Singed Wings and Twisted Halos

It was the eyes, Hutch decides. And not so much their color but how incongruous they seem set among the dark hair and olive skin. He’d looked into countless pairs of eyes during his time in Vietnam, but these are the ones he’s remembered.

Back then, those eyes had looked right into his, a pleading behind their bravado, and Hutch had answered that pleading by keeping him from bleeding out. Now the eyes are unfocused, failing to see much of anything, though they still seem to rest on his own. Hutch answers a plea that isn’t even there. Now, as in then, he thinks it’s because it’s his duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

**

The next time, there’s no gunshot wound, no visible wound at all, actually. Hutch doesn’t see him after the first few moments, called away to another emergency. He’s too good, too focused to be distracted, but he’s shaken by the unconscious form of the man who keeps ending up in his care. When he finally goes home after his shift and falls into bed, he dreams about Vietnam for the first time in years.

Hours later, the man reaches for him. They lock eyes, and Hutch swears he sees recognition there. The man is about to say something, but he pulls back, right before he’s taken upstairs.

When Hutch goes home, he sleeps fitfully.

It’s a pleasant surprise to find out, on his next shift, that the man has survived.

“67,” the man says by way of greeting. Starsky, it says on his chart. Hutch wonders how he ever managed to forget the name.

“Yes.” He doesn’t need to add anything else; already the two of them, years removed from the war, slip into the space occupied by former soldiers.

“So you’re a doctor now.” Starsky’s voice is barely above a whisper, and his breathing is labored, but the eyes reveal the strength existing beneath the surface.

“Just barely.” Hutch laughs softly.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I thought, back then, that you were some kind of angel. Even in all that muddy jungle, you looked like a movie star or something.” Starsky shrugged. “I’m not coming on to ya, or anything.”

“I know. Stranger things happened over there.”

Starsky manages a grin. “Stranger things than me thinking you were an angel, or stranger things that someone hitting on you?”

Hutch laughs. “Both.”

The silence that settles on them should be awkward. It’s not. “Well, I’d say I’d see you around, but that seems a little insensitive.”

“I’m sure you will, Dr. Hutchinson. I’m what my father used to call, ‘a shit magnet.’ Comes with being a cop.”

Hutch has nothing to say to that, so he gives a small smile and leaves.

**

The next time he sees Starsky in the hospital, it’s under less dramatic circumstances. This time it’s just a cut on his hand, easy to stitch and bandage, easy enough that they can trade a few barbs as Hutch patches him up.

“I oughta buy you a beer.”

Hutch laughs. “I’m just doing my job, Starsk.”

Starsky shrugs. “So’m I. It’s why I’m always here. Just thought maybe you might want the chance to commiserate; lousy hours, lousy pay.”

Hutch smirks. “Don’t you have other cops to do that with?”

Starsky smirks back. “Sure, but I figure we also gotta stick together with the other overworked and underpaid denizens of society.” He pauses, and his expression becomes less carefree. “Maybe we gotta think of it like a coupla old soldiers.”

Hutch matches his gaze. It’s careful, deliberate, what Starsky has suggested, and it’s very clear very quickly that Starsky does not live with one foot in the past, that to step back into it is to extend an invitation, to extend trust that is not easily earned.

“My shift ends in an hour, if I don’t get called to another emergency.”

**

The Pits isn’t a cop bar. It’s also not a dive desperately trying to be something better, which, ironically, makes it far less of a dive than it would be otherwise. Hutch isn’t sure if the name is an honest assessment of what many of its patrons likely experience on a daily basis, or if it’s a nod to the fortitude of the working class. After meeting its chameleon-like proprietor, Hutch promptly figures it’s both. It’s odd, how immediately comfortable Hutch is within its walls. At one time Hutch had divided his life into pre-Vietnam and post-Vietnam. Lately, that has turned to dividing his life between before Bay City and now. Regardless, the bar reminds him of the space that developed in between eras, except there’s substance now where there used to be a sort of diaphanous emptiness.

“They used to call you Hutch.” This is the greeting that Starsky offers after Hutch slides onto the stool next to him. The familiarity shouldn’t be as easy as it is, perhaps, but it’s comfortable.

“That’s right. But that nickname was around before the war.”

“Yeah? And where was before? Midwest probably, or a little east of the Great Lakes. Small city but not the middle of nowhere. Good family.” Starsky’s eyes are shrewd, assessing, but not sharp or derisive. “You went to college but you decided to join up anyway. Family has a military history maybe. Either that or you were a rebel.”

Hutch takes a long drink of beer before responding. “You’re a good detective. A regular Sherlock Holmes.”

Starsky grins. “You’re a good doctor. A regular Florence Nightingale.”

For a second, Hutch thinks about correcting him, but there’s a laugh in Starsky’s eyes, alongside something warm. He smirks instead. “I hear that one all the time.”

**

Civilian life is supposed to be easier. He’s supposed to feel safer. The air is supposed to be easier to breathe. When he wakes up from a bad dream, he doesn’t wake up to a nightmare.

The silence that wraps around them on the hard kitchen floor feels like the humidity of the jungle. There’s no scent of blood or gunmetal in the air, but when Hutch closes his eyes, he sees Terry’s body, her face beautiful even in death. She’s still a casualty, and he and Starsky are still soldiers.

Hutch has no hope of fighting this battle. If Starsky was beneath his hands, blood seeping from wounds, he would know what to do. But Starsky’s eyes are open, and, while Hutch can’t confirm his vitals sitting six feet away from him, he can reasonably guess that Starsky is in no danger. If he were, Hutch would know what to do. It is the very definition of helplessness.

His hands don’t shake, as he opens the letter from Terry. His hands don’t shake, as he unwraps her gift to him. He’s a good doctor; his hands don’t shake.

It’s not fair, what she’s asking him to do. She wasn’t there, in the jungles. She doesn’t know. And this? This is even worse.

“She was a smart lady.” Hutch looks into Starsky’s eyes. This time, there’s no pleading, no bravado. This time there’s trust. And that is more terrifying, the weight of the responsibility heavy. His vision blurs, and he blinks. Starsky’s gaze has changed, something indecipherable in his eyes. “She knew,” he states. “You’re good at what you do. Kept me alive so many times. You, you carry a…” and he waves his hand in the air, eyebrows scrunched together, looking for the word. “…a med kit. Now me, I carry a gun. I do the killing. I don’t always mean to, but I do. Casualties,” he murmurs, and his face contorts in pain.

Sometimes, Hutch has perfect control over his body, can move his limbs exactly the way he wants them to. Sometimes, they have minds of their own. It’s not only the alcohol in his system that leaves his limbs heavy, threatens to make weapons out of instruments. “No,” he says, trying to make his way over to Starsky. His body lurches, awkwardly, and he’s stopped by the presence of the candles, the way the small flames illuminate the raw pain in Starsky’s eyes. If his mind was clear, not addled with grief and alcohol, he might be able to find the words to say what he means, to remind Starsky of the honor behind what he does, of the intent. “People die on the table all the time,” he says instead.

Starsky nods, his eyes brimming. “Sometimes,” he whispers, as if he’s about to utter a confession that could reverberate and disrupt, “I wish I had never come home.”

“Me too,” Hutch answers, and he can feel the tears on his cheeks.

**

At 20, in the thick of the jungle, Hutch never thought he would miss Vietnam. During the worst days of medical school and his residency, when he was so exhausted his eyes felt as if they were filled with sand, he thought about the end goal, thought about working to save lives within the sterile walls of an emergency room, thought of how no matter what happened, he wouldn’t feel as if he was working in vain.

Some days, he can’t reconcile his younger self’s confidence with his current doubt. And some days, he feels numb, as if he’s been frozen over.

Starsky is all fire, the kind that burns hot and painful, but eventually purifies.

Hutch wonders if fire and ice can coexist side by side.

**

Starsky defies death, not once, but twice. Hutch can’t tell if it’s his hands or Starsky’s fire that brings him back, until he realizes that he’s not sure where he ends and Starsky begins.

This is the battle that Hutch has been prepared to fight. His hands don’t shake, the hands that never fail him. He feels helpless anyway.

“I don’t know what to do Starsk,” he whispers, but it’s not true. Lean in, take the chance of fire ripping through him. Pain, like fire, can reveal the true nature of a man.

When his eyes open, Hutch knows, suddenly, that they’ve seen him all along, seen him and invited him anyway.

**

“Did I ever tell you that I thought you were an angel once, back in ‘Nam?” Starsky’s eyes are just this side of unfocused, just this side of giddy. Hutch welcomes the effects of painkillers; those eyes will soon enough be full of pain and frustration. Hutch has a feeling it’ll be okay though; this is Starsky, after all.

“Yeah, I think you told me.” It’s late, the hospital is unusually quiet, Starsky is loose-limbed and laughing, and for once, Hutch feels that he can just take the moment to breathe.

His mouth twitches at the corners.

“I know better now.” Starsky looks as if he’s attempting to be serious, but he’s losing the battle. He giggles. “The mustache gives you away.” He grins, as if he’s come up with the world’s funniest joke.

“Hey Starsk?” Hutch nearly whispers. “I have a secret.”

“Yeah?” The attempt at seriousness is gone, but so is the mirth, leaving just Starsky, however glassy-eyed.

“Sometimes I think you’re an angel. Maybe a fallen one, but an angel nevertheless.”

Starsky narrows his eyes, as if considering. “Like maybe my halo is all busted up?”

It’s Hutch’s turn to grin. “Something like that.”