The Wheat and the Chaff

Hutch has a list of the worst of the worst, and he ranks them. Maybe Starsky has one too. Hutch is willing to bet that his rankings are a bit different though. For Hutch, the worst are the ones who tried to take Starsky away from him.

It’s always the middle of the afternoon when Hutch has his epiphanies.

It seems inappropriate, less poetic, or, perhaps, less like a movie than if they occurred in the middle of the night, face illuminated only by moonlight. But then, real life is rarely so poetic.

At least today, he has the ticking of a clock in the background, which seems appropriate, even when it’s joined by the sound of cars driving by the house.

Starsky’s face looks younger in sleep. This seems like a small miracle. Starsky should have been old before his time, his eyes should be hard. But then, Starsky should be dead, or at least, not well on his way to recovery. At the very least, he should be angrier, but when Hutch asked him, not three hours ago, Starsky just flashed him a grin that should have been harder, and replied “We’ve been through all of this before.”

And he’s right. They’ve lost, and they’ve been burned. And they should be broken, but they’re not.

The thing about fire though, is that it consumes, but it can also temper.

But of course Hutch can’t leave it at that. Of course he has to wonder why they haven’t been hardened to the point of being indistinguishable from the men they’ve put away.

Simon Marcus and James Gunther are nearly neck and neck. Gunther only gets the dubious honor of position number one because he was smarter. Marcus’ blind spot was wide, and even now Hutch has to marvel at the foolishness of hiding Starsky away. Marcus must not be a chess man, to leave nothing between Hutch and Starsky but a trail of breadcrumbs that would incite Hutch more with each step.

Gunther was a little smarter. Attack them in the police garage, both at once, where there was at least a possibility that they would be caught up in protecting each other, even their brother cops. He, at least, had an inkling of understanding that each would put the other’s life before his own.

It almost worked. Hutch has to hand that to him. It was a decent strategy; if you can get both, perfect. If only one, it draws the other onto the battlefield, all while capitalizing on his greatest weakness.

Suddenly Hutch feels rankled. He leans forward in his chair, presses his hands to his face, only to find that they’re shaking. He manages to stand up, walk to the kitchen for some water, forces himself to take slow sips. He should walk away from this train of thought, before it derails and takes him somewhere he can’t face. He walks back into the living room, takes another look at Starsky’s sleeping form, watches his chest rise and fall, and remembers that he can do this, he can face it if he doesn’t lose sight again.

It comes to him as he thinks of the scars that now cross Starsky’s chest, and as his fists unclench it’s as if he can remember how to breathe.

Gunther lost because he had no hope of seeing the truth: Hutch and Starsky aren’t on a battlefield, they are the battlefield.