As Starsky recovers in the hospital, he tries to explain his growing feelings of love to his partner in the only way he thinks Hutch will understand.
He would establish a pattern. An undeniable logic-based shared experience of their love. Something so solid that even Hutch wouldn’t be able to poke holes in it.
Starsky lay in the hospital bed with his eyes closed, breathing slowly enough to appear asleep. He hated hospitals, the smells, the lights, the noises, but he didn’t mind the alone time once in a while. Thinking, or maybe overthinking, had been unavoidable since the bullets.
The one topic his mind came back to over and over again was Hutch. He had known he loved Hutch long before Gunther’s men tried to kill him. That part had never been in question. The question was something else entirely.
What to do about it.
Starsky sighed inwardly. Fear had always been the problem. Not fear of loving Hutch, but fear of choosing. Of stepping across an invisible line and expressing the full extent of that love. Not brotherly affection, or best-friend devotion, but love that came from the soul. All-out, caring, romantic, unmistakably physical, floating-off-the-ground kind of love.
So he covered it up. Wrapped his love in a warm, familiar blanket of denial and held it so tightly that the love could only escape in acceptable forms. And escape it did, just never all at once, never in ways that required him to say the words out loud.
It came out as protection of Hutch’s life, and equally as often of his heart. Small, constant acts of love, sometimes with humor when things got too heavy. Or a full body hug when the outside world was just too hard. With sleepless, tireless nights chasing down criminals who had dared to hurt him, or even throwing his body in front of danger, if it came to that.
Yet, holding back had a cost. That cost was the realization that he could die without ever telling Hutch how he truly felt. God knew they both had enough close calls, inches from death more times than he cared to count.
The assassination attempt by Gunther, targeting both of them, was the final straw. Sure, the bullets had hit him, but they just as easily could have hit Hutch.
He wasn’t going to let another bad thing happen without the truth being known.
That didn’t mean he suddenly had a perfect answer to the question, just the certainty that it was time.
Which led to the next, far more terrifying question.
How would Hutch handle it?
Starsky slowly opened his eyes. Hutch was sitting at his bedside. How long he’d been there, Starsky didn’t know. He must have fallen asleep, probably dreaming about Hutch and what to do.
“Hey,” Starsky said, his voice raspy, but his mind clear. “Weren’t you supposed to go home and get some rest?”
Hutch sat up straight and smiled the kind of smile that filled the room.
“Who said that?” Hutch asked. “I thought I’d stick around so I could give you this when you woke up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper bag. “Fresh bagels. I know how much you like them.”
Hutch shrugged in that it’s-no-big-deal sort of way.
“I also wanted to tell you that Merle has the Torino,” Hutch added. “It took a while to get the car out of evidence, but now that Gunther’s trial has been set, the car has been released.”
Starsky smiled, shaking his head. He wanted badly to say it. Right now. To tell Hutch how much he loved him. Yet, he hesitated, not because he wasn’t sure, but because he needed to approach this in a way that wouldn’t scare Hutch off.
Hutch was methodical. He was a facts-before-feelings type of guy. He wanted everything laid out before diving into a life-altering decision. He liked things done a certain way.
So, Starsky needed a plan. A way to present his case without Hutch even realizing that was what he was doing. He listened to Hutch talk about fresh bagels, the arrest of Gunther, the evidence, the trial, and the Torino.
That’s when it hit him.
He would establish a pattern. An undeniable logic-based shared experience of their love. Something so solid that even Hutch wouldn’t be able to poke holes in it.
That pattern wouldn’t be about emotions or life-and-death situations. It wouldn’t be about almost dying. It wouldn’t even be about how, every time he looked into Hutch’s blue eyes, he felt an unexpected sense of peace.
Hutch would surely shoot all of that so-called fluff down in a heartbeat, fighting logic with more logic, insisting their partnership was perfect just the way it was, that there was no need to change anything.
But Starsky suspected Hutch carried his own share of fear. He knew his logical mind was blocking his heart just as much as Starsky had blocked his.
So no. It wouldn’t be about the obvious, heartfelt things.
It would be about something practical. Something concrete.
Starsky smiled to himself.
Cars.
“It’s finished, isn’t it?” Starsky finally asked.
He looked up, examining the ceiling like he didn’t quite trust himself to look at Hutch yet.
“Finished?” Hutch said.
Starsky winced. “The Torino. This time it’s really done, isn’t it?”
Understanding softened Hutch’s face immediately. “Oh. That.” He shook his head. “There was a lot of damage,” Hutch said, as if he were trying to stay optimistic. “Broken windows. Holes in the body. But Merle’s a real magician. We need to have hope.”
“That’s what you said the first time it happened.”
“The first time, what happened?”
“The first time the Torino was seriously damaged. Remember?”
Hutch shook his head, apparently confused.
“No, you’re going to have to refresh me.”
“Sure, Starsky said. “I remember it like it was yesterday.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Starsky dropped the receiver back into its cradle with a loud clunk and turned to face Hutch.
“Huggy says Merle can have the glass fixed in about an hour. Called him a speedy glass-repair magician.” He exhaled. “Huggy’ll drive the Torino over here to the station once it’s ready.”
Hutch dragged a hand down his face and looked up at Starsky with an exhausted expression. The bruising beneath them, the pallor of his skin, the way his hair still lay matted, every detail was a reminder of the last forty-eight hours, soaked in sweat and pain.
“Okay,” Hutch said, sounding almost resigned. “Sorry about your car, Starsky.” He absently rubbed at his elbow. “Too much damage all around.”
Starsky’s heart dropped at the sight of him like this. He looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that set off every warning bell he had.
“It’s okay,” Starsky muttered, barely above a whisper. “That was the least of the damage.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll be back. I just need to see how things are going in the interrogation room, with Forest’s guy, Coney.”
“Not without me,” Hutch shot back, heat flaring despite his obvious fatigue.
“Hutch.” Starsky kept his voice even. “You can’t be in there. You’re the victim, and the victim doesn’t sit in on the interrogation. It’s protocol. You know that.” He held Hutch’s gaze. “And I’m not giving Forest and his merry men a single reason to question whether we’re doing this by the book. Not this time. Got it?”
Hutch scratched at his elbow again. Starsky noticed immediately, logging the movement like evidence. Hutch looked thinner; he probably was, after barely eating for at least four days. Worse than that, he looked worn down by everything he was still trying to hold together.
“I promise,” Starsky said more softly now. “I’ll tell you every word Coney says. And I promise we’ll get Forest. Coney’s not the martyr type. He’ll sing. I just need to do this clean, Hutch. Because if I don’t, there’s hell to pay.” He paused, adding dryly, “I mean, look what he did to my Torino. I’m not letting him walk away from that.”
Hutch managed a weak smile. “Okay. I’ll sit here like a good boy.”
“Have a cup of coff—” Starsky stopped himself. “Or tea?” He sighed, offering a faint smile and silently admonishing his own lapse in judgment. “Just don’t move. Stay right here so when Huggy brings the Torino in, you can get the keys. Then we’ll go get Forest. And it won’t be against protocol for you to join me for that.”
“And Jeanie?”
“Sure,” Starsky said carefully. “We’ll get Jeanie too. You two can talk. Work things out. Get back to the way things were.”
Hutch caught Starsky’s eyes and held them firm. “It will never be the way things were, but that’s okay. If it’s over with Jeannie, I think it’s for the best.” He clenched his jaw. “Right now, I only care about arresting Forest, getting some sleep, and getting my partner’s car back in one piece. Not necessarily in that order.”
“Good list,” Starsky said, his chest giving an unexpected thump.
“So go on,” Hutch said. “Get Coney’s statement. And don’t take any prisoners.” Then, quieter, “Starsky?”
“Yeah?”
“You really believe Merle can fix the Torino? What if there’s other damage that we can’t see?”
Hutch’s eyes were damp now, and Starsky knew exactly what he was asking.
“Anything important is repairable,” Starsky said carefully, glancing at Hutch’s elbow. “Who cares if there are a few scuff marks left behind? They don’t mean anything.”
Hutch shrugged. “Gives it character, huh?”
“If by character you mean it’s still the most reliable, strongest, best car I’ve ever had,” Starsky said, his mouth twitching, “then sure. Not something you see in many… cars.”
“You didn’t say good-looking,” Hutch said with a wry smile.
“Oh,” Starsky stuttered. “Didn’t think I had to. That old beauty will turn heads for decades, I’m sure.”
Hutch lifted his hand to his mouth, and Starsky couldn’t tell if he was holding back tears or a smile. “You’ve got to have hope, right?”
The squad room doors burst open as a uniformed officer crossed the floor. “Detective Starsky, they’re ready for you. Interrogation room four. Sounds like Coney’s prepared to make a full statement.”
Starsky nodded. He turned back to Hutch, offered a small, steady smile, then reached out and ran his finger along Hutch’s arm, down to his elbow.
“I’ll be back in no time,” he promised. “Then we’re going to get Forest. Together.”
“Hurry,” Hutch said, as if Starsky might run for the hills and never come back. “Because I might need a hand getting out of this chair.”
Hutch still looked worn, but the spark was coming back; the version of him Starsky couldn’t live without.
A wide smile spread across Starsky’s face. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got you, partner.”
Starsky’s mind was already shifting gears, already compartmentalizing. This was how it always worked: solve the case, clear the danger, above all else.
Yet, a familiar beating of his heart filled his chest as he turned to leave.
Hutch shifted his jaw. “I guess I had forgotten about what happened to the Torino back then; it was so long ago.”
“Only four years,” Starsky said. “I remember it clearly,” he added. “If Coney hadn’t sung, I just might be in jail right now for going after Forest myself.”
Hutch reached out and stroked Starsky’s hand.
“It’s okay, the Torino came out of it just fine. And it will again.”
Starsky sighed.
This was going to be harder than he thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The nurse smiled at Hutch as she tucked Starsky’s blankets tighter.
“I remember you,” she said to Hutch. “I gave you a shave a couple of months ago.”
Starsky watched Hutch’s confused reaction shift to softened recognition.
“Oh,” Hutch said, coughing. “Right. You said I should be grateful for six inches.”
The nurse laughed, her focus still on Hutch. “Looks like it’s your partner’s turn to get hurt. I get off later, if you’re interested in a drink.”
Starsky coughed loudly. “You two making a date right in front of me?” he asked. “A convalescent?”
Hutch laughed and covered his mouth. “Sorry, honey,” he said to the nurse, hitching a thumb at Starsky. “I’m a little busy right now, with this guy.”
The nurse smiled, sweet as syrup.
“Fair enough,” she said, then gave Hutch a wink as she headed for the door. “If you change your mind, ask for Betty at the nurses’ station.”
As soon as she was gone, Hutch raised a finger.
“I did not flirt with her. I wouldn’t be so insensitive with you lying here in the hospital. You know that.”
Starsky shifted, pretending to sulk.
“Yeah. I know,” Starsky admitted, though without any real conviction. “Guess I was just… a little jealous.”
Hutch smirked. “There are plenty of pretty nurses, Starsky. I’m sure the next one will flirt with you.”
Starsky sighed quietly. Hutch missed his attempt at subtle nuance, yet again.
“You know,” Starsky said, sliding his eyes sideways at Hutch, “I’ve been jealous before.”
Hutch glared at him. “Oh?”
Starsky nodded, slow and knowing, not sure how much to say, all at once. Then, he pulled his thoughts back to the plan.
Cars.
“Yeah,” Starsky said. “Remember that time, when we thought we were going to die in the Torino?”
The hill came at them fast.
“Jam it into low. Do something! Slow it down!”
“Look, I think you’d better jump,” Starsky exclaimed.
“Don’t be funny.”
“Jump! You’ll be killed.”
“You jump!”
“I’m driving. You jump!”
“I’ll drive. You jump! Watch it!”
The Torino fishtailed, tires howling as gravity took over and propelled them faster, faster, down the hill.
There was nothing else Hutch could say, and nothing else Starsky could do. Starsky knew there was no way in hell Hutch was jumping. Not because the leap might kill him, although it probably would, but because of the worst possibility: that he’d survive, roll broken onto the pavement, and be forced to watch Starsky crash into a wall of fire as the Torino tore itself apart without him.
Starsky knew that because it was precisely what he was thinking about Hutch.
The one thing Starsky knew Hutch could count on was that he was never, ever, reckless with Hutch’s life.
So when the brakes failed, and they became a runaway juggernaut, Starsky drove like a man possessed. He cut the wheel just enough, threading them through traffic, missing pedestrians by inches, skimming parked cars without touching them. The Torino swerved in protest, but Starsky stayed with it, jaw locked, gaze fixed, hands steady on the wheel.
The hill ended in a wide intersection. Starsky wrenched the wheel hard, the Torino spinning a full circle, tires smoking, metal groaning until it came to a complete stop.
Starsky sucked in a breath, and he heard Hutch do the same.
For a second, they just sat there, stunned. Starsky caught Hutch’s expression in profile: disbelief layered with the shock of being alive when they absolutely shouldn’t have been.
“Sarah Kingston,” Hutch said suddenly.
“We were just nearly killed,” Starsky said, shooting him a look, “and you’re thinking about girls?”
Starsky squashed down his ridiculously jealous reaction. Where had that come from?
If he knew Hutch at all, he knew Hutch needed to ground himself and shove his mind back into the case after such a close call.
“No. No, no, no, no,” Hutch said, fast and emphatic, four times in a row.
It was like Hutch one-hundred percent did not want Starsky to think that.
So, Hutch brought up his theory and followed Starsky around the car, talking about Sarah Kingston and the next move they needed to make on the case.
Starsky reigned in his initial feeling of jealousy that had come out of nowhere. He could ground himself, focus on the case, just like Hutch.
He was pretty good at pretending he hadn’t had any other thoughts at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You were pretending?” Hutch asked, his brow furrowed. “What about?”
“As I said, I had this profound sense of jealousy that seemed to come out of nowhere. It wasn’t the first time I felt that, if I’m honest, but it was the strongest. And the most ill-timed,” he remarked with a chuckle.
“You were jealous of the fact that I figured out that Sarah Kingston was the key to the case?” Hutch asked, like his mind was trying to catch up. “There were plenty of times you figured things out before me, Starsk. I didn’t know we were keeping score.”
Starsky pursed his lips in an effort to prevent himself from exploding. “No, this had nothing to do with the case.” His stare bore through Hutch, trying to pull out the one thought he knew was buried deep in his brain. “Don’t you think it was kind of odd that I immediately thought you were thinking about girls, and that I was upset about it?”
“No,” Hutch said. “It was perfectly reasonable for you to be upset if I really had been thinking about girls.”
“I didn’t even register the name Sarah Kingston, Hutch. I immediately went to a whole other topic, far away from the case. Doesn’t that seem odd?”
“Again, no. You had just saved our lives and weren’t clear-headed. You thought I was being shallow to think about girls at that moment. Which, if I had been, I would have been, shallow, I mean.”
Hutch stood up and walked to the window, hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” Starsky said softly. “Weren’t you paying attention? I didn’t think you were shallow. The point of this story was to explain to you the first time I felt a strong sense of jealousy.”
Hutch turned abruptly.
“Ok,” Hutch said. “I think I get it now. At the end of a crisis, one that almost cost us our lives, you thought I didn’t think of you first. But hear me out – I was thinking of you. I don’t think I ever told you how much I admired your driving skills that day. The way you stayed in control of the car, not giving up. I truly admired you for that, but for some reason I held back on saying it.”
“That was all you held back that day?” Starsky prodded. “The only thing you wanted to tell me was that you admired my driving abilities?”
For a moment, Starsky was sure he saw a glint of understanding on Hutch’s face.
“Sure, what else?” Hutch asked, like he wanted Starsky to be the one to answer.
Starsky’s face fell. He sighed inwardly for what felt like the hundredth time.
“We almost died, and your thoughts were about how well I drive?” Starsky repeated.
“We almost died, and you wouldn’t let that happen. Me and thee. That’s what I thought. That’s what I admired.”
Hutch returned to his chair and sat down. “Are we good?” he asked. “Or is there something else you want to tell me about that day?”
Starsky inhaled, ready to blurt out something more, in no uncertain terms, how he felt that day. And every day since.
But that was not the plan, and he wasn’t going to blow it now. He had to figure out how to approach this very important subject with his very myopic partner.
“Thanks for the bagels, partner,” Starsky said. I think I need a little shut-eye, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, yeah,” Hutch said hurriedly, like he was all of a sudden in the way, which, in Starsky’s mind, was the furthest thing from reality.
Hutch brushed Starsky’s forearm, then patted it once, stood up, and left the room.
Starsky closed his eyes. He was tired, that was true.
His jumbled thoughts lulled him into a deep sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was strangely the smell that hit him first.
Hot, searing metal and the greasy, unmistakable stench of something burned past recognition. Flesh, rubber, wiring, it all hung together in the air, clinging to Starsky’s nostrils.
The sounds hit him next.
The large bang from the back of Hutch’s car as a burst of smoke shot out through the keyhole. The hinges rattled hard against the frame of the trunk like the whole thing might come apart at any minute. Then Hutch’s screams of anguished pain, drowning out the sounds of bystanders and the rushing of nearby paramedics who seemed impossibly close and yet so distant.
But the worst of it was the sight of him.
Hutch went down hard, one hand holding the other, his eyes glued to his injury as if he couldn’t look anywhere else. The hand was blackened, charred and split with streaks of red where the skin had given up and torn open.
It all happened so fast.
Starsky dropped to his knees without realizing he’d moved. He caught Hutch’s weight, arms wrapping around him, holding him upright, keeping him from hitting the ground. Grabbing him, so he wouldn’t hurt himself more. Silencing him with calm words, to keep him from screaming again.
Footsteps crowded in, and voices layered over one another. Someone authoritative in white pants and shoes crouched down, took control, pulled out a black bag and began wrapping the injured hand with medical precision as he called for a stretcher.
“It pays to be hurt on hospital grounds, I suppose,” Starsky said to himself.
He couldn’t believe such an absurd thought swept through his brain. Starsky clung to it anyway, as though crowding out all other thoughts would prevent the worst from happening, like Hutch losing his hand.
The stretcher arrived within minutes, mercifully fast. Starsky walked beside it, one hand never leaving Hutch’s shoulder, his voice steady even though nothing inside him was.
“It’s okay,” he said again and again. “You’re going to be okay.”
He looked up at the paramedic, the one in charge. “He’s going to be okay, right?”
Stern, worried eyes greeted him. “The doctor will assess the extent of the damage. I can’t say yet if they’re third-degree burns.”
Panic surged within Starsky’s chest, as hot and violent as the explosion in Hutch’s car.
“Hey!”
A shout from behind pulled Starsky from his rising panic. He turned to see a security guard hurrying toward him.
“Is that your car out there? The police are here. They’ve got questions.”
Starsky pulled his badge from his jacket and held it up. “I am the police. Tell them to wait. I’ll be out as soon as I take care of my partner.”
The guard shrugged. “Well, don’t take too long. The back end of that car’s a mess. Pieces of the trunk are all over the place. The whole thing’s probably totaled, if you ask me. It should be towed.”
The stretcher disappeared through the emergency room doors.
Starsky reached out and grabbed the security guard by the collar.
“Hutch will assess the damage himself when he’s out. There’s no telling right now what can be saved.” His grip tightened. “And if anyone touches that car before he or I say so, I will not be responsible. You hear me?”
The guard nodded stiffly.
“The car stays where it is,” Starsky said.
He let go of the security guard, brushed himself off, and stormed through the emergency room doors in search of Hutch.
As long as Hutch’s car was still there, maybe bent and broken but not yet written off, Starsky could believe the same thing about Hutch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Starsky’s eyes popped open, his breathing labored.
Hutch was back, sitting in a large chair next to the bed, reading a book.
Starsky’s heart was still racing from his dream. Damn, he hated even thinking about that day. How close Hutch came to losing his hand, even his life.
“Hey, buddy,” Hutch said softly, closing his book and pulling the chair closer to Starsky. “You okay? You seem a little out of it. Did you have a bad dream?”
The look of concern on Hutch’s face gave Starsky the resolve he needed.
“Sort of,” Starsky said, trying to clear his grogginess. He sat up a little and took Hutch’s hand, the one that he almost lost in the explosion. He glanced down, not able to look at him.
“Do you remember when Solkin put a bomb in the trunk of your car, and almost took off your hand?”
Starsky lifted his eyes, resisting the impulse to wipe away the lingering dampness of sleep clinging to his lashes.
“Uh, sure,” Hutch said, his voice turning flat. He curled his fingers around Starsky’s hand. “Why are we talking about that?”
“Because I had a dream about it, Hutch. A bad dream.” He paused, stuttering to find the right words. “Your car was really damaged, remember? I wish I had told you back then how I felt about it.”
Hutch squinted in what was clear confusion, yet his grip tightened.
“You did tell me, Starsky,” Hutch answered.
“I did?” Starsky asked, feeling confident that they were finally on the same page.
“Sure, that was the first time you called my car a hunk of squash, remember? Such a loving nickname,” Hutch’s tone held enough sarcasm to evade any real feelings. “But why are you dreaming about my old car? It’s the Torino that’s…”
Starsky exhaled loudly.
“Hutch, stop,” Starsky said. “ That’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m trying to say and what I seem to be having a hard time conveying because I’m not sure you’ll believe me when I do, you see…The Torino will be fine, whatever the outcome. It’s not like Merle is going to do anything bad to it. What I mean is…”
Hutch cut off Starsky’s next words.
“Of course, Merle would never do anything bad to your car,” he said with a wry smile. “He would only do that to my car,” Hutch continued, smiling. “Remember?”
Starsky corralled his racing pulse. “Remember what?” he asked, his voice dipping with an edge of impatience.
“What Merle did to my car,” Hutch said. “After Simon Marcus,” he paused, seeming to choose a different direction, “I was feeling a whole new level of frustration,” he admitted, not with anger.
“Of course I remember,” Starsky replied, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “I remember quite clearly that I was feeling a whole lot of things, too.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Merle was only supposed to give Hutch’s car a tune-up. Instead, he’d reupholstered the entire interior in fuzzy brown fabric.
But Starsky knew Hutch wasn’t nearly as upset about it as he pretended to be. Upholstery could be ripped out and replaced. It wasn’t like losing a partner to a chanting cult leader and his devoted band of followers. That kind of loss stayed with you, lodging itself deep, and was a lot harder to undo.
Hutch had been without his own car for days. The car he knew by muscle memory, the one that felt like a permanent fixture of his life. He’d been forced to drive the Torino instead, alone. No partner in the passenger seat telling him to ease off the torque. No one to remind him to drive with his fingers, not his feet, and that if he had to use his feet, to make sure it was more like a ballerina than a linebacker. Starsky knew what happened when you pushed that car too hard; it spun out on you, kicking up dust and going in circles. He’d done it more than once himself. But he hadn’t been there to help Hutch through that kind of turmoil.
So when Hutch chased Merle and Starsky up onto the roof, shouting threats that echoed down the street, Starsky understood what he was really seeing. Hutch’s anger wasn’t rage for its own sake. It was a way of finding his balance again.
Knowing everything Hutch had already endured, Starsky recognized the whole thing for what it was: an act. When Merle leapt down from the roof, muttering about a complete lack of taste and zero appreciation, Starsky wasn’t surprised Hutch didn’t chase after him. He knew all Hutch wanted was his car back the way it had been, before the nightmare.
Alone with Starsky atop the car, Hutch rested his hands on Starsky’s shoulders. He was calmer now, though his breathing was still heavy. Starsky felt like Hutch was drinking him in, like a man dying of thirst.
“Next time,” Hutch said, “just listen to me, will you? When I say don’t mess with my car, I mean it. Nobody messes with a man’s…,” he inhaled sharply, “…car.”
Starsky reached up, slid Hutch’s sunglasses off with one hand, and ran the other through his tousled hair.
“I hear you, partner,” Starsky said softly. “But sometimes, it’s okay to try something new.”
Hutch pulled the sunglasses from Starsky’s grip and repositioned them on his face, his eyes softening like he was about to agree.
“Some things are better left the way they are,” Hutch replied, not in anger.
Starsky stood in silence for a brief moment, hands on his hips as he watched Hutch hop down from the car.
He knew Hutch was right.
Nobody messes with a man’s partner. Or partnership.
Not even him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I remember that day very well,” Starsky repeated. “You said that sometimes things are better left the way they are. Do you still think that?”
Hutch’s cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink. “Sometimes,” he answered. “But life has a way of changing things, even when you don’t want them to.”
“Aren’t you ever tired of letting life just happen to you?” Starsky asked, sincerely. He pushed the point further. “Wouldn’t you like to make a few decisions on your own, and to hell with overthinking it?”
Starsky’s eyes circled Hutch’s face, searching for recognition of what he was trying to say.
“I think you’re going to need to spell this out for me,” Hutch said.
Starsky signed inwardly one more time.
“I’ve been trying, but right now I think maybe I’m the one who’s overthinking things,” Starsky said, his insides starting to churn with uncertainty about his plan.
“Come on, Starsky. Cheer up. Nothing is ever lost that can be repaired,” Hutch said, “or replaced.”
Starsky shot Hutch a quick look. Maybe this was working after all.
“Like the Torino?” Starsky asked.
A pretty blonde woman claiming she needed a boost was all it took to destroy the Torino.
And all it took for Starsky to fall for her trap was the look on Hutch’s face when she smiled at his blond partner. Sure, she smiled at Starsky too, but that wasn’t the point that stuck with him.
Starsky had seen that look before, too many times to count. People flirted with Hutch. That was a fact of life, like paperwork or bad coffee. It wasn’t even unusual. What was unusual was the way it had lodged under Starsky’s skin even more than normal, pulling his attention away from things he should have been watching more closely. He tried to pin it on competitiveness, or irritation, or the fact that they both noticed she hadn’t been wearing a diamond ring. That was a perfect excuse for his distraction. That had to be it.
It certainly wasn’t jealousy rearing its ugly head again.
Hutch was the one who snapped back to reality first. Hutch, who noticed the details that didn’t line up, like the girl walking past a half dozen phone booths, her rehearsed helplessness on display. They got away just in time before the bomb went off. Starsky could credit Hutch later for that, even as he stood there watching his Torino burn.
Funny how Starsky didn’t feel that upset about it. Insurance was bound to cover the full cost of replacement. He could have had something new if he wanted. A fresh new start.
But why invite change when it wasn’t necessary?
So Starsky ordered the same car. Candy-apple red with a white vector down the sides.
Change was just too risky. You didn’t tug at the seams unless you were prepared for what might give way. For now, keeping everything exactly as it was felt safer.
Hutch didn’t argue, even though he claimed to hate the thing. He only nodded and said there was no reason to change the foundation of their partnership.
As if the Torino was that foundation.
It made no sense, but Starsky assumed that was what Hutch meant at the time, and that was all that was said about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So, I lost the Torino once, like really lost it,” Starsky said. “It was blown to pieces during that case with Terry Nash.”
“Sure, I remember,” Hutch answered. “But you got a brand new Torino after that.”
“Exactly,” Starsky said. “I got a new car because the old one was just a thing. Entirely replaceable. What was not replaceable was the chance to say what I really wanted to say at the time.”
Hutch nodded, prodding Starsky to continue.
“So, tell me now, what you wanted to say,” Hutch probed. He reached out and squeezed Starsky’s hand. “You can tell me anything, buddy.”
That was the opening Starsky was waiting for, and he took it.
“What if I told you I love you?” Starsky asked, his voice surprisingly clear.
“I know you do,” Hutch replied. “And I love you. I’ve told you that many times. It’s not necessary to say it out loud.”
Starsky sighed, yet again.
“Yes, you’ve told me before, Hutch.”
“Like the time you replaced my car,” Hutch said, pleased with himself. “I meant it, you know, I do love you for that. Do you remember doing that for me?”
Starsky rubbed his forehead, letting his hand run down his face.
“Of course I do,” Starsky answered, under his breath. “I remember everything about that day and the excruciating days that led up to it.”
Starsky, you know I love ya,” Hutch had said, smiling like he was trying to soften the blow, “but our tastes in cars don’t exactly match.”
“I love you, too.”
Starsky didn’t say the words out loud, but that was exactly what Starsky had been thinking when he called Merle and told him to find a light brown Ford, 1972 or 1973. As close to the Hutchinson original as humanly possible. Merle went quiet on the other end of the line, the kind of silence that suggested deep personal offence, and then informed Starsky that even having to think about that car was, quote, “an abomination to my mind and a crime against decent machinery.”
It cost Starsky an extra fifty bucks.
No fuzzy interior this time, Merle,” Starsky instructed, very explicitly. “But feel free to add a couple of dents. Nothing dangerous. Just enough so he doesn’t think it’s pretending to be something it’s not.”
Merle snorted, but he did it.
So when the car showed up at the hospital a few days later, Starsky wasn’t surprised. Merle had a soft spot; he just buried it under grease and sarcasm. And anyone who’d spent two days trapped beneath twisted steel deserved a little grace.
The car sat crooked in the visitors’ lot, brown paint dulled by deliberate neglect, windshield smeared just enough to look authentic. Scrawled across the back in grime were the words: ‘Condemned c 1847.’
“Why don’t you buy him a real car?” Merle asked, standing beside him, arms crossed, surveying the thing as it might bite. “Why give him another dirty old hunk of junk?”
Starsky shook his head slowly. He couldn’t explain it, not in a way Merle would understand.
He couldn’t say that the car was part of Hutch, that it was a constant in a life that had been knocked violently off its axis. He couldn’t explain how that car would remind Hutch he was still him, when everything else hurt and shifted and scared them both half to the core.
“Because he’ll like it,” Starsky answered.
And silently to himself, he thought.
Because it would show him that Starsky loved him just the way he was.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The truth is, you always hated my car,” Hutch said. “Yet, you went out of your way to get me a new one. Well, a new old one. As you knew, I was okay with the dents and scratches and the rattles I could never quite track down, but learned to live with.”
“Exactly,” Starsky said. “I wasn’t trying to change anything. I just wanted to show you that you can have something old and something new, in the same package.”
He raised his eyebrows at Hutch, searching for a hint of understanding.
“I get it,” Hutch said. “You can move forward, without jeopardizing what was good about the past.”
Hutch stood up and walked to the window. He stood for a few minutes and ran a hand through his hair. Then he turned swiftly.
“Starsky, you’ve been telling me stories, reminding me about things we’ve been through…when in fact…”
He paused, his attentive stare seeming to map every curve and shadow of Starsky’s face.
“What, Hutch?” Starsky urged. He could see his partner wanted to say something more, but was still unsure, holding back.
“There was another time you told me a lot of stories,” Hutch said, sitting down. “Remember?”
Starsky nodded. Hutch’s face hardened, just a fraction, like he was the one doing the serious prodding now.
“I do remember,” Starsky answered. “That time started with the Torino, too.”
“I didn’t ask you about your car.”
Hutch’s voice was soft, almost careful, as if the words might bruise him if he pressed too hard. Moonlight spilled through the narrow hospital window, turning the room silver and still.
Starsky peered at the ceiling. The clatter of carts and distant footsteps in the corridor faded until there was only this fragile quiet, a far cry from how badly they’d gone at each other earlier.
The fight was over. The shouting about fake amnesia and head injuries, about being thrown into a windshield and lied to in the same afternoon. Anger burned fast between them, always had. What unnerved Starsky was how quickly it cooled, leaving behind something heavier than heat.
“No,” he said at last, exhaling. “You didn’t.” A pause. “What do you want to know?”
“Just… if there was much damage.” Hutch hesitated, then added, softer, “To the Torino.”
Of course, it was the car. It was always the car when neither of them wanted to say what they were really asking.
“The front end’s a mess. The windshield’s cracked.” He fought to steady his voice. “The engine’s fine. Merle’s got it. He says two days, maybe less.”
“And insurance will -”
“Yes, Hutch.” A faint edge crept into his voice despite himself. “Insurance will cover it. I don’t need to send you a bill.”
“Me?” Hutch started to bristle, then stopped. A small chuckle slipped in its place. “I suppose I already paid, having to sit there and listen to you retell all those beautiful stories.”
Starsky turned his head, finally looking at him. “I meant every word,” he said quietly. “All of it. You were there for me plenty of times. Over and over again.”
“No, I should thank you,” Hutch said after a beat. “For being there.”
“You already said that.”
“I know.” Another pause. “Would it be better if I showed you my appreciation instead?”
Before he could answer, Starsky heard the sheets shift. Hutch crossed the room to his bed, his silhouette dark against the window.
Starsky’s heart kicked hard as Hutch leaned down. “What kind of appreciation?” Starsky managed to ask.
Hutch didn’t answer with words. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Starsky’s forehead, then trailed his lips down to Starsky’s cheek. He stopped, stood up, and stroked Starsky’s hair.
“That kind,” he said softly. “None of this was your fault.”
Starsky lifted a hand, brushing his fingers against his cheek where the warmth still lingered.
“You don’t say, Sherlock.”
Hutch was already retreating, and Starsky could hear Hutch’s armor sliding back into place as he climbed into his own bed.
“Nah,” Hutch said. “Blame the car. You get behind that wheel and turn into a one-track-minded criminal catcher.”
He could see Hutch’s smile in the dark.
“Damn right,” Starsky said, forcing lightness into his voice. “Don’t you forget it.”
They laughed, briefly, then let the sound die. The room filled again with the low hum of machines and distant footsteps. Starsky lay still, his finger still resting on his cheek where his kiss had been, as if letting go might make it disappear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I barely slept that night. Did I ever tell you that?” Hutch asked.
Hutch had taken his seat in the chair next to Starsky’s bed. Starsky held his eyes shut, surprised by what Hutch said.
“No, you didn’t ever tell me that,” Starsky said. “Why was that?”
Hutch’s expression softened, the guarded edges falling away as if Starsky had just come into focus.
“Because there was a lot left unsaid that night,” Hutch said. “It was one of the rare times we looked back at all we had been through together. That day, you were trying to jog my memory. But today, I feel like you’re trying to go somewhere, too. Am I wrong?”
“You ought to be a detective.”
Hutch smiled at that. “It was the kiss, wasn’t it? You never once brought up how I kissed you that night. Until now.”
“You kissed me on the forehead. Like I was sick with the flu, and you were checking my temperature with your lips, right?” Starsky paused. “And on the cheek? You’ve done that before, too, like on New Year’s. A friendly kiss.”
“Right, Starsky. On the forehead, on the cheek. You didn’t say a word. Because it was normal for you?”
“Showing each other we care, that’s always been normal. But tell me, Hutch, why did you do that? And why did you stop there?”
Starsky always wondered that, but didn’t have the nerve to ask until now.
Hutch opened his mouth, and Starsky was sure this would be it. Hutch would finally admit what Starsky had been hoping all along.
Just then, the door opened, and the nurse walked in. Not Nurse Betty, which made Starsky feel relieved. He would take the no-nonsense Nurse Wanda any day if it meant sparing him from watching his partner flirt.
“Detective Starsky, it’s time for your tests,” Nurse Wanda said. “I’m sorry, your friend will have to step out for a bit. We need to check your vitals and run a few scans down the hall.”
“Scans?” Hutch asked, a worried look on his face.
“They’re just precautionary, very routine,” Wanda assured him.
“Just be here when I get back, ok? We’re not done talking.” Starsky commanded.
Hutch was running a worried hand through his fine hair. “Sure, of course. I’ll be here.”
Starsky gave a small nod, willing him not to leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Starsky sat in the wheelchair as Nurse Wanda pushed him down the corridor. He wasn’t worried about the tests or the doctors or the sound of rubber soles on the vinyl flooring that echoed in his ears. He was worried that Hutch was holding back, and he knew if he pushed too hard, his blond lumox of a partner would shut down even further.
Things weren’t going as planned. Starsky had the uneasy sense that he was dragging Hutch along behind him, parceling out pieces of the truth instead of offering it whole. It wasn’t fair to leave the confession in Hutch’s hands, even if Starsky knew he’d accept it more easily if he arrived there on his own.
Which meant Starsky had reached the point he’d been avoiding.
It was time to choose.
And just like that, his mind slipped back to the last time Hutch had asked him to choose.
“It’s about time you chose,” Hutch said, heat and frustration bleeding into his voice as steam curled up from the open hood. “Between this hunk of junk and me.”
Starsky didn’t look up right away. When he did, his expression wasn’t defensive or angry.
“Don’t make me choose.”
The words came out of Starsky harder than he intended. Hard enough that Hutch got angry and had to turn away.
Don’t make me choose.
Starsky didn’t mean for it to hurt. He liked the Torino, sure, but it was nothing but steel and grease and artificial loyalty. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t worry. It didn’t look at Starsky like Hutch did, like he mattered.
He saw Hutch scrutinize the striped hunk of metal as it had somehow entered the conversation as an equal. As if it could stand beside them and demand a place.
Hutch stepped back from the hood, wiping a hand across his damp forehead.
“Where are you going?” Starsky asked, immediate concern filling his voice.
“I’m going to cool off,” Hutch said shortly, retreating toward the car.
His shirt clung to him, sweat-soaked, and his hair stuck to his forehead. He appeared raw and irritable and wound too tight.
Starsky knew it was not because of the breakdown.
This wasn’t about the car. And it wasn’t really about Starsky either.
It was about those words, echoing again and again.
Don’t make me choose.
Starsky wished with all his heart that he could take them back. He thought Hutch would automatically know the answer, that for Starsky, there was no choice. Like oxygen.
Hutch raked a hand through his hair and let out a breath.
“Come on, Starsky,” Hutch said, calmer now. “Let’s push this thing off to the side and start walking. We’ll call a tow truck when we get to the station.”
Starsky blinked. “You sure?”
Starsky wasn’t concerned about the car. He held his breath in check.
“Yeah,” Hutch said. “I’m sure. I’ll even dial.”
Hutch slipped an arm around Starsky, pulling him close as they started to push together.
“God, Hutch,” Starsky said to himself as he was wheeled back to his room, “I will always choose you above all else. Didn’t you know that back then? Don’t you know that by now?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Starsky’s heart skipped a beat when he entered the hospital room.
It was empty. Hutch was gone.
Nurse Wanda helped Starsky get into bed and pulled the covers over him. She fiddled with the monitor and turned to the patient.
“Lunch will be in about an hour. A nice hot bowl of soup sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Starsky did a double-take. “As long as it burns my tongue.”
He watched the nurse leave and settled into his pillow. He didn’t care about soup, and he no longer cared about cars.
Cars always seemed to be the excuse they both used when something else needed fixing.
“It’s your car,” Starsky said.
Hutch snarled around a bite of his burger. “I cannot be held responsible for an inanimate object.”
“The only inanimate object around here is your head,” Starsky said, trying to keep it light.
“My head has gotten you out of more scrapes than you’ve got lives, and don’t you forget it,” Hutch said.
He wasn’t wrong, and Starsky knew it. The problem was that the truth was getting farther and farther away from him.
“The bottom line, Mr. Hutchinson, is that the bad guys got away.”
Starsky knew he was being unreasonable and borderline annoying. Hutch’s car had given out at the exact wrong moment, right as Pardee bolted, right as the arrest should’ve been clean and easy. One more block and it would’ve been over. Instead, the brown hunk of junk coughed, stalled, and died like it had something personal against him.
He told himself that was the problem. The car. Not the way his pulse quickened when Hutch leaned over the steering wheel. Not the way Starsky felt responsible for every bad outcome within a ten-mile radius, especially the ones that touched Hutch.
He could’ve admitted it wasn’t Hutch’s fault. Hell, the Torino had stranded them often enough to earn its own rap sheet. But admitting that would’ve meant looking at Hutch, really looking, and Starsky wasn’t ready for what might spill out if he did.
So he pushed harder, claiming to be the brains of the operation, like it was a badge in place of a barricade. Anything to keep Hutch focused on the insults and not the truth. Don’t look at me. Look at the car. Look at the mess. Look anywhere but here.
Then the stupid game happened. Hide and seek, of all things, meant to be a distraction, a harmless bet. A whole weekend where Starsky could think about Hutch constantly without having to make up an excuse for it.
A way to idle the engine instead of admitting it was overheating.
But it went bad, botulism of all things. Starsky, tearing through the city like a man possessed, while he sat with the truth: this wasn’t a game anymore.
If only Hutch’s car hadn’t died, Pardee would’ve been cuffed, and the game wouldn’t have happened. If the car hadn’t died, Hutch would’ve gotten to the hospital sooner, before panic hollowed Starsky out and left him staring at the one thing he couldn’t outrun.
He’d almost lost the person who mattered most to him.
Damn that soup.
Damn that game.
Damn that car.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hey,” the voice was soft and unmistakable. Starsky hadn’t been sleeping, but the voice stirred him from his drowsiness.
“Hey, yourself,” Starsky answered, meeting the blue wave cast over him as Hutch leaned in. “Where have you been?”
Starsky knew he was being selfish. Hutch had a life outside of this hospital room. It’s just he wanted to get this out, and more importantly, get it right.
“I had to check in with Dobey to see if there were any new developments on the Gunther trial. Looks like jury duty is scheduled to start next week. I may not be around as much when that happens, Starsky. And you’ll be here for a couple more weeks, but I’ll come as often as…”
Starsky waved a hand at Hutch. “Doesn’t matter, as long as you come when you can. I remember you being in the hospital a few times, and I couldn’t always be there for you.”
“You always had a reason,” Hutch said gently.
Starsky looked into Hutch’s sincere expression.
“Maybe,” Starsky said. “Or, maybe I was just too scared to sit there and say what was on my mind.”
“So,” Hutch asked. “Where’s my car?”
Starsky stood at one side of the bed, hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. Before he could answer, the doctor loomed in from the other side, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“The bullet was six inches from your heart,” the doctor said, not for the first time. “Whatever possessed you to think you could leave the hospital with a wound like that -.”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Hutch cut in, flicking his eyes between the doctor and Starsky. “Starsky and his new partner made me do it.”
Starsky knew it was meant to land as a joke. He saw Hutch waiting for Starsky to smile the familiar shared grin.
But, Starsky couldn’t smile.
Hutch’s words had landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to. Starsky was tired, his chest tight, his mouth clenched with regret.
“Merle has it,” Starsky said quietly, finally meeting Hutch’s eyes.
Hutch opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the doctor.
“You’ll be here at least two more days, Detective,” the doctor said briskly. “I’ll check on you later. Buzz a nurse if you need anything.” He glanced pointedly at Starsky. “And don’t let your partner pull any more stunts.”
Starsky nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfied, the doctor left.
Silence slid back into the room.
“So, partner,” Hutch said at last, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Why does Merle have my car?”
“The girl, Vicki, she rammed into when she was backing out at the scene,” Starsky said. “Pushed the car into the street. It had to be towed. I told them to take it to Merle, have him look it over.”
“And?”
“And Merle said it was hard to tell which dents were new and which ones were… historical.”
Hutch snorted despite himself.
“I went down there,” Starsky went on. “Pointed out the new ones.”
“So what you’re saying is,” Hutch said, “my car’s got a few more scars, but only you’d know where they came from.”
“Something like that.” Starsky hesitated. “He can fix most of it. Insurance will cover it. I didn’t tell him to start without asking you.”
Hutch looked at him for a long moment.
“You can tell him,” he said. “I trust you.”
Starsky looked at Hutch, his shoulders tight.
“I don’t know that I’ve earned your trust on this one,” he said quietly. “I went off with my new partner. I left you alone. ” He stopped himself. “I screwed it up.”
Hutch reached out and pressed a finger to Starsky’s lips.
“Enough,” he said. “You did your job. As far as I’m concerned, any dents that came out of this case have been fixed.”
Starsky didn’t pull away. He lifted Hutch’s hand, holding it there a second longer than necessary before easing it down, still not letting go.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” Starsky murmured. “About having a new partner.”
Hutch arched an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.”
“So,” Hutch said lightly, “when are you seeing Joan again?”
Starsky exhaled. “I’m not,” he said. “Not outside of work.”
Their hands were still linked, unnoticed until Starsky felt Hutch’s grip tighten, just slightly.
“Oh,” Hutch said. “That’s… too bad.”
His tone did not convince Starsky that he had meant it.
Starsky gave a quiet huff of a laugh. “Why would I need another partner? I’ve got one, good as new.”
“Maybe I’ve got a few dents left over,” Hutch said contritely.
Starsky shook his head lovingly. “Gives you character.”
“And what about our partnership? Does it still have a few dents?”
“If it does, anything there can be fixed. We just have to be honest with each other.”
Hutch opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off when the door opened.
A nurse stepped in, cheerful and efficient, clipboard already in hand.
Starsky let go of Hutch’s hand, stepping back like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t explain.
“I should go,” Starsky said. “Let this pretty nurse make you brand new.”
Starsky crossed the room and didn’t spare the nurse more than a glance.
“Starsky,” Hutch called softly.
Starsky paused at the door.
“Thanks,” Hutch said. “For looking after the car.”
Starsky nodded. “Always will,” he said.
He could feel Hutch’s eyes boring into him as he left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Was that a story about visiting the hospital, or another story about one of our cars?” Hutch asked. “If it’s the second, I’m beginning to sense a theme.”
“Once again, you’ve proven to be the brains of the operation,” Starsky answered with just enough sarcasm to matter. “And I guess you could say both, although I was more going for a comparison of how much of a jerk I was when you were in the hospital compared to you being here with me every minute you can.” He cast Hutch a helpless look. “I’m sorry for that. I don’t deserve what you give me.”
“Nonsense,” Hutch said. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve what you give me.” He paused, letting out a breath. “Remember when I lost my sorry excuse for a car for good? I could have lost you that day. What do you think I’m more upset about?”
“That day for me changed everything, Hutch. I was going to tell you what I felt, but got scared.”
Starsky felt his pulse in his ears. He waited for Hutch to redirect him.
Hutch didn’t.
“Tell me what you mean, please, Starsk. I need to know.”
Starsky knew Hutch would curse himself for this. He would blame himself for not realizing something was suspicious about the guy under the car in the supermarket parking lot.
But it was Starsky who cursed himself even more. When the car exploded, and Hutch was thrown through the air, he didn’t register the sound so much as the absence that followed it. Hutch hit the ground hard, and in that split second, he wasn’t thinking about the blast or the wreckage or the smoking ruin of metal and glass.
And he wasn’t thinking about the apartment, Rigger or about what else he needed to protect.
Starsky was on his knees, hands shaking despite his best efforts. Gentle touches where he could afford to be, careful where he couldn’t. He cradled Hutch’s head, brushed soot from his face, fingers tangling briefly in his hair.
“Hutch, it’s okay,” he said, voice low, steady because it had to be. “You’re going to be okay.”
Time did a strange thing then. It rushed and slowed all at once. Sirens somewhere far away, voices shouting. There was only Hutch breathing, shallow but real, and Starsky holding him as if he let go even for a second, the world might tilt again.
Hutch tried to speak. Starsky leaned closer, heart in his throat, braced for pain or fear or something he wasn’t ready to hear.
“My car!”
Starsky let out a breath that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. “Never mind your car. It’s fine,” he lied immediately, instinctively. “You could’ve been killed.”
Hutch leaned into his hands and closed his eyes. Starsky stayed there, memorizing the fact that he was still here.
And then it was over.
Rigger fell from the window above them, the sound sickening and final.
Starsky crawled toward the body, shock giving way to anger and fear. How had they gotten to Rigger? How had they known Starsky would run, that he would always run, to Hutch’s side?
The answer sat heavy in Starsky’s chest, but Hutch never once blamed him. Starsky knew that without being told.
That was the unspoken contract of their partnership. Shared victories, shared losses, and shared ghosts.
The car wasn’t fine. The Hutchinson original, replica or not, was gone. Burned out, finished beyond repair.
Starsky contemplated the wreckage and felt something inside him finally give.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending that known failures were safer than unknown futures.
Maybe it was time for something new.
Even if the thought scared him more than the explosion ever could.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“My brown squash was officially toast,” Hutch said with a wry grin.
“That sorry excuse for a car you got afterwards…”
“You mean Belle?” Hutch asked.
“It wasn’t a car fit for a grown man, Hutch,” Starsky said. “Let alone a cop.”
“We weren’t cops at the time. Besides, it was just a rental. I was trying something new.”
Starsky’s eyes widened with realization. “I hadn’t considered it that way. You wanted something new instead of another replica of the old one. I must have been blind at the time.”
“I think maybe we both were,” Hutch said, his voice hushed but clear.
Starsky smiled at Hutch, his soft-with-emotion partner when it counted most. Logic and patterns and plans be damned.
All of a sudden, there was a loud noise as the door opened, jolting Starsky from his thoughts. Nurse Wanda walked in with a tray of medicine and a sharp look in her eyes.
“It’s time for your medication, Detective Starsky.” The no-nonsense nurse side-eyed Hutch. “Preferably with some quiet.”
“Hey, don’t kick him out,” Starsky said. “We’re having an important conversation.”
“It will have to wait,” the nurse said briskly. “It’s important to keep to your schedule.”
She pulled out some pills and handed Starsky a glass of water.
“I have to go to the office for a bit anyway,” Hutch said, as though he was caught off guard by the teacher. “Nurse Wanda is right. You need your rest.”
Starsky swallowed the pill and slammed the paper cup onto the side table.
“But, Hutch, I have so much more to say.”
There was no way he was going to let it drop like this.
“I know, Starsky,” Hutch said softly. “So do I, but your rest is more important. I’ll be back. I promise.”
Starsky watched Hutch leave, regretting the things still left unsaid.
Yet, he somehow felt like maybe, just maybe, they were getting closer.
That thought calmed him, pulling him into a deep slumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Starsky, get down!”
It was that voice, always that voice. His partner, his protector. The sound of his voice rang in his ears, urging him to act. He tried, in a split second, to follow his own instinct and draw his gun, and do what had to be done and throw himself in front of a barrage of bullets, if it came to that.
It came to that.
All he heard after that was the sound of glass shattering into pieces, hitting the pavement and surrounding him with unthinkable damage.
“It’s just an inanimate object.”
Those words swirled in his head.
“Don’t make me choose.”
It was never a choice.
“You know I love you.”
With all my heart.
“Nothing is lost that can be repaired.”
“Starsky?”
It was the voice that mattered.
“Hey, Starsky? Are you going to grace me with those shining blue eyes?”
Starsky awoke slowly. Hutch was there, one hand resting near Starsky’s, careful enough not to hurt him.
“You’re awake,” Hutch said quietly, as if saying it too loudly might undo it.
“Am now,” Starsky replied. His voice was rough, unused. “I was dreaming. Thinking.”
Hutch sighed. “That’s never good for you.”
Starsky smiled.
Hutch looked fresh, like he had taken a shower. He had changed into a crisp blue shirt, was freshly shaven, and had even lost the mustache.
“Your mustache is gone,” Starsky said, surprised, blinking to be sure of what he saw.
“Oh, ya, what do you think?” Hutch asked as though it was no big deal.
“I think it looks smooth,” Starsky said without hesitation, reaching out and running one finger over Hutch’s upper lip. “Real smooth.”
Hutch didn’t pull back; he just smiled, his eyes shining right back at Starsky.
“So, uh, what were we talking about? Before your little nap?” Hutch asked.
Starsky sat up a little, clearing his throat.
He hadn’t been sleeping the whole time Hutch was gone. He had enough time to think over what he was going to do next to fix the confusing mess of a conversation he started. One more chance at a clean repair.
“I believe I was saying, it’s finished, isn’t it?”
Hutch’s face turned ashen.
“The Torino,” Starsky clarified. “I mean, I don’t care if the Torino is finished, you know?”
The machines filled the pause between them.
“You love that car,” Hutch said softly. “If it’s finished, what does that mean?”
“Maybe it means it’s time for something new,” Starsky said. “I mean, doesn’t it seem like our cars have been trying to kill us?” he said with a hint of humor.
“Maybe they were just defective,” Hutch shrugged.
“Every time something happened,” Starsky said, “We fixed the car. Or chased down whoever messed with it. Or stood there while Merle did his so-called magic.”
“That was how we survived,” Hutch said faintly, his eyes flicking back and forth, his fingers curled against the edge of the mattress.
“I know. I’ve been doing it for years,” Starsky continued. “Chasing what I thought could be fixed without thinking about what it meant. Solve the case, clear the danger, move on. Because saying more than that out loud…” His voice caught, just barely. “Saying it meant I could lose you.”
Hutch’s features softened into quiet tenderness, not looking away.
“And then Gunther tried to kill us,” Starsky said. “And this time, lying here, all I could think was how easy it would’ve been for that bullet to hit you instead of me.”
He took a careful breath.
“I decided I didn’t want to anymore,” Starsky confessed.
Hutch leaned in slowly, resting his hands over Starsky’s.
“So tell me,” Hutch said.
All the careful planning evaporated. No metaphors. No defenses left.
“It was never about the cars.” Starsky reached out and touched Hutch’s cheek. “I was doing a very bad job at using them as a metaphor to let you know I am in love with you,” Starsky said. “Not like a partner. Not like a friend. I love you in the way I’ve been too afraid to say out loud. I always have.”
The words floated in the air, unguarded.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” Starsky said quickly, reflex kicking in. “I just needed you to know. Because if this was it…” He gestured weakly at himself. “I don’t want my last contribution to us to be a repaired car and a bunch of unsaid things.”
Hutch reached out and placed his other hand over Starsky’s chest, careful of the bandages.
“Starsky,” he said quietly, “you are very bad at realizing when someone already knows.”
Starsky blinked.
“But,” Hutch continued, leaning in just enough that his forehead brushed his, “you’re right about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It was a very bad metaphor.”
Hutch glanced at the door, ensuring it was closed and they were alone. He leaned forward and kissed Starsky’s forehead, then his cheek, but didn’t stop there. He moved his lips to Starsky’s nose, then landed on his mouth, with a feather-like touch at first, then deeper, stronger, with passion that rang in Starsky’s ears.
When Hutch pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against Starsky’s.
“It wasn’t that bad of a metaphor,” Starsky said, not defensively, as he floated from the kiss. “I was simply afraid, Mr. Hutchinson, that your logical, matter-of-fact self would shut down like an engine running on empty if I didn’t ease you into it.”
“And I, Mr. David Michael Starsky, was afraid to presume what you were trying to say…” he paused, licking his lips for courage, “because I was afraid you were going to bolt like a race car at the starting line.”
“But, all these years, you were so insistent that we keep things the way they were!” Starsky insisted.
“So were you!” Hutch retorted.
They stared at each other, both breathing hard, faces taut, until wide smiles broke through and they burst into laughter.
Starsky shook his head, his breath hitching as he settled down from the laughter.
“So I was,” Starsky couldn’t argue. “Or so I made it seem.”
“In the context of me and thee, once again, we were on the same page,” Hutch added, his cheeks flushed. “Two stubborn idiots who didn’t know the truth when it was right in front of them.” Hutch offered a wide smile, chuckling as he combed Starsky’s hair with his fingers. He lowered his tone, his voice hushed. “Who needs things to go back the way they were? Maybe that served the past, and what is to come could be even better.”
“Hutch,” Starsky breathed his name. “Even if there’s no more Torino?” he asked, half-smiling, still riding the warmth of the kiss, the laughter, and the relief that came with the truth.
Hutch returned the smile tenfold. “Even if we have to ride the bus.” He lowered his tone. “Seriously, let’s see what Merle can do. We’ll deal with whatever comes.” He paused. “I’d rather have it back in any shape than not at all. I’ve got plans for it.”
Starsky shifted, pushing himself up just enough to reach out and brush his thumb along Hutch’s upper lip. “What kind of plans?”
Hutch didn’t look away. “Plans to repair what matters and accept everything else as it comes.”
“What do you think needs repairing?” Starsky asked, wanting to understand. Needing to know.
“The gas pedal’s been stuck for a while, don’t you think? Maybe it’s time to take the foot off the brake.”
Starsky searched his face. “Who’s using a bad metaphor now?”
Hutch threw his head back, laughing out loud. He leaned in again, this time without hesitation, pressed his lips to Starsky’s, once, twice, three times.
Oh yes, David Starsky,” Hutch repeated, a slow smile forming on his lips. “Do I have plans for you. Just wait until you’re all better.”
“I already am,” Starsky said, holding Hutch’s stare, feeling that familiar sense of peace.
The noises of the hospital echoed through the room. But here, in the room, where there was no one else, their lives finally aligned. Every unspoken fear, every desperate flight from danger, every single thing that needed repairing had led them to this moment of sweet, boundless love.
Starsky closed his eyes, knowing with certainty that nothing needed fixing anymore.
Everything that mattered was finally, exactly, just as it should be.
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