Not Always a Roar

482

After the events of Sweet Revenge, Starsky realizes a few things.

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He had plenty of time to think–that was one thing Starsky had discovered since being shot by Gunther’s hitmen. He could spend time thinking about the old times–the good times, and if he was honest, the bad ones too. He could think of the missed opportunities, the roads he hadn’t chosen, the paths his life might have taken had he made just one different choice. He could spend time thinking about the future–the one he knew didn’t lie in the streets because he knew his body would never be up to the challenge again.

But he didn’t spend time thinking about those things–he spent his time thinking about Hutch–and observing– like the good cop, the good detective he had been. It was the little things he started noticing after Hutch had insisted Starsky recover at his home–the little things like the way Hutch would stand at the sink with his head bowed, his hands gripping the edge and his shoulders tensing after they finished eating. Or the way Hutch would look at him when he thought Starsky wasn’t watching. Or the way Hutch had tightened his belt two notches and grew even paler and smiled less.

So he gathered his information, plotted while he spent hours and days in physical therapy, occupational therapy, and talking to the psychologist they insisted he see.

He realized he’d been lucky in a way Hutch had not. The trauma had left him with no memory of the shooting itself, not even a glimmer. He’d lost the three months before he found out later. Three months of his life forever gone. He supposed that was okay because Huggy had told him things he and Hutch had been at odds–something from their friendship, their partnership off although neither of them had ever shared what it was with anyone else. Starsky didn’t remember those things. He remembered waking up in the hospital, unsure of why he was there, and his one constant, his North Star was by his side. He remembered Hutch’s voice telling him things were going to be okay. Hutch was there when he took his first faltering steps with a body gone weak. Hutch was there when he threw up from the pain and when he had a bout of pneumonia. And somehow through all of that, he’d never questioned just what all that being there had cost his best friend.

Tell me how to fix Hutch. That was what he told the psychologist. And he wanted to punch the wall when the man told him that the sessions weren’t about Hutch. What did he want? What were his plans? How did he feel about not being able to go back on the street? So he said the lies the psychologist wanted to hear and went back to observing Hutch on his own. He’d somehow figure out what Hutch needed.

Starsky hadn’t ever associated the word vulnerable with his best friend, his partner, but the day Hutch came out of the bathroom with his mustache shaved off, Starsky labeled him that. Vulnerable and lost. And he still didn’t know how to fix him.

Hutch went to work, did his job with the new partner he’d been assigned, a new detective named Billings. Starsky had met him once when he’d had to go to the station for a meeting to discuss his future as a cop, or not, as the case may be. He was young, eager, and smart in a way that made Starsky feel much older than the six years that separated them. Take care of him, he’d told Billings and the other man nodded in agreement, his brown eyes serious as he shook Starsky’s hand–promise from one partner to another.

He did what he could around the house as he recovered—cleaned, cooked the food Hutch bought, and made conversation at meal time. They never spoke about the past, nor the future. Their talks dwindled to what Hutch had done at work and what Starsky had done in therapy and what they should watch on TV.

He read it in a journal at the psychologist’s office–not his usual idea of reading material but the man was late due to an emergency and he had to do something with his time. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder–what they used to call shell shock. The psychologist was surprised when he brought it up but was willing to give Starsky more articles to read, thinking perhaps that Starsky was the one suffering.

So Starsky read and did his best to learn all he could because he was losing Hutch even if he had him right by his side. The one thing he didn’t do was bring it up with Hutch even though every part of him wanted to confront the other man. It never seemed the right time and he told himself Hutch was coping. Maybe when he moved back to his own place it would be the right time. Maybe when Hutch accepted what Starsky already had would be the right time. Or maybe, Starsky admitted, it would never be the right time because maybe he wasn’t the right person to help his friend.

He woke up when Hutch came home late one night after a stakeout and lay in Hutch’s bed watching in the dark as Hutch came in his bedroom and pulled something from the closet. He heard the door snick closed and waited in the dark. It was much later when he ventured from the bedroom to the smaller room where Hutch slept on a rollaway cot that he’d been using ever since Starsky got out of the hospital. Moonlight silvered Hutch’s hair, bathed his pale face, highlighted Hutch’s hands where they cradled Ollie. Starsky wanted nothing more than to take Hutch in his arms, to cradle his friend the way his friend cradled the bear, to hold him and fix him and make him whole. But he closed the door, went back to bed, and knew he would keep Hutch’s secret for the sake of dignity.

He knew that sooner or later something would happen. He didn’t know when, he didn’t know how. He just knew.

Dobey called him on a hot sunny day. Get to the hospital, Dobey had said and Starsky waited for the car they sent to pick him up while his heart pounded and his stomach twisted and his hands shook.

Billings was going to be okay. The bullet had creased his arm. It was Hutch that Dobey had called about. Hutch who stood shaking and lost and had thrown up repeatedly even though no bullets had even come near him.

When Starsky approached, he looked at him as if he didn’t remember him. Starsky took his arm, guided him back to his car, and drove them home. He wrapped a blanket around him, made some sort of tea Hutch had bought months ago, and watched, unsure of what to do, what to say, other than just being there.

The sunlight faded and the night fell and still they sat, silent, unable, Starsky thought, to get out of the quicksand they were slowly drowning in.

It was an accident a street over that did it–squealing brakes, the sound of metal meeting metal and a backfire.

Hutch, who hadn’t moved for hours, stood, blanket dropped to the floor and backed up until he was crouched in a corner.

“Get down. Starsky, get down.” The words came out strangled as if speaking them hurt Hutch’s throat like shattered glass.

“I’m here.” Starsky got on the floor, hard as it was, but kept his distance. “Hutch. I’m right here.”

Hutch looked at him, wild-eyed. Starsky had seen him strung out on heroin, had scrambled down a canyon to reach him trapped under a car, but he’d never seen that look in Hutch’s eyes before–defeat, despair, hopelessness.

Starsky swallowed down his emotion, kept his voice calm. “I’m here.”

Hutch reached out one shaking hand and Starsky scooted closer, ignored the pain at the awkward motion.

“I’ve got ya,” he whispered as Hutch grabbed his hand and held on. “It’s okay.” He knew it was a lie but it was all he had to offer.

Hutch looked at him then and Starsky nodded. Hutch took a breath, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“I can’t,” Hutch finally said, his voice broken. “Oh God, Starsk, I can’t.” He held Starsky’s hand to his chest, curled over as his shoulders heaved and finally, finally all the pain, all the trying so hard to keep it togetherness gave way to agonized sobs.

“I can’t,” he said over and over. Starsky did the only thing he could–hung on tight so Hutch knew he couldn’t, wouldn’t fall apart.

Starsky’s shirt sleeves were wet with Hutch’s tears, but he didn’t let go. His arms ached with holding on, but he didn’t let go. And when the storm passed and Hutch tilted his head back to the wall, Starsky nudged him closer, used a hand to guide Hutch’s head to his shoulder.

“I can’t,” Hutch said again, resigned.

“Can’t what?” Starsky asked. He rubbed fingers on Hutch’s scalp, small circles that eased tension.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” Starsky didn’t move from his spot but he was unsure if Hutch meant the friendship or something else.

“When Billings–” Hutch paused and took a shuddering breath. “I saw you. Saw it all again. You were dying and I couldn’t do a damn thing. I couldn’t move, couldn’t…I can’t keep losing people I love.”

Starsky sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’m tired,” Hutch said. “I’m so tired.”

“C’mon.” Starsky moved and realized that there was no way he was going to be able to get up off the floor without assistance. He accepted Hutch’s hand, stood a moment while he regained his balance.

“C’mon,” he said again and took Hutch’s hand and led him into the bedroom.

Hutch just stood until Starsky had enough and gave a gentle push so Hutch sat down.

“Get undressed,” he told him. He went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and came back to find Hutch sitting there with his shirt off, jeans around his ankles because his shoes were in the way.

“What am I gonna do with you, huh?” Starsky finished the job and then took the cloth, wiped it over Hutch’s face. He wasn’t surprised when more tears fell.

“Star–” Hutch’s voice broke and he hung his head.

Starsky shook his head. “Lay down.” He shucked his own jeans, his shirt and lay down beside him.

He turned onto his side, propped himself up on an elbow, and took a slow breath to ease the twinge in his side. “Lemme take care of you,” he said as he watched Hutch slowly blink as if he was fighting sleep.

“You…I couldn’t…God, Starsk, I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save–” Hutch shut his mouth then, clamped his lips, tensed his body.

And there it was–that Midwestern, Lutheran guilt that Hutch had been carrying for months.

“You were there,” Starsky said. “You were always there.” He felt his own eyes prickle and swallowed hard. The love he’d felt from every touch, every small gesture, every word that Hutch had given him over the years suddenly overwhelming him in a rush as sure as the tide coming in every day. “I love you.”

Hutch’s intake of breath was loud into the silence after those three words. Words Starsky hadn’t really meant to say aloud but, well, there they were. It wasn’t like he could take them back now.

“Me too,” Hutch finally said, his voice low as he turned on his side to look at Starsky.

“Took us long enough,” Starsky said as he put his head on the pillow, pulled Hutch close, held him in an embrace, synced his breath to Hutch’s.

He felt Hutch stiffen for a moment before he relaxed more fully into Starsky’s arms.

“You aren’t coming back, are you?” Hutch finally said in a whisper.

“I’m not ever gonna be good enough to get back on the streets,” Starsky said, finally saying it aloud to the person who needed to hear it the most.

“I don’t know if I can. After today. I don’t know.” Hutch tightened his hand in Starsky’s. “But I don’t know…where do we go from here?”

Starsky smiled, pressed a kiss onto Hutch’s head. “I don’t know, but wherever, whatever it is, we’ll go together.”

And no matter what, that would be enough.