The Darkness Without

The jokes were awful, the idea worse, and he groaned inwardly as the stony faces of their small audience remained expressionless. It wouldn’t hurt them to pretend, goddamn it. After all, this was just a gag, not a Vegas opening, and it meant a lot to Starsky—God only knew why. His partner was not really recovered enough from his wounds to be doing this, but Hutch hadn’t been able to resist the enthusiastic proposal. Just a quiet evening of home entertainment, huh! Some quiet. And no one seemed particularly entertained.

He looked at Starsky then, feeling his partner’s enjoyment in this make-believe moment, grinned, and fed W.C. Fields his next line. To hell with the audience. They just didn’t know a good vaudeville routine when they saw one.

The cane goosed him sharply, and he jerked forward into the bathroom, yelping. Damn Starsky! He turned to tell him where he could put the stick, and met a devilish grin. The irritation evaporated.

“I’m knockin’ ’em dead!”

He returned the grin, agreeing, and helped his partner off with the jacket, trying not to jostle the still almost useless left arm. Remembered fear gripped him in icy tentacles. Nearly lost, all of it. His own certain death as well the only comfort to be had.

Shivering, he searched the too pale face, the overly bright eyes, and came to a decision. “I’m gonna go out there and get them ready for the next set. Don’t forget the gorilla joke.”

“I’m not gonna forget nothin’.”

He slipped through the door, and beckoned impatiently to the five people. They followed him into the front yard, gathering around him in puzzled silence. “Look, Starsky’s not feeling too good, but he’ll keep this up all night if he has an audience. Maybe it’d be better if we did this some other time, okay?” He smiled, not wanting to hurt their feelings, but knowing they had to leave before Starsky found out—he’d insist on them staying.

Huggy nodded, always the good friend. “Sure, but you tell Starsky my place don’t hire live acts.”

“But, Hutch, I thought….” Lisa pouted at him, her pretty eyes sending messages.

“I know,” he murmured, biting back the sudden anger at her lack of understanding. “I’ll call you later.” He forced another smile, encompassing the whole group. “Thanks,” he said brightly and turned away, anxious to get back before Starsky came looking.

“Did ya ever get the feeling you were all alone in the world? That nobody loves you?”

The soft words carried to him where he stood in the darkness beyond the open door, bringing sadness and a desperate need to dispel its cause. Not for a long time, babe. He stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

Starsky whirled, surprise written on his face. “Where’d everybody go?”

“I sent them away. You’re tired” He walked over and took the top hat and cigar from his partner’s unresisting fingers. “Come on, sit down, and we’ll wait for the reviews.” Hutch pulled him over to the sofa.

“But we hadn’t finished,” Starsky protested, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “We were just gettin’ to the good stuff.”

“Yeah, well.” He shoved gently and Starsky sat with a grunt of discomfort. Hutch winced. “Sorry. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Nah,” Starsky muttered and looked at the door, then back at Hutch. “Why’d you do that? I feel great.”

“Uh-huh, and I’m going to make sure you stay feeling that way. You want a beer?” He walked over to the refrigerator, glancing back to encounter his friend’s brooding gaze. “What?” he asked, a flutter of anxiety playing along his stomach muscles.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You’re Florence Nightingale routine. It’s getting a little heavy, don’t you think?”

Blood covering his hands, body twitching in shock, night going on forever…. Please, God! I promise…anything…anything…. He drew in a shaking breath, forcing away the remembered pain and raked restless fingers through his hair. “Yeah, maybe. I’m sorry, it’s just—“ He shook his head and smiled.

The lightness was not accepted. Starsky’s brow contracted in a frown. “Just what?”

He shrugged and opened the refrigerator, staring into its cold depths with unseeing eyes. Fear, strong and sick-making, crawled through his mind. “It’s just that I’m so scared, Starsk…so goddamned scared….” The words came out in a choked whisper, as he fought to hold the terror at bay.

“Leave that, and come here.”

The low voice tugged at him, moving him to his partner’s side. An arm encircled him, pulling him close, and he relaxed into the embrace, drinking in the living warmth of the strong body—reassurance against the waiting darkness. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

“No. Pretty wonderful. But I’m okay, you know. Really.”

Gentle fingers stroked his arm, and he reached up to cover them with his own. “I know. But it doesn’t seem to help. I keep remembering you lying there, maybe dead, and I’ve never told you I love you.” The words slipped out, easy after all.

The arm tightened fractionally. “Yes, you have, everyday for the last five years—every time you smile at me, or laugh with me, or yell at me.”

He turned to stare into the sapphire eyes, seeing love, open and all enveloping, shining back at him. His forever.

“I can’t bear the thought of you dying. Everything inside me goes dark when I try to picture life without you.” The lump in his throat threatened to strangle him, and he clutched convulsively at the rough fabric of Starsky’s jacket. “I’d be dead, too.”

“Ah, babe.”

His head was drawn down to rest on a broad shoulder. Gentle caresses floated across his back comforting, accepting…and from somewhere deep within his soul the fear rose to consume him, blinding his eyes with its tears, ripping his heart with its pain. Starsky gone. The sun forever eclipsed, and all around him eternal night.

The tears stopped eventually, dying away to ragged breaths, leaving him tired and empty. He released his hold on the jacket, trying to smooth the mass of wrinkles left by his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, embarrassed now, and pulled out of the embrace. “I shouldn’t—“

“Don’t.” A hand grasped his arm, squeezing gently. “Don’t be sorry.”

He met Starsky’s eyes, the blue depths misted with tears of their own, and once more felt love surround him—cherish him, heal him. Wonderingly he reached up to touch the dark hair, feeling the curls twine around his fingers, warm and silken and alive. All the time—his Starsk, here still. He let himself be pulled back into the sweet embrace, safe and known.