Rhetorical Questions

There are only fragments of Starsky left now, gone just long enough that he can’t quite remember the sound of his voice, the exact color of his eyes, the way he smiled when he was surprised.

After everything is over and the last bits of debris have been swept up, Hutch goes to medical school.

His parents are pleased. They’d be more pleased if Hutch had chosen a more lucrative, more estimable route than emergency medicine, but Hutch loves it; loves the adrenaline, loves the immediacy of helping people.

And the hours are long and the work is draining and the coffee is bad, but it’s easier, in so many ways, than being a cop ever was.

Most of the time, it’s easier.

The human body doesn’t always follow the rules, it’s true. And no amount of training and practice means a 100% success rate. And medicine is not an exact science.

Still, it’s supposed to be easier. He’s supposed to be able to focus on the inner workings of the body, on whatever trauma has disrupted the physical responses. He’s supposed to be able to ignore whatever has caused the disruption, whether it’s a car accident, a gunshot wound, or a heart attack-ignore the injustice of it all, and just focus on the trauma itself, try to fix the problem.

It’s not always easier. There are days when he imagines that there’s still blood on his hands, long after he’s scrubbed his skin and changed into his street clothes. Those aren’t just the days that he loses people; those are the days that he can’t stop his mind from thinking of all the reasons that they’re beneath his hands in the first place.

Those are also the days that he sees Starsky, and he hates that most of all.

There are only fragments of Starsky left now, gone just long enough that he can’t quite remember the sound of his voice, the exact color of his eyes, the way he smiled when he was surprised. It should be a relief, proof that he’s the one calling Starsky to mind, not just randomly seeing his image, but it’s more bitter than sweet; the way his own memories fail him.

Even the sound of his voice is not quite right. The words, however, are classic Starsky. “Same shit, different day, huh?”

Hutch can almost, almost smile, sitting on his couch, looking at the image of Starsky perched on the arm. He breathes in, wondering if he can imagine the scent that he hadn’t known was there until it was gone. “Mm hm,” is his only response.

“It’s not your fault,” is always the next thing, always after a long silence, sometimes after a single shot of whiskey that either dulls the pain or heightens it. Hutch is never able to predict which, but he welcomes it either way.

“I know,” Hutch always answers wearily.

“Then why don’t you believe it?”

Starsky never waits around for an answer that they both already know.