Understanding

Coming to terms with a tough issue.

Starsky didn’t flinch when the door slammed behind him. He knew it was coming; the whoof of air followed by a sharp bang. Hutch grabbed him from behind, his fingers tightening hard around Starsky’s upper arms a forceful underscore to the sounds. Hutch moved quickly, arms circling Starsky’s belly, holding Starsky’s back to his chest. Starsky felt Hutch’s hot breath against his neck, felt the stir of his hair; listened to the sounds their leather jackets made as Hutch firmed his hold. He could picture Hutch’s face in his mind. Only Hutch could look so angry and sad and scared all at once.

“Damn you, damn you, damn you.” Hutch murmured against the back of Starsky’s head. Hutch’s kiss burrowed through his hair, pressed against his scalp. Lips, then the scrape of teeth; pain for him to go with Hutch’s anger. The lips came back, soothing and warm. Any tenderness gone with the hard knock of Hutch’s forehead to the back of Starsky’s skull. “Damn you to hell, Starsky.”

“Hutch, come on.”

“No! You can’t justify what you just did back there. Damn you! You could have been killed. What the fuck were you thinking? Huh?”

“Hutch.”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare, Starsky. Don’t you dare try and defend yourself to me. You had no right…”

Starsky twisted, fighting off Hutch’s grasp, his jacket scraping against Hutch’s, the rough rasp of sound a contradiction to the creak of leather he’d always found so comforting. His hands were on Hutch’s arms now, holding him captive. Furious at Hutch’s words, shaking him hard.

“I have every right! Did you think I was just going to stand there and watch you get hurt? I love you! Do you really think I’d…” Starsky quieted, suddenly subdued. Scared. This was something he didn’t recognize—they were both safe, the bad guy was taken care of, the case all but closed. Unless something else was the matter. Unless something had changed between them. Unless Hutch didn’t feel…didn’t want… Damn you too, Hutch. Since when won’t we die for each other? Confused, Starsky released his grip, and Hutch pulled away, putting some distance between them, taking refuge behind the sofa. Looking anywhere but at Starsky.

“What is it, Hutch?” Starsky stayed where he was, respecting the barrier Hutch put up. Not getting what the hell was going on with his partner, but willing to give him all night to make him understand.

Hutch blew out a deep breath and leaned on the sofa, hands gripping its back, tight and white-knuckled. His head hung low, chin nearly on his chest, hair sweeping over the side of his face, hiding him from his lover. Somehow making it easier for both of them. His words when they came were low and forced.

“When are you going to get it, Starsk? When are you going to catch on that you’re not immortal? That asshole could have killed you tonight. You came that close, Starsky. What the fuck is it with you?” Hutch’s head reared back and he had that look on his face—the one he got when he was pissed and damned certain he was in the right, the look that made Starsky want to slap it off his face and tell him to get the hell over himself. “You want to die? Leave me like you did before? What am I supposed to do if…”

Hutch spun around from the force of Starsky grabbing him. Found his rump meeting the back of the sofa in shocked surprise when Starsky slapped his face. Slapped him hard and grabbed him again, pulling him to his feet. Too mad at Hutch to feel hurt from his words, plenty mad enough to want to hurt Hutch.

“Who do you think you are, Hutchinson? Is that what this is all about? Me dyin’? I’ve been there, remember? I did die! You think I wanted to leave you?” Hutch tried to pull away, to cover his ears like a child who didn’t want to hear the words that were so much more painful than what Starsky’s hands delivered. But Starsky wasn’t done. His voice went quiet, but that didn’t buffer the hurt. “Don’t you get it? Dying is the easy part.” The backs of his hands slapped at Hutch’s chest as he let go. “You’ve said it yourself, babe. It’s always hardest on the one left behind. I’m not going to be that one.”

Hutch didn’t say anything in response. Slipped off his jacket, hung it and his holstered weapon on the hook by the door. Stalked across the room and back a few times. Starsky stood immobile, words said; a deep, dark place in his soul revealed. Hutch quit his pacing, stopping to leaf through some mail sitting on a side table. Starsky started when the mail was thrown at him, Hutch right behind it. Tried to turn away, out of Hutch’s reach. Succeeding only in losing his jacket, watching as it suffered the same fate as the mail, coming to rest on the other side of the room.

“You selfish bastard! Who the hell gave you the right to choose? It’s always been you: Bellamy, Marcos, Joey, Gunther… How many times? God, Starsky! I’m so fucking pissed at you! You think I want to be that one? The one left behind to try and pick up enough pieces to go on living? Damn you!”

Hutch was standing so close to him that a simple movement of Starsky’s arms and Hutch would have been in his embrace. But Starsky wasn’t giving, and neither was Hutch. Breathing hard, their faces flushed and perspiring, their bodies taut. Starsky’s eyes didn’t stray from Hutch’s face when Hutch reached to unsnap his shoulder harness. Starsky allowed his weapon to be removed, not helping, but allowing. Wondering crazily for the briefest possible seconds if Hutch planned on shooting him. His weapon landed with a thud somewhere close to his jacket. Time froze for a moment. The embrace didn’t come—Hutch pushed him away.

“Tell me something, Starsky. What exactly are you going to do when I die? You have some secret little plan to off yourself?” Hutch knew he was being brutal, knew he was reminding Starsky that he was no more immortal than Starsky was.

As shitty as that was, he still expected denial, some reassurance–not what he got.

“Yes.”

Hutch was a demon, slapping, pushing, tearing at Starsky. Starsky took it, hands up to defend his torso, ward off blows to his face, but he took it. Until Hutch fell to his knees, gasping and out of breath. Out of words.

“You done now?”

Hutch didn’t answer, but he looked up. Starsky fought the urge to gather Hutch close and kiss away the despair on his face. Take it back and give him an answer other than the “yes” he already had. Maybe this once he should have lied.

“Come up here, Hutch.” Hutch refused with the shake of his head, the shamed dropping of his eyes. “Hutch, please. I need you up here. I’ve never talked down to you in any way; I don’t want to now. Come on, that’s it.”

Starsky gave Hutch a minute to compose himself, himself a minute before he dared to touch Hutch. Trailing a finger down one side of Hutch’s face, holding on to a fistful of his shirt. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the blotchy, miserable face before him. He let his heart decide and smiled.

“You’re a mess, blondie. You know that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later.” Starsky’s smile went down a degree from assured to hopeful. Hutch still wasn’t budging.

“Okay, Hutch, all right. Come on, let’s talk.”

Not a fraction of give from Hutch. Starsky muttered something unkind under his breath about bull-headed partners and took charge. Hutch was steered, rather forcibly, to the sofa and pushed, not too gently, onto the center cushion. Starsky arranged himself alongside, body angled to tackle a fleeing Hutch if necessary.

“Hutch, I’m not too sure what’s got you so pissed off at me. If you’re pissed because I was willing to get wasted to protect you…well that’s just too bad.” Starsky sensed Hutch was about to either hit him again or take off. Long thighs were quickly detained beneath one of Starsky’s own. Hutch gave him a glare that Starsky returned, but settled down, his fingers moving without thought to pick at a stray thread on Starsky’s jeans.

“That fucker had you nailed, babe. What was I supposed to do? Look the other way? Let him kill you? What?” Starsky hooked a finger under Hutch’s chin, getting him to look at him. “I love you too much to have done anything else, you know that.” You do, don’t you?

Hutch didn’t answer, but this time when his body moved he only drew closer to Starsky and the discord that was between them was nudged aside just a bit. Starsky ran with it. Ran and tripped over his own words.

“Hutch…Hutch, this isn’t the first…” Hutch made a funny little sound, and realization flowed hot through Starsky’s chest like a jigger of cheap liquor and he shut up. In a way it was the first time. Since Gunther anyway. Starsky’s head found the back of the sofa and his hands found Hutch and pulled him close. Hutch let him.

“Hutch. Hutch, I’m sorry. The past two years, the shooting, that lousy, slow recovery, riding a desk. It hasn’t been that long, has it, buddy? Not so long that we’ve been out on the streets and this was the first time we were really in danger of dying. Must have scared the hell out of you. I’m sorry.”

They were quiet for a while, Hutch held in Starsky’s arms, his fear acknowledged. There was more to say, more to address, but for now the quiet felt good. It was tempting to shut down, let what had just passed be enough. Hutch stirred, but Starsky only tightened his hold, his whispered appeal to Hutch to please stay where he was, please for just another minute, granted. That was all Hutch gave him; that minute. Starsky sighed, wondering if his partner had been counting off the seconds. Hutch freed himself from Starsky’s arms, again putting some space between them. This time the space angered Starsky, made his words stiff and to the point.

“Okay, Hutch. Go ahead. You listened to me…your turn.”

“Starsk, I… Dammit, Starsk. When that lunatic fired at you, and I was on the ground safe because you put me there, it was all too much like Gunther. All I could see was you lying on the pavement behind Parker. I could hear you calling me, asking if I was okay, but in my mind all I heard was me calling for you and not getting an answer. It was all right there in front of me again like some fucking horror show I couldn’t turn off.” Hutch’s fist found his knee, then the arm of the sofa. “I know how much you love me, Starsk. But please listen to me…I don’t want you to die showing me.” Hutch was getting agitated again, his voice harboring anger, but he had nothing on Starsky. Starsky’s anger flared again, feeding on the unresolved issue between them. He wanted out of the house, time alone.

“I hear you, Hutch. Did you hear me? You can’t go choosin’ how or telling me how to love you. Some things in my life have to be my choice and my choice alone.” Starsky shoved himself up and off of the sofa, grabbed his gun and jacket from the floor. “See ya.”

Starsky made it as far as the door, his jacket and gun didn’t–dropped to the floor along the way. His palm met the door and his forehead the crook of his elbow. His words when they came were sad and lost. Bewildered.

“What are we fighting about? Who loves whom more? Me savin’ your life, you savin’ mine? You could live without me, I couldn’t live without you?” Starsky shoved away from the door, weary, his body dead weight, and faced Hutch. “What is it, Hutch? Last time we were at each other like this was over a woman.” Starsky’s voice dropped; dropped in volume, in steadiness, in confidence.

“Tell, me Hutch.”

It took a long time for Hutch to start to talk. Each minute that slipped by was agony. The silence stretching and filling the room, making it heavy and hard to breathe. Hutch finally moved, standing away from the sofa, holding a hand out to his lover. Inviting Starsky, wanting him close. The air thinned, and Starsky went, locking his fingers with Hutch’s, so grateful for the contact he felt he could cry. Hutch pulled him into his embrace, still allowing Starsky his liberty, his arms comforting in their holding but loose enough that Starsky could leave, if that was his choice.

“Starsk…Starsk…I can’t do it again. I can’t do Gunther again. I can’t watch you die. It’s all too much.”

Starsky kissed him. Hutch needed comfort. Hutch needed him. Hutch argued the points silently; fought the kiss, gave in, fought a little bit more. Starsky won and took everything he could from Hutch’s mouth before he spoke again.

“Hutch, are you trying to say you and me are too much? Are we part of that ‘all’ you’re talking about? We’ve always known we could die on the street. We accepted it; at least I thought we did.” It was Starsky doing the holding now, Starsky who was so afraid he was losing something. Where it was Hutch’s nature to push away, it was Starsky’s to gather close. And he held on for dear life when he asked Hutch his next question.

“Do you want out, Hutch?”

Hutch shifted in Starsky’s arms and swore softly. Starsky had a basis for his question. Because there had been a time when Hutch wanted out, had decided to throw being a cop away and let his dreams die in the waters of the Pacific. Let the partnership die because it was impossible to hold on to something so volatile, so confusing, so wanted. So forbidden. His decision made without Starsky, about Starsky, and Hutch had argued with himself, for Starsky. Because he loved him–loved him in a way just being born in his soul–loving Starsky as a man, desiring him as a lover.

Standing by himself on a deserted beach, cursing himself as a coward for picking a time when Starsky wanted to be alone to fight his own demons, Hutch had watched the waves roll in, assigning each a value before it broke over the sand. Political corruption, judicial corruption, Lionel Rigger’s little girl left to grow up without her daddy. Huggy so damned angry…so close to hating. Tracing his detective’s shield with one finger, saying goodbye, ready to go. Alone.

But Starsky had called to him. Came to him and went with him. Stayed with him and once again was his anchor. Me and Thee came back in full force, cops again, partners again, best friends…again. Life was faced head-on, and discoveries were made and shared and joy was found. Nearly lovers, they kissed and petted and healed and learned. Nurtured their love and waited for the time when they would become one. The time that had to be just right, had to be as perfect as their love. But then came Gunther. Gunther and bleak reality and pain and gut wrenching fear. It was Starsky who went down, Starsky who suffered unspeakable pain, and Starsky who died. But Gunther’s bullets had shredded Hutch, too.

“Do you want out, Hutch?” Did he? Did he want to let Gunther win? After all that…

“Hutch?” Starsky moved in his arms, drawing him back, away from the ache of memories that still hurt, would always hurt. He looked down into Starsky’s eyes and let himself get lost there. Starsky pushed Hutch’s hair back from his face, traced his mouth with his thumb. Waited for Hutch to decide what he wanted to do. Hutch shared his decisions with Starsky as he made them, tumbling one over the other.

“Every day, Starsk. I want to quit every single day. But I won’t…I can’t. Not any more than I could ever quit you. God how I love you.”

Hutch embraced him and released him to grab his hand and lead him to their bed. Starsky found himself rolled under his lover, his mouth taken, Hutch’s big hands taking control if his body. Hutch wasn’t done, words finding their way out in between kisses. Starsky found it hard to listen over the feelings of Hutch’s hands and lips and tongue.

“I won’t quit you, not ever. Not you, not the force.” Hutch repeated his promise in soft sighs against Starsky’s lips, his ear, his neck. Softness and tenderness were tossed aside when Hutch reared his head back and told Starsky one more thing.

“I’m going to love you now.”

Their lovemaking was rough, loud, raw. Bellies slapped together, teeth bumped, oaths were uttered in answers to pain from pinches and bites and open palms finding soft skin. Hutch led the dance and Starsky followed him. Hutch needed to feel Starsky’ life, hear him, swallow him. Hutch needed to take him, and Starsky gave every bit of his body that was his to give. Gave Hutch heat and tightness, allowed the pain and welcomed it because that was what Hutch needed. What they both needed. And after Hutch came and Starsky’s body released him, Starsky held his lover in his arms, their loving turned gentle, fondling and caressing, kisses dry and soft and abundant. Starsky pushed Hutch to his back and lay beside him, using one elbow as a prop, his eyes searching Hutch’s.

“I love you.”

Hutch pulled him down to lay across his chest, Starsky’s ear to his heartbeat.

“Hutch? Nothing will ever be perfect, you know? Maybe you and me are better that way. Maybe we need to fight, disagree…be two different people.”

“Maybe not perfect, babe. And you’re right, you know? We do need to be separate people. Need to fight,” fingers trailed over Starsky’s back, “and make up. Know where we stand with each other…let it be okay.”

Starsky pulled closer, minutes passed, sleep pressed around them. Sleep and Starsky’s quiet whisper about standing beside Hutch forever.