Progression

Hutch struggles in the aftermath of the Gunther shooting.

First published in the zine, Lifeline: A Decade of Sweet Revenge, in May, 1989, on the 10th anniversary of that episode.

Special thanks to Donna F. for helping to digitize this story for the archive.

Hutch tried to concentrate on the words in front of him

and he hears the crunch of metal and chrome and whirls to see
what is approaching as he yells out his partner’s name in
warning… he drops protectively as the tinny sound of automatic
weapon fife blots out all other noise… then launches to his feet as
squealing tires round the Torino and attempt escape… without
realizing he’s pulled his weapon he aims and fires at the fleeing
vehicle… aware that something/someone is missing from his
flank… not responding to his hoarse cries… the car vanishes and it’s
safe to turn his back… only instead of a crouching partner covering
him he sees a motionless partner pasty-white… fetal-curled… bloodwelling ….

Hutch threw an arm over his eyes. He’d made it to the end of the open pages again without remembering one word of what he’d read. For the fifth time. So much for that particular effort. He felt along the top of the couch for the bookmark he’d placed there, and finding it, slipped it between the offending pages. He closed the book and rested it against his chest, pondering his next activity. Maybe food. He placed the book on the back of the couch, slid his legs to the floor, and sat up. Or maybe just something to drink. He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer

and he hears the crunch of metal and chrome and whirls to see
what is approaching as he yells out his partner’s name in
warning… he drops protectively as the tinny sound of automatic
weapon fife blots out all other noise… then launches to his feet as
squealing tires round the Torino and attempt escape… without
realizing he’s pulled his weapon he aims and fires at the fleeing
vehicle… scoring some kind of hit as the car careens into another
car and fishtails into yet a third… aware that something/someone is
missing from his flank… not responding to his hoarse cries… and the
stopped car is being surrounded by uniforms… it’s safe to turn his
back… only instead of a crouching partner. grinning at his sharpshooting he sees a motionless partner pasty-white …fetal-curled…
blood-welling….

Hutch clenched the beer can in his fist, tossed it unopened into the trash. He braced himself against the sink, bending his elbows to lower his head toward the porcelain, then slowly rising as his stomach calmed. Air. He needed some air. He walked over to the glass doors and slid them open, allowing in a light breeze that cooled his face

and he hears the crunch of metal and chrome and whirls to see
what is approaching as he yells out his partner’s name in
warning… he drops protectively as the tinny sound of automatic
weapon fire blots out all other noise… then launches to his feet as
squealing tires round the Torino and attempt escape… without
realizing he’s pulled his weapon he aims and fires at the fleeing
vehicle… scoring a direct hit as the car explodes into a fireball of
heat and black smoke knocking him backward… he falls hard
against the hood of the Torino rolling off and to the side… the
stench of singed hair flaring his nostrils… he lands on his
stomach… raises his head dizzily… he sees a motionless partner
pasty-white… fetal-curled… blood-welling….

Hutch turned away from the patio and stumbled to a seat beside the table. He stared out at the living room, then gradually focused on the newly-begun model ship in front of him. He ran his fingers over the pieces laid across the tabletop, feeling the finish of the wood, the silkiness of the thread

Hutch ran a hand over his face, surprised to find his hair damp and his skin clammy. And then not so surprised to find his whole body damp. He rose and walked to the bathroom. Mindlessly, he stripped and stepped into the shower, turning both taps as far as they would go, his skin stinging and unable to gauge the temperature battering him

and he hears the crunch of metal and chrome and whirls to see
what is approaching as he yells out his partner’s name in
warning… he drops protectively as the tinny sound of automatic
weapon fire blots out all other noise… then launches to his feet as
squealing tires round the Torino and attempt escape… without
realizing he’s pulled his weapon he aims and fires at the fleeing
vehicle… aware of fire in kind from behind him… someone scores a
direct hit as the car explodes into a fireball of heat and black
smoke knocking him backward… he falls hard against the hood of
the Torino rolling off to the side… the stench of singed hair flaring
his nostrils… he lands on his stomach… raises his head dizzily… he
sees the frightened face of his partner pasty-white… raising groggily
and smiling to see him….

Hutch turned off the shower and climbed out. Dripping, he took the robe from its hook on the door and wrapped it around him, stepping on his clothes as he left the bathroom. He wandered around the room for a few moments, then found his way to the bed. He pulled back the bedspread and allowed the robe to slide off. He sat down, pulled his legs up under the spread, and lay back

and hears the crunch of metal and chrome and whirls to see what
is approaching as he yells out his partner’s name in warning… he
drops protectively as the tinny sound of automatic weapon fire
blots out all other noise… then launches to his feet as squealing
tires round the Torino and attempt escape… without realizing he’s
pulled his weapon he aims and fires at the fleeing vehicle… and the
passenger leans out his window and fires again… knocking him
backward… he falls hard against the hood of the Torino rolling off
and to the side… he lands on his back… curling protectively against
the pain… opens his eyes to see the frightened face of his partner
pasty-white and fading….