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“I’d kind of assumed I would be bad cop.”

He hates being the center of attention, always has. He was okay in an interrogation, when it was one on one, or just the two of us playing bad cop/good cop. Then he would harden his blue eyes and close down the paths to his softer side; shut down all the compassion and heart that used to flood through him. On those occasions, when everything was closed and shuttered, it was like looking at a different man.

It was a surprise the first time I saw it. By the time we were actually working together I figured I knew him pretty well. We’d been friends since the Academy. Spent many hours hanging together, drunk and sober, happy and sad. Figured I knew all there was to know about him. Oh, not all his history or thoughts. Who can ever know everything like that about a man? But as far as the kind of man he was, the way he would react to a given situation? I was pretty sure I had all that down. He was a giant walking heart when it came to it, no matter how it was packaged; and the packaging was pretty imposing. Tall and blond, he seemed cool and collected – on the surface, at least. But one look in those eyes, one barking laugh from the broad mouth, well… I figured I knew what I needed to know.

So, the first time we went into an interrogation room together and decided to do the time-honored good cop/bad cop routine? I’d kind of assumed I would be bad cop. I was all dark and broody…well I was dark. I could certainly do mean and grumpy — I’m a fiery guy, what can I say? So I was a bit surprised when Hutch went straight on in and started playing it tough.

I wasn’t sure how to react. I knew damn well how softhearted he was, had witnessed him throw away a hell of a lot more of his salary on bums and down on their lucks than he shoulda been able to afford. But I guess that all that granola and goat’s milk stuff cost less than it looked, because he doled out a ten here, five there, daring me with a look if I even seemed to be saying something. Besides, what could I say? I did the same thing and he caught me every time.

He walked in there and started to prowl and growl at this perp, and I thought I was gonna be in trouble by snickering and losing him all his credibility. And while I might have known he was a softie, I still didn’t want to antagonize him. He could be a real pain in the butt when he was pissed.

But then he walked right up to this guy and just started whispering at him, so cold, so controlled. And I got goose bumps right from the base of my spine to the back of my neck. I looked at the perp; and this was Stig Rollanson we’re talking about. The man was a pimp who had rolled on most of his girls at one time or another, and had now taken that step over the edge by leaving a girl lying crumpled beside a dumpster. He’d been in interrogation more times than I’d had hot dates and this was the first time I ever saw him look ruffled.

Hutch did that with just a few words. I didn’t even get time to be good cop before Rollanson went hands up to the whole thing. Okay, so it turns out he was freaked that he’d killed the girl anyway, but I was still pretty impressed with Hutch.

We took it in turns after that. Hutch used to tease me, saying it was my criminal side coming out. He stopped with that after he met Nicky. But before then, he’d yank my chain saying that I wanted to play at being tough guy, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t more fun rattling cages than it was to have to be Mister Calm and Collected. I never was too good at calm and collected. More times than I could count, we’d be all set with the routine, then the perp would say something to set me off, and suddenly there’d be two ‘bad cops’ in the room. That’s no surprise, not if you know me.

But that’s not the real reason I took my share of bad cop, not all of it. Thing is, the laughter inside, that time I saw Hutch go in for the first time? Well, that laughter died away pretty damned quickly, but the goose bumps? Well, they never did. We’d be planning outside, joking and laughing, but then he’d just switch it all off. Shut it all down.

You don’t realize how scary that is, not until you’ve seen it a few times. I don’t know how he did it. So completely, so closed off. You do have to get right into it, gotta play tough, but when I did it? I always knew who I was inside. Knew it was me playing a role. Knew where I’d gone and how I was gonna get back. And knew damn well that when Hutch looked at me, it was me he saw looking back at him.

Hutch seemed to disappear somewhere.

I never got that. Don’t think I ever really wanted to. Even that time I went undercover as vigilante cop, when I had to punch Hutch, it was still me underneath. We’d planned over it a few hundred times, shut up in my apartment, running over the moves, who’d say what, how it would pan out. I was certain I had it all down and I think I did okay. It fooled the people it needed to fool. Praise and cheers all around. Or there would have been had it not been brother cops we were screwing with. But there were a few quiet words of praise from on high, and Dobey gruffed at us enough to let us know he was satisfied. But in the bar? When I was sat on my stool and Hutch came over playing the concerned best friend card… I couldn’t shut him out. All the time I was saying my lines and staggering to my feet, I was trying to catch his eye, wanted him to see that I was still inside there, that my words weren’t for real. Pretty dumb, seeing as he wrote half of ’em for me. I punched him, just like we planned. I played the part, but it still felt like Dave Starsky doing it.

Like I said, Hutch shut everything away. As time went by and he did it more often, he went a little deeper each time. I hated it all along, but I don’t think I realized how dangerous it was until the day we…okay, I crashed the Torino. I know I shouldn’t talk about it. We had a deal to forget it. Hutch still feels bad about it and I still don’t really understand, so we kinda agreed not to talk about it. Not such a good idea in hindsight, but at the time it was the only taboo we had. One little untouchable thing didn’t seem that big a deal, not when it made things comfortable again. I guess I shoulda seen it would set a precedent, but hell, at the time I just wanted to forget it ‘cos it hurt. Stupid huh?

But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s just that the day they wheeled him into our hospital room and he said he didn’t know who I was…I recognized him. I don’t mean as Hutch. I wasn’t the one pretending to have amnesia, after all. No, I mean that inside somewhere, I think I recognized that look in his eyes. Hutch was being all arrogant and la de da and Mr. Starsky this and Mr. Starsky that, and most of me was just so scared that I wouldn’t get him back. And, okay, maybe a little guilty. I had been driving too fast. But I think, somewhere, something in me recognized the shuttered look in Hutch’s eyes; the ‘No-one’s in’ signs. Oh, not enough to actually think about then, when it happened. When I realized it was all a fake, I was just so angry.

I guess it’s always easier to be angry than scared. I think that’s part of what Hutch’s whole game was about. It explains why I was such an asshole to him about it afterwards. It took a week or two of snapping and biting at each other, interspersed with apologies, before we agreed to put a line under it and just pretend it hadn’t happened – me for nearly killing him, him for, well nearly killing me, albeit in a different way.

Like I said, probably not such a good idea. We went through a real bad time after that. I don’t mean it was just because of that, of course not, but I don’t think it helped. And don’t get me wrong, we came through the other side okay. By the time Gunther did his number on me, we were pretty damn tight again.

Gunther didn’t help things. Yeah, I know, no shit. I don’t just mean me getting shot — though that wasn’t a picnic either — but I lay on my back for months, had plenty of time for thinking and dealing. I did so much staring at the ceiling and thinking aloud that by the time the department sent me to the shrink I was old hand at it. I’d pretty much got it straightened it out by then.

I guess it is easier for the one in the middle of it. Oh, I had a few nightmares. Nearly dying does freaky things to your brain. I kept having this one nightmare where it was Hutch shooting me; standing there in front of me, laughing about dinner, then just shooting me. No reason, no words, just him and his gun.

I never told him that one. He and his White Knight guilt complex would have just about eaten that one up. He blamed himself enough as it was.

By the time I got to see the shrink I’d pretty much worked out that it was just my brain imagining the worst thing it could. Although I was never quite sure if it was trying to reassure me about what had happened, or to remind me that things could always get worse.

So, I had most of the answers sorted for the shrink, and for myself too I guess. I got shot. I got better. It wasn’t too bad really. Don’t get me wrong, it hurt like hell, still does when it’s extra cold out and the muscles start cramping and my bones get to jiggling, but I’ve lived through worse.

For Hutch, me getting shot was too much. I saw it afterwards, when we were finally all done with the hospital and the physio and the doctors. I think I’d been too busy getting on top of being alive, so when I was finally out and free and really okay, I was looking forward to kicking back for a while, maybe even taking a vacation. But Hutch was still tied up with the case, getting called in by the lawyers to give new statements and amendments and additions and all that stuff.

I’d moved in with him by then. Yeah, don’t look at me like that. I was lonely after the hospital. Besides, he was always so damn tired and tense, he needed me there. I used to cook a meal for him for when he got home, talk him into relaxing, winding down with a beer or two…

Ironic, huh? Cause and effect. Solution and problem.

I think it wasn’t until the morning of the court case that I really looked at him. You’ve gotta understand, it wasn’t as if things were always tense or icy cold or blue. We had a great time when I moved in; watching movies, laughing. We’d go out for walks at the weekends or drive out to the beach. Hutch helped me do my exercises after I’d stopped seeing the physical therapist. All in all it was pretty good.

But that morning I was hugging Hutch ‘Good Luck’ just before he went to court. I wasn’t allowed to go since the shrink thought it would be a bad idea, and Hutch refused point blank to let me. I looked into his eyes, just to let him know I was there and would be waiting for him afterwards. And I saw him doing the shutting down thing. Only, and it sounds weird, it didn’t take him that long. It was like there wasn’t much of him left up on top to lock away.

I don’t think I’d noticed until then, hadn’t seen just far away he’d gone.

Of course I saw it all the time after that. I talked about it with the shrink. Well, if the Department was paying and I had no problems to talk about, it made sense to make the most of it. I don’t think the guy cared who he was talking about, probably just relieved to get me to shut up talking about baseball. So I talked about Hutch, how I noticed that more and more he was withdrawing into himself, that he only seemed alive when he was talking about the case or lying in my arms.

Yeah, so? We got real close after I moved in. Like I said, I did a lot of thinking in hospital, and didn’t need no shrink to make the thoughts go away. Kinda stupid not to have seen it before, really. I guess boys like me take a little longer than you might think to get a clue. Either way, once I realized just what Hutch was to me, I didn’t see any point in playing around. I guess I was just lucky he felt the same.

So, yeah, I told the shrink all that; after all, he’s sworn to confidentiality, isn’t he? And he said that it was a natural reaction to seeing me get shot, to feeling helpless. That’s when I told him about me seeing Hutch shoot me in my dreams. The doctor spouted on about death and lust being intertwined and that it was about me and Hutch fucking, but I don’t buy all that. Like I said, it was just my brain rubbing it in that things could get worse. And I was right, wasn’t I?

He said I had to give Hutch space and support, said to help him relax. I didn’t need to be told how to do that. What? You don’t think we have fantastic sex? Well, I didn’t really go for shrinks, but it was basically the same sort of thing my mom woulda said. Well, maybe not about the fucking. So I went along with it, gave him room to be himself, held him close and warm and hard during the nights and mornings and afternoons and whenever he needed it. And tried not to notice him slipping away from me.

Turned out, it was the stress of the Gunther thing after all. The day the judge handed down Gunther’s sentence it was like all the doors broke open, smashed down by a flood of emotion. I’d never seen Hutch like it. He came home to me, champagne in hand, Dobey and Hug in tow, and we had the mother of all celebrations. But then, halfway through, Hutch just sat down on the couch and started shaking and couldn’t stop. Huggy and Dobey helped me get him to the bed before they left. I got into bed with him and just kinda hung on.

It was freaky, feeling him shake and shudder beneath me.

He started crying eventually, and I don’t think he stopped for three days. We’d be eating breakfast together, or watching a movie, and I’d look up and he’d just be sitting there, staring into space, with tears rolling down his face and getting smushed up in his moustache. One time he came up behind me and grabbed me around the waist, started nibbling at my ear just the way I like. Well, you don’t need to know the details, but he’d been ready and I thought maybe it’d make him feel better. So we’d been there in bed together and I looked down at him, and he was lying there, quietly weeping.

He kept touching my scars like they meant something, some kind of talisman or signal. I got to hating the things. I know they’re not the prettiest things in the world, but they’re not the first scars I’ve had. I ignored them as much as I could, but I’d never been afraid of them. Hutch had even made a point of loving on them, kissing and so on, trying to make me feel attractive again I think he said — hell, I always felt beautiful through his eyes. But after the case, we’d be sitting in the greenhouse and he’d just reach out and touch one, and then go quiet and sad. So I ended up trying to keep them covered, but that was kinda obvious. You know me, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. I was never the shy and retiring type. Now here I was using a robe in the mornings, wearing a shirt around the house. It seemed to make it even more of an issue than it needed to be.

I’d get all tense and itchy and end up going out for a run. I was trying to increase my stamina. I hadn’t yet decided whether I was looking to go back to active duty or not, but I knew damned well I was gonna be capable of it when they asked. So lots of training for me and, it turns out, lots of RandR for Hutch. I dealt with the tension between us by running. Hutch found his way into the bottle.

I don’t mean he turned into a raging drunk, nothing like that, but there’d be a beer or two with lunch, and it stopped being a shower he went for as soon he walked in the door. Instead, he’d head for the fridge first off.

And at first, Mister Insightful here thought it was actually helping him. He’d be calmer after a bottle or two of beer. We’d talk about his day, talk about mine. I was spending a lot of time helping out Huggy in the daytime, or training. It was too boring to just hang around all day. We’d eat together, walk, had a lot of early nights. It was good, like things were coming back on track for us. Hutch stopped with all the crying and I was able to wander around shirtless again.

When I went back on active duty…well, I guess I saw then just how often he was stopping off for a drink or two en route. Each bar we went into to talk to a snitch, he’d take advantage of the hospitality offered, and we’d eat lunch at tables with a glass alongside more often than we’d stop off at a hot dog stand.

He was never ‘drunk.’ Not outta control or slurry. He never smelled bad and no one knew, not really. Huggy took me aside, but then, he knew us so well that of course he’d see it. So I took to watching Hutch, nagging him. We started fighting a whole lot more and fucking a whole lot less. And even then, when we did, it was fucking instead of lovemaking. We were both so angry at each other.

I told him he had to get help, that I’d tell Dobey, that I wouldn’t love him. Told him I couldn’t love him and that I’d move out.

He told me to go.

I told him to go to hell.

We did a lot of that. For too damned long.

And in the end? It was his guilt that got him here. He ran a red light last week. We weren’t even in pursuit, just arguing, and he ran a red light, trashed the car, and got me a few extra stitches. He hadn’t even had that much to drink that morning. Who’d have thought I’d be glad for yet another hospital visit?

So now there he is, center of attention, eyes just looking at him, willing him to speak, to make that first symbolic announcement.

“My name’s Ken and I’m an alcoholic.”

He’ll do it.

We’ll do it.

The end.