind one of the metal barrels for a quick moment and made glancing eye contact with Hutch, said he was thinking about doing the same thing.

. . . and where the hell was Starsky? Enough. Without another thought, Hutch was running with everything he had. Covering the distance from his car, to the patrol car Starsky had flown across, in one award-winning sprint. His long legs stretching effortlessly.

“Like the track star he is.” Simard thought insanely, admiringly, as he watched from behind the metal barrels. He was surprisingly touched by the sight and glad he could help by blowing away the man with the rifle who suddenly appeared in a window half way up the building across the alley, barrel sighted down at the flying runner.

Hutch was oblivious to the little drama playing out during the five second eternity of his dash along the alley. Without slowing down he rolled his body across the hood of the car and brought his legs around at the same time in a neat twist that let him land, half kneeling, on the other side. A perfect arc of holes appeared in the door panel beside his shoulder. Hutch looked at them for a moment as though someone had laid them out just for his approval. “I’ll be damned.”

He tilted his head up in slow motion. There was a glint on the rooftop. So bright it hurt his eyes. He squinted and raised his gun, drawing a bead on the source and fired until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber and the glint had disappeared. He noted idly that the sky overhead was a perfect summer blue.

“Starsky?” Hutch’s voice was soft. He took in his immediate surroundings for the first time. There was a body sprawled on the ground in front of him. It was in uniform.

“Starsk?” Hutch whispered again as he struggled to a standing crouch. Suddenly aware of a pain in his leg, he saw a red stain spreading on his left thigh. “Hunh!” He sounded mildly surprised.

He forgot about it as his eyes frantically scanned the alley. A bullet whined in the air above his head. Or maybe it was just a jet cutting through the flawless sky.

In the brick wall at the side of the alley he noticed a dark indentation. A doorway. From the shallow nook stretched a blue-jeaned leg. Hutch scrambled across the blood-stained pavement. He slid into the shadows on his knees, his whole body shaking with the force of his breathing. He made his eyes stay open, stay focused. Made them process what he was seeing.

What he was seeing was, his partner sitting with his back to a wooden door. One leg bent, one stretched out. Starsky’s head was resting against the door, eyes closed, face white to the lips. His right arm was wrapped tight around his waist in what seemed to be a losing battle to keep at least some of his blood on the inside of his body. And there was blood everywhere. Hutch couldn’t remember the last time – any time – he had seen so much blood in one place.

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.” Hutch said gently. His fingertips brushed across a cool white cheek. There was a sudden volley of automatic fire. Hutch threw himself across Starsky’s body and stayed there, shaking hard enough to set his teeth chattering. Until, after a thousand years or so, a strange sound penetrated his consciousness. Silence.

“Starsk?” Hutch slipped to one side coming down hard on his tailbone, crowding in as close to his partner as his long legs would allow.

“Starsky?” Hutch’s fingers slid over the skin of Starsky’s throat instinctively seeking the carotid artery. In a very distant part of his brain he noted a change in the atmosphere of the alley. There were voices. Familiar voices, shouting familiar commands. Desperate, angry voices struggling to regain control. Ambulance sirens. Radios crackling. Car doors slamming. Someone, sounding close to tears, calling for a paramedic.

“Hutch? Hey, Hutch?” A concerned voice. A voice shaking with too much adrenaline, with too many emotions being hastily stuffed back into the box. “Hutch, what . . ?” Detective Simard was standing in the opening of the nook. His right hand still held his revolver, his left hand was slowly clenching and unclenching.

Patrolman Esposito stood behind him. His chest heaving and his dark eyes round as saucers. They were fixed on Starsky. On Starsky’s stomach and that truly incredible amount of blood. Simard grimaced and shouted over his shoulder barely taking his eyes off the two officers on the ground. “Get a paramedic over here!”

He knelt, and gently as a mother dealing with a small child, pulled Hutch’s hand away from Starsky’s throat and placed his own fingers there. Hutch watched Simard’s hand carefully. Then he looked at Simard’s face, his intense gaze asking Simard to find what Hutch needed him to find. Simard’s eyes widened and swam for a moment. Huge cracks appeared in the ice wall and Hutch felt his heart start a slow, knife-edged slide down to his feet.

“Medic! NOW Goddamnit!” Simard yelled. Simard’s hand curled around Starsky’s neck in a protective gesture. He put his other hand on Hutch’s shoulder. “He’s alive Hutch – he . . .” the rest of his sentence was lost in the arrival of the paramedics. They shoved Esposito aside and pushed in beside Simard.

Hutch was pulled unceremoniously to his feet and manhandled onto the bumper of an ambulance that had squeezed in beside the patrol car closest to the doorway. He craned his neck to watch the paramedics working on his partner. They moved swiftly, mechanically, their voices snapping out instructions, their hands brisk and professional, faces tight with concern.

“Get a dressing on this one.” Hutch felt firm hands handling his leg. Heard the material of his jeans ripping. Felt cold, liquid sting his bare flesh. He glanced down and saw something white being wrapped around his upper thigh. His eyes roamed the alley taking in the activity that seemed almost as manic as the shooting had been. But now it was a mixture of police and medical personnel. Their efforts geared to putting the pieces, literally and figuratively, back together. They looked as shell shocked as Hutch felt.

A S.W.A.T. team trotted past. Boots loud on the slick pavement, shields up. Hutch thought they looked like Roman centurions. “The bad guys are in for it now.” Hutch mused, without the least feelings of humor. He supposed, (his eyes caught a glimpse of his partner’s lifeless face), well, hoped really, that the bad guys were all dead. When Starsky was okay again he would try not to be so hard-hearted about the whole thing. If not . . . The paramedic working on the tall blond man thought he looked very far away and hoped he wasn’t going into shock.

“Hutchinson!” Hutch heard the familiar roar but couldn’t seem to react to his own name. Dobey appeared through the pressing throng. His expression was grim. “How is he?” Dobey directed the question at the young paramedic now taking Hutch’s blood pressure.

“Some blood loss from a graze. Outer thigh. Slight facial laceration. Should be Okay.” The young man finished a little defensively as though Dobey were daring him to say otherwise.

Hutch twisted in the paramedic’s grasp and tried to lean over far enough to see past his captain. “Make it be okay . . .” Hutch found a part of Starsky’s right leg, poking past one of the kneeling paramedics, to stare at.

“Jesus Christ. Would you sit still. I’m trying to get a pressure on you.” The young man working on Hutch was getting flustered. His skin flushed the colour of his pale red hair. The blond man he was chastising was oblivious to him. He was murmuring something under his breath and his brow was drawn with concentration.

“Hutch?” Dobey’s glare became impossibly deeper.

“Hey, buddy! Would’ja please?” The paramedic yanked on Hutch’s sleeve. The blond’s whole body jerked, as though someone had thrown cold water in his face.

The paramedic was originally from Brooklyn, had only been in L.A. a couple of years, and his hometown accent got stronger when he was worked up. Hutch looked at the young man for the first time. For a second the confused blue eyes tried to make sense of a stranger’s features belonging to such a familiar voice. Then a look of disappointment, so heavy the paramedic could almost feel the weight of it on his skin, washed over the Detective’s face.

“Sorry, buddy. Just sit still for another minute Okay?” He felt bad for this guy. For all these guys. But he had a job to do. Right? Like every other miserable S.O.B. here today.

“Hutchinson, where’s your partner?” Dobey suddenly noticed the Python dangling from Hutch’s right hand.

He was abstractedly tapping the barrel against his uninjured leg. The safety was off. Dobey gingerly reached out and put one sturdy finger against the side of the barrel, stopping it’s jittery dance in mid-bounce. The Captain opened his mouth but before he could speak, the paramedics, maneuvering a gurney into some kind of opening behind him, were suddenly getting extremely animated and he saw Hutch go a milky shade of white he’d never seen a living person go before. Dobey deftly slipped the revolver out of his Detective’s hand, flicked on the safety and slipped it into his own pocket, without Hutch showing any sign that he noticed or cared.

“Ken, where’s . . .” Dobey tried again. But, just then, he felt a hard elbow in his kidney, and two hands very firmly moving him away from the ambulance. His blood pressure rose with the decibel of the voices almost at his ear. Dobey yanked his arm up across his chest and turned toward the shouting.

“He’s losing it! Get him in the unit. Godammit, back up!” the Paramedic talking was clearly becoming agitated as his backward path was blocked by the press of bodies around the ambulance.

“Clear the way! MOVE IT!” The gurney was wrestled onto the waiting vehicle. Before Hutch could move forward again he heard the heavy doors slam and a voice calling from inside “Go, go, go!”

Dobey turned a stricken face to Hutch. Eyes wide. “That was Starsky.” The large, black man stared after the ambulance disappearing from the mouth of the alley.

They had men injured here. Men dead. Some of them his. He never played favorites. But he was only human, with part of his heart compartmentalized, like all human beings, for special people, the ones he loved, the ones who wormed their way in – no matter how aggravating they could be . . .

The leaden certainty of how bad things were settled over him. This was one of those days there would be no getting over. Gotten through. But not over. Dobey consciously shoved the feelings of hopelessness away and closed the door on his personal heart. His eye lighted on Simard still hovering in the background.

“Alec, you alright?” A faint nod was his answer.

“Good. Good. Get Hutchinson to the hospital. Let me know.” His voice was brusque. His ‘Captain’s’ voice. His dark expression, moving between Simard and Hutchinson, left no doubt regarding what it was he wanted to ‘know’ about.

“Yes, Sir.” Detective Simard turned to find Esposito in a knot of men examining a body on the ground in front of the fire escape. Esposito glanced up and saw Simard raise one hand and jerk his head toward Esposito’s patrol car. Esposito nodded and raised a hand in return, then pointed, eyebrows raised, past Simard’s shoulder.

Simard turned to see Hutch already following in the wake of the ambulance. Trailing the blood pressure cuff behind him. Simard hurried to catch up with him, finally holstering his own gun, then reached out with both hands to guide Detective Hutchinson toward the free vehicle. He didn’t bother trying to rescue the dangling cuff.

 

Chapter Two

‘. . . First Star I See Tonight’

. . . the smell of sweat and blood and fear, mixed with disinfectant and rubbing alcohol – let Hutch know that he was in the hospital emergency. The sight of paramedics and hospital staff scrambling over and around his partner, their chests and forearms bright with his blood, told him he was in Hell. Again.

Oh, this was really too much. “Let’s just call it quits, huh, Starsk? Okay? Please.” Hutch inched forward. The expression on his face gently pleading. Someone ripped the sleeve on Starsky’s shirt back, almost to the shoulder, and slid a needle deep into the exposed flesh. Hutch shifted further forward, his face earnest.

“See. This is nuts, buddy. You can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep watching it. Let’s just quit and get real jobs.” Hutch almost smiled. “You could sell cars or something. With that winning personality? You’d be a natural. No. Seriously there’s gotta be lots of stuff we could do if we just looked.” Hutch frowned.

“I mean it. I don’t care if we hawk ice cream and burgers down on the pier. Just not cops anymore.” Hutch raised his hands slightly, palms up, in a reasoning gesture. “Okay? For me?” He let his hands fall back. Detective Simard was the only one who noticed the pantomimed exchange and he didn’t seem to find this silent conversation unusual.

One of doctors suddenly pulled his stethoscope away from his ears and began calling out instructions to be relayed to the operating room even as he started shoving the gurney toward the elevator. Hutch surged forward, but was yanked back by Simard’s hand on his collar.

“Hutch. Stay still. They’re taking him up to surgery. He’ll be fine. Fine. You’ll see.” Simard sounded as weary as time. But his grasp was unyielding. Hutch twisted unsteadily on his feet. Simard didn’t let go, just put his other hand on his friend’s shoulder and let it rest there.

“Alec.” Hutch turned his head to look at Simard. “Alec, they won’t tell me . . .”

“Hutch, they don’t know anything yet.”

“But they’d say something if . . .”

“Good or bad Hutch. They don’t know anything. They also don’t know your – “, he had started to say ‘Starsky’. ” – your partner, is the toughest sonnuvabitch who ever wore a badge. Right?” Simard shook Hutch gently by his collar. ” So, they don’t know that it would be safe to tell you he’s gonna be okay.” Simard smiled, the picture of perfect reason.

Hutch sent a forlorn look in the direction of the elevators, then sagged against Simard’s hold. A ghostly smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah. Right.” He carefully shrugged off Simard’s hand and turned to fully face him.

“Hey, Alec, why don’t you go find some coffee. Give Roberta a call. I’ve gotta go clean up.”

Simard was about to protest, then noticed the look on Hutch’s face as he studied the blood on his hands and the front of his jacket. Most of it Starsky’s.

“Man, how is Starsky even still breathing?” Simard suddenly thought as his eyes went past Hutch, to a woman with a bucket and mop who was moving toward the darkening red streaks on the linoleum floor of the emergency room.

“Alright. I’ll get coffee. You wash up.” He propelled the tall blond man in front of him. Preventing him from looking back. “Then we’ll check on the guys.” Simard was referring to the two police officers brought in with Starsky. “Then I gotta call Dobey.”

Neither of the other officers were from their precinct. But, blue was blue. And Simard wanted to know how they were doing. He knew Hutchinson would want to know too. Once the shock began to wear off. And Dobey. If someone hadn’t called him already the Captain would be spitting nails by now.

“I can’t be the only guy in the hospital who knows how to dial a phone!” Simard thought, his sorrow mutating into peevishness for one blissful second before it changed back into that nagging sadness that drummed at his heart. That said, nothing – nothing – nothing, was going to be all right again.

But first, Simard drew a long shaky breath as he watched Hutch disappear into the men’s room – first he would call Roberta. Because he could feel the edges of his own numbness beginning to crumble and he didn’t want to be without his wife when the barrier at the center of his mind suddenly gave way. No sir.

Detective Simard was just moving down the hall to the bank of phones beside the waiting room doors, when Roberta herself came flying through those doors, running into his arms. He grunted happily at the weight of her solid body connecting with his.

“Hey, Baby. What’s the rush?” He smiled into the crook of her neck. Long strands of red hair that had fallen out of their hastily applied barrettes tickled his nose. He inhaled gratefully and felt the numbness recede a little further.

“Alec, you’re . . .?” Roberta Simard pushed him out to arms length and studied his face. Her dark brown eyes did a lightening-fast inventory of every part of her husband she could see without letting go of him.

“I’m fine, honey. I’m good.” He smiled. Then reeled her in for a tight embrace. “I’m good.”

“Alec, what happened? My sister heard on the radio, she called me, I called the station. They , they said – but they didn’t know who . . . I just ran out of the house and came . . .” Roberta’s wide, kind mouth began to tremble. She bit her lip then tried to speak again. But Simard stopped her with a firm kiss.

“Baby, let’s go sit. I’m not hurt. At all. But it’s bad honey.” Simard felt the last of his numbness give way like spring ice and his eyes filled with tears. He tilted his head slightly to keep them from spilling over. “Let’s go sit down and I’ll tell you everything that happened. All right?”

Roberta nodded. A few more strands fell loose around her flushed cheeks. Simard noticed she was wearing a pair of sweat pants with her good heels, and was that his old hunting jacket she had thrown around her shoulders? He felt his heart swell. Man, what a beauty. What a girl.

They found a corner of the waiting room and sat. Roberta practically in his lap, he, absently minded, stroking her wrist over and over as he talked. Their heads were bent together like conspirators. Simard’s voice was a low, soothing monotone.

He told her everything. How their carefully constructed bust, involving more than a dozen units and a small army of officers from several precincts, had gone down so beautifully. Choreographed to the last detail. The rats were bagged in their holes. They were done and it was a good bust. They were done. They had sent their prisoners off in the wagons to face their appointment with justice and were ready to leave themselves.

Simard’s voice took on a slightly bewildered tone. “We felt great, honey. You know? The winning team. Cheerleaders, Gatorade and champagne. Mancetti gave me a big kiss. Just to get a reaction from the guys. You know what a big Italian ham he is . . .” Simard’s eyes closed in pain.

“Was.” Roberta stiffened beside him.

“He gave me a big kiss, slapped me on the back and said, ‘tell the missus that’s from Frankie’. Then . . . ” Simard’s voice started to disappear. Roberta bent her head until her ear was almost against his mouth. “Then he got in his car and closed the door. And his car blew up.”

Her eyes were so blurred with tears she couldn’t see her own hands. Until finally, she blinked and the tears began to slide unnoticed down her cheeks.

“They – someone, put a bomb in Frank’s car?” She whispered.

“Unh, unh. They threw a grenade at his car.” Simard’s hand traced a ghostly path through the air. “It landed on the windshield. A great shot.” His voice was completely without emotion.

“A grenade?” Roberta squinted hard, trying to decipher what her husband had just said. “What the hell was a gren . . .” Her eyes widened in horror.

“They knew you were coming. Didn’t they. The guys you got were a – were a sacrifice. The other ones were waiting for you!” The indignation in her voice tugged at Simard’s heart. If there was one thing his beautiful girl couldn’t abide it was a cheat.

“Yeah, they knew. And boy-howdy were they ready.” He felt his wife’s cool hand against his hot cheek.

She wasn’t fooled. She knew he dressed some of his worst pain in a flippant tone. It was his thing. Just like Frank Mancetti’s thing was to act like the star in an Italian opera, when his family had been in America since Garibaldi was in short pants. Roberta suddenly had to control the desire to scream with despair.

She closed her hand around Alec’s wrist. “Who?”

Simard knew she wasn’t referring to the bad guys. They didn’t matter to her. She knew if Alec were here, then the bad guys were in jail. Gone. So much dirt to be swept away.

“Frankie. Will Kovich and Mark Wheaton.” Simard cleared his throat. Tried to speak, then cleared his throat again.

“All gone? All dead, Alec?” Roberta felt the arm under her hand shaking. She put her lips against his ear and crooned those nonsensical endearments that mothers have used since the beginning of time to soothe children waking from a nightmare.

Finally, Simard sighed and spoke again, his voice watery but strong. “Three dead. three men dead, Roberta. And three injured. Maybe dead too. Soon.”

Simard raised his head. His eyes were red. Sleepy with pain. “They got hurt so bad, honey. Tom Hidalgo and Brent Tiller from the Twenty-Four. And Starsky.”

“Dave is here? He’s bad?” Roberta’s face was the color of ashes. “Where’s Hutch, honey? Is he with Dave?”

Simard grimaced. Hutch was here. Probably, better get back to him actually, you selfish bastard. But just one more minute healing in the warmth of this amazing creature he’d been lucky enough to sucker into marrying him. Just sixty seconds, and I swear I’ll go make sure Hutch has someone with him.

“Yeah, Baby. Hutch is okay. Him and Mick got flesh wounds on the scene. But they’re fine.” Simard stared hard at the floor as though it were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

“But Dave is real bad, honey. I don’t know. I don’t know if . . . and I’m so sorry for Hutch. He’s just out of it, you know? Like his . . . ” Simard made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Like his best friend just died.”

Suddenly, he looked up and smiled fondly at his wife. He slowly traced the entire circumference of her face with one finger. Roberta figured her husband was probably a little bit ‘out of it’ himself right at this moment and she pulled him against her, as tight as she could hold him and still let him breathe.

“Like I would feel if someone took away you.” She whispered. And killed that imaginary someone with one swift and unhesitating thought.

Simard nodded against her breast. Then sighed and pushed himself upright. “I better go find Hutch. And call Dobey. And I gotta check on the guys.” He stood, pulling her with him. Her face was puffy, streaked with tears.

“You go call your sister and tell her everything is under control. Better yet, go over to her place and hang around there till I’m off.” Simard raised his eyebrows hopefully.

Roberta smiled and rubbed up and down his arms briskly. “You got it cowboy. I’ll go over to Maddie’s and wait. Don’t be long. Tell Hutch . . . give him a hug for me ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay.” Simard brushed his lips across both her cheeks then her nose. He followed her, then watched her walk away, until she passed through the revolving glass doors at the far end of the hall.

He stood a moment longer thinking he should go back into the waiting room and see about the other relatives. They must have started showing up to check on their wounded. But he was feeling anxious about getting back to Hutch. Hopefully, the ones in the waiting room had others to be with. But, at least for the moment, Hutch was alone.

He found Hutch still in the Emergency lobby, sitting in a chair. Not so much sitting in it, as levitating above it, the muscles in his body were so tight. Simard scanned the emergency desk for a doctor who might be able to tell them something but the public area was quiet now.

The nurses staffing the desk were getting some particulars from an old man gingerly holding his right arm away from his body. The hand looked very swollen. Simard turned away from the desk and studied the worn green tiles in front of the elevators. The blood was gone. Simard thought he could see damp patches on the floor where the mop had been.

“Hiya, Blondie.” Simard said gently, sliding into the chair beside Hutch. The blue eyes tightened in pain. Hutch swallowed then sort of smiled. But it looked like it hurt to do it, and he stopped.

“Oh, fuck me.” Simard mentally kicked himself. He’d worked with, been friends with these two, long enough to know that he might as well of said ‘Blintz’ or ‘Gordo’ or ‘Partner’, or just stuck a knife in Hutch for God’s sake.

“Roberta, honey, I need you here to save me from myself.” He thought ruefully.

“Oh. Yeah.” He suddenly muttered out loud. Hutch stared at him, a small, confused frown between his eyes.

Detective Simard hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged, leaned forward and enveloped Hutch in a warm, no-holds-barred, Roberta-style hug. “Roberta says ‘Hi’, Hutch.” He said against the side of the blond head.

Hutch’s whole body was rigid, but he didn’t immediately move away. He put one hand on Simard’s shoulder and rested his forehead on it. They sat there like that for a few minutes. Hutch was so still Simard thought he might have fallen asleep, or passed out. He was just about to ask, when a tall, razor-thin, black man in a startling, green track suit and matching silk scarf, materialized in the corner of his eye.

“Hey, Hug.” Simard said softly.

“Hey.” The man’s dark, narrow face was drawn tight over sharp bones. His fawn-like eyes were almost liquid with concern. “Alec, what’s with the full body tackle? Is . . . have you heard something about Curly I’m gonna need to sit down for?” The lilting voice was smooth with the casual arrogance of the streets. That was Huggy’s thing. But his eyes glittered with growing fear.

“No.” Hutch’s muffled voice came from Simard’s shoulder. He pushed away from Simard and slumped back into his chair. “Nothing.” He stared up at Huggy from the bottom of a well.

The elevator rumbled quietly and all three men were suddenly fixated on the sliding metal doors. A female paramedic, one of the ones from the scene, stepped out. She nodded to Huggy and Simard then came to crouch in front of Hutch, her eyes making a business like assessment of the white bandage encircling his thigh and the strip of gauze high on his cheekbone.

“Hutch, Starsky’s in surgery. He’s gonna be there a while.” She folded both Hutch’s hands in hers. “It’s pretty rough Hutch, but Mahoney is the best surgeon in the city. He’ll do it.” She didn’t bother adding ‘If it can be done’. She smiled and squeezed the cold hands. “Trust me. I know these things. He patches up all my guys.”

“Thanks Sheila.” Hutch bounced their clasped hands lightly on his knees. “I know Mahoney too. All us tough guys know all the best doctors. That’s why we keep coming back for more.” His smile was frightening with suppressed anger. “Satisfied customers.” But his wounded eyes were locked on hers, saying ‘thank you’. Thank you for being so good at your job, for being on our side.

Sheila McCandless received the silent message gratefully and without saying anything more ran a slow hand over Hutch’s head then nodding again at the other two men she hurried out to her waiting unit. They heard the radio on her belt crackling to life as she pushed through the outside doors.

Before the doors had closed completely behind her, they swung wide again, and a couple carrying a little girl of four or five, rushed in. The little girl was crying. Big gulping cries, punctuated by shuddering gasps for air. Two little boys, not much older than the girl and another girl, of about twelve, trailed in after them. The two boys were crying, in sympathy with their sister, and almost as loudly. The older girl was trying valiantly to distract them with a half eaten chocolate bar. Almost immediately on their heels came three young men, wearing football letter jackets. The one in the middle was holding a bloody handkerchief against the left side of his face.

Huggy rolled his eyes eloquently at this sudden influx of the wounded and looked meaningfully down a narrow corridor at the staff exit doors. “Let’s get this soldier out into some fresh air for a little while, Alec. I think the evening rush is on.”

“Hutch.” Huggy held up a hand before his friend could say a word. “You heard the lady. Starsky’s got the best mechanic in the city working on him. So, unless you think you’re gonna go in there and hold his coat for him, there ain’t nothing you can do right now ‘cept try not to keel over and make us carry you outta here.” Huggy’s eyes were boring into his friend’s. Begging and commanding at the same time.

Hutch’s face hardened into an emotionless mask and he nodded. With aching slowness, as though he were trying to find and communicate with every muscle in his body before he could use it, he eased himself to his feet.

“Damn.” Huggy thought sadly. “Nobody does stoic like the Man from Minnesota.”

The three men made their way down the hall. Hutch walking ahead, ignoring the two bodies flanking him like tug boats. Suddenly, he stopped and half turned. “How will . . . ?” Huggy grasped his arm to keep him moving.

“As it happens, Bro, I do have a cousin . . .” Huggy cocked his head arrogantly.

Any other time, any other place, and Simard would have burst out laughing at the challenging look on Huggy’s face. Hutch just glared harder.

” – who works in pediatrics.” Huggy rushed on. “She, like myself, is an artist in the gathering of useful information. I already let her know of our need to be kept au courant . . . ” Huggy floundered. “Besides, there’s a P.A. outside the door.”

* * *

A tent of smog had settled over the city, staining the early evening sky with orange. Just above the horizon, where the rust gave way to a deepening violet, the first stars were beginning to show. Hutch stood for a moment at the top of the stone steps leading down to the staff parking lot. His head was lifted toward the new stars. A slight breeze, still soft from the heat of the day, ruffled the fine gold hair around his face. Simard and Huggy stood back and waited silently.

Simard’s eyes found a star just winking into existence. “I wish I was home with Roberta.” He thought fervently his eyes stinging. “I wish I was home, asleep in our bed and the alarm would go off and it would be yesterday.” A sideways glance showed him a dark, aquiline profile staring intently at the same part of the sky. Simard swallowed the ache in his throat. “Maybe we’ll get a better deal for volume wishing.” He thought wistfully.

“Hug?” He leaned in, whispering. “I gotta call Dobey and go check on the guys.” He said for the – how many-eth time today?

Huggy nodded and tipped his head toward Hutch. “I’m here.” He said simply. Simard hesitated for another minute, then turned and went back inside.

 

Chapter Three

‘What Dreams May Come’

They did come and find Hutch. They brought him to Starsky and let him sit by the bed in ICU. They worked quietly around him. Left him in peace, when there was nothing to be done except wait and let the machines whisper to each other in their secret language.

Huggy seemed to be there constantly. Hovering, without intruding on his conscious thoughts. Dobey had been there for a while, but the grisly headline story “Slaughter in the Alley” had been flaring and crackling from every television and radio in the city for hours, reporters breathlessly retelling every detail over and over. The Captain with other grim faced officials had gone to feed their curiosity and distract them from his wounded officers.

Minnie, Babbcock, Martinson, Lewinski, Travers, Jean from payroll, Lorna from the cafeteria . . . A steady flow of friends and colleagues had ebbed in and out of the hospital without Hutch really being aware of them. Starsky would have been pretty surprised, but happy, with the number of people who cared about him. Although, being Starsky, he would have felt worse about worrying them like this. Would have felt like a bad host ignoring a roomful of guests at his own party.

Sometime, long after midnight, in that cold hour before dawn, when the whole world seems sound asleep, Hutch found himself back on the stone steps outside the exit doors. Chased away to ‘put something on his stomach’, ‘to stretch his legs’.

The night air was damp and the silence pressed against his ears. A few lonely cars, barely visible in the sickly glow of the sodium lamps, littered the expanse of the parking lot. They looked as though they had been abandoned centuries ago.

Hutch sat on the middle step and wrapped his arms around his chest to keep out the cold. He noticed he was still holding a cup of coffee that someone had pressed into his hand at some point. It was cold too. He set it on the step by his feet and leaned into the iron railing beside him. A bird in the shrubbery behind the railings experimented with a few fluting notes, then decided it was too soon. Hutch strained his eyes at the sky, trying to detect the first signs of grey in the relentless black.

He heard the doors brush open at the top of the stairs and turned to see Starsky coming down the steps, his Adidas tapping softly on the hard surface. The collar of his leather jacket was pulled up high around his neck to ward off the cool air.

“Hey, Hutch. Didn’t your mom ever tell you sitting on cold stuff would wreck your kidneys?” Starsky smiled fondly at his friend’s sleepy stare. He sat down a little distance away, on the step just above Hutch. Making the blond change position slightly to face him.

“Oh man, buddy. I just had the worst dream.” Hutch scrubbed at his face with both hands then smiled sheepishly at his partner.

“That’ll teach you to fast for three days before a big bust ya’ dummy.” Starsky pushed Hutch’s shoulder playfully.

“Shit, it’s colder’n Simonetti’s heart out here.” The dark haired man grumbled and shivered dramatically pulling his jacket tighter.

“Maybe we should get inside.” Hutch started to stand.

“Nah. Let’s sit out for a while.” Starsky hugged himself and stared at the toes of his blue sneakers for a moment. “I wanted to talk to you about something, anyways.”

“What?” Hutch suddenly seemed fascinated by Starsky’s shoes as well.

“Well . . . You know that bust we were on today . . . uh, yesterday?” Starsky glanced up from under his lashes. Then went back to studying his feet.

“Gee, yeah, Starsk. I think I recall something about a bust.” Hutch scowled, then shrugged and shook his head slightly, humoring his friend. “Oka-a-ay. What about it?” He drew his knees closer to his chest.

“Um, well . . . it didn’t go all that good, actually.” This time, when Starsky looked up, he held his partner’s eye. “In fact, it went really lousy.”

Hutch contemplated Starsky in silence for several seconds. A dull flush rose on his cheekbones.

“Hey, buddy, I was there, remember? I know how bad it was. I’m not made of stone for Christ’s sake. But, we did get the bad guys and made book on the charges, and . . .” His eyes widened with remembered shock, then immediately narrowed in angry denial and he looked away.

“Hey, come on. Don’t be mad. Hutch.” Starsky shook him gently. “Hutch, look at me.” Starsky’s voice was soft. He moved his hand to the back of Hutch’s neck. “Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming.”

“Pout!” Hutch pulled his head away and leaned further into the iron railing.

“Yeah. Pout. Big bottom lip and all.” There was no mistaking the laughter in Starsky’s voice now.

“Okay. Fine.” Starsky sighed. “The bust was beautiful, impeccable, frameable even . . .” Warm fingers wrapped around the back of Hutch’s neck again and tugged him close.

“But, after, Hutch. After, things got a little out of control. Remember? Hmm?” The Brooklyn accented voice was barely audible beside Hutch’s ear.

Hutch squirmed but didn’t pull away this time.

“I mean, Hutch, don’t you think it’s a little weird that we’re sitting here together right now?”

“No.”

“Buddy.” A pleading note had crept into Starsky’s voice. “Don’t go all stubborn on me. This is the all-time, bar-none, hardest thing I ever had to do.”

Starsky’s fingers found their way into Hutch’s hair and yanked lightly. “So, please. Okay?”

“Then don’t do it.” Hutch’s voice came from a hundred miles away.

“What?”

“Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what, Hutch?”

“Don’t die. If it’s so fucking hard, then don’t die.”

“That ain’t hard, Hutch.” Such a gentle voice. He felt Starsky’s breath on the side of his face.

“This, is hard.”

“What is?” A fine tremor was running through Hutch’s entire body.

“Saying Goodbye, Hutch.” Warm lips pressed to Hutch’s temple for a brief second then were gone. The air felt colder where they had been.

Hutch snapped his head around, expression panicked, but Starsky was still there. Leaning back on his elbows and watching his partner very intently. His eyes were almost black under his dark lashes and Hutch realized that he had never seen such a lonely expression on Starsky’s face.

“Then . . . ” A tear escaped from Hutch’s eye, burning his cold cheek.

“I know, I know. Don’t.” Starsky smiled faintly then reached out to brush his knuckles over Hutch’s sleeve. “Not my call partner.” He sighed. “Don’t make me get all misty on you now, buddy.” The smile faltered. “Too late, huh?”

“I won’t let you do it!” Hutch moved suddenly, grabbing Starsky’s collar, twisting the leather tight in his fist.

“You’re here now. Just stay here. I’ll . . . I’ll hold onto you, I mean . . .” Confusion and pain swarmed across the pale features. “I mean, thanks to you I’ve seen every late night creature-feature ever made. I know all about the ‘unseen forces’, the spirit world, or whateverthefuck this shit is, and I’ll just hold on and not let them take. . .” Hutch gasped for air.

“There’s no them, Hutch. Just us. Just this. This isn’t a movie. It’s just life. If you’ll pardon the expression.” Starsky smiled and hunched forward until his shoulder was pressing against Hutch’s. “The clock’s run out, Hutch. I think this – getting to say it in person – is something special. ‘Cause of how we are.” Starsky finished, sounding proud of them.

Hutch let his head drop until his forehead was resting on his friend’s knee. Starsky reached between them and found Hutch’s right hand. He pulled it up and snugged it inside the opening of his leather jacket so that it was resting over his heart.

“You’re right here, buddy. That’s real. Always will be.” He left Hutch’s hand where it was and put his own hand, palm flat, over the center of Hutch’s chest. “And I’m right here with you. Just like always.” He pressed hard. “That never changes.”

Suddenly, Starsky straightened, a look that might have been fear flitting across his sharp features. Both their heads turned toward the parking lot. Underneath the lamp closest to the stairs, the Torino sat idling. The red paint glittered with dew and the smoke from the exhaust rose up to mix with the luminous grey light finally starting to seep into the dawn sky.

“Looks like my ride’s here.” Starsky’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and, with a last lingering squeeze to Hutch’s nerveless fingers, he stood.

Before Hutch could utter a word in protest, Starsky bounded lightly down the remaining steps and pivoted on the sidewalk to smile at his partner.

“Ya’ know Hutch, since we got to do this, I bet . . . ” His crooked smile widened. “In fifty years or so, you get to buy me a beer. After, I kick your ass at pool, of course.”

“Never mind fifty years, buddy.” Hutch stood and advanced down a step. Then stopped. “I’ll beat your sorry ass, and you’ll buy me a beer, at The Pits – in a few weeks.” Hutch see-sawed his right hand. “Maybe a month. You’re kind of the frail sort.”

Starsky’s eyes widened in surprise and something close to awe. Then he snorted in delight. “No one’s the boss of you, are they, Tiger? Not even the Big Guy.” He let his dark blue gaze flick upward.

“That’s right.” Hutch smiled and swallowed the razor blade scratching at the inside of his throat. “Not even you, Starsk.” His heart was in his eyes.

Starsky shook his head, still smiling, and headed for the car. “Well, good luck with that, buddy.” He paused with his hand on the open door his face suddenly serious.

“I mean it, Hutch. Good luck . . . with everything.” Starsky’s voice was low and held a world of affection. His intense gaze seemed to take in every bit of Hutch at once.

The sound of a car door slamming shut brought Hutch to his feet. His heart was crashing against his ribs and his body was shaking with cold and bone deep exhaustion. An older man, in a dark brown coat, stood staring at the coffee that had splashed across his shoes when the wild looking blond accidently kicked it down the stairs.

“What the Hell?” The older man looked ready to get into it. But decided, judging by the look of him, that whatever was going on with this guy, it was punishment enough. He settled for a warning glance as he pushed past Hutch’s unresisting body. As he ascended the steps, he looked up to see a pair of dark eyes glitter balefully into his own, then sail past. He gripped his briefcase tighter and hurried into the building.

Huggy ran down the remaining steps and gently took Hutch’s elbow. “Hey. Easy boy. Easy.”

Huggy ducked his head, trying to get his friend to look him in the eyes. “Hutch, you gotta come with me.

Hutch couldn’t seem to focus. Or to stop shaking. He knew Huggy was talking. Hutch could hear him but, the words were just bursts of senseless noise.

“Hutch, you gotta come with me. Right now. ” Huggy tried again, desperation spiralling in his voice.

Hutch just took one of Huggy’s hands in both of his. Gripping hard enough to make his friend wince. “Huggy. He was here. Starsky was here.” Hutch was breathing like he had just run a mile in a rainstorm. His head suddenly swung toward the top of the stairs.

“I’ve got to stop him.” He began trying to drag Huggy bodily up the steps.

Huggy looked around in panic. “Where?” He almost shouted before he could stop himself. “What?” He leaned back trying to slow Hutch down. But Hutch responded by simply letting go of him.

Huggy staggered back and clutched the railing. And Hutch was gone. Crashing in through the out door. Narrowly avoiding a nurse coming off shift. She pinned herself against the glass and watched him barrel past.

Huggy was confused and frightened by his friend’s behavior. Hutch still hadn’t heard the terrible thing he was trying to tell him. Huggy had reached his limit.

“This fucking – fucking day.” He hissed under his breath. Then he did something he hadn’t done in front of a single, living soul since he was eight years old. He started to cry.

 

Chapter Four

‘This Has Got to Stop’

Death is not always quiet in a hospital.

Simard was amazed by the sheer amount of ‘sound and fury’ surrounding Starsky’s bed in the ICU. Well, he had thought he was seeing ‘fury’, until he saw Hutch coming down the hallway toward him. For a split second Simard was back in that godforsaken alley watching Detective Hutchinson make his Olympic caliber sprint to his partner’s side. That had been nothing compared to this.

“He’s wasn’t even touching the ground, honey.” He would try to describe it to Roberta later. “He was FLYING down that hallway. I honest-to-God wouldn’t have been surprised to see a big Viking sword in his hands. Or fire or something.” His eyes would be as round as a child’s and Roberta would be leaning on her hands, her mouth slightly open, her eyes shining back in equal wonder. The stuff that legends and daily life are made of.

But, right now, all he could do was step aside and feel the wind rush by him like someone had opened the door to Hell then slammed it shut. Scattered around him were the men and women from the ninth who had stopped to find out how things were going, then stayed to be there for the end. A patrolwoman, standing with her hat clasped in both hands, raised her arms toward Hutch as he went past. She looked like she was begging for pennies.

Dobey turned into the whirlwind of Hutchinson’s approach and without flinching threw one beefy arm out, neatly snaring his prey. Hutchinson bent almost double over the unyielding arm, then reeled back and pinned his Captain with a look that would have left a lesser man a curl of smoke at his feet.

“Hutch, stop. HUTCHINSON!” Dobey bodily lifted the taller man backward, while keeping a tight arm around his waist.

“Get OUT my way.” Their faces were inches apart. Only Dobey could hear the low snarl of words that came out of Hutch’s throat.

“No.”

It wasn’t the iron force of his body, or the deadly calm voice, that kept Hutch rooted to the floor. It was the tears in Captain Dobey’s eyes. Never. Never, in all the time he had known this man, had he ever seen such naked sorrow on his face.

For the first time, past the pounding in his ears, Hutch could hear the frantic activity behind the wall of glass separating the ICU room from the corridor they stood in. He could hear the sound that caused every drop of blood in his body to drain through the floor. The high pitched, wasp-like drone of the heart monitor flatlining.

“Oh, God! Stop it!” His entire body twisted with denial and he threw Dobey off him. Not caring if he broke Dobey’s arms, or his own, doing it.

Hutch launched himself at the window.

Inside, the Doctor who was lifting the paddles away for the last time – already shaking his head at the nurse by his elbow – looked up to see Thor himself, bringing his fists down on the helpless sheet of unbreakable glass.

The glass shattered.

 

Chapter Five

‘Once Upon A Time’

Depending on who you talk to, what happened next, is where real life turns into legend. For some people though, it’s just something that was already pretty amazing going on to its logical conclusion.

But, does anyone notice when something amazing begins? Did anyone in the crowd of trainees lounging on the steps of the Academy, waiting for the first day of classes to begin, suddenly sit up and take notice when the tall, blond running up the stairs, neatly sidestepped the curly-haired brunette flying down them? Did the light change , did the world go silent? Probably not.

Was there a hum of potential greatness in the air around them when they almost collided again in the cafeteria? Then, fell naturally into step, already engrossed in conversation by the time they were sitting at a nearly full table. Knowing each others names, but unaware of when that had happened. The other trainees assuming, without knowing why, that the two were friends. The two in question, assuming it too.

That easily. That quickly. Too young back then, to know that a gift like this never comes free of charge. Together in their unspoken certainty that immortality was something tangible. Both, at home on Olympus. They never imagined that falling from such a height isn’t something many people could survive.

When Hutch brought his hands down on the glass, Simard, who was arguably standing closest, swears he heard Hutch say – in a very scared, very angry voice, “STARSKY! Get the Hell back here. NOW!”

Patrolwoman, Kathy Grouse, who was a fan of Gothic novels, and more than a little bit in love with Hutch, claims he cried out – ‘I will not let Death have him!’ No one who was there believes this is true.

Dobey wasn’t sure what, if anything, Hutch said.

Huggy, who arrived just seconds before the glass came down, only heard his own sudden, and he admits, totally irrational cry of, “Catch him, Hutch!”

No one else remembers what they said or thought. Because in the sudden, shocking silence that followed the crash, all they heard was the quiet, steady beep of the monitor as Starsky’s heart began to beat again.

 

Epilogue

If you ask Starsky, he believes Simard is right. Ordering him to live, sounds like the kind of thing Hutch would do. But, Starsky doesn’t really talk about it. Neither does Hutch. They both seem reluctant to look at this event too closely. It wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot, that they’d skated right up to the edge of the abyss and looked down. But, it was the first time one of them had actually lost his footing.

So, they’ve grown up a little more. They know the price of the gift now, and they’ve felt the terror of free-fall. They both know the clock will run out someday. Hopefully, not for a long time. But it will. So, they’d just as soon not tamper with the works, because for now, it’s running just fine.

Besides, when you’re the stuff that legends are made of, you don’t think about falling.

You just fly.

 

• fin •
‘ . . . these dreaming days run past, too quickly.
But we smile in our waking sleep because are together.
When we are dreamless, awake, alone with the moon,
Eternity troubles us and the night falls forever.”

–unknown