Overheard

Hutch hadn’t realized he’d been followed until he turned to leave.

Originally written for a LiveJournal prompt challenge.

Hutch held out a shaking hand and touched the smooth, red paint. Slowly, gently, he ran his fingers along the surface, lingering momentarily each time their path was interrupted by the jagged metal of a bullet hole. But what held his teary gaze was the blood. Starsky’s blood. It sent him straight back there again—scraping metal, unmistakable foreboding, gunshots, panic, helplessness. Starsky crumpled and dying. Terror and endless despair.

“Dobey told me not to come,” he said, “not to look, but I had to. I had to see…” He leaned on the door, jagged bits of glass digging into his hands where the window had been. Pain and fear constricting his throat, he continued. “You protected me. I got down and you took the heat. You and Starsky. But it’s Starsky you should have saved, not me. If he’d just parked in the other direction, it would have been him standing here.” The anguish in this simple truth overwhelmed him. Hutch dropped his head, and allowed the tears to flow.

“You know I always told Starsky I didn’t like you, that you’re too flashy, too loud. Truth is, I just like to tease him. I never thought you were so bad. One thing’s for sure, he can never see you like this. I don’t care what it takes, he’ll never see you like this.”

Hutch hadn’t realized he’d been followed until he turned to leave.

“How long you been standing there, Hug?”

“Long enough to know we gotta get her to Merle.”